Bones and Roses (29 page)

I'm speechless.
Power walking?
Since when does my brother, who avoids all forms of exercise and who smokes cigarettes, go power walking? And why is this the first I'm hearing of it? I recall how evasive he was when I'd asked about his plans for this evening. Did he have a date with Gladys?

“I'd like that,” I reply when I've found my voice. I would sooner walk over hot coals than go power walking in my free time—it's less strenuous, and blistered soles would give me an excuse to put my feet up—but I'm taking her up on the invitation, because I need to find out what the deal is with Arthur and his henna-haired hottie.

CHAPTER FOUR

I do the math as I drive north on Highway One to my next stop. Gladys Sedgwick has a granddaughter who's thirty-five, a year older than my brother, which means Gladys has to be at least twice Arthur's age. My head swims thinking about it. Maybe I'm making too much of an innocent friendship, but my brother has a way of getting into situations that fall under the heading of Weird Shit That Doesn't Happen to Normal People. And it always ends the same way: a call to Dr. Sandefur, a packed bag, and a stay at the puff. I can only pray this isn't one of those situations.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the Chens' Asian-themed split-level, in the residential country club of Paso Verde. It's the primary residence of the owners, but they're frequently out of town, which is why they need a property manager. Currently they're in Beijing where their export firm is headquartered. I do my walk-through and feed the koi, which are the size of puppies and snap greedily at my fingers as I sprinkle pellets into the pond. By the time I lock up, it's dark out. I swing by my brother's place on my way home and find his bag of dirty laundry inside the door but no Arthur. I catch a faint whiff of an expensive scent that I recognize as Chanel No. 5.

A perfume a wealthy older lady would wear.

Sleep is slow to come that night; the eventful day has my mind churning. The following morning when my alarm goes off at the usual ungodly hour, I have to pry myself out of bed. Yawning, I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of coffee. A fresh pot greets me each morning when I get up, thanks to the programming feature on my coffeemaker. I'm pouring some steaming brew into a mug when the thump of the cat flap on the back door signals the return of my tomcat, Hercules, from his nocturnal prowls. He pads over to sit at my feet, meowing.

“What, you think you're the only one with problems?” I say, looking down at him.

I named him Hercules because he's a badass, all brawn and slinky stripes. I bet he thinks he's all that with the ladies, but I had him neutered when I took him in as a stray several years ago, so there's only so much trouble he can get into. (Though judging from his torn ear, he's fought his share of battles.) He continues to meow as I mix a bowl of cat food. Leaving him to it, I sit down at my 1940s red Formica dinette to savor my coffee and one peaceful moment of the day. The kitchen of my Craftsman bungalow, with its period details, is a reminder of an era before the invention of the handheld devices that make me accessible whenever a toilet overflows or a coffeemaker goes kaput or some genius has the bright idea of taking a bubble bath in a Jacuzzi.

Fifteen minutes later, after I've finished my coffee and showered, I'm headed out the door. The sky is lightening above the rooftops of the older homes that line my street. The air is cool with the fog that rolls in most mornings in early summer. It's too early for any of my neighbors to be out and about; the only sound I hear is that of breaking waves. I live two blocks from the ocean, which is the other reason I bought my bungalow. So I can fall asleep each night to the lullaby of the sea.

I drive to the Voakses', and I'm relieved to find the ants haven't retaken Hamburger Hill. Next, I head over to the Mastersons' condo, by the yacht harbor, where I replace their old broken toaster with the new one I picked up at the Sears in Harborview Plaza, and make sure the stash of porn magazines belonging to their nineteen-year-old son, who's home from college for the summer, is tucked away where Esmeralda won't come across it while she's cleaning—she spends enough time praying for lost souls as it is. At the Willets' Cape Cod, I see that the gophers have been at the tubers again. I replenish the supply at the garden center, then it's on to my next stop, the Belknaps' shingled cottage on Cliff Drive, where the morbidly obese lady who lives next door waddles over to complain about the renters who were sunbathing in the nude. I wonder what she'd say about my having bared my boobs to a perfect stranger, a devout Muslim at that, in the Middle East.

I'm tempted to stop at Casa Blanca, if only to make sure the house is still standing, but I don't normally drop in at my vacation rentals unannounced when they're occupied, and what if Delilah's home? She might think I'm some creepy fan who wants to be her new BFF. Besides, if anything really bad had happened, like the house burning down or a flood from a burst pipe, I would have been informed by now. I leave a message on her voicemail instead.

Two days later, when she still hasn't returned my call, I give in to the gnawing feeling in my gut and head over to Casa Linda Estates to see what's what. Driving south on Highway One, I consider the many faces of Delilah Ward. There's the seemingly down-to-earth woman I met. The spoiled diva who'd driven me crazy with her long list of requirements. The grieving widow shown on the cover of
People
magazine, her head bowed in grief at her husband's memorial service. The actress who starred in the teen slasher pic that rocketed her to stardom and who was later nominated for an Emmy for her role in the HBO original series
Hard Rain
.

The movie Delilah is filming in Cypress Bay is a remake of
Suspicion
, the 1941 picture starring Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine about a wife who suspects her new husband is out to kill her. It's titled
Devil's Slide
after the famously treacherous stretch of Highway One south of San Francisco. Delilah was signed, for the role played by Joan Fontaine, after she blew the competition out of the water with her screen test. I'm sure she'll rock the part. I'd seen her in enough roles to know how talented she is. She's that rarest of creatures: the hot blonde from central casting who can act. What remains to be seen is whether or not she was putting on an act with me.

It's 11:00 a.m. when I pull up to the gates at Casa Linda Estates. I wave my key fob to activate the gate at the entrance, and as it swings open, another vehicle, a black Escalade, glides past me in the opposite lane and through the gate at the exit. I take notice only because it has tinted windows; you don't see many of those around here. I imagine it belongs to one of the movie people who's been to visit Delilah Ward, but I give it no further thought as I wind my way through quiet streets lined with Spanish colonials and Mediterranean-style villas, driving at a crawl due to all the speed bumps, which I'm convinced outnumber the children, dogs, or ducks in the gated community. Ten minutes later, I arrive at Casa Blanca. Easily the most impressive property on the cul-de-sac, the four-thousand-square-foot villa boasts a barrel-tile clay roof, a columned arcade that forms a dramatic entry to the house, and decks that look out on the ocean in back.

The massive front door is made of Brazilian hardwood with raised panels carved in a Mayan design and fitted with a wrought-iron pull. I ring the doorbell, and after I've waited long enough to conclude that no one is home, I use my key to let myself in. I see no sign of either Delilah or her dog, but I'm relieved to find the house spotless. Floors mopped and carpets vacuumed, furniture polished, the granite countertops in the kitchen gleaming. Clothes tumble in the dryer, and I'm reminded that I still have my brother's laundry, which is washed and folded in my SUV except for the red Stanford hoodie that I'm wearing. It must have fallen out of Arthur's overstuffed laundry bag before I took his clothes in to launder them. I discovered it this morning while I was on my rounds and put it on after my own sweatshirt got soaked as I was changing a water filter.

I step through the French doors that open onto the patio. The early morning fog has burned off, and the sky is blue with fluffy clouds skimming overhead. The swimming pool glitters with reflected sunlight. I notice the side gate is open. Delilah must have taken her dog for a walk and neglected to lock up. I'm walking over to secure it when I notice a blond, bikini-clad woman lying face-down on one of the chaises by the pool. Delilah Ward, as I suspected, I see when I draw closer. She appears to have dozed off. I'm thinking I should wake her before she gets any more sunburned but I'm hesitant to do so. I know from the confidentiality agreement her assistant had me sign how fiercely she guards her privacy. She might get angry that I let myself in.

Finally, I decide I have a moral obligation, if only to prevent her from looking like a lobster when filming starts. I come to an abrupt halt as I'm crossing the patio when I notice her backside isn't the only thing that's red. There's a pool of blood beneath the chaise and her hair is bloodied. Had she fallen and hurt herself? That happened to me once before I got sober. I woke one morning to find my pillow bloody and a bump on my forehead from a fall I'd taken the night before that I had no memory of. Delilah's injury, however, looks more serious than mine was.

My heart is pounding as I rush to her aid.
Please, God, let her be okay.

That's when I see the bullet hole in the back of her head.

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Author's Note

I've led a storied life in more ways than one. I've gone places and done things that astound me, looking back on it. Where did I ever find the courage? The willpower? Much of it I would advise against, were I to go back in time and have a heart-to-heart with my younger self. But good or bad, it was all grist for the mill, so I regret none of it. (Though I feel fortunate not to be haunted by compromising photos of myself online, having come of age in the pre-Internet era). The beauty of fiction is you can reshape past events however you please. I wasn't popular in high school but got to hang out with the cool kids when I wrote for the phenomenally successful teen series Sweet Valley High in the early years of my career. Trust me, you wouldn't have wanted to live through some of what I lived through, but hopefully you've enjoyed the novels that came of it.

If you Google my name, you will see my Cinderella story: welfare mom to millionaire. Every word is true, though the reality is I was a starving artist for a much longer period of time than I was on welfare. With two young children to support on my own, I often had to forgo buying office supplies and stamps to send out the articles and short stories I wrote on spec, in order to put food on the table.

The lean years were the making of me, though. When I wrote my first adult novel,
Garden of Lies
, the story of babies switched at birth, one of whom grows up rich, the other poor, I knew what it was to go hungry. I knew what it was like for Rose putting on the skirt she wears to work every day, ironed so many times it's shiny in spots.
Garden of Lies
went on to become a
New York Times
bestseller, translated into twenty-two languages. I attribute its success in part to my having suffered.

I've also had my share of romantic ups and downs. More grist for the mill and the reason my fictional characters tend to be of the folks-this-ain't-my-first-rodeo variety. I've been married more than once. At one point, I was married to my agent. His client list boasts some notable names, and just recently I was struck by the realization that I had dined with two of the famous people depicted in the movies
The Theory of Everything
and
Selma
: professor Stephen Hawking and Coretta Scott King, respectively. How extraordinary! I witnessed history and saw it reenacted on film.

I met my current and forever husband, Sandy Kenyon, in a Hollywood meet-cute, which seems fitting given he's in the entertainment business, as a TV reporter and film critic. He had a radio talk show in Arizona at the time. I was a guest on his show, phoning in from New York City, where I live. He called me at home that night, at my invitation, and we talked for three hours. It became our nightly ritual, and when we finally met it was love at first sight, though we were hardly strangers. We married in 1996, and he became the inspiration for talk-show host Eric Sandstrom in
Thorns of Truth
. Though, as Sandy's fond of saying, he never killed a coanchor while driving drunk.

I have many people to thank for the support and guidance I've received along the way.

First and foremost, my husband, Sandy, who's been there every step of the way and who reads multiple drafts of my novels. He's patient, kind, and wise. He understands when I'm there in body but somewhere else in my mind, and doesn't get too upset at having to repeat himself more than once to get through to me. From him I learned the true meaning of romantic love, which has enriched my fictional love stories immeasurably. He's also partly the reason I'm still walking this earth. More than once it was his hand on my arm, pulling me to safety, that kept me from stepping into the path of a moving vehicle while in one of my preoccupied states.

To my children, Michael and Mary, for being the quirky, loving individuals they are. Whenever I beat myself up for having been a less-than-perfect parent (which pretty much describes every single parent), they tell me they couldn't love me any more than they do. They also both have a wicked sense of humor, which they get from me. When I was exploring the idea of having another child, with Sandy, I was told I'd need an egg donor. Which led to the what-if scenario that would have me giving birth to my own grandchild (and writing the bestseller that would come of it!), at which point my daughter remarked dryly, “Mom, would you like that over easy or sunny side up?”

To friends and family who have made their vacation homes available to me through the years. Their generosity has allowed me to go away for extended periods of time to write in solitude amid serene settings. Bill and Valerie Anders. Frank Cassata and Thomas Rosamilia. Miles and Karen Potter. Jon Giswold. Thanks to my friend Jon, I was introduced to the scenic wonders of northern Wisconsin and befriended by the good people of Grantsburg, which I now consider my home away from home.

To my friends and author pals, who are my cheering section. Whenever I'm at a low point or feeling blue, they're always there to offer a hug, a pat on the back, or a word of encouragement. I wouldn't be where I am today if not for them.

I smile, and brush away a tear, whenever I think of my oldest friend, Kay Terzian, who had every single one of my titles, in multiple editions, when she passed away. She would always say she was my biggest fan. I never doubted it.

To my publisher, Open Road Media, and its smart, happening crew led by the visionary Jane Friedman who saw the future of digital publishing. Special thanks, too, to my editor, Maggie Crawford, who helped shaped my most recent titles and make them better for it. She's living proof of why an author needs an editor.

I am also blessed to have many loyal readers. They range in age from fourteen to ninety-four and come from all walks of life and all parts of the globe. One, a prisoner doing time on a drug offense, sent letters commenting intelligently on my novels, which I was happy to know were available in prison libraries. Shortly before his release, he sent me a Mother's Day card. I had written a few times in response to his letters, but would hardly describe myself as a pen pal, let alone a surrogate mom. I think he regarded me fondly because he felt he knew what was in my heart, which I pour into the pages of my novels. That is the greatest compliment of all and the best part of what I do for a living, worth more to me than fame or fortune.

Thank you for taking this journey with me. If you've enjoyed what you've read, leave a comment on Amazon or Goodreads to help spread the word, so I can keep doing what I do.

Eileen Goudge