Blood Orange Read online

  I ignored the lawyerly foreplay. “I need to locate a large amount of money. Half a million dollars, to bail someone out of jail. Somebody who might meet with an accident in there if I don’t get him out.”

  Zave crossed his long legs. “Let me take a wild-ass guess. Would that somebody be the kid accused of the Solstice murder?”

  “Yes. Danny Armenta.” I carefully set the finely cut sherry glass down on the coffee table. “But I don’t see how you figured that out.”

  “Your brother, sweetheart,” Zave said gently. “This Armenta kid is mentally ill too. Now my question is, did he do it?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I don’t think he did.”

  “Forgive me for pushing.” Zave’s dark eyes drilled into my own, and it occurred to me that I wouldn’t want to be interrogated by him in a courtroom. “Why do you think he might be innocent?”

  “I went to see him yesterday, down at the jail. He’s just not capable of it. Danny Armenta is a gentle soul, and the victim was his friend. Plus, there’s evidence.” There’s no way I’d have passed a polygraph: as I said the word “evidence,” my hands grew sticky with sweat.

  “Evidence, is there? Sure that’s not your wishfulness talking?”

  “I can go over it with you if you want.” I mentally crossed my fingers: sure, I could tell Zave about the window, but the truth was, I didn’t know what it meant.

  “Not necessary.” The uptown lawyer lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Sounds like your conclusion is based on intuition, Jaymie. But I’ll take your word for it.” He smoothed the edge of his pants cuff, then rose to his feet.

  “In fact, I don’t want to know the details. You’re brushing up against the Apollo Guild, did you know that? Historically speaking, the Guild is a network of some of the most powerful men in SoCal.”

  “Really rich guys? Oh, I’m so impressed.”

  “You should be, Miss Smarty. You’re out of your depth. Hell, I’m out of mine.”

  “Now you are scaring me. Does this mean you can’t help?”

  “Have I ever failed you?” Zave bent over me and unwrapped the band from my ponytail. “As it happens, I know just the person who might be inclined to post bail for your boy. But I’ll need to make a couple of calls. Celeste Delaney’s not the sort to deal directly with someone of my dusky complexion.”

  “Celeste Delaney? Good grief. The Celeste Delaney, of Delaney Oil?”

  “None other. But before you get too excited, there’s something you need to be aware of.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Timing. They’ll move fast on this, Jaymie. The DA is one of the most unpopular people in town at the moment, because of the way she screwed up the Overton case. She spent a shitload of the public’s money and let a killer go free.”

  “So I suppose she’ll see this as a way to redeem herself.”

  “Precisely. The deranged killer of an innocent young girl is speedily convicted. Huzzah. Election time isn’t all that far away, and the woman needs the votes.”

  His hands slipped inside the neckline of my top. “You’re too beautiful to talk business with. Are we done with all that?”

  I tensed, and his hand stilled. “Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t—don’t really know.”

  “We’ll figure it out later. Right now I’m gonna scratch your back, and you’re gonna scratch mine.”

  Later, as we lay pressed together in Zave’s moonlight-streaked bedroom, something in me tightened again. I drew a ragged breath.

  “Jaymie, what?” Zave murmured. “Is it this murder business?”

  “No, it’s not that. Something’s not right. I don’t know what.”

  “Yes you do, girl.” His eyes were inches from my own, and his warm breath brushed my cheek. “I’ve been watching you tonight. A con man knows when somebody’s fibbing, even if she doesn’t admit it to herself. Know what I think?”

  Mutely, not really wanting to hear, I nodded.

  “I’ve seen that look on you before. Couple years back. To you, what we’re doing is cheating.”

  “No.” I groaned and buried my face in the slippery graphite-gray satin sheets.

  “Yeah. I’d say the sheriff’s back in the picture.” He placed his lips to my ear. “And while we’re truth tellin, I know you got no damn evidence, girl. You got only one thing, and that’s heart.”

  Chapter Five

  Zave was possibly the most adept con man on planet Santa Barbara, but he was true to his word once he gave it. Accordingly, Andrew Galton, director of the Las Positas Bank & Trust, contacted Miss Delaney and reported back. Zave informed me in turn that her highness had agreed to grant Miss Zarlin a brief interview.

  I’d seen aerial photos of the Delaney estate. Miramar, a robber baron’s mansion set in ten or twelve acres of rolling hillside overlooking the Pacific Ocean, was a cross between a Greek temple and a mausoleum. I knew very little about Celeste Delaney herself, the inconceivably rich old woman who resided there. Only the obvious: she grasped a fabulous nineteenth-century fortune in her ancient claws.

  I considered all this as I pedaled along Cabrillo Boulevard on my way to Miramar. The afternoon was warm, but a brisk onshore breeze cooled my skin. Several dozen sailboats bobbed at their anchors off East Beach. All the beach volleyball courts were occupied, and lithe, nearly naked bodies repeatedly shot like arrows into the air and fell back to the sand.

  It was playtime for everyone but me, it seemed. But I wasn’t even tempted to join in the fun. Danny needed Celeste Delaney’s help, he needed it soon, and it was up to me to obtain it.

  According to Zave, two factors made Miss Delaney a potential source of Danny’s bail. First, she had a connection to the Apollo Guild: her nephew, Sutton Frayne III, happened to be one of the three sitting members on the board, which was called the Guild Triune. But there was a second, more compelling factor at play.

  Once upon a time, for a short period, Miss Delaney had been Mrs. Samuel Calden. She and Samuel had one child, Jonathan, and Jonathan eventually had only one child himself. Some fifteen years ago Celeste Delaney’s only grandchild, Timothy Calden, had developed schizophrenia. Unable to protect himself, he’d been severely abused and eventually murdered down in LA.

  Zave thought Miss Delaney might be sympathetic to Danny’s situation, sympathetic enough to put up his bail. Maybe so, but I worried my visit might resurrect painful memories for the elderly woman, memories that could cause her to close the door in my face. I’d need to tread lightly.

  I left Cabrillo and pedaled up a wide drive lined with ancient Monterey cypresses. Up ahead was a massive iron gate, and a gatehouse constructed of sandstone boulders.

  Was I the only visitor who’d ever arrived at Miramar on a bicycle? The incredulous expression on the guard’s haughty face suggested I was. I noticed a security camera peering down at me from a stone column. The guy in the gatehouse might not be the only one watching.

  “Good morning. May I help you?” The polite greeting was delivered with an unspoken threat. Steel under suede.

  “I’m here to see Celeste Delaney.”

  The guard’s light-gray eyes froze to chips of sea ice. “Are you expected?”

  “I have an appointment. My name’s Jaymie Zarlin.”

  The man looked disappointed. He probably wanted nothing so much as to throw me off the property. Instead he muttered into a phone, then clicked it off and turned his back to me.

  A few minutes passed. Birds screeched in the surgically trimmed shrubbery growing beneath the funereal cypresses. Then the phone buzzed.

  Mr. Gatekeeper picked it up and listened. “Right.” He glared down at me. “Proceed up to the house and wait at the bottom of the steps. Someone will meet you and escort you to Miss Delaney.”

  The tall iron gate fell back. In spite of the corrosive sea air, it made not a sound. As I rode on through and up the drive, I thought about oil, Southern California oil, and the pack of ruthless Delaneys who’d sucked th
e black gold out of the ground and converted it into vast wealth, cheating and ruining so many hardscrabble farmers along the way.

  In the end, all the grasping had come down to this: one very old woman inhabiting a heap of stone, supporting an army of hangers-on.

  Off to one side, a bird cawed raucously. I glanced over and saw an elderly lady seated in a garden chair on a grassy hill. Several black crows pecked at the ground near her feet.

  I dismounted and propped up my bike on the kickstand, then waded across the plush emerald lawn. The crows, nervous at my approach, flapped off a little.

  “Miss Delaney?”

  The old woman twisted her upper body to look at me. Though the day was quite warm, she was bundled in layers of clothing. “Who are you”—her wide-brimmed straw hat teetered on her palsied head—“and how did you manage to get in?”

  “I’m Jaymie Zarlin.” I was wearing my pedal pushers, and the long, luxurious grass itched my bare ankles. “I used the open sesame word on your gatekeeper.”

  “‘Open sesame word’?” The woman’s mouth was closed tight, like a small puckered scar. But her piercing blue eyes were alert as could be.

  “Yes. Appointment.”

  “Ah. Then you must be the private investigator.” She nodded at the crows. “You see? Even the birds want my crumbs.”

  I recognized the sharp intelligence that resided in this old woman, and realized I must speak to it. “I do want something from you, Miss Delaney. That’s why I’m here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a tall, powerfully built man striding rapidly down the hill in our direction. We were going to be interrupted, so I continued quickly. “There’s only one difference between me and the crows, I guess. What I want isn’t for myself.”

  “Oh?” Miss Delaney reached up a trembling hand and tugged her cashmere shawl close about her shoulders. “That is original, at least. What might—”

  “You there! Miss Delaney, this person didn’t follow instructions.”

  I was surprised to observe the bulge of a gun under the man’s Windbreaker.

  “Who is that—Ken? Ken, no more out of you. Can’t you see I’m conversing?”

  Top-heavy Ken halted so quickly he nearly tipped over. When he’d regained his balance, he shot me a menacing look.

  “I fear the breeze and the chirping of the birds is disorienting to our Ken. He is more of an indoors person like myself,” Celeste Delaney said. “I spend much of my time inside, you see, watching old films. I do not often take the air, so my staff is nervous when I do.” She smiled slyly. “But before we allow Ken to scurry back inside, would you care for refreshments, Miss Zarlin? Iced coffee and cookies, perhaps?”

  “I’d like that very much.” I met Ken’s glare. “No sugar or arsenic in mine, please.”

  Miss Delaney cackled. “Certainly,” Ken answered through clenched teeth. He spun on his heel and began the long march back up to the mansion.

  “Why, Miss Zarlin, I do believe you and I shall hit it off, as they say. May I call you—what is it? Janie?”

  “Jaymie. Shall I explain why I’m here?”

  “Oh, I already know the answer to that. For money, of course, even if, as you say, it’s not for yourself. What else have I to offer, now that I am so very old?”

  “It is money, yes. I’m not sure what the banker told you, but a young man named Danny Armenta has been arrested for the murder of a young woman. The authorities want him to be guilty in the worst way, but I believe he may be innocent.”

  “You believe he may be innocent? That is hardly a ringing endorsement.”

  “Nothing is certain at this point,” I said more carefully.

  “No. Well, as it happens, I do know something of the matter. This murder occurred at the Apollo Guild workshop, did it not?”

  “Yes. The girl had been chosen as this year’s Daphne.”

  “Ah, the forever lovely and innocent Daphne. I was never Daphne; Father said I was not pretty enough, and that was that.” Celeste Delaney rubbed her cheek with a curled hand. “I know the members of the Guild Triune, of course. My nephew, Sutton, currently sits on the Triune, and Brucie Wiederkehr, I believe—and oh, what is it, Vincent Stella?”

  I’d done my homework. “Vincent Stellato.”

  “Yes, Stellato. Sicilian, I suppose. There was a time, you know, when the Apollo Guild was untainted.”

  “‘Untainted’?”

  “By new money, or by names that ended in vowels.” She shifted her twisted body uncomfortably. “My late grandson … I assume you know Timothy’s story?”

  “I know a little of it.”

  “But you do know he was mad, otherwise I suspect you wouldn’t be here. This young man also is mad, am I correct?”

  “He has schizophrenia, yes.”

  “And your part in all this?”

  The sea breeze was sharpening, and I shivered a little. “Danny Armenta’s family has engaged me to look into the matter.”

  “I see. So, how much do you want from me, and to what purpose?”

  “I’d like you to post his bail, Miss Delaney. It’s five hundred thousand dollars, far beyond what the family could raise, and I have to get Danny out of jail. He’s been beaten up once already, and the police are not going to protect him—the opposite, I’m afraid. The amount is large, but you won’t have to forfeit. He won’t go anywhere, I can promise you.”

  “I see. You are offering me the opportunity to do some good. To help a fellow human being, as it were?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” The silence was abruptly profound. I thought I could hear the waves of East Beach thud down on the shore.

  “Well then. I want you to hear my grandson’s story. That is my price. Do you agree to it?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded and gazed past me with milky eyes. “Timothy was a favorite of mine, what they called a good boy. One October long ago, when Timothy was ten, his father and grandfather both died in a private plane crash out in the Channel. I’d long since divorced Samuel, who was insufferably spoiled and effete, and reclaimed my family name. I can say I was sorry to lose my son, Jonathan, however.”

  Celeste paused and peered at me, as if to gage my reaction.

  “That must have been terribly hard on Timothy.”

  “In hindsight, I suppose it was. At the time, however, I saw no evidence of it. Timothy was a bit more withdrawn, perhaps, but mild as always, never any trouble. Unusual in a Delaney.” She raised a trembling hand to the brim of her hat.

  “You know, Timothy was my heir. When he later descended into insanity, I felt somehow betrayed. I cut him off, the one family member I daresay I should not have abandoned. Well, these things happen.” She withdrew a tissue from her sleeve and patted the corner of her mouth.

  “Eventually, Timothy became very ill indeed, and disappeared for a time. When they found him at last—”

  “Miss Delaney,” a female voice called.

  I glanced up: Ken and a large-hipped woman wearing a maid’s outfit were advancing upon us. The woman balanced a tray in full swinging stride, and Ken carried a folding table.

  “When they found him, his hands and feet were chained and he was crawling along the floor for scraps of food. He had been regularly beaten. My grandson was—”

  “Miss Celeste, your coffee—”

  “Silence! Put the things down and be gone, the pair of you. And try to keep your hands off one another. Will you have the decency to do that?”

  Impassively, Ken set up the small table, and his helper set down the tray. Then the two of them turned and marched off.

  “Let me tell you something.” Celeste Delaney breathed rapidly now. “My grandson, my own flesh and blood, he drank from a bowl of water set out for a dog. They used him for—” She stopped and put a hand to her mouth.

  “Miss Delaney? I’m so sorry I had to come and ask you for this.” I reached forward and touched her skin-and-bones arm. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you to revisit your
pain.”

  “How very amusing.” She glared at me. “You think you know what goes on in my mind!”

  Suddenly, I realized she was right. I didn’t understand this woman, not at all.

  “Well. There will be no coffee today. I must go in, and so it is time for you to go. But first, let me be clear. Are you convinced the Mexican boy did not kill the girl?”

  “As convinced as I can be,” I said quietly. “I can tell you this, I’m setting out to prove Danny’s innocence.”

  “I see. And you do not strike me as one who gives up easily.” A corner of her lip curled up in what looked like a snarl, though it may have just been a trick of the light. “Then I must help you, mustn’t I? There’s nothing else for it, my dear. Believe me, I shall.”

  * * *

  Bright and early, Gabi squeezed her Chrysler wagon into a tight parallel park on the street. She’d have to move the car every seventy-five minutes, until she found a driveway she could rent cheap.

  The little courtyard was quiet. Santa Barbara was not a town that started early in the morning. It was also not a town that went to bed late. So the residents got plenty of sleep.

  Gabi stopped to admire a hummingbird nuzzling an apricot-colored Angel’s Trumpet. But then a mangy stray cat slipped through the shrubbery, giving her the evil eye. She hoped the cat wasn’t an omen.

  She continued along the path to suite D. There she bent down awkwardly, stiff this early in the morning, and lifted a loose Saltillo tile beside the office steps. Gabi retrieved the key, turned it in the lock, and pocketed it. This leaving out of the key would stop right now. Just think of the files, the private information! She would have an extra one cut for Miss Jaymie, and inform her that a new and better system was in place.

  Once inside, she dropped her tote bag on the desk, then opened the blinds and raised all the windows. Fresh air and organization, that’s what she would bring to this business.

  Gabi withdrew a pink paper sack and a half pound of freshly ground coffee from the tote and carried them into the back room. She shook her head and frowned: the cramped area was a sorry mix of kitchen and office. A stack of disheveled file folders, anointed with what looked like chocolate powder and a smattering of sugar crystals, teetered on the drain board.