“Take your time and relax,” the attendant said. “This is a forty-minute experience. I’ll come and get you when it’s finished.”
She let herself out into the hall and closed the door.
Clare hung the robe on a convenient hook and went up the spa steps. She stepped gingerly into the fake grotto pool. The jetted water was warm and fragrant.
She lowered herself onto an underwater seat, then stretched her arms out on either side and prepared to savor the Good Life.
It occurred to her that the imitation grotto was large enough to hold two people. She allowed herself to slip into a pleasant fantasy that involved sharing the delightful tropical setting with someone interesting, Jake Salter for instance.
Probably not a good idea to be fantasizing about Jake, she thought. But fantasies were notoriously hard to control. That’s why they called them fantasies, she reminded herself. No problem. As long as she kept Jake in the fantasy realm she was safe. Right?
Something told her that nothing connected to Jake Salter was safe; not for her, at any rate. Last night she had played with fire. Tonight she was planning to do it again. After a lifetime of caution around men, the uncharacteristic streak of recklessness made her smile.
The water splashed and bubbled around her. She rested her head against a towel-covered pillow attached to the back of the spa tub and watched the waterfall. The cascading water was soothing, almost hypnotic.
She had no idea how much time had passed when she heard the door open behind her.
“Is my forty minutes up already?” she asked.
There was no reply. Clare heard the sole of a hard leather shoe slap against the tile floor.
A leather shoe.
That was wrong. Everyone around here wore slippers or athletic shoes.
The same panicky awareness that had hit her the day before in the parking garage flashed through her again. It was as if someone had traced the length of her spine with a sliver of ice from an ancient glacier. Intense cold chilled her to the bone.
Acting on her fight-or-flight impulse, she shoved herself away from the side of the tub into the middle of the grotto pool. She whipped around in the water, turning to face the door.
She had a split second to register the bizarre sight of a figure garbed in a spa robe and towel turban standing at the far end of the tub. The intruder’s features were obscured by a green-tinged mudlike facial mask.
The robed figure had a heavy-looking object clutched in both hands and was propelling it downward with ferocious energy.
A dumbbell, Clare realized an instant before it crashed against the pillow precisely where her head had been resting a second before.
Shocked, she instinctively threw herself farther back out of range.
The movement took her under the waterfall. A heavy rush of water pounded down on her, obscuring her vision.
She reeled away from under the cascading water, groping blindly for the steps and something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Her hand closed over a towel. Useless.
She opened her mouth to scream.
The intruder whirled and ran from the room, pausing just long enough to slam the door shut.
Clare scrambled up the spa tub steps, grabbed the robe off the hook and raced toward the door.
The hall outside the spa room was empty.
Chapter Fifteen
The assistant manager’s name was Karen Trent. She was a very buff, very toned, very attractive blonde in her early thirties. She was also very concerned and very unhappy.
“Are you absolutely certain about what happened, Miss Lancaster?” she asked for the third time.
Clare, dressed once more in the black pants and brown T-shirt she had worn to the spa, faced her from the other side of the desk. Elizabeth, also dressed in her street clothes, and tight-lipped with anger, sat beside her.
“You saw that eight-pound dumbbell in the pool for yourself,” Clare said. “How do you think it got there?”
“I’m not saying that someone didn’t accidentally drop it into the spa tub,” Karen said soothingly. “But I’m sure that it wasn’t intentional.”
Clare’s senses stirred. Karen was lying but that was hardly a surprise under the circumstances. The assistant manager obviously suspected that something unpleasant had happened in the Tropical Experience Chamber, but she was going to remain in denial if at all possible. A lot of folks in her position would have done the same. No one wanted this kind of trouble, especially in an upscale spa. Bad for business.
“You weren’t there,” Clare said. “I was. I know what I saw.”
“I’m not disputing the events, only your interpretation of them,” Karen said quickly. “I think it is much more plausible that one of the clients opened the door of the Tropical Experience room by mistake, got disconcerted when she realized that the grotto was already occupied and dropped the dumbbell.”
The energy of the lie was tinged with desperation. Clare wondered if Karen was worried that her job might be at stake.
“The intruder tried to crush my skull with that dumbbell,” Clare said evenly. “Trust me, it was no accident.”
Elizabeth glowered at Karen. “Why do you think someone in the middle of a mudpack facial would go down the hall to the gym and borrow an eight-pound dumbbell in the first place?”
“Our clients are allowed free use of all the facilities, including the fitness center,” Karen said. “You know that, Ms. Glazebrook. Sometimes people get bored waiting for a mudpack therapy to conclude. They wander into the Contemplation Room or the Tranquillity Room or the fitness center.”
“You’re not going to call the police, are you?” Clare said.
“I really don’t see any reason to do so.” Karen widened her hands. “Of course, you and Ms. Glazebrook are free to do as you wish. If you do choose to file a report, however, please be aware that you have no evidence to back up your version of events except the dumbbell. As I just said, its presence in the pool can be explained in other ways.”
This was a waste of time, Clare decided. Now that she’d had some time to calm down she was starting to think more clearly again. It dawned on her that most of Stone Canyon still wondered if she had killed Brad McAllister six months ago. Karen Trent was probably lying because she was afraid she had a murderer sitting in her office.
There was another factor working against them, too, Clare thought. She exchanged a glance with Elizabeth and saw grim comprehension in her sister’s eyes. They both knew that the rumors of Elizabeth’s nervous breakdown had never gone away entirely.
Neither of them would be viewed as a star witness. The Glazebrook name would ensure that they were treated politely by the cops, but that was as far as the investigation would go.
Clare got to her feet. “Let’s go,” she said to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth rose, stiff with anger, and followed her.
In the spa lobby they put on their sunglasses and walked out into the intense early afternoon sun. Heat radiated in waves from the parking lot pavement, creating a visible shimmering effect. Brilliant light sparked off the fenders of the parked vehicles.
The interior of the Mercedes was an oven in spite of the silver sun screen that Elizabeth had placed behind the windshield to deflect the heat.
Elizabeth folded the reflective screen and dropped it behind the front seat. She slipped behind the wheel, switched on the engine and cranked up the air-conditioning. Clare got in beside her. The buckle of the seat belt was too hot to touch.
“You know who it was, don’t you?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think so, yes,” Clare said quietly. “So do you.”
“That’s why you didn’t push Karen Trent into calling the police.”
“That and also because she had a point. I have zilch in the way of proof.” Clare gingerly fastened her seat belt. “Let’s face it, we both know that I don’t need any more trouble with the local authorities.”
“What are we going to do?” Elizabeth turned urgently in the
seat. “She just tried to murder you. We can’t ignore that.”
“It would probably be smart if I left town as soon as possible,” Clare said. “It was my presence here that set her off.”
“Valerie Shipley is just like her son.” Elizabeth’s voice was dull with dread. “She’s crazy.”
“I agree. But we couldn’t prove that Brad was a wack job and I don’t think we’ll be able to prove that his mother is, either.”
Chapter Sixteen
A light gold Jaguar was parked in the drive of the Shipley home. Clare halted the rented compact behind it and turned off the engine.
She looked at the double front doors at the entrance to the large, sprawling house. Raw determination warred with a morose sense of futility. What she planned to do probably wasn’t going to work but it was the only option left. She could not think of any other way to get Valerie off her back.
She got out of the car and slung her purse over her shoulder. She gripped the strap so tightly she had a hunch she was leaving nail marks in the leather.
She hadn’t told Elizabeth of her scheme because she knew that, at the very least, her sister would have insisted on accompanying her. But if the strategy failed, Valerie might decide to turn her rage on Elizabeth. That would only make the situation worse. After all, Elizabeth had to live in this town.
She stopped on the tiled entranceway, stomach clenched as though anticipating a blow, and rang the doorbell.
No footsteps sounded in the entry hall on the other side of the door.
She leaned on the bell a second time.
Still no answer.
She stepped back, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. Unfortunately, postponing the confrontation with Valerie Shipley was not going to improve matters. It only delayed the inevitable.
She left the entranceway, walked to where the gold Jaguar was parked and looked through the windows. She had no idea what she expected to see.
A crumpled white terrycloth turban lay on the floor on the passenger side. It looked as if someone had discarded it hurriedly, perhaps while fleeing the scene of an attempted murder.
Clare’s stomach fluttered unpleasantly. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, she thought. She had known, deep down, that the intruder in the Tropical Experience Chamber was Valerie. Nevertheless, the little piece of confirming evidence was disturbing.
Morbid curiosity compelled her to walk across the driveway to the three-car garage.
One of the garage doors was open, revealing an empty space that was no doubt meant for the Jaguar.
She stepped into the shadowy gloom, took off her sunglasses and surveyed the interior.
The second space inside the garage was also empty. But parked in the third space at the far end was a large, silver-gray SUV. It was identical to the one that had nearly run her down in the mall garage.
A shivery sensation swept through her. She had to remind herself to breathe.
She left the garage, wondering what to do next. Two of the Shipleys’ three vehicles were here. Owen was probably gone, but the odds were that Valerie was inside the house, not answering the door.
What would an alcoholic most likely do after a failed attempt at murder?
Go home and have a stiff drink or two or six, Clare decided. Actually, it seemed like a reasonable thing for anyone to do under such circumstances.
She stopped and looked toward the far end of the breezeway that separated the house from the garage. She could see a wrought-iron gate set in the high stone wall that enclosed the pool terrace and garden behind the house.
Just beyond the terrace and gardens she could see the emerald green expanse of one of the fairways of the Stone Canyon Golf Course. There was only one cart in sight. It was some distance away on another fairway. Arizona golfers were a hardy lot but the relentless afternoon sun had proved too much for most of them today.
The wrought-iron gate was no doubt intended for the use of the gardeners and pool service people, Clare thought. It was very likely alarmed.
But maybe not at this time of day, especially if someone is home.
She contemplated her options. Forcing her way into the house was not only a good way to get arrested, it could also get her shot, especially here in Arizona, where owning a gun was a common lifestyle choice.
She walked to the gate, stopped and looked through the decorative curlicues and spikes. From where she stood she could see the gracefully curved pool.
There was someone in the bright, flashing water.
Valerie Shipley was not swimming. In fact, she was not moving at all. She was not wearing a bathing suit, either. She was fully clothed, in a pair of white pants and a sleeveless top.
She was floating facedown.
The gate was unlocked. Clare opened it reluctantly. She did not want to check the body. She would rather have done anything else. But you were supposed to make certain in situations like this and there was no one else around to do what had to be done.
She dropped her purse and phone beside the pool and waded into the water. She knew as soon as she touched the body that Valerie was dead but she nevertheless checked carefully for a pulse. There was none.
That was enough, she told herself. She did not owe this woman anything more.
She climbed back up the pool steps. Dripping wet, she opened the door of the small cabana. There was a stack of clean towels on a rack. She helped herself to one. When her hands were dry, she left the cabana and made the 911 call.
“There’s an aid car on the way,” the operator assured her. There was a distinct pause. “Did you say your name is Clare Lancaster, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
Clare Lancaster, Stone Canyon’s all-purpose suspect.
She ended the call, finished drying herself off as well as she could and then went inside the house to unlock the door for the medics.
There was a cell phone on the white stone coffee table next to a half-empty pitcher of martinis.
It would be a few minutes before the aid car arrived, Clare thought. She grabbed a couple paper napkins off the liquor cabinet and used them to pick up the phone.
It probably wasn’t legal to take a quick look at the victim’s phone log but she promised herself she would be very careful not to taint any evidence.
After a moment she realized she needed a pen and paper to jot down the numbers. She went back outside to get the items from her purse.
She was disappointed to discover that there were no calls, either incoming or outgoing, logged for that day. So much for being a psychic detective, she thought.
She could hear sirens in the distance. She still had a couple minutes. Unable to think of anything else to do, she jotted down numbers that Valerie had stored in the cell’s phone book.
Chapter Seventeen
“Don’t leave the motel,” Jake ordered, speaking into his cell phone. “It will take me about half an hour to get there. Stay right where you are.”
“I’m sorry,” Clare said, sounding unutterably weary. “But I’m going to have to cancel our arrangement for this evening. I don’t think I’d make very good company for dinner.”
Jake was on his feet, heading toward the door of his office.
“Forget it,” he said. “A dinner date strikes me as the least of your concerns at the moment.”
There was a short pause on the other end.
“Things aren’t that bad,” Clare said, rallying somewhat. “They didn’t arrest me or anything. Actually, there are two schools of thought at the moment. One holds that Valerie got drunk, fell into the pool and drowned. The other theory is that she committed suicide. They’re going to do an autopsy to test for drugs.”
“I’m on my way.”
“It’s okay, Jake, really. Elizabeth is here with me.”
“In that case, both of you stay put.”
He ended the call and paused in front of the administrative assistant’s desk.
Brenda Wilson regarded him with her customary severely serene expre
ssion. She was sixty years old, athletic-looking and unmarried. As far as Jake had been able to determine, she was dedicated to her job. Early on in their relationship she had informed him quite proudly that she had worked for the company for over thirty years. She had started out as Owen Shipley’s secretary.
“Something has come up,” Jake told her. “I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon. Hold all my calls.”
“Yes, Mr. Salter,” Brenda said crisply. “I assume this has something to do with the death of Mrs. Shipley?”
“You never fail to amaze me, Brenda. I just got the news five minutes ago. When did you hear it?”
“Four minutes ago, while you were on the phone. Mr. Glazebrook’s assistant called to tell me the tragic news.”
“Is Glazebrook still in his office?”
“No, he left shortly before noon. Said he wanted to go home and work on some special project.”
“See you on Monday, Brenda.”
“Have a good weekend, sir.”
“Something tells me it’s going to be a very long and complicated weekend.”
“Things are always complicated when Clare Lancaster is involved,” Brenda said.
The prim, suppressed anger in Brenda’s tone stopped him cold. He turned back to face her.
“Is there anything you think I should know, Brenda?” he asked quietly.
She picked up a stack of printouts and tapped the papers briskly against the desktop to square them. “Rumor has it that it was Clare Lancaster who found Mrs. Shipley’s body in the pool.”
“I heard that.” He waited.
Brenda cleared her throat. “By a strange coincidence it was Miss Lancaster who found the body of Mrs. Shipley’s son, Brad, six months ago.”
“Heard that, too. I get the impression that you don’t believe in coincidence, Brenda.”
“No, sir, I don’t.” She put the tightly squared stack of papers down and folded her competent hands on top of the pile. “Neither does anyone else around here. Not when the coincidence involves Clare Lancaster.”