“Find out anything else about her?”
“No criminal record, not even parking tickets. Guess she just gets off on people dying. There seems to be a lot of that going around, doesn’t there? Or maybe it’s just my unique perspective.”
Any attraction Alice Zoghbie had to the culture of death wasn’t reflected by her landscaping.
She lived in a vanilla stucco English country house centered on a modest lot in the northern hills of Glen-dale. Cute house. The spotless shake roof over the entry turret was topped by a copper rooster weather vane. White pullback drapes framed immaculate mullion windows. A flagstone path twisted its way toward an iron canopy over a carved oak door. Banks of flowers rimmed the house, arranged by descending height: the crinkled foliage and purple bloom of statice, then billowing clouds of multicolored impatiens fringed by a low border of some sort of creeping white blossom.
A white Audi sat in the cobblestoned driveway, shaded by a young, carefully shaped podocarpus tree, still staked. On the other side of the flagstone stood an equally tonsured, much larger sycamore. Where the sun hit, the sloping lawn was so green it appeared spray-painted. The big tree had started to release its leaves, and the sprinkle of rusty brown on grass and stone was the sole suggestion that not everything could be controlled.
Milo and I parked on the street and climbed the pathway. The door knocker was a large brass goat’s head, and he lifted the front part of the animal’s face, causing it to leer, allowed the jaw piece to fall, setting off oak vibrations. The door opened before the sound died.
“Detectives?” said the woman in the doorway. Thrust of hand, firm dry handshake for both of us. “Please! Come on in!”
Alice Zoghbie was indeed fiftyish—early fifties was my guess. But despite sun-worn skin and a cap of white-hot hair, she seemed more youthful than middle-aged.
Tall, slim, full-busted, strong square shoulders, long limbs, rosy overlay on the outdoorsy dermis, wide sapphire eyes. As she led us through the round entry hall created by the turret into a small, elegant living room, her stride took on a dancer’s bounce—speedy, well-lubricated, arms swinging, hips swaying.
The room was set up as carefully as the flower beds. Yellow walls, white moldings, a red damask sofa, various floral-print chairs. Little tables placed strategically by someone with an eye. California oil paintings hung on the walls, all in period gilt frames. Nothing that looked expensive, but each picture was right for its place.
Alice Zoghbie stood in front of a blue brocade chair and cocked a hip, indicating the red couch for us. After we sat, she folded herself on the chair, tucked one leg under the other and smoothed back a feather of white bangs. Down cushions on the sofa made us sink low. Milo’s weight plunged him below me and I noticed him shifting uncomfortably.
Alice Zoghbie laced her fingers in her lap. Her face was round, taut around the mandible, seamed at the eyes. She wore a bulky baby-blue cashmere turtleneck, pressed blue jeans, white socks, white suede loafers. Big silver pearls covered her earlobes, and a gold chain interspersed with multicolored cabochons followed the swell of her chest. Bare fingers. Between us was a tile-inlaid coffee table set with a Japanese Imari bowl full of hard candy. Gold and green nuggets; butterscotch and mint.
“Please,” she said, pointing to the candy. Managing to sound lighthearted while wearing a grave expression.
“No, thanks,” Milo said. “Appreciate your seeing us, ma’am.”
“This is all so hideous. Do you have any idea who sacrificed Eldon?”
“Sacrificed?”
“That’s what it was,” she said. “Some fanatic asshole making a point.” One hand clenched. She stared down at her fist, opened the fingers.
“Eldon and I talked about the risk—some lunatic deciding to make headlines. He said it wouldn’t happen and I believed him, but it did, didn’t it?”
“So Dr. Mate wasn’t afraid.”
“Eldon didn’t function from fear. He was his own man. Knew the only way to dictate your own passage was to dictate the terms. And Eldon was committed— vital. He intended to be around for a long, long time.”