Free Voices in the Wardrobe by Marlys Millhiser Page B

was responding well to the therapies the Spa had to offer and suggested that it might do Maggie good to be alone a little, to find herself and not feel pressured.
    â€œHave you talked to her about this?”
    â€œYes, and I know how protective you are, but I think she needs time to straighten out a few things. Ms. Ridgeway can go back to L.A. without worrying. I’ll monitor Maggie during the night to see that she’s comfortable and not afraid.”
    â€œNot Sue, or Raoul, or Dashiell.”
    â€œI promise. Give us a chance, Charlie.” Caroline was using her sweet, caring voice. Her face, plump and pink as the tinted glasses, seemed to belie her mostly gray hair. Botox? “Give Maggie a chance too. In the end only she can deal with her demons and she must feel strong enough to make the right decisions.”
    â€œMakes great sense if there was anything normal about this situation, but there’s been a murder here and she’s offered herself up as a prime suspect.”
    â€œBut she’s still the same Maggie with the same problems as when she arrived and with the same desire to overcome them.”
    â€œWhat if the murderer strikes again? Strikes Maggie? Or she gets the blame for it?”

Eleven
    â€œYou all right?” Mitch asked when Charlie slid into the low, black, sinister rental.
    â€œNo. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
    â€œMaggie?”
    â€œYes.” The rooftops started just below the rim here too, descending in terraced rows on a curvy street that would lead eventually to the 101 or Pacific Highway or Coastal Highway—same road but the highway signs did not agree. Stucco houses in white, peach, sand colors. Wood bungalows in light grays, blues, and yellows. Small homes on small lots, known in real-estate parlance as “scrapers.” Every third or fourth house spread over three or four lots where moderate homes had been excised, towering over their neighbors with setbacks of no more than ten feet, fifteen from the street. The setbacks were mostly filled with retaining or thick stucco walls, vines, trees, garage access, and heavy gates with “Armed Response” warning signs.
    A wye in the street forked off to the Marina del Sol and on the opposite hillside the lowering sun glittered on the glassed-in fronts of lavish trophy homes the size of hotels, staking claim to an ocean view.
    At the end of the wye, signs greeted them in a parade of warnings. NO PUBLIC ACCESS. PRIVATE PROPERTY BEYOND THIS GATE. MARINA MEMBERS, GUESTS, AND STAFF ONLY. TWENTY-FOUR HOUR ARMED HUMAN AND DOG RESPONSE. HAVE IDENTIFICATION AND MEMBERSHIP PASS IN POSSESSION AT ALL TIMES.
    Charlie was impressed already. “What kind of heat do the dogs pack, I wonder?”
    Mitch grimaced without even showing his beautiful teeth. They were capped and at one time insured by Lloyds of London. He presented a card for a machine to scan and about a minute later the gate opened. Charlie wondered what would happen if some partying “guest” was in a royal rush to get to the biffy but she didn’t particularly feel like tempting another grimace.
    Even through the tinted windshield of the black Stealth, the sun on the ocean glinted hard. This marina was a small town, the curved shoreline of the inlet lined with condos, the yacht club a rambling hotel with only two or three stories and just above the docks on one side of the inlet with condos terraced above that. On the other side, the shore accommodations were fewer and even more lavish. But the real difference between this marina and others Charlie had seen, here and on the East Coast, Long Beach, Oregon, and a few other places, was the size of these “yachts.” Many looked more like ships, a few took up a whole dock by themselves. “Did I tell you I haven’t had dinner?”
    â€œWe have reservations at the club, on the deck if the weather and wind are gentle, behind glass if