Shopaholic to the Rescue (6 page)

“I don’t know.” He gives a little laugh. “What
is
going on? This is Alicia Merrelle,” he adds to his wife. “Owns Golden Peace. My wife, Cyndi.”

Cyndi gasps and goggles at Alicia. “You own Golden Peace? That place is inspirational! I have your DVD, my friend did the retreat…how can we help?”

“We’re looking for my father,” I plunge in. “He’s called Graham Bloomwood, and we think you knew him years ago. Unless…” I add uncertainly to Corey, “there’s another Corey Andrews who puts eagles in his paintings?”

Cyndi laughs. “Only one Corey Andrews, isn’t there, babe?”

“Great!” I say, encouraged. “So, you went on a trip with my dad in 1972. A road trip. There were four of you.”

Something tells me I’ve said the wrong thing. Corey’s face barely moves, but I can see it in his eyes. A flicker of hostility.

“In 1972?” Cyndi wrinkles her brow. “Corey would have been too young for a road trip back then! How old were you then, honey?”

“I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” says Corey tightly. “If you’ll excuse us.”

As he turns away, I can see tiny scars behind his ears. Oh, for God’s sake. This is about his personal vanity. That’s why he’s denying he knows Dad. Cyndi has hurried to help a fallen child, but before Corey can disappear too, Mum grabs his arm.

“My husband’s missing!” says Mum dramatically. “You’re our only hope!”

“Look, I’m sorry, but you
must
be the same Corey,” I say firmly. “I know you are. Has my dad come here? Have you heard anything from him?”

“This conversation is over.” He glares at me.

“Are you in touch with Brent or Raymond?” I persist. “Did you know that Brent’s been living in a trailer? My dad says he’s got to ‘put something right.’ Do you know what that is?”

“Please leave my property,” says Corey flatly. “It’s my daughter’s birthday party. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Can you give us Raymond’s surname, at least?”

“Raymond Earle?” says Cyndi brightly, rejoining the group. “That’s the only Raymond I ever heard Corey talk about.”

I glance at Corey, and he looks livid.

“Cyndi, don’t talk to these people,” he snaps. “They’re just leaving. Go back to the party.”

“Cyndi, where does Raymond live?” I quickly ask. “Isn’t it Albuquerque? Or San Diego? Or is it…Milwaukee?”

I’m just plucking places from the air, hoping it’ll prod her into answering, and it works.

“Well, no, he’s down near Tucson, right?” She glances uncertainly at Corey. “Only he’s a bit nuts, isn’t he, babe? Total recluse? I mean, I overheard you talking….” She quails at Corey’s look and falls silent.

“So you are in touch with him!” I feel a surge of frustration. We’re
so
on the right track. But if this stupid plastic-faced idiot won’t help us, we’ll be stuck again. “Corey, what happened in 1972? Why’s my dad gone on this mission?
What happened?
”

“Please get off my property,” says Corey, wheeling round. “I’m calling my security team. This is a private birthday party.”

“My name is Rebecca!” I shout after him. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Oh!” exclaims Cyndi. “Like your oldest, hon!”

Corey turns back and I can see him staring at me, the weirdest look on his face. No one else speaks. In fact, I think everyone’s holding their breath. He has a daughter called Rebecca too. What is going
on
?

Then he wheels round again and strides back toward the party.

“Well, great to meet you guys!” says Cyndi uncertainly. “Pick up a party bag for your little one as you leave.”

“Oh, we couldn’t do that!” I say at once. “They’re for your guests.”

“But we have way too many. Please, go ahead.” She hurries after Corey, stumbling a little on her heels. I can hear her saying in puzzled tones, “Babe, what’s up?”

A few moments later, the guy in the linen suit rounds the corner of the house, accompanied by two guys who are
not
in linen suits. They’re in jeans, and they have crew cuts and those expressionless faces which say
Only doing my job
as they beat you to a pulp.

You know. I’m assuming.

“Um, let’s go,” I say nervously.

“Goodness,” gulps Janice. “Those men look rather
threatening
.”

“Big bullies!” says Mum indignantly, and I have a sudden dreadful image of her squaring up to them with her Oxshott Senior Ladies’ Self-Defense Group moves.

“Mum, we need to go,” I say, before she can get any bright ideas.

“I think we should leave,” agrees Alicia. “We’ve learned all we can for now.”

“Thanks!” I call to the crew-cut guys. “We’re on our way out. Super party, we’re just getting our party bag….”

As I steer Minnie to a table covered in massive loot bags, Cyndi reappears, holding a cocktail. She sees us approaching the table and hurries over.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Cyndi says breathlessly. “My husband can be a grouch with people he doesn’t know. I say to him, ‘Honey! Lighten up!’ ” She picks up a bag tied with purple ribbons and peeks inside. “Oh, now, this one has a ballerina doll in it.” She holds it out to Minnie. “You like ballerinas, honey?”

“Party bag!” yells Minnie ecstatically. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-party,” she adds with care. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-parteee.”

“You’re a darling.” Cyndi beams at her. “That accent!”

“It’s an amazing party,” I say politely.

“I have a very generous husband,” says Cyndi earnestly. “We’re very lucky. But you know, we appreciate it. We don’t take it for granted.” She nods at the table. “Every one of these loot bags has a counterpart going to an underprivileged kid.”

“Wow.” I blink at her. “That’s a great idea.”

“It’s the way I like to do things. I wasn’t born to this.” She sweeps an arm around, gesturing at the castle. “We can always remember those less fortunate than ourselves. And that’s what I want to teach Peyton.”

“Good for you.” I feel a tweak of admiration. I reckon there’s more to Cyndi than meets the eye.

“Corey has his own charitable foundation too,” she adds. “He’s the most generous, giving man. He constantly thinks of others.” She looks a little misty-eyed. “But you must have picked that up from meeting him.”

“Er…absolutely!” I lie. “Well, nice to meet you.”

“Great to meet you too! Bye-bye, pumpkin!” She pinches Minnie’s cheek. “Good luck with everything.”

“Oh, just one thing,” I add casually as we turn away. “I was wondering…do you know why Corey called his first daughter Rebecca?”

“Oh my.” Cyndi looks awkward. “I have no idea. You know, they don’t really talk. I’ve never met her. It’s kinda sad.”

“Oh.” I digest this.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned her just now. Corey doesn’t like to talk about the past at all. He says it brings him bad luck. I tried to invite her for Thanksgiving once, but…” She looks crestfallen for a moment, then brightens. “Anyhow. Can I get you guys a snack for the road?”

FIVE

The party bag is
insanely
lavish.

It’s half an hour later and we’ve stopped at another diner, for lunch and a regroup. Minnie is unpacking the bag onto the table, and we’re all staring, slack-jawed. The ballerina doll is just the start. There’s also a DKNY watch, a Young Versace hoodie, and a pair of tickets to Cirque du Soleil. Suze is especially horrified, because she’s really not into party bags. She thinks they’re common. (She never actually uses that word, but she twists her fingers into knots, and I know it’s what she thinks. When she gives a children’s party, the party bag consists of a balloon and a big piece of homemade toffee, wrapped in greaseproof paper.)

As Minnie pulls out a gorgeous pink Kate Spade clutch, Mum and Janice start googling Las Vegas property prices on their phones, to see how much Corey’s house must be worth, while I quickly remove the Kate Spade for safekeeping. I’ll keep it nice for Minnie till she’s grown up enough to use it. (And in the meantime maybe borrow it once or twice.)

“
How
does he make his money, exactly?” Janice asks. “Goodness, this one is sixteen million dollars!”

“Property,” says Mum vaguely.

“No, he started out in patents,” I inform them. “Science inventions or whatever. He invented a special spring, apparently.”

I got this from page three of my Google search, where there was a profile of Corey from
The
Wall Street Journal
. According to that, the spring was the first thing he invented and it still makes him money today. Although how can you invent a spring? It’s just curly wire, isn’t it?

“There, Becky, I
told
you to concentrate in your science lessons,” says Mum. “Janice, look, this house has
two
swimming pools.”

“Now, that’s vulgar,” says Janice disapprovingly as she leans over to see. “But look at that view….”

“I don’t understand how he’s managed to lie about his age,” I put in. Corey’s
got
to be around the same age as my dad, but I’ve searched online and I can’t find anything to disprove the so-called “fiftieth birthday party.” “I mean, you can’t just invent an age these days. What about Google?”

“He probably started lying before Google was invented,” says Janice wisely. “Like Marjorie Willis, remember, Jane? She shaved a year off every other birthday.”

“Oh, that Marjorie!” exclaims Mum indignantly. “She turned thirty-four at least twice, if not three times. That’s the way to do it, love.” She turns to me. “Gradually and early.”

“Yes!” Janice nods. “Start now, Becky. You could lose a decade, easily.”

Should I do that? I hadn’t even thought about shaving years off my age. Anyway, surely the most sensible thing is to pretend to be
older
than you are? And then everyone says,
Wow, you look amazing for ninety-three!
when you’re only seventy—

My thoughts are interrupted by Luke beckoning to me. He’s standing by the window and has rather an odd expression.

“Hi,” I say as I join him. “What’s up?” Without answering, he hands me his phone.

“Now, look, Becky,” says Dad into my ear, with no preamble. “What’s all this nonsense about Mum flying out to L.A.?”

It’s Dad’s voice. It’s my dad. He’s alive. I think I might pass out, except I want to whoop as well.

“Dad!”
I exclaim breathlessly. “Oh my God. Is that
you
?”

Tears have already sprung to my eyes. I hadn’t realized quite how worried I was. Or how guilty I felt. Or how many horrible images had been circling in my head.

“I’ve just received a very garbled message on my phone,” Dad says. “As I’ve said to Luke, I want you to
put Mum
off,
all right? Tell her to stay in the UK.”

Is he kidding? Does he have any idea what we’ve been going through?

“But she’s already here! And so is Janice! Dad, we’re worried about you!” My words tumble out. “And we’re worried about Tarkie, and we’re worried about—”

“We’re all fine,” says Dad testily. “Please tell Mum not to fret. I’ll only be a few days.”

“But where
are
you? What are you
doing
?”

“It doesn’t matter,” responds Dad shortly. “It’s a small issue between friends, and it’ll take no time at all to sort out, I’m sure. Try to amuse your mother in the meantime.”

“But we’re following you!”

“Well, please
don’t
follow me!” Dad sounds really quite angry. “This is ridiculous! Can a man not deal with a small private matter without being trailed?”

“But you didn’t even tell Mum what you were doing! You just disappeared!”

“I left you a note,” says Dad impatiently. “You knew I was safe. Shouldn’t that have been enough?”

“Dad, you need to speak to her, right now. I’ll pass you over—”

“No.” Dad cuts me off. “Becky, I’m trying to achieve an important task, and I have to focus on that. I can’t deal with your mother having hysterics at me for an hour.”

“She wouldn’t—” I begin, then stop mid-sentence. I hate to say it, but he’s right. If Mum gets on the phone with him, the rant will last until the phone runs out of power.

“Take your mother back to L.A.,” Dad’s saying. “Go to a spa and—what do you call it?—chill out.”

“How can we chill out?” Now I’m starting to feel angry. “You won’t tell us anything, and we know Bryce is trying to brainwash Tarkie….I mean, is he OK?”

Dad gives a short laugh. “Bryce isn’t brainwashing anyone. He’s a very helpful young man. He’s been invaluable to me. Knows the area, you see. And he’s quite taken Tarquin under his wing. They spend hours chatting with each other about this and that.”

Under his wing? Hours chatting about this and that?
I don’t like the sound of that one bit.

“Well, is Tarkie there?”

“He’s here. D’you want to speak to him?”

What?
I stare at the phone in disbelief. There’s a scuffling noise down the line, then Tarquin’s unmistakable reedy voice says, “Ahm, hello? Becky?”

“Tarkie!” I nearly explode with relief. “Hi! I’ll get Suze—”

“No, ahm…don’t bother,” he says. “Just tell her I’m all right.”