The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (128 page)

Before they could speculate further the door cracked open and the punk-haired girl stuck her head in. “They’re ready for you,” she told Brent. “Need to warm up?”

He winked to let her know it wouldn’t be necessary. While Anna did her best not to think too hard about what sort of warm-up she’d had in mind, he rose to his feet. “Listen, I’m sorry—you got a bum rap,” he told Anna. “Anything I can do, you know where to reach me.”

“Thanks,” she said, thinking he’d done more than enough already.

He kissed her on the cheek and was out the door, leaving a trail of Brut.

“So much for Brent,” she observed dryly to Marc as they were pulling out of the parking lot. “We’re no further ahead than when we started.”

“Except that now we know exactly where things stand with Glenn.”

“Yeah, I know that he’s a liar and a snake in the grass.”

This time she didn’t hold back, giving him a
full
account of that day—how Glenn had pawed her, and how if Brent hadn’t stopped him, he’d have forced himself on her. Marc didn’t say a word. It wasn’t until she was finished that he abruptly veered off onto the shoulder.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, don’t you?” he said sternly, twisting around to face her.

“Rationally, yes.”

“What would happen if you put the blame where it belonged?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” she said.

“Maybe you’re afraid you’d have to do something about it.”

She gave in to a small smile. “You sound like a shrink.”

“Just promise me that the next time you’re pissed off at someone, you’ll let them have it.”

“Even if it’s you?”

“Especially me.”

Anna hadn’t realized she was trembling until he pulled her into his arms and she felt a deep calm settle over her. “I still don’t see him as a murderer.” Much as she might like to.

“Would you have pegged him for a rapist?”

“He didn’t—” She stopped herself. “No.”

Marc drew back. “Okay, then, let’s see what he has to say for himself.” His expression was dark as he shifted into gear and edged back out onto the road. “Assuming he’ll even talk to us.”

“With any luck, we’ll catch him off guard.”

She wondered what good it would do. If by some stretch of the imagination Glenn
had
killed Monica, how on earth could they prove it? Even so …

She gave Marc directions to Glenn’s office, adding, “If we hurry, we might catch him before he goes to lunch.”

A
S ANNA AND
M
ARC
were making their way south on the Santa Monica freeway, Finch was eyeing the envelope propped on her dresser. She’d been out since breakfast exercising Cheyenne in the ring, and had dashed inside to shower and throw on some clean clothes before meeting Andie. They were hosting a birthday tea at Tea & Sympathy for a bunch of eighth grade girls, the first one having been such a huge success they were now booked months in advance.

But thoughts of squealing thirteen-year-olds vanished as she picked up the letter, no doubt left by Maude, who usually fetched the mail. It was pale blue and crinkly and smelled faintly of lavender. When she noted the return address, her heart began to pound.

Miss Lorraine Wells

1345 Bellvue Manor

Pasadena, CA 91105

She sank down on the bed, tearing open the envelope. When she’d written to Lorraine, she hadn’t expected to hear back so soon. In fact, she hadn’t expected to hear from her at all. Now she withdrew the single sheet of stationery with a trembling hand.

Dear Miss Kiley,

Thank you for your letter. I would like to meet with you, if possible, but unfortunately I don’t get out much these days. I’m eighty-seven and have had two hip replacements. If you could come to me, I would greatly appreciate it. I’m sure we would have lots to talk about.

I can be reached at (626)555-8976. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours truly,

Lorraine Wells

Finch read it again, frowning. What did it mean, exactly?

She’s probably just a lonely old lady looking for company.
All she’d get would be an earful of stories she had no part in. That is, if Lorraine still had her marbles.

But from her letter, she seemed sane enough. And suppose, just suppose, they were related. She slid the letter back into its envelope, tucking it away in a drawer.
Wait’ll I tell Lucien.

The thought took her by surprise. Why him, and not Andie? One kiss didn’t make them a couple. Neither did the fact that tomorrow she was going to a barbecue at his house. Never mind Lucien’s joking that his dad was so laid back he could have a girl spend the night and the old man wouldn’t bat an eye.

He’s not like other guys,
she told herself. Most of whom were forever trying to get into your pants. Unless he was just playing it smart, like the last guy she’d been with, who’d pretended to love her but who was only using her to get back at his ex-girlfriend, it turned out.

Pushing aside the memory of those days, she glanced about as if to get her bearings. Her room off the barn was pretty much as it had been when it was Hector’s, with the exception of the quilt on the bed, a present from Maude’s sewing circle when her adoption had become final, and the posters she’d hung—one showing a herd of mustangs galloping across a plain, and another of an Appaloosa mare and her colt. Stuck in the frame of the mirror over the dresser was a snapshot of Andie and her mugging for the camera at Ian’s most recent gallery opening, and one of Laura and Hector surrounded by the entire Kiley-Delarosa clan on their wedding day.

Finch showered and threw on a dress. Normally she lived in jeans, but all the girls at the party would be dressed up. She didn’t want to look shabby in comparison.

“My, don’t you look nice,” Maude said as she breezed into the kitchen, the screen door banging shut behind her. “I don’t believe you’ve met my friend Dr. Steinberg.” She gestured toward the woman seated beside her at the table, not as old as Maude; her hair was more brown than gray.

She looked familiar. “Aren’t you … ?”

“Miss November,” she said with a laugh, thrusting out her nearly flat bosom. “Though I’d prefer if you called me Dorothy.”

Finch recalled that Dorothy, while not an official member of the sewing circle, had been asked to pose for the calendar since it had been inspired partly by her—the profits would go toward a research program she’d spearheaded. It had all started the year before when Maude sent flowers to thank her for saving Jack’s life—Dorothy was head neonatologist at Dominican—which had led to Dorothy’s asking her to help out at the hospital’s annual book drive. They’d been fast friends ever since.

“Are you guys planning an encore?” Finch teased, glancing at the photos strewn over the table, outtakes from the shoot. She eyed a sepia-toned nude of Mavis Fitzgerald at the piano, a fringed shawl draped artfully over one shoulder.

“Heavens, no. Once was enough.” Maude hastened to explain, “We’re trying to decide which of these would work best for the label. It’s for the Easter bake sale. You know how the club always puts up a batch of jam? Well, Dorothy thought up the perfect name—Well Preserved. How’s that for catchy?”

Finch shook her head, smiling. She knew she ought to be used to Maude’s antics by now, but this one took the cake. “Aren’t you guys famous enough as it is?”

“More like
infamous.
” Maude’s blue eyes twinkled.

“How about this one?” Finch pointed at a group photo of the ladies holding potted plants over their strategic areas, with Maude in the center, peering out from under a large straw hat. It was so … well,
Maude.

“You don’t think I look too—” Maude broke off with a giggle.

“Sexy?” Finch teased. “Yeah, you’ll give old Waldo ideas.” It was well known that the caretaker at the country club had a crush on her, though Maude went out of her way to discourage it. She’d had enough of watching a man drink himself to death, she’d say crisply, referring to her late husband. Finch dropped a kiss on her cheek, which smelled of lilies of the valley. “Gotta run. I’ll be back in time for supper.” She waved to Dorothy on her way out. “Bye. Nice meeting you.”

Rattling down Old Sorrento Road in Hector’s pickup, her thoughts turned to Anna. Reporters were still camped out in front of her house—only a handful now, but evidently enough to keep her at bay. Finch was eager to share her news—they’d raised almost three thousand dollars so far!—but last night when she’d gone over to tell her, no one was home. She consoled herself with the thought that there’d be even more money by the time Anna returned. Today she and Andie planned on hitting up some of the mothers at the party.

She arrived at Tea & Sympathy to find Claire bustling about in her apron, putting the finishing touches on the table settings. “I’m not late, am I?” she asked. Claire was always so together, you felt as if you’d come up short somehow.

“Right on time.” She stuck a sprig of clematis into a bud vase and straightened to smile at Finch. “Andie’s in the kitchen. I’m sure she could use a hand.”

Claire’s hair, the color of maple syrup, was twisted into a topknot from which curly tendrils escaped to trail down her slender neck. The gold heart locket her husband Matt had given her when they got engaged—a photo of him and his two children tucked inside—peeked from under her ruffled silk blouse.

Their wedding last Christmas was the most romantic one Finch had ever seen: a candlelight ceremony at St. Xavier’s, with Miss Hicks from the library, who had a surprisingly good voice, singing “Ave Marie,” followed by an elegant indoor reception at Isla Verde.

From out back came the banging of hammers and buzz of saws—Matt and his crew converting the garage he and Claire would eventually move into. The work was almost done. All that was left was choosing paint and wallpaper and tiles—something that bored Andie to tears, but which Finch, who’d grown up never knowing a real home, found endlessly fascinating.

In the kitchen she found Andie arranging miniature strawberry tarts on doily-covered plates. She reached for one, and Andie slapped her hand. “Uh-uh. Remember last time.”

How could she forget? A group of twelve-year-olds, who collectively couldn’t have weighed more than Matt, had scarfed up every crumb and clamored for more. Luckily, the freezer was stocked for just such emergencies. A minute or so in the microwave and the girls were gobbling up warm brownies and lemon squares.

“Let’s hope today’s crew is a little less ravenous,” she said.

Andie handed her a knife, pointing her toward the pan of brownies on the stove. “Make sure to cut them small so it looks like more.”

Minutes before the guests were due to arrive, each table had been set with a tiered silver epergne on which plates of finger sandwiches, the strawberry tarts, miniature cream puffs and éclairs, and bite-size cookies and brownies were displayed. Claire had bought the epergne from Delilah Sims, a Tree House regular, who’d discovered them in the china closet at her grandmother’s last year when she was getting ready to auction off the estate. (Finch hadn’t even known what they were called until Claire told her, and now she was always careful to use the correct French pronunciation—it made her feel sophisticated.)

Claire stepped back to admire the effect. “It almost makes me wish I were thirteen again.”

“What were you like?” Andie licked a smudge of chocolate frosting from her finger. It was odd seeing the two of them together—so alike in some ways, so different in others. Andie hadn’t even known Claire existed until a little more than a year ago, but now they were as close as sisters who’d grown up together. Andie had been the maid of honor at Claire’s wedding, and when Claire’s adoptive mother died last year, Andie had flown with her to Miramonte for the funeral.

Claire smiled. “I thought I was a freak, but I’m sure it was mostly in my head. Of course, it didn’t help that I was a foot taller than the tallest boy in the class.”

“You should hear Justin.” Andie made a face. Her little brother had shot up this past year and sounded like Kermit the Frog. “Last year girls were radioactive. Now all he and his friends can talk about is which ones are wearing bras.”

Claire poured milk into a creamer. “I was the last girl in my class to get one. I used to pray in church that I’d grow breasts.”

“Luckily, that’s something I’ve never had to worry about.” Andie glanced down wryly at her chest, the envy of every girl at Portola High. “With me, it was acne. I looked like a pizza with all the extras.”

“Pizza? I thought this was a tea party.”

All heads turned to Andie’s mother as she breezed in through the door wearing form-fitting jeans and a leather jacket over a stretchy pink top. You didn’t have to look further than Gerry to see where Andie had gotten her boobs.

Andie rolled her eyes. “We were talking about—” She broke off. “Never mind.”

Gerry shrugged—she was used to Andie’s treating her like she was from another planet—plunking the paper bag in her arms on the table by the door. Every week she brought over grocery sacks of lemons from the trees at Isla Verde, which Claire put to good use—everything from lemonade to her famous lemon tarts. “Who’s the birthday girl?” she asked, eyeing the hand-painted banner over the door.

“Reverend Griggs’s daughter,” Claire told her.

Gerry eyed the spread longingly. “Lucky for you I’m on a diet, or I’d be all over that like ants at a picnic.” She claimed to have gained weight while in Europe, but Finch couldn’t see it.

“Mom.”
Andie groaned good-naturedly when Gerry sampled a stray crumb. There were times when she acted more like the parent. It had gotten worse since her mom had remarried. In addition to acquiring a new stepdad, Andie had had to leave the house she’d lived in since she was born. Though having a bedroom twice the size as her old one went a long way toward making up for it, as far as Finch was concerned.

Gerry turned to Finch. “Any word yet?”

Finch felt a moment of panic, thinking Andie must have told her about Lorraine, before realizing she meant the baby. “They’re still waiting,” she said. “The agency said it might take awhile.”