To Catch the Moon (49 page)

“You are determined to press murder charges
against my daughter?” Libby Hudson asked.

“Yes,” Alicia answered.

For a time, no one said a word. Then Libby
Hudson looked at her counselor and nodded, as if she were
delivering a signal. He dropped his eyes and shook his head, only
once, the picture of a man who had argued vigorously but here, now,
was forced to accept defeat.

Alicia watched the interaction between
attorney and client and something clicked into place in her mind.
Wait. Joan wasn’t the only Hudson to have a motive for murdering
Daniel Gaines.

Alicia stared across the conference table at
Libby Storrow Hudson, so proper, so aristocratic, so strong-willed.
She had the same motive for killing Daniel that her daughter
did. Arguably an even stronger one. As Web Hudson’s widow she was
the other major beneficiary of his living trust. She, too, would
have been outraged at how Daniel had abused the trust and stolen
the Headwaters stake from the family. She was directly hurt by it,
even more than her daughter. And she would feel Daniel’s insult to
Web Hudson even more keenly.

Fragments of memory crowded into Alicia’s
brain, bits and pieces of legend and lore that people chewed on
when they were in the mood to gossip. She spoke into the silent
room. “Mrs. Hudson, you competed in the Olympic trials some years
back, is that correct?”

The older woman smiled. For the first time,
the look she gave Alicia was tinged with respect. “Yes, I did.”

Somewhere far away in the D.A.’s office a
phone rang. Alicia was far more conscious of the thunder in her own
ears. “In what sport?”

Libby Hudson hesitated only briefly. Then,
“Archery.”

There it was, the final piece.

“You killed Daniel Gaines, didn’t you?”
Alicia asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I did.” The confession was
delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone Alicia had heard earlier.
No regret, no emotion, just a woman saying what she must.

“He was never worthy of my daughter,” she
went on. It was a confident declaration, made by a woman who had a
very clear notion where she stood in the world. “He was never
worthy of association with the Hudson name. He was a detestable,
lowborn man who used my family in whatever vile, scheming ways he
could concoct.” She paused, and shuddered visibly. “I killed him
because I could not allow him to destroy my daughter’s life, which,
as you apparently discovered as well, he was in the process of
doing. And now I have the identical motive for telling you the
truth. I will not destroy Joan’s life by allowing her to pay for a
crime she did not commit.”

Alicia had some difficulty focusing her
thoughts, which were batting around in her brain like crazed birds
desperate to escape their cage.
Could this be another lie? Is
this woman saying what she must to protect her daughter?
If so,
it was the most astonishing display of maternal loyalty Alicia had
ever seen. Yet somehow she believed Libby Hudson capable of such a
feat of courage. Much more than she could believe her daughter
capable of it.

“You see,” Libby Hudson went on, “it doesn’t
really matter what happens to me. I will fight to be exonerated,
you may be sure. Yet whatever the outcome, I will already have
lived a bountiful life. Joan is young and has many years ahead of
her. I have protected her inheritance. I have ensured her future.”
She turned her piercing blue eyes on Alicia. “A mother knows when a
child needs a guiding hand. I know that Joan does, and I have
provided it.”

Louella was shaking her head. “This doesn’t
add up. We confirmed your whereabouts and you were in Santa Barbara
when Daniel was killed.”

Alicia spoke before Libby Hudson did. “But
she may well have driven up to Carmel from Santa Barbara with no
one knowing. And gone back the same way.”
Much as her daughter
went back and forth from Santa Cruz.

The older woman nodded. “Yes, I made certain
to appear to be out of town. I was at San Ysidro Ranch. I knew that
on December twentieth Joan planned to stay overnight at Courtney
Holt’s home. I knew Daniel would be alone. I made the drive north
and arrived at Joan and Daniel’s home at about eight-thirty in the
evening.

“It was I who summoned Treebeard to the
house. It was I who wrote the letter that I gather you have now
found. It was I who posted the letter at Treebeard’s campsite, and
stole an arrow from the quiver he left there. I knew I could not
carry a bow in and out of the house, for the risk of being seen
with it, so I used one I gave Joan years ago and hid it where I
believed it would not be discovered.”

It all made a sort of crazy sense. Joan might
well have been telling the truth when she said she went back to her
home that night to see if Daniel was having an assignation with
Molly Bracewell. Then another thought occurred to Alicia.
Could
Joan be as much a perpetrator of this crime as her mother was? Were
mother and daughter in league together?

Libby Hudson turned her head as if to gaze
out the dirt-streaked windows. “I’ve always been athletically
inclined, from when I was a young girl. Horseback riding, tennis,
golf, sailing. Diving, a bit. But my greatest passion was archery.”
Her eyes took on a faraway gleam. "It’s a magnificent sport,” she
murmured, almost as if to herself. “Such artistry. Such beauty and
grace.”

Alicia had the fleeting thought that Libby
Hudson no longer was speaking of archery but of the murder of her
son-in-law. For there had been a gruesome beauty to that as well.
The perpetrator very nearly had escaped justice. She had left
almost no trace of evidence and betrayed no guilt. Perhaps because
she had felt none.

Even now she was getting what she most
wanted. Her daughter was safe. Ironically, it might have been the
perfect crime were it not for the very person Libby Storrow Hudson
had committed it to protect.

For it is Joan who lacks character
,
Alicia thought,
Joan who both benefits from this extraordinary
sacrifice and is undeserving of it. And who most likely will never
fully grasp its extent.

Three days after Libby Hudson’s confession,
Alicia woke at dawn, drove two hours to San Francisco Airport, left
the VW in an economy parking lot, and boarded the third
transcontinental flight of her life. She disembarked at Dulles
International Airport and took an express train to Washington, D.C.
Without pausing at any of the city’s tourist attractions, all of
which she longed to see, she splurged on a cab that delivered her
and her battered Samsonite directly to the redbrick town house
owned by Milo Pappas.

It was shortly after seven in the evening,
dark and cold, with snowflakes blowing. Some collected on the
street lamps that threw golden bowls of light on the browned lawns
of a winter city. Some dusted the peaked roofs of the stately homes
and embassies that lined Milo’s street. And some settled on
Alicia’s hair and eyelashes as she stood at Milo’s door and
wondered whether, after coming all this way and spending all this
money she didn’t have, she should ring his bell.

Ring it. Because if you don’t it’ll be the
biggest mistake of your life
.

She had a way of blowing opportunities, she
knew. Her failures plagued her even more than her successes buoyed
her. What a failure it would be to let Milo Pappas get away. And
for what? Pride?

Her hand reached out and rang his bell.

It didn’t take him long to answer. When he
did, he stood in his foyer simply staring at her, amazement
lighting his eyes and causing an uncharacteristic lapse in his
manners.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Of course! I’m sorry.” He stepped aside
quickly, then reached out his unbroken arm to hoist her luggage
over the threshold into his entryway.

Once inside, she felt very awkward. “I’m
sorry I didn’t call first.”

He scoffed at that. “You don’t need to call
first, Alicia.” Somehow it made her feel better to hear him say her
name. “Let me take your coat,” he offered then, and that made her
feel better still. Maybe he wouldn’t try to get rid of her
quickly.

He led her down a few stairs into a living
room. It had art on the walls, towering ceilings, and a brick
fireplace in which a log fire blazed. It looked like something that
would show up in a decorating magazine.

From the indentation in a sofa, and the glass
of red wine next to an open paperback, she could guess what he’d
been doing when she showed up unannounced at his door. Maybe he
didn’t have plans for the evening? Or maybe they were late plans?
It was hard for her to imagine how Milo might fill his hours, but
reading alone in front of a fire was what she could see herself
doing, not him.

He invited her to sit, and offered her wine.
He returned and handed a glass to her with a smile. “It’s no Opus
One.”

She sipped. “It’s delicious, though.” To her
it didn’t taste all that different from Opus One. She wouldn’t
confess that just yet.

He sat across from her and took his own
wineglass in his hands. In the fire a log broke, then crackled in a
cloud of sparks. “How’d you find me?”

“I have friends who are investigators.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Louella has access to some
kind of database.”

Louella was heavily in favor of Alicia making
this trip. Though there was no reason for it, clearly Louella felt
guilty for planning to pounce on Jorge as soon as a decent interval
passed. The last Alicia had spoken to her, the interval had shrunk
from three weeks to five days.

“You’ve been watching the news?” Alicia
asked, then instantly felt a pang at the question’s stupidity.

Milo simply shook his head. “Libby Hudson’s
confession? I’m astonished by it.”

“It makes sense, though.”

“I always had trouble believing Joan could
pull something like this off.”

“But I believe her mother could.” She paused.
“I’m embarrassed I didn’t suspect her earlier. Once I knew about
Daniel’s control of the living trust, and that he had bought Web
Hudson’s stake in Headwaters, it should have occurred to me. I was
just so focused on Joan.” Again she hesitated. “Once I get an idea
in my head, sometimes I can’t see past it.”

He met her eyes, saying nothing. It was time.
This was what she had flown across the country for.

“I did that to you, too, Milo. I’m really
sorry. You were right. Somehow I always expected the worst of you.
It was totally unfair of me and I really regret it. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, then swirled the wine in his glass
and watched it as if with fascination. “I’ve got something to do
with how people judge me, Alicia. Don’t worry about it.” He raised
his eyes, and she was startled to see sadness there, and a sort of
wisdom. “But I accept your apology, and I appreciate it.”

They fell silent. Then he smiled, and she
caught a glimpse of the jaunty Milo she was used to. “So I guess
this means you’ll get your old job back?”

His tone was light, but she had the idea this
wasn’t a casual question. “I will. And I’ve been getting calls from
people in my party wanting me to run against Penrose for D.A.”

Milo’s brows rose. “This November? Are you
going to do it?”

“I’m thinking about it.” She paused.
“Actually, I’m pretty ready to do it.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

She was curious. “What?”

“Will you call Molly Bracewell and ask for
advice?”

“Oh ...” She didn’t like that idea. “She’s
such a slick one, I don’t know ....”

“Alicia.” Milo raised his index finger in the
air. “Does she win or not?”

There was only one answer to that question.
Alicia was silent.

“Then talk to her. She’ll put you in touch
with people who can help you.”

“You’re telling me to play the game.”

“Do you want to win this time?”

She’d better. It was her third try. It was
really now or never. Milo leaned back as if satisfied. “What about
you?” she asked. Another noncasual question.

He didn’t quite smile, but almost. “My
agent’s getting some calls.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised! Calls from whom?”

“Well, one is a correspondent position with
ABC. Back in London, where I started in TV. Not a prime-time
magazine, though. Loads of travel. And far from the brass in New
York, which isn’t a good thing.”

He didn’t seem to like that one. Somehow that
pleased her. “What about the others?”

“One’s a local anchor job, here in D.C.” He
shrugged. “I’m not so sure I want to go local, though. I’ve never
done it, so maybe I’d like it. I just don’t know.”

“Are there any more?”

“There’s one more.” Again he stared into his
wineglass. She got the funny feeling he was avoiding her eyes.
“This one’s in L.A., with Fox. They’re launching a new prime-time
magazine this summer.” He paused. “I’d be the anchor and also do
stories.”

She liked the sound of that one. “Wouldn’t
that be good? It’s national and you’d be the anchor?”

“True,” he allowed. “But it’s a little less
prestigious than
Newsline
.”

“But it’s in the U.S.,” she pointed out.

He smiled at her, and there was the old Milo
glint in his eye. “Actually, it’s in California.”

“Yeah, I think you mentioned that.” But she
couldn’t help smiling back.

Then he left his place across from her and
came to sit at her side. They looked at each other. “Hi,” he
said.

“Hi.”

He raised his hand and brushed her cheek.
Lightly, so lightly. She closed her eyes. His touch lingered, the
way she remembered, the way that tied a knot in her heart that
somehow hurt so good.

Then his doorbell rang. Alicia’s eyes
fluttered open. She tried hard not to feel a crashing
disappointment.
Was this a friend coming over? A date,
maybe?