A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (3 page)

“Yes, that’s the one. He was a God-send this past week in so many ways,” Jessica said, burying her nose in the fragrant plumeria blooms tucked in among huge creamy white, vibrant yellow and pale pink roses. Paul Worthington had, indeed, been a lifeline as Jessica dove off the cliff into unfamiliar legal waters. Fearful that she would be accused of murdering her husband, Laura Stone begged Jessica to keep her out of trouble with the law.

With little experience in criminal defense work, Jessica turned to the law school alum for advice even though they hadn’t been in touch for years. The man had not only given her advice, but loaned her a P.I. to help investigate Roger Stone’s murder, offered her a job, and invited her out to dinner. Jessica was drawn to this waspy middle-aged lawyer with striking blue eyes and the insouciance of a man used to privilege and success. She had never thought of him as her type. But then again, having been tied to Jim Harper for more than a decade, she couldn’t recall if she had a type.

Paul was considerate and
generous with his time as a colleague. Jessica was flattered that he not only remembered her, but held her in high regard. She was grateful, but not ready to make more of his attentiveness than that. Of course, Jim didn’t need to know that. Let him wonder.

“He’s part of a big firm in LA with lots of high profile clients, right?” She wasn’t sure why Jim was asking. Maybe he was doing some sort of calculation on his “success-o-meter” set off by the mention of Paul’s name. Or maybe he was hoping to use the connection to make inroads among high rollers in the Los Angeles community. “Who knows? Who cares?” she thought.

“That is correct. As it happens, he’s also opening a satellite office here in Palm Desert on El Paseo. I may join that office in some capacity. We’ll talk about it more when we have dinner tomorrow night.” She poked her nose back in among the flowers and inhaled their heady fragrances.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. He was getting testy for some inexplicable reason. “Criminal defense work is hardly your area of practice, Jessica.”

In point of fact, she hadn’t practiced law of any kind for several years, except for pro bono work at the legal clinics associated with Stanford or other community agencies. She had not been
paid
for work as a lawyer since the Great Recession tanked her burgeoning career as an environmental law specialist. Working with progressive developers in and around the San Francisco bay area, committed to innovative eco-sensitive community development, she had hit the floor running right out of law school.

Three y
ears later, she was dejected as project after project, undertaken with such idealism and excitement, failed. Environmental issues were hardly relevant when development of any kind had come to a screeching halt. Fortunately, even though her law job vanished and her portfolio of stocks, bonds, and real estate took a major hit, Jessica was still quite well off. Thanks to substantial inheritances from both sets of grandparents, even in hard times, she and Jim did not have to worry about money.

Jim and his cronies
had
worried, though. Their firm depended on Wall Street and the free flow of capital to fuel the deals that kept them afloat. When all hell broke loose, they were busily writing and reviewing contracts, setting up esoteric organizational entities, and arranging transactions that made it possible for Silicon Valley wunderkinds to bring the next big thing to market. Like a lot of firms, they were caught with their pants down, so to speak, when the bubble burst.

Not all firms were as nimble or as willing to reinvent themselves as the one where Jim worked at the time, bucking to be made a partner. Jim and his colleagues skillfully shifted their focus from venture to vulture capitalism. There was a ton of money to be made from sorting out the legal issues related to picking over the bones of defunct investment ventures, their carcasses swarming in fine print. Until their maneuvering proved successful, though, there was a lot of hand-wringing and some sleepless
nights. A number of their acquaintances lost everything.

T
hat was old news. Today, she had signed off on her marriage, making their divorce final. Well, final, as soon as the six-month mandatory waiting period required by California law was fulfilled. Jim now had nothing more to say about her career or any part of her life, for that matter. She clenched her teeth, trying to keep herself from growling out loud.

“As it happens, his firm has a broader scope of practice than criminal law. That’s none of your business now, is it, Jim?” Jessica bristled. He was overstaying his welcome and Jessica was just about ready to throw Jim out. One word from her and Peter March would be more than able to oblige her. Before anyone could say anything more, Bernadette hustled over to Jessica.

“You know, Jessica, I should take those flowers from you and put them in a vase. They’ll look great as a centerpiece for our dinner tonight.”

“How about if I give you a hand with that, Bernadette, and you pour Jessica a glass of the smoothie I brought for her. That’s what I was talking about, Brien, when I said she was going to get a real boos
t. You want to try it too?”

“Sure, why not?” Brien said, though he looked askance at the bottle of green liquid as Peter reached over and, in one fell swoop, scooped up the bottle from the table and the luxuriant bouquet from Jessica’s lap. Jessica felt a sense of loss as she let Peter take the flowers from her. “You’re going to drink it, right, Jessica?” Brien asked, seeking reassurance.

“Of course, Brien,” Jessica said with more certainty than she felt. Peter-the-giant was a devotee of health foods. So far he had not taken her too far afield from her own preference for mostly healthy, but more mainstream cuisine.

Peter and Bernadette headed toward the house with Jim leading the way. Before Jim even touched it, the patio door slid open. Jim stopped and backed up abruptly. He was almost run down by a stunningly hand
some man, as tall as Peter, but less bulky. That didn’t mean he wasn’t in great shape, as evident by the t-shirt and tight jeans he wore. Instead of the rugged soldier of fortune look that Peter sported, Jerry Reynolds had the classic good looks of a movie idol. He was the sort of man you could describe as beautiful without taking anything away from his masculinity.

Jerry’s hair was a light shade of brown, his eyes a dazzling green. His face, a marvel of symmetry, was set off by a smile that revealed a perfect set of gleaming white teeth. He conjured up images of the glamorous stars that had made the Palm Springs area their playground for decades like Randolph Scott, Cary Grant, Rock Hudson or, more recently, George Clooney.
Just because Jessica wasn’t ready to put herself out there on the dating scene again, did not mean she no longer appreciated the male form. He was a joy to behold. Jerry, however, preferred men, and was madly in love with one of her dearest friends. But Jim didn’t need to know that either. Let him wonder.

“Oh, excuse me, I didn’t see you. My eyes are still adjusting to the sun. I should slow down,” Jerry said, towering over Jim and flashing that dazzling smile. He slipped the sun glasses perched on top of his head back down over his eyes. Jerry stepped around Jim, gave a little “hey” to Peter, and then wrapped his arms around Bernadette. He brushed her cheek with a kiss and spun her around, making her giggle like a schoolgirl. She gave him a little push.

“Jerry, stop that. Go see how our girl is doing. Brien says she’s looking a whole lot better.”

“I don’t doubt it. A day or two without tangling with desperados has got to be good for her.
It’s a whole lot better for the desperados, too.” The smile that spread across his handsome face radiated warmth. His eyes danced with good humor as he gave Bernadette a last little squeeze. Then he hustled over to the chaise just vacated by Peter and sat down.

“Brien and Bernadette are both right. You are looking much better, Jessica.” With that, he took her hand and planted a gentle kiss on her palm before leaning back on the chaise. The trio waiting to get into the house made another move in that direction. The patio misting system came on, cooling the patio instantly. Tommy Fontana, Jerry’s paramour, burst from inside the house.

“Hi, everybody, let’s get this party going.” He stopped as he caught sight of Jim. “You, what are you doing here? If you’ve done anything to her, I swear you’ll have to deal with me. She’s been through enough this week. Jessica, are you alright?” He rushed to join Jerry and Brien at Jessica’s side.

“Tommy, sweetie, I’m fine. Jim was just leaving. Congratulate me, I signed those papers and I’m single again.” A spontaneous cheer rose up among the little group assembled on the patio. Jim Harper plunged through the mist and disappeared into the house and, hopefully, out of her life for good.

CHAPTER 2

It had been two weeks since that encounter with Jim Harper
. Despite her bravado, Jessica was still struggling with the idea that her marriage was over. Her wrist had healed faster than her heart. There were fewer bad days when she felt like never getting out of bed again. Hours passed without wondering what went wrong or plotting some heinous act of revenge on the bitch and the beast.

Then, out of the blue, she would be waylaid by another tidal wave of sadness, anger or paranoia. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz she was swept up into a tornado of unanswered questions.
Had Jim ever really loved her or had she been duped all along? Were there others before the Hollywood hellion? She ruminated, willing herself to think, think,
think
: when had he met her? What signs had she missed that he was two-timing her with that billowy-lipped bimbo? Eventually she would either wear herself out or the storm would pass, and something resembling blues skies would prevail.

Soon after Jim left that afternoon,
Laura had arrived. The cat pack, as Jessica fondly referred to their little group, was assembled. Cat pack was an homage to the sixties “rat pack,” a name supposedly given by Lauren Bacall to friends who hung out with Humphrey Bogart. After Bogie’s death, the title had lived on, ascribed to a reconfigured group of friends: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joey Bishop, and, for a time, Peter Lawford. On stage and off, they epitomized midcentury cool and the swinging sixties, in perfect sync with the Palm Springs vibe. Enjoying the convenient proximity to both Hollywood and Vegas, they had done their share of ring-a-ding-dinging in Coachella Valley resorts, and in the homes they bought in and around Palm Springs.

Jessica’s little band was a lot less flashy. They were given more to wandering aimlessly, like a herd of cats, than ring-a-ding-dinging. That evening, they toasted Jessica’s recovery and the fact that they had all survived harrowing experiences. Each ha
d saved the day in some way during that awful week following Roger’s murder.

Peter insisted that Jessica toast with a cup of his organic green
smoothie. Jessica obliged. The concoction was dominated by the flavor of banana, which didn’t account for the color. Jessica wasn’t too interested in knowing what did.

“Not bad,” was the best she could do in the way of an enthusiastic endorsement. That was enough for Peter, who flashed a big grin at her. That grin seemed out of place on his weathered, battle-scarred face. Jessica did not relax completely until his usual, more implacable, expression settled back into place.

The food and drink that followed was more to her liking. Jessica had implored Bernadette to take the night off, and arranged for dinner to be catered. The caterers set up buffet-style indoors, to let guests serve themselves. Appetizers included a wonderful chilled avocado soup, roasted mixed peppers with capers, and a bruschetta with figs, honey and cheese. For the main course, Jessica and her friends could choose from a vegan zucchini frittata with mushrooms and herbs, savory roast chicken, or red snapper on angel hair pasta with a citrus cream. As if that weren’t enough, there was a delightful red potato and green bean salad with Dijon vinaigrette, and a pilaf with pistachios, as well as an assortment of flaky rolls—including some specially made for Peter-the-vegan. For dessert, the caterers brought out lime granita with candied mint leaves and crème fraîche, a mixed berry crisp with vanilla ice cream, and vegan carrot cake.

Jessica had raided the wine cellar and set out several good vintages to complement the summery fare. That included a refreshing 2000 Domaine Marcel Deiss Pinot Gris Beblenheim to get them started. The symphony of fresh ingredients, paired with well-chosen wines, nourished the body and delighted the palate, inspiring a festive mood.

Even Laura, who had endured the devastating loss of her husband to murder, was buoyed by the good food and camaraderie. The week had taken a toll. Laura’s clothes hung more loosely than they should have. Her eyes seemed to have turned a deeper shade of brown. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes, and her skin was paler, with less color in her lips and on her cheeks. The overall effect was not unattractive. It cast a soulful aura that added, rather than detracted, from her natural beauty.

Jessica marveled at the grace in her manner and bearing. A characteristic that she had attributed to Laura’s athletic ability, she now regarded as more an expression of some interior quality. Jessica had been drawn to Laura by her openness and willingness to reach out. Everything in Jessica’s world was so fractious when they first met all those years ago at St. Theresa’s. Jessica had been wary and a little wild, kind of like she was again with her marriage on the rocks and her life in tatters. Laura had displayed a friendly, easygoing confidence, not offended by Jessica’s petulance or impulsiveness. She had been a stabilizing influence in Jessica’s life and they had become steadfast friends.

Jessica could recall conflicts with other girlfriends, but not with Laura. Although she had regarded Tommy Fontana’s sister Kelly as her closest friend in high school, Laura anchored their little group. She brokered truces and mended fences when squabbles erupted among their circle of friends at St. Theresa’s. Laura still did so much good, not just as a friend, but also in her chosen profession as a nurse. Those memories evoked the Catholic schoolgirl within. Jessica found herself saying a Hail Mary for her friend.

After dinner, the cat pack got down to business. Their Saturday night
gathering was intended to allow Jessica to treat them all to an escape. Figuring out where they wanted to go was easy—Hawai’i. The “boys”, eager for Brien to take the surf safari he had long dreamed about, were headed to the North Shore of Oahu. Once their travel dates were sorted out, Jessica finalized a reservation she had made for them in a gorgeous, fully staffed beach house. Personal chef, housekeepers and a driver would tend to them.

The “girls”, Jessica, Laura and Bernadette, settled on a trip to Maui
for a stay at the Grand Wailea. Coordinating their schedules, Jessica put her black AMEX card to work. In no time, they had their trips booked. Laura had also finagled some dates out of her sister Sara, who was making a swift recovery from her own blood-curdling encounters with the dark side during hell week. The cat pack cheered Jessica on as she booked Sara, her husband Dave, and their two children on a Disney cruise.

The following week
, Jessica, Bernadette and Laura were borne aloft, in body and spirit, by the jet speeding them from one resort paradise to another. Their ten days in Maui at the Grand Wailea were splendid, restoring Jessica’s faith in the miraculous nature of spa treatments. They were all polished, pampered and massaged. Brazilian blow-outs, facials, “manis” and “pedis,” along with more exotic fare, evoked “oohs” and “aahs” day after day. The shops nearby made it easy to indulge her shopping “jones.” The tropical drinks flowed as they watched the sunset cast vivid colors over the horizon, turning the Pacific waters from aqua to indigo. It was a welcome respite from the desert heat. Jessica’s body was still struggling to readjust after a decade-long absence.

This morning, on her first day
back home, the house was way too quiet. Laura, who had moved in with Jessica and Bernadette during the investigation into her husband’s murder, had left. She was living with her parents, for now, so they could all support each other while mourning Roger’s death.

Peter March, already back from Oahu, had returned to work. His job as Jessica’s “security consultant” no longer involved taking up a post in her front yard. He had installed surveillance cameras and upgraded their home security system but wasn’t scheduled to check back, in person, until mid-July. Tommy, Brien and Jer
ry weren’t due home for a few more days, staying in Oahu for the Fourth of July. Bernadette was rushing around getting things done. She would leave, tomorrow, after Sunday Mass for a few days, celebrating the holiday with family members living just outside the Coachella Valley in Beaumont.

Jessica sat on the patio
after a lengthy workout in the pool. The floral print bathing suit she bought in Maui dried quickly. Feeling alone and adrift, she sought solace in the beauty of her surroundings. Less lavish than the tropical splendor of Maui, the Coachella Valley, in the Sonoran Desert, captivates in its own way.

Some of what holds sway is the contrast between the austerity of the desert and the lushness of oases, natural and manmade, that populate the valley. The seven desert resort cities, str
ewn along Highway 111 south of Interstate 10 beckoned, each in its own way. Wilder, mostly unincorporated areas north of I-10 possess their own fascination. Especially to those who regard themselves as true “desert rats.”

Encircling the valley, mountains cradle
desert-dwellers in their embrace. They keep the rain at bay, and help create the desert climate. Jessica liked to imagine that the mountain ranges also staved off danger. She was not the first to regard the Coachella Valley as a sort of Shangri-La. Even now, after so much evil had found its way into her life, Jessica took comfort from the steadfastness of those ancient craggy peaks.

Two of them, Mt. San Jacinto and Mt. San Gorgonio, stood watch like gargantuan sentinels, posted on either side of I-10 at the Banning Pass. It was a marvel to behold them when they were covered with snow in winter, while inhabitants below cavorted among the swaying palms in shirts sleeves and shorts. When overtaken by the urge to play in the snow that was possible, too. The Palm Springs Aerial Tramway moved revelers from palms to pines, depositing the chill-seekers near the top of Mt. San Jacinto, in a matter of minutes.

This morning, the green of the manicured golf course posed in startling contrast to blue skies, magenta bougainvillea, and mountains cast in varied hues of browns, gold, russets, pinks and purples. The palette of colors shifted depending on the angle of the sun and the time of day. Golfers darted here and there in speedy little carts, determined to get in 18 holes before the triple-digit heat stomped them into the ground. Cries of triumph and tragedy followed in their wake. Jessica had added another kind of color to her vocabulary, early in life, by overhearing encounters with errant balls and unyielding holes on the course. But their banter was generally cheery, the sound of happy humans at play. Jessica welcomed their presence today.

While she was b
rooding about what to do with the day ahead, her phone rang. She cast about for a moment trying to find it. Pulling it out from under a nearby towel, she answered on the third or fourth ring.

“Hello
, Jessica speaking.”

“Jessica, this is Frank. Frank Fontana.” She could not have been more surprised. Until he showed up for Roger’s funeral, Jessica had not seen him for years. The past few weeks had been marked by a number of strange comings and goings, to say the least.

“Frank, what a nice surprise, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Jessica.
But, we need to talk.”

“Oh shit,” Jessica thought, flashing on the words Jim-the-swine-hearted had uttered as he sat down beside her. Right before he delivered his let’s-get-this-marriage-over-with speech. Grrr!
That was not Frank’s fault. “Down girl” she said to her inner pit bull.

“Of course, Frank. What’s up?”

“I need your advice—legal and otherwise. Any chance I could drop by tomorrow? I was planning to bring the kids out to the desert for a visit with Mom and Dad. Could you free up some time for coffee or a drink?”

Frank, a police officer with the Riverside County Sherriff’s Department, lived in the city of Riverside about sixty miles west of the desert. His dad, Don Fontana, was a Sergeant with the Palm Springs police department and had to be nearing retirement by now. When Jessica was growing up, Don Fontana had been “Uncle Don” to her and to her friends. He was, in fact, a real uncle to Tommy Fontana and his older sister, Kelly.

Jessica hadn’t spoken to Uncle Don for some time before the recent events surrounding Roger Stone’s murder. She had called on him for his help, as a police officer and as a family friend. Uncle Don and his wife, Aunt Evelyn, had an ample backyard at their pool home in Palm Springs. Their house had served as the backdrop for countless barbeques and pool parties. For gatherings of all kinds during the years their son, Frank Fontana, his cousins Kelly and Tommy Fontana, and Jessica all went to school together at St. Theresa’s.

“Sure, Frank, that would be nice. We didn’t have much chance to catch up at Roger’s funeral. I wasn’t in a mood to socialize under the circumstances, but I was glad you were there. Especially since you and your da
d showed up in uniform that day. Given all trouble we were in it was a real comfort to Laura and to me. You want to come over for lunch or dinner?”

“Nah, Mom will feel bad if she can’t feed me. I thought maybe I’d stop by after lunch, if that’s okay. That way I can be back at the Fontana homestead again by dinnertime. It’s a small thing, but it makes her so happy to believe she’s still taking care of me. Now that I’m divorced and, I quote, ‘a man on his own who needs a good home-cooked meal now and
then’. I don’t put up any resistance, even though she knows I’m a decent cook!”

“Well, it must be good to get a break from cooking, anyway. You have to be running at top speed with your job and the kids and all. Aunt Evelyn said you and Mary have joint custody.”