A CHANGE OF CLIENTS

I got to bed at two in the morning, too exhausted to resist the nightmare: a cliff lashed by wind-shattered sea spray, Dana Point glittering below, Jack walking into a trap ...

The telephone jerked me awake, shaking and sweating.

"Wake up, Delilah," Rita chirped. "Got a live one for you."

After three days spent tracking a runaway through the L.A. jungles, I was in no mood for cheerfulness. I squinted against bright sunlight and muttered mild obscenities.

"Now, now," Rita reproved, "you want to be a successful female private eye, you gotta grab the clients when they come along. Write this down. Craig Zarath." She added an address and directions. "Be there at one o'clock and he says to bring a suitcase. It might take a few days."

"Rita, you know I like to see clients in my office."

She laughed. "Honeychile, you really are asleep. Zarath, I said — as in Zarath Construction. You have time to brush your teeth if you get moving."

"Here I thought I was on my own," I said nastily, "but actually I'm working for my answering service."

"I have to keep you on your toes or I don't get paid, speaking of which —"

"I'm going, I'm going."

I hung up the phone and rubbed aching temples. Every monotonous, ear-splitting hour of the previous night still throbbed, but at the least the dream was gone. I showered, swallowed aspirin, and plugged in the percolator while I packed, dressed, and checked the contents of the leather bag that serves as briefcase and purse. Jack had given me the bag when we opened the agency.

Quickly, I suppressed memory and drank the stomach-jarring coffee. It helped. My head cleared a little as I drove west on the Newport Freeway and thought about Zarath Construction. I knew the company specialized in pseudo-Spanish subdivisions. From their proliferation in southern Orange County, I guessed the company was big and probably growing bigger.

Leaving the freeway, I followed Rita's directions toward the coastal hills to Zarath's house. The best California modern with angular lines that looked all glass, it blended into a wild hillside. The Pacific gleamed on the horizon. It was a safe bet that Zarath owned a chunk of surrounding land as a buffer against the urban sprawl he helped to create.

The driveway circled and offered parking beneath a second-story deck, mounted on massive concrete posts, that jutted over a deep ravine.

Taking a deep breath, I ordered myself to concentrate on the job. I sure wasn't adjusting to widowhood. West & West Detective Agency was just me now — regardless of what it said in faded gold leaf on the office door in Santa Ana.

A heavyset maid let me in, took me to the den, and asked me to wait. I blinked and sat down. Against a wallpaper suggestive of tawny African veldts, big cats stalked the room in poster-size photographs: leopards snarled and unsheathed razor-sharp claws; a lion devoured the broken body of a gazelle.

My empty stomach quivered. I was grateful when Craig Zarath finally arrived, looking right at home with the rest of the predators. He had a hard body, sleek hair, a face dominated by a bony nose and black eyes that blended pupil with iris. I imagined him main-lining Essence of Chauvinism every day before breakfast.

He stood an inch too close and pressed my fingers while he said, "Delilah West."

Females usually dropped left and right, I presume, but I just sat down and waited politely.

Without wasting any more charm he said succinctly, "I want you to watch my wife."

"I don't take divorce cases —"

"It's not that. During the next week, I need somebody competent around because I'm afraid she may try to harm herself."

"Suicide? Why me? Sounds like a good nurse —"

"She'd spot one a mile away, and don't suggest commitment. Margaret's not insane."

"You have household help."

"Just Consuelo and she's only here half days. Well?"

At least it would be a change from unwashed bodies and acid rock, and considering the condition of my bank account I really couldn't afford to be choosy. Still, I stalled by asking, "Why are you particularly concerned about this week?"

"Two years ago my wife was involved in an automobile accident. She was driving; our infant son was killed. Naturally she blamed herself. She had a rough year and then when I thought she was pulling out of it she tried to drown herself. That was right around the anniversary of Jimmy's death. I simply don't want to chance another episode like last year. There's not a lot I can do, but I would feel better if you were here to keep an eye on her."

"You seem to have a lot of confidence in me."

"I checked out your background. Swim team and gymnastics in college; policewoman; well-trained." His eyes did a complete job of assessment. "You look perfectly capable to me — among other things. Half your fee now as a retainer, Mrs. West."

His idea of a retainer did a lot to blunt my curiosity. I took it and let him press my fingers again before he finished his briefing.

Ostensibly I was helping him at home with an overload of office work. He had form letters and reports as a cover. His assumption that I typed raised a few Lib-type hackles, but I bit my tongue.

"Margaret doesn't go out much these days," he told me. "If she does, follow her. Lord knows what she'll try."

"Any relatives? Friends?"

"No relatives except a few distant cousins. Since the accident, she's cut herself off from her friends."

Prickles of uneasiness had sprouted on the back of my neck. I didn't like any of this. Somehow Zarath impressed me as the type who didn't give a damn about anybody except himself. He looked past my left ear and said, "Margaret." I knew then that I was right. He didn't love his wife.

Tiny and gaunt, she had an unfocused look in her bruised eyes and dull brown hair curling around a thin face that remained sallow beneath a suntan.

"Margaret, you promised to take a nap." His voice was even but edged with ice.

"I can't sleep."

She was strung out on something; her unsteady beeline for the bar told me what. After a slug of vodka, she noticed me sitting there and horror twisted her face. "You brought her here," she whispered, "No, Craig —"

"Mrs. West is from the temporary agency," Zarath cut in smoothly.

Another jolt of vodka steadied her slightly. She tried to rearrange her face into a smile.

"Since my hours are going to be irregular," Zarath went on, "Mrs. West will stay here for a few days. Show her the guestroom, will you? I have to go to the construction site." His nod included both of us as he left.

Margaret took a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of her terry robe; it was a relief when her eyes were covered. "I didn't mean to be rude," she said shakily.

I said something reassuring, but she wasn't listening. Her eyes fastened on the photograph of the lion and she seemed cold sober as she said, "I hate this room."

"The pictures are a bit scary," I agreed, "but good. Who's the photographer?"

"Craig. I suppose if he'd lived when big game hunting was fashionable he'd have mounted heads. Instead of that he hunts with a camera. Or else a tranquilizer gun. A friend of his works for the zoo and Craig goes collecting specimens with him. He talked me into going along once." She shivered at the memory and turned away. "Please excuse me, Mrs. West."

Any further attempt to get close to her was ended for the moment. I sighed and found Consuelo to ask about my room. It was next to Margaret's, sharing the deck that projected over the ravine.

I noted the drop down the boulder-strewn hillside and my apprehension grew. Obviously I couldn't be with Margaret every minute. She could slash her wrists, gulp a bottle of pills, or blow her brains out — all with me in the next room. It was senseless for Zarath to hire me as a watchdog. I told myself it was his money.

Still the doubt nagged all afternoon as I did the feigned work and answered a few calls on Zarath's business line in the den. Once I managed to slip into Margaret's room. It confirmed my pessimism — bottles of sleeping pills, razor blades — the only thing missing was a gun and I guessed there was one in the house somewhere.

I finally ran out of lame excuses to check on Margaret, and I paced the den feeling right at home with the feline menagerie.

Not for the first time did I ask myself what I was doing cooped up in a place I didn't want to be, worrying about people I didn't know. It was fun when Jack and I were a team, but now ... I could go back on the police force, I suppose. I hear they even let women do something besides hand out parking tickets. Maybe ...

While I brooded, Consuelo worked like a grim whirlwind and left after preparing dinner. Margaret paced her room — I assumed it was definitely her room; there was no sign of male occupation — or else she lay on the deck with her sunglasses pushed up across the top of her head and her face bared to the sun. Once I heard muffled crying through the door that stayed closed despite my efforts.

Dinner was something less than sparkling. Zarath made polite conversation, nothing more. Margaret drank steadily and her pale eyes watched him with despair.

I'd made up my mind by then that she needed a doctor more than a bodyguard and to hell with the fee. I told him so.

"I hired you to watch Margaret, not to give me advice," he said coldly. He was on his way out and I'd caught him with his hand on the doorknob. "Anyway, we've spent a fortune on psychiatrists. It didn't help."

I tried again. "Maybe if you took her away —"

"Impossible. Oh, look here, I'm not heartless but I've watched my wife degenerate from a lovely woman to the verge of alcoholism and suicide. Maybe you're right. It didn't work before, but as soon as I can manage it I'll take Margaret on a trip."

I ought to have been reassured but, as the kids say, the vibes were bad. I wandered restlessly around the house until a crash from Margaret's room sent me flying upstairs. She had tripped and fallen — not surprising considering her intake of alcohol that evening.

She mumbled her thanks as I helped her to the bed. "You're good to me, Delilah. I thought at first you and Craig — but I was wrong — that was somebody else. I was wrong?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "It's strictly business."

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "It was wonderful once; Craig loved me. We had a baby, did you know that? But he died and Craig — Craig never forgives."

"Mrs. Zarath, if you're unhappy maybe you should go away."

"Where would I go?"

"Mexico. Hawaii. Float around the world. Get back your health." Forget Craig Zarath, I wanted to add.

"I can't do that. I won't make it easy for him. I'm not going to give him up."

"What if he makes the break himself?" I asked brutally.

"Craig will never leave me."

"Won't he?"

She shook her head stubbornly. "He wouldn't. He can't. Go 'way now, leave me alone. I want to ... go to sleep ..."

With her words feeding my apprehension, I left her and went downstairs to call Rita. She said she thought she knew somebody — which didn't surprise me. Rita has more sources of information than the CIA — I can depend on her.

She called back an hour later. "When Zarath Construction incorporated, Craig and Margaret kept the majority of the stock in equal amounts. The rest was sold publicly to various investors."

"So Craig Zarath has the controlling interest as long as he votes his wife's share."

"Yep. It was Margaret's money originally, it seems. One interesting fact, Delilah. Somebody's buying up stock. I don't know who, just that it isn't your boy. Help any?"

"Yeah, Rita, thanks."

It didn't though. It explained why Zarath put up with a wife who lived like a zombie — he couldn't risk a divorce — but it didn't explain his concern over her survival. The fact was, he'd be better off with his wife dead.

I slept in snatches until Zarath slunk in at about 1:00 a.m. The rest of the night I prowled the hall, stopped again and again to listen to Margaret's ragged breathing, and knew my vigil wasn't to protect Margaret from herself.

When sunrise clotted the fog and chased it out to sea, the primitive sense of danger quieted. I relaxed. It's instinctive to lower your guard once the terrors of night are over.

That's my excuse, but it doesn't help much. Warm, sunny mornings will haunt me for a long time.

The day began with Margaret stumbling down to make breakfast. Her hands shook and her eyes were hollow and sick. I drank coffee, chewed toast, and studied Zarath. He ate, as he did everything, with controlled savagery. There was tension, too; a pulse jumped in his temple and he kept looking at his watch. Still, when he caught my interest, his eyes gleamed with a speculation that made my skin crawl. I got up abruptly and began clearing the table before Margaret noticed.

"I didn't hear you come in last night, Craig." Her tentative words were soft. I wanted to shout: Speak up, woman!

"The meeting ran late," Zarath said.

"Could we have a talk this morning? Please?"

"It will have to wait, darling. I'm meeting somebody. I have a few things to go over with Mrs. West and then I'll be off." With a sudden show of tenderness he cupped Margaret's chin and kissed her. I felt cold. "Leave all this stuff for the maid, Maggie; go up and sit in the sun. It's a lovely day."

Her face lit and she nodded blindly. "Will you be home for dinner, Craig?" she asked hopefully.

He smiled, promising.

As soon as he went upstairs he motioned me into the den. "Watch her, Delilah." His face was grim. "The accident happened two years ago today."

"She seemed happy this morning."

"Perhaps. I hope you're right." He shuffled papers and stuffed some into his briefcase. Over his shoulder, the lion devoured his kill. "I'll come home as soon as I can. Stick close to her." He slapped his coat in annoyance. "I left my pen someplace. No, don't bother, I'll find it."

He was back quickly with Margaret's sunglasses in his hand. "She left these in the kitchen. Take them up, will you?"

He sounded almost as though he loved his wife, unless you remembered the sound of love in a man's voice. I remembered.

I decided to have another talk with Margaret. On the deck, she relaxed on a redwood chaise. Mexican pots of yellow daisies splashed sun colors even in the shade.

"Did Craig go? My sunglasses, I wonder where —"

"You left them in the kitchen." Absently she put them across her hair like a bandeau. "I brought coffee for us. Do you mind?" It seemed like a good excuse.

"Oh, thanks. I'd like that." The glow was still on her face; all it had taken was a few kind words from Zarath. His return to cold indifference would quickly snuff it out.

As I picked up the coffeepot, the telephone rang distantly.

"It's Craig's business line downstairs," Margaret said. "You'd better answer it."

One of Zarath's secretaries had a long message full of figures. "Can't this wait?" I asked irritably. Although Margaret was in good spirits, I still felt uneasy. I cut off the girl's indignant reply and her voice buzzed on and on. Only part of me wrote down her words. Inside I waited, straining to hear something other than silence, and then Margaret screamed.

As I threw down the phone and raced upstairs, her scream choked off. I pounded across the empty deck to the railing just as Zarath ran from the parking area under the deck and slid down the slope yelling her name.

Doctor, ambulance — my mind offered the frantic hope, but I already knew it was too late. I knew it as I ran from the house and skittered toward the blue blotch in the ravine. She lay with her head at a horrible angle. Blood formed a pool under the broken glasses beside her face and sunlight glittered in a mixture of redness and glass shards. Zarath crouched over her body.

"Is she —" I couldn't bear to touch the skinny wrist.

"Dead. She's dead. I decided to check through my briefcase and I saw her — where the hell were you? I told you to stay close."

"There was a phone call. She seemed all right."

"Seemed." He swore and started to pick her up.

"You'd better leave her there, Mr. Zarath." Despite my numbness, training clicked off a prescribed routine. "I'll call the police."

After that I lost track of time. Official cars arrived. Zarath answered questions; I corroborated his answers. Yes, Mrs. Zarath was despondent. She drank too much. I knew she'd attempted suicide before. Zarath carefully made no remark about my dereliction of duty. Margaret's body was taken away and the police left with words of condolence to Craig Zarath.

He waited only long enough to speak to me. "I apologize for the things I said, Delilah. The shock, I suppose. I really shouldn't blame you. Margaret had made up her mind, so ..." He got into his car and started the engine. "I'll send you a check for the balance of your fee."

I must have nodded. He drove away and left me standing there with all that blasted sunlight pouring over the golden hills. Averting my eyes from the ravine where Margaret's blood was soaking into the rocky earth, I headed for the bar in Zarath's den, gulped down brandy and stared at the pictures lining the walls.