Page 57 of The Lost Heiress
Present
William Bass was eighty-seven now and living in Buena Villa, an old, graying hacienda just outside of Santa Barbara that had been converted into a nursing home. By the looks of it from the outside—the shingles curling on the roof and covered with moss, the shutters in need of painting—Bass’s fortune was all but gone.
Detective Church had done his homework: Bass’s bad business decisions that had caused turbulence in the ’70s continued to plague his company into the early ’90s. Eventually, a costly trademark infringement lawsuit, followed by a massive recall on turkey dinners due to plastic being found in the mashed potatoes, were the death knells. Bass held on as long as he could, liquidating all his assets to keep his business afloat, but in the end, he had no choice but to dismantle the company and sell it off, piece by piece, at pennies on the dollar, until there was nothing left. Which meant, Church thought, if Bass had killed Saoirse to keep her from divesting her shares in his company, her death had only prolonged the inevitable by several years. Such a maddeningly pointless loss.
Bass’s nurse, Wanda, met Church at the front desk when he signed in. She was middle-aged, African American, with close-cropped coarse hair. She had on white tennis shoes and purple scrubs with pink hearts. She smiled at Church warmly.
“This way, honey,” Wanda said. “I’ll take you to him.”
The carpeted halls were narrow and dimly lit; they smelled faintly of Pine-Sol and incontinence. Most of the doors they passed were closed, but through one open doorway Church caught a glimpse of an elderly woman sitting up in bed, eating her lunch from a tray.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Wanda said. “Mr. Bass doesn’t get many visitors. He’s a bachelor, you know. No family.” She paused outside of a closed door at the end of the hall. “It’s this one here,” Wanda said. “Now, I will warn you that Mr. Bass can be a bit ... prickly. I wouldn’t take it personally. It’s just the loneliness talking. I find the best approach in these sorts of cases is to just smile and kill them with kindness.”
She knocked twice and then opened the door with the fortitude of a soldier going to war, and Church followed behind her. Inside was a single-size bed and an en suite handicap bathroom. The bed was made; a quilt was folded neatly at the end. Bass sat in front of it in a wheelchair, facing a small television. He was portly now and balding but clean shaven. He wore a velvet robe and silk pajamas—once nice but now mottled with age and wear.
“I’m back, honey,” Wanda said. She went over and gave Bass’s arm a comforting squeeze. “I brought that guest we talked about.”
“Out of the way, will you?” Bass said, shooing her out of his view. His eyes were trained on the TV behind her. “Olivier is giving his speech.”
“Why don’t we pause this, just for now, sugar?” Wanda said. She picked up the remote and clicked, and the screen froze. “Laurence Olivier will take right back up where he left off when you’re done. Now, this is Detective Church. I told you he was coming today, remember?”
Bass’s eyes flickered reluctantly from the television to Church. “Have you seen this program?” Bass inquired.
Church glanced at the screen but couldn’t place the image on it.
“It’sBrideshead Revisited,” Wanda said, “Mr. Bass’s favorite. He watches it nearly every day.”
“It’s magnificent,” Bass said. “Laurence Olivier plays Lord Marchmain. He’s really very good. I saw him once, you know, inThe Merchant of Veniceon Broadway. Spectacular. Are you a theater man, Detective?”
“No,” Church said. “I’m sorry to say I never really cared for it.”
“Hmm,” Bass responded, as if Church’s lack of enthusiasm for the theater revealed something inauspicious about his character.
“I’ll leave you boys to it, then,” Wanda said. She leaned down and pressed what looked like a remote buzzer into Bass’s hand. “Just press the call button if you need anything, honey. I’ll be just down the hall.”
Wanda gave Detective Church an encouraging smile as she walked past him and out the door. For a moment, Bass and Church just looked at one another. Then, Church cleared his throat.
“Well, as Wanda said, my name is Detective Church,” he said. “I’m here to talk to you about Saoirse Towers and what happened the night she disappeared.”
He pulled up the only other chair in the room that he could find, which was next to the TV, and moved it in front of Bass, directly facing him.
“I’m talking to everyone who was there that night,” Church went on as he sat down. “What they saw, what they heard, what they can remember.”
“Everyone should go to the theater,” Bass said animatedly. “Even philistines.”
Church blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden about-turn in the conversation. He wasn’t sure what to say in response, so he just said, “Yes, well, I’ll have to give it another go.” He shifted in his chair and tried again. “Mr. Bass, on the night that Saoirse Towers disappeared, several eyewitnesses claimed you had an altercation with Saoirse in the ballroom,” Church said.
“An altercation?” Bass huffed. “My, that’s dramatic. No, no. It was more of a—a conversation.”
“A conversation?” Church repeated.
“Yes,” Bass said. “You know, one person says something, and then the other person responds, and so on and so forth.”
“Witnesses reported raised voices,” Church said.
“My voice carries,” Bass said. “And the acoustics in that room—well, sound travels well.”
“According to onlookers, you grabbed Saoirse roughly by the arm,” Church went on. “Then she pushed you away and told you not to touch her.”
