The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (138 page)

“Oh, really? And just how do you plan on stopping me?” If Monica threatened to cut off payments to the Sunshine Home, she’d threaten in return to go to the press. Monica wouldn’t want it spread all over kingdom come that her mother was being tossed out onto the street because she was too cheap to pay for a nursing home.

She remained unmoved even when Monica hissed, “I’ll make your life a living hell.”

Now Anna
did
laugh. “You’ve already done that.”

A hectic flush bloomed in Monica’s cheeks. “You think I don’t know what this is really about?” She strained toward Anna, gripping the arms of her chair. “Now that Mom’s out of the way, you want to be rid of me, too. Well, it doesn’t work that way. You need me as much as I need you!”

“Maybe I did once, but not anymore.” The anger had gone out of Anna, and now she eyed her sister with something close to pity. She knew her better in some ways than Monica knew herself: how comforting it was to be the victim, which meant you were never to blame, and how self-pity warmed like a blanket on a cold night.

“Don’t expect me to go on paying Mom’s bills.”

Anna shrugged. “Do what you like.”

Her indifference only enraged Monica further. “I don’t owe her a cent! What did she ever do for me? Name one goddamn thing!”

Anna was taken aback by the depth of Monica’s enmity. She’d always assumed her contempt had more to do with wanting to distance herself from her humble roots. Softly she said, “She worships the ground you walk on, you know,” though it was unlikely Betty would even recognize her at this point.

“Oh sure,
now
she does. But where was she when I was growing up? She was as much to blame as he was! You don’t know. You don’t know what I—” She broke off with a choking sound, her mouth twisting into a grimace as she snatched up her cup and hurled it at the wall, where it shattered into tiny eggshell shards. “God, you’re so blind. You and Liz, stupid little nobodies with your heads in the sand!”

Anna stared at her, knowing she should feel something but too weary to summon more than mild disgust. Her sister was right about one thing. Her head
had
been in the sand. All this time she’d thought Monica was using their mother to manipulate her, but there was obviously more to it than that. The thing was, she no longer cared. Whatever her sister’s demons, let her wrestle with them on her own.

But Monica’s tantrum had passed. Now she sat there, staring sightlessly ahead, the fury of the moment before gone like the beige foam soaking into the rug. When she finally looked up, she seemed almost surprised to see Anna still standing there. “Would you help me into my chair?” she asked in a slurred voice, gesturing with a limp hand in the direction of her wheelchair.

Some speck of compassion must have survived in Anna after all for she found herself walking toward her sister. Not that her resolve was weakening, but there was one thing Monica hadn’t been able to rob her of: simple human kindness.

She was lifting her into her wheelchair when Monica’s weight abruptly shifted, throwing her off balance. Monica cried out, clutching at her. Anna tried to right herself, but they both went down, collapsing in a heap on the rug. It was a moment before she managed to wriggle out from under Monica, pulling herself upright. Feeling a stinging sensation, she looked down at her arm to see bloody scratches extending from the inside of her elbow to her wrist. Monica lay puddled beside her, weeping.

“Are you all right?” Anna gasped.

Monica didn’t appear to be hurt. But she was clearly more than a little drunk—at nine-thirty in the morning, no less. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.” Her cheeks were wet, not crocodile tears this time. “I didn’t mean any of those things I said.”

Anna struggled to her feet, careful to avoid the shards of china that had landed nearby. She stood there looking down at her sister. “I don’t hate you,” she said. She had once, but now all she felt was …

What
did
she feel? Nothing.

“I know I’ve been awful to you. I know.” Monica sat up, her mouth twisted in a smile that was awful to behold. With her hair tangled about her shoulders and makeup running ghoulishly down her cheeks, she was a parody of the woman adored by millions—more
Picture of Dorian Gray
than picture perfect. “But please … don’t leave me. I’m begging you. I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

Anna felt goose bumps swarm up her arms. Monica sounded exactly like their father after one of his drunken tirades, when he’d plead for Betty’s forgiveness. “It’s too late for that,” she said, shaking her head.

“Just until I find someone else?” Monica eyed her piteously.

Every instinct cried out for her to run, but she found herself saying, “I’ll give you until the end of the day.” What was a few more hours after all she’d endured?

With Arcela’s help she managed to lift Monica off the floor and into her wheelchair, but it was like hoisting a sack of grain. Never mind. If she was three sheets to the wind, it was no longer Anna’s concern. She had bigger worries, like how she was going to support herself until she found another job.

She spent the rest of the day clearing off her desk and packing up her things. There wasn’t much to show for the four years she’d worked there: a few family photos, a souvenir mug from Monica’s last trip to Cannes, a teddy bear she hadn’t had the heart to toss into the box she donated each month to Goodwill—love offerings from fans. Tomorrow she’d deal with the reality of being out of work. For now it was enough that she was finally, blessedly free.

Then it was time to go. She descended the stairs to find Arcela in the kitchen buttoning up her coat—it was her night off. Anna hugged her good-bye.
Poor Arcela. She’ll bear the brunt of it now.
But Arcela only whispered, “I happy for you.” Anna drew back to find her dark eyes shiny with tears, those of a small brown animal not fleet-footed enough to escape.

Anna felt a twinge of guilt, yet nothing could take away from her giddy sense of release. She longed to share the good news with Marc; he’d be happy for her, too. But it would only open a door better left shut. “We’ll still see each other,” she told Arcela, who smelled faintly of cinnamon and Lemon Pledge. “And you know you can always call if you need me.”

Now all that was left was to say her good-byes to Monica. Anna took a deep breath before heading down the hall. She knocked on the door to her sister’s study, and in a surprisingly chipper voice Monica called, “Come in.”

Expecting to find her a wreck, Anna was unprepared for the sight of Monica’s tapping away at her computer. She glanced about the room, done up in French provincial and pickled pine, but nothing was out of place, and all she smelled was the potpourri in a shallow dish on the antique trestle. Nor was there anything in Monica’s demeanor to suggest that this morning’s horror show had taken place.

She cleared her throat, saying, “I’m on my way out. I just wanted to say good-bye.”

Monica looked up at her with a faint, ironic smile. “Don’t be so dramatic. You act as though we’ll never see each other again.” As she wheeled out from behind her desk, Anna could see something hard and implacable in her eyes. “We’re still family, aren’t we?” She spoke lightly, but Anna caught a queer undercurrent that sent a shiver up her spine.

She shrugged. However hard Monica tried to bait her, she wasn’t going to bite. “This is for you.” Anna handed her the folder with everything her replacement would need. “I included a list of employment agencies. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone.”

Monica tossed it onto her desk without a glance. “You’re not leaving me much choice, are you?”

Anna smiled thinly. “Now who’s being dramatic?” She could sense it like a low pressure front: Any minute now the storm would break. “Come on, Monica, we both know this is for the best.”

“For
you,
maybe.”

“Look, I’d like it if we could part on good terms. So why don’t I go before this gets ugly?”

She’d made it halfway to the door before Monica wheeled around sharply, blocking her path. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” she spat. “Miss Goody Two-shoes whose shit doesn’t stink. No wonder you and Liz were Mom’s favorites—you’re both a pair of spineless wimps. At least
I
had the guts to get out.” She glared up at Anna. “You know something? I’m
glad
you’re leaving.”

“That makes two of us.” Anna stepped around her as if she were no more than a bump in the road to freedom. The relief she felt was so powerful she seemed to float out the door and down the hall.

But her freedom was short-lived.

She was awakened early the next morning by the ringing of the phone. Groggy, her first thought had been of her mother, but when she snatched up the receiver, it was Arcela’s voice at the other end. Something about an accident was all she could determine from the housekeeper’s hysterical babbling. The police were on their way …

Now, weeks later, as she sat in the courtroom where a new drama was being played out, she nearly laughed out loud at her naïveté. How could she have believed she was free? Even with her sister dead, Anna was more firmly caught in her web than when she’d been alive.

When it was her turn, Rhonda summoned her own forensics expert, a man as portly as his predecessor was lean, wearing horn-rims and a tweed jacket with elbow patches—a professor straight from central casting.

“Dr. Dennison,” she asked, “would it be accurate to say that skin cells contain little or no DNA?”

He was perspiring in his heavy jacket but otherwise looked composed as he leaned in to the microphone. “Technically, that’s true,” he said. “Nucleated cells are typically transferred to the skin surface through sweat.”

“Would it be fair to say that under certain conditions—say, if the body has spent some time underwater—those secretions might wear off?”

“To some extent, yes.”

“So it’s entirely possible the DNA from under the victim’s fingernails could conceivably have come from someone
other
than Ms. Vincenzi?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You may step down.”

Anna understood where Rhonda was going with this: She was throwing a monkey wrench into the works by suggesting that the test results linking Anna to the crime could have been false, that it might have been someone else’s DNA—the
real
murderer’s. But would the judge buy it? From the impassive expression he wore, it was impossible to tell. And for the purposes of this hearing, did it even matter? All the prosecution had to show was probable cause for him to order a trial, which would be a sentence in itself, entailing months of preparation while she struggled to make ends meet.

Cruel fingers closed about her heart. It was all she could do not to let her panic show.

When they recessed for lunch, she and her supporters convened at the Tree House Café, where David Ryback was keeping reporters at bay by informing them that all the tables were reserved.

“Where’s Finch?” Anna glanced about, wondering if she’d decided against skipping a day of school.

Laura glanced at Hector, then at Maude. “She, uh … had some stuff to do.”

Anna sensed something afoot. “Is there something you’re keeping from me?”

“You might as well tell her,” Sam said to Laura. “She’ll know soon enough.”

“She wanted it to be a surprise.” Laura dropped her voice so Althea Wormley, seated at the next table with several other members of the altar guild, wouldn’t hear. “She organized a rally. She didn’t tell you because she was afraid you’d try to talk her out of it.”

“Oh, God.” Anna was aghast. Hadn’t she generated enough publicity as it was? Only CTN had been restrained in its coverage, and that was due to Wes.

“Well, I think it’s a nice show of support,” Maude piped.

“I’m grateful for
all
your support, but …” Anna cast a nervous glance at Rhonda, who was calmly buttering a slice of bread.

But Rhonda surprised her by saying, “Actually, it might work in your favor. At least we’ll be getting some positive press for a change.”

“Look at OJ,” Liz said, then blushed. “Sorry. Bad example.”

“You’ve got to hand it to her. The girl is nothing if not enterprising,” Marc said with a chuckle.

Laura darted an anxious look at Hector. “I just hope she doesn’t get in over her head.” She was probably remembering the time Finch had joined the rally to save the oak tree at Los Reyes Plaza that was slated to be cut down. There’d been over a hundred supporters, but only Finch and a handful of others had been arrested for disturbing the peace, complete with a photo on the front page of the following morning’s
Clarion.

Melodie Wycoff took their orders. Normally chatty, she’d kept a fairly low profile these past weeks, her husband being a cop. The rumors swirling around Melodie were enough—she’d supposedly had an affair with one of his buddies—without her making matters worse. But now she leaned down to whisper sotto voce, “We’re all rooting for you, hon. Hang in there.” Warmed by her support, Anna nodded in response, too choked up to speak.

“It looked as if you scored some points with the judge,” Marc said to Rhonda when Melodie had bustled off.

“Maybe,” she said, frowning. “But if it goes to trial, we’ll have to do some fancy footwork for the jury to buy that it was someone other than Anna.”

“My money’s on Krystal,” Liz said darkly. If anything she was even more outraged than Anna was that the police weren’t looking for her.

“Don’t forget Hairy Cary,” Marc said.

“Hairy Cary?” Maude looked confused.

“One of Monica’s e-mail pals,” he explained. “We thought he might have something to do with it, even though he doesn’t exactly fit the profile.”

“He’s a minister,” Anna put in.

“So was Jim Bakker,” Sam noted wryly.

“I finally got through to him,” Marc went on. “He claimed to have been out of town at some Baptist conference, but he seemed pretty nervous. I couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t want his wife to find out he’d been sending those creepy messages or if it was something more.”

“Creepy in what way?” Hector asked.

“He’d want to know stuff like her shoe size, and what kind of perfume she wore,” Anna told him. “Once he sent her a gift—a nightgown.”