And that was the real question, wasn,t it? Why did this animal wander into the house?
"Well, those crazy junkie brothers tore out half a wall of dining room windows," said Billie. "You should see the photos. What a pair, to murder their own sister like that. And the old woman in back. Good God. Well, look, you get to work on this when you can. You don,t look sick to me, by the way. What are they giving you?"
"I don,t know."
"Yeah, well, I,ll see you when I see you." She went out as abruptly as she,d come in.
When he got a moment alone with Celeste, Reuben volunteered the information about him and Marchent. But she,d already known, of course. It had made the papers, too. That was a blow to Reuben, and Celeste saw it.
"It,s not that bad," she said. "Well, just forget that part." She comforted him, as if he was the one who,d been wronged.
Reuben again waved away Celeste,s suggestion of legal counsel. Why did he need this? The attackers had beaten and stabbed him. Only the strangest sort of luck had saved his life.
He was almost right.
The fifth day after the killing, he was still in the hospital, his wounds almost healed, and the prophylactic antibiotics still making him wretchedly sick, when he was told that Marchent had willed the house to him.
She,d done this about an hour before she died, speaking with her San Francisco lawyers about it by phone, and faxing several signed documents to them, one of which had been witnessed by Felice, confirming her verbal instructions that the house should go to Reuben Golding, and that she would bear the full cost of gift taxes on the transfer, which would leave Reuben in possession free and clear. She,d arranged for twelve months, prepaid taxes and insurance.
She,d even made arrangements for her brothers to be paid the money they would have received in the event of a sale.
All the papers were found on her desk, along with a list she,d been making "for Reuben" of local vendors, service people, and suppliers.
Her last call had been to her man friend in Buenos Aires. She,d be coming home sooner than expected.
Seven and one-half minutes after that call, the local authorities had received the 911 alert: "Murder, murder."
Reuben was quietly stunned.
Grace sat down wearily after hearing the news. "Well, it,s a white elephant, isn,t it?" she asked. "How will you ever sell it?"
In a small voice Celeste had said, "I think it,s kind of romantic."
This did raise some questions with the authorities. And the Golding family law firm flew into action and response.
But no one really suspected Reuben of anything. Reuben was well off, and had never in his life received so much as a speeding ticket. His mother was internationally known and respected. And Reuben had almost died. The knife wound to his stomach had barely missed vital organs, his throat was badly bruised, and he,d sustained a concussion as well as the vicious animal bite that had almost opened his jugular vein.
Celeste assured him the D.A.,s office knew that no one could inflict that kind of harm on himself. Besides, they had motive for the brothers, and were able to find two confederates who confessed that they had heard about the scheme but thought the boys were just boasting.
Reuben had a solid reason for being on the property, an appointment set up with his editor, Billie, at the Observer, and there was no evidence anywhere on the premises that his contact with Marchent had been anything but consensual.
Hour after hour, he lay there in the hospital bed, going over all these different factors. Every time he tried to sleep, he found himself in a hellish tape loop, rushing down that staircase, trying to get to Marchent before her brothers did. Had she known that the men were her brothers? Had she seen through their disguise?
He woke up out of breath, every muscle aching from the strain of making that desperate run. And then all the pain in his face and gut would come back; he,d push the button for more Vicodin and fall again into half nightmare.
Then there were the voices and sounds that kept waking him. Someone crying in another room. A woman arguing furiously with her daughter. "Let me die, let me die, let me die." He woke, staring at the ceiling, hearing that woman.
He could have sworn there was some sort of problem with the vents in this