Born to Be Wild (11 page)

“Two inside her at the same time? Oh, my.”

“I know, I can't imagine it either. It's odd, but you don't look skinny.”

“Thank you. How tall is your sister?”

“She's not as tall as you. Your legs are longer.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“I'm not, my sister is.”

“Come on, don't be a bonehead.”

“Truth is, I've always admired Sunday Cavendish too. I've wondered, though, if she could take it as well as dish it out.”

“Trust me on this, she can take just about anything.”

“I guess whoever plays Sunday Cavendish needs to.”

“I'll tell you about it sometime.”

Mary Lisa had never seen the house Mark and Monica had bought from a divorcing Portland portrait gallery owner three years before. Set amid a small enclave of expensive homes, it was the jewel of the neighborhood with flowing lines, endless wooden floors, and ocean views from most every window. Because Monica had their mother's good taste, and Mark's money, English antiques coexisted happily beside chrome and glass and white plastic cubes and soaring metal sculptures in fantastic twisted shapes.

The evening was balmy and clear, a half-moon sparkling over the water, a fairy-tale night, Mary Lisa thought. But she wondered how she could ever have been so stupid as to believe she'd loved Mark Bridges, fantasized about him endlessly in her every waking moment, even lost her brain to the extent she'd gladly have given up acting for him. She shuddered, remembering the shock of pain at his betrayal. She saw him across the long living room, listening to Mr. Crammer, who owned the local First Regional Bank of Oregon. Mark laughed, and it was too big and too loud and there was nothing behind it she wanted to know about. Once again, she felt immensely grateful that he'd been faithless. Monica stood in the midst of another group of people, smiling and nodding, looking charming. She had the knack of looking with intense focus directly into a person's face when they spoke, making an instant intimate connection. It was a politician's skill. Mary Lisa wondered if Monica loved Mark Bridges as much as Mary Lisa had sworn she herself had three years ago, before she'd received their wedding invitation in her mailbox in L.A.

She glanced at Kelly, wondering how she would treat John Goddard, the man she said she'd booted out of her life, because John Goddard was most certainly coming to this party. Kelly wore a short pale green cocktail dress that wouldn't have covered Mary Lisa's butt since Kelly was so much shorter than she was. She'd curled her streaked hair so it fell in waves to her shoulders. She looked as lovely as their mother, who was dressed in a long black gown, diamonds at her ears and throat, as ultrastylish and self-assured as Sunday Cavendish's mother, Lydia. As for Mary Lisa's father, George Beverly was born to wear a tux; he was, without a single doubt in Mary Lisa's loving eye, the most handsome man in the crowd of a good hundred people who milled about in the large open rooms, helping themselves to Monica's endless supply of very good champagne.

When Monica, Mark at her side, came toward them, Mary Lisa thought
The Bold and the Beautiful
, and laughed at herself.

Monica air-kissed each relative, and paused when she got to Mary Lisa. She winged up a dark brow, and her expression tightened. It was
the look
Mary Lisa remembered from her earliest childhood, the one that promised violence, or at least bad karma. Why, for heaven's sake? The thing was, Mary Lisa hadn't been here long enough to earn
the look
. Monica was the queen of this kingdom. Mary Lisa was only a short-term semifamous interloper in her sister's realm. And wasn't she here precisely to let Monica exploit her?

She gave her sister a sunny smile. “You've a lovely home,” she said, and nodded at Mark as she spoke. “The views are spectacular.”

Mark stepped forward, looking ready to hug Mary Lisa, as he had her mother and Kelly, but the death ray in his wife's eyes stopped him in his tracks. He shook her outstretched hand instead, but he held it a bit too long, and so Mary Lisa backed up, forcing Mark to release hers or be pulled toward her.

“All the Beverly women are gorgeous,” he said, and looked straight at his wife. It sounded fairly sincere, a good thing for Mark's sex life.

George Beverly laughed, nodded to his son-in-law, and said to Monica, “My dear, this looks like a splendid party. However did you get everything together on such short notice? And a ton of A-list people too. Well done.”

“She's got pull, sir,” Mark said, and hugged his wife. “She can do anything. Heading committees in the state house will be child's play for her.”

“Since they behave like children in the state house, that's exactly what it will be,” George said. He pecked his eldest daughter on her cheek, his smile robbing his words of insult.

“Nincompoops, Dad, that's what you called politicians,” Kelly, the born pot stirrer, said. “Are they children now too?”

A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. Everyone latched on to a gleaming crystal flute. Monica said to Mary Lisa, “Since this party is in your honor, you need to come with me so I can introduce you to everyone.” Her eyes surveyed her sister's borrowed little black dress before she turned on her strappy, three-inch slides and motioned everyone to follow her.

There were so many people to greet, people Mary Lisa hadn't seen in three years, and many new faces as well, but everyone seemed to recognize her. She wondered if they really believed Sunday Cavendish was simply a role she played or if they felt they were in the presence of the Goddess Bitch herself. She smiled and spoke and nodded as Monica pulled her in her wake, taking time to express support and admiration for her sister to anyone who seemed to expect it. When they reached the front of the room, Monica gestured her up onto the small dais. She stepped toward Mary Lisa, close enough so no one else could hear her, and whispered pleasantly, still smiling, “By the way, Mary Lisa, I'd appreciate your keeping away from Mark. I won't have you looking at him like you want to tongue his tonsils.”

Mary Lisa, nonplussed only briefly by what sounded like a script line to her, said after a little pause, “Hello, Earth to Monica, listen up—I don't want him. The truth is, I don't even like him anymore. I've been grateful for a very long time now that he married you. I hope you're happy with him, but let me make it official: Thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed her sister's cheek. Monica froze, but she knew guests were watching the show of affection and briefly hugged Mary Lisa to her. She pulled away and tapped her French-manicured fingernail against her champagne flute to draw everyone's attention, and those few people who hadn't been watching them already turned to face them. She thanked everyone for coming on such short notice, then smiled at Mary Lisa and thanked her for coming to help kick off her sister's political campaign.

Mary Lisa didn't so much as flare a nostril at that fine lie. She glanced at her father, and smiled at the look of amused tolerance on his face.

Monica continued, “As most of you know, Mary Lisa left Goddard Bay three years ago to live full-time in Los Angeles where her television show is shot. I hope all of you will join me in welcoming her home to Goddard Bay for this lovely, but alas, too short visit.”

The guests stared at her as if mesmerized. If wasn't as if she was wildly famous and beautiful like Sandra Bullock or Nicole Kidman, neither of whom, she was certain, had much of a clue who she was nor cared a whit that she was on the same planet with them. She'd run into them occasionally in Malibu, but then again, you ran into everyone in Malibu at one time or another. Mary Lisa was a comfortably sized fish in a big pond in L.A., nothing more. But here in Goddard Bay, she wasn't simply the homegrown girl, she was the Big Kahuna.

Mary Lisa kept it short, very careful of what she said since she knew some people here would dine out on her every word, her every expression, as if they were niblets of gossip gleaned from
People
magazine. She was relieved that Beth Goddard Sumter's little black dress was glamorous enough so that people who expected her to look like a movie star weren't disappointed. On occasions like this, she willingly gave them the actress they wanted to see—the big smile, the full makeup, the glittering personality. Several men eyed her like she was a sex goddess, nearly salivating in their canapés. She was used to that too.

How very odd it all was, like dredging up an ersatz memory. She knew that most Hollywood celebrities felt this crazy disconnect, unless they actually bought into the glowing lie, and got lost in it.

She smiled, accepted compliments, and listened patiently when a wealthy older woman told her she'd always wanted to act, that she thought she might have had it in her to get her own star on Hollywood Boulevard if only she'd made it to L.A. to be seen. Mary Lisa's smile never slipped. She had a writer friend who'd told her that more than one person she'd met had told her matter-of-factly that they could write a bestseller if only they had a free weekend or two.

And there were the inevitable slights about soap operas, from “Of course, I'd never watch tripe like that,” to “I've got a life, I don't have time to waste on that stuff,” to “It's all so silly and so melodramatic. No one looks like real people, they're all too beautiful.”
Yeah, and your point would be?
Her romance writer friend said that everyone, when asked what they read, stated categorically that they read only nonfiction and biographies, which made her wonder where all those lovely royalty checks came from.

It seemed to Mary Lisa that most people never had a single clue they'd been rude. But their obliviousness still astounded her, even though it was no longer a surprise.

“I've never seen your show, Ms. Beverly, too busy during the day, I'm afraid, but I've certainly heard of you since your family lives here. A small town, isn't it? Nothing much exciting to talk about.”

Mary Lisa turned slowly to face a striking woman, with dark bobbed hair, blue eyes, and lovely skin. She was showing a mile of leg attached to feet balanced on four-inch heels. On those stilts, she was nearly Mary Lisa's height. Now, who was this?

“Hello.” She shook the woman's hand, a strong hand.

“I'm Patricia Bigelow, attorney at large here in Goddard Bay.”

“I'm Mary Lisa Beverly. You've moved here since I left because I surely would have remembered you.”

“That's right. It's been nearly two years since I set up shop here. You don't see many redheads without freckles.”

“I've got my grandmother's coloring. She didn't have any freckles either.”

“Anywhere?”

“Not even on the bottoms of my feet.”

“I'm being pushy because my cousin is a redhead and she's loaded with freckles. She's always looking for ways to make them disappear. I thought maybe you'd found the answer.”

“I heard about cucumbers once but I don't know if it's only an old husband's tale.”

“I'll pass it along. Oh, look who's coming this way. Mr. Well-Dressed Stud of Goddard Bay himself.”

Mary Lisa saw John Goddard weaving his way toward them, through groups of people he stopped to greet along the way.

Patricia continued her observations in an expressionless voice. “John is very popular. It'll take him another five minutes to get here. I'm sure everyone wants to ask him about Jason Maynard's murder. I doubt he'll tell them anything, it would be unprofessional and he knows I'd burn his feet to the ankles with it if he did. I'm sure it's not me he's coming to see, so it's got to be you, the guest of honor. I'll introduce you.”

Mary Lisa saw Patricia Bigelow lightly run her tongue over her bottom lip, her eyes never leaving John Goddard's face. Now this was interesting. Was he dating her on the rebound from Kelly? No, it was too soon, that couldn't be right. She said easily, “You and Mr. Goddard are on opposite sides in this murder case, I understand.”

“Not as yet. However, if he and Jack Wolf have their way, I might be facing John in court.” She continued to smile as she spoke, and she never looked away from John Goddard. “It's my job to kick his fine butt every day to keep him and the chief above any temptation to overstep with my clients.”

“I suppose he does have a nice butt,” Mary Lisa agreed, nodding.

“One of the best I've seen, east or west coast.” A dark eyebrow went up. “Have you already met Mr. Goddard?”

“Yes, John and I have met two mornings in a row, running on the beach.”

“How nice. I used to run with him,” Patricia said. “But his little macho ego couldn't take it. You see, I always had more endurance—the tortoise and the hare sort of thing—drove him nuts.”

John knew he was meant to overhear and laughed. “If Mary Lisa believes that, I've got a nearly bankrupt regional airport to sell her. Come on, Pat, I got you into running shoes a total of three times, and you whined about how the shoes hurt your arches. Look at those ice picks you're wearing tonight and tell me how running shoes could possibly hurt any more than those things.”

Mary Lisa said, “I nearly mowed John down the day we met. I haven't raced him yet. Hmm, we'll see. I'll report back to you, Ms. Bigelow.”

That dark eyebrow shot up again. “You work fast, but I guess that's what the L.A. crowd does.”

A lovely punch to the gut. “Actually,” Mary Lisa said, “I'm not working at all, only trying to relax. John, Ms. Bigelow tells me she's enjoying kicking your very fine butt to protect her client. Or is it clients?”

His real feelings about Patricia Bigelow flashed across his face—he wanted to drop-kick her through the front window—but he said nothing.

“Actually, I'm representing both Mr. and Mrs. Hildebrand. Perhaps their daughter Marci as well.”

John ignored that, and turned to Mary Lisa. “I like Bethy's dress—it fits well on you. I always thought Beth was a bean-pole, so it's a surprise.”

Mary Lisa said to Patricia, “I borrowed this beautiful dress from John's sister.”

Pat said, “I hope Beth is doing all right, John?”

“She's healthier than any other member of the family and impatient to have the babies in her arms instead of her belly. That's what she says.”

“Ah, Chief Wolf,” Patricia said. “How lovely to see you.”

Chief Jack Wolf 's face seemed hard and remote as he eyed the three of them with what seemed like clinical detachment. He managed a nod, and said, “Ms. Bigelow.” He turned to Mary Lisa, and if anything, his hard face turned even harder. You didn't need much of an IQ to guess that he didn't like her. “Ms. Beverly,” was all he said. To John, he said in a low voice, “I need to speak to you, when you have a moment.”

“Certainly.”

Jack Wolf nodded to the women again, and turned away, John at his side. Patricia and Mary Lisa watched the two men walk to a quiet corner of the room—two big men, friends of about the same age, but Mary Lisa had never seen even a twinkle of amusement in the chief's dark eyes.

Mary Lisa said, “Whenever he looks at me it's like he wants to strangle me until my eyes bug out.”

Pat said, her eyes still following them, “He doesn't like me either, particularly when I try to represent my clients properly. He thinks I'm interfering with his investigation. I do have to say, though, that there walk two of the very finest butts I've ever had the privilege of appreciating. So I assume you're going back to L.A. soon?”

Mary Lisa nodded. “Yep, back to work Monday morning.”

Pat asked, “Don't you have lines to memorize by Monday morning?”

“Why yes, but it's a two-hour flight and I'm only in three scenes on Monday. I'll be able to learn most of my lines in the air. They'll e-mail me the final version of the script tomorrow morning. Funny thing is, I usually wake up about three a.m. the morning of a shoot and go over them again.”

“An internal alarm clock?”

“Something like that.”

“I'll bet your boyfriend doesn't like that,” Pat said.

“No, none of them do,” Mary Lisa agreed. “Whine, whine, whine, all of them, not a single stoic in the lot.” She laughed.

When Mary Lisa left Patricia Bigelow and her double-edged sword, she made her way to the nearest waiter to get another glass of champagne.

“Wait up, Mary Lisa, this isn't a race.”

She turned to see John Goddard closing on her. She studied his face a moment. “Patricia Bigelow says she admires your butt, even if she does have to kick it sometimes.”

He shrugged, smiled charmingly, and lied cleanly. “Only business as usual, nothing more than that.”

Yeah, right
. “She's a beautiful woman, and she seems terrifyingly smart. But what's odd to me about all this is that she has a thing for you.”

“What thing? A voodoo doll in her pocket, needles sticking out of its gullet?”

“Nah. I don't think she'd go the voodoo-doll route. Just the way she looked at you, and your fine butt.”

“Pat treats every guy like that. I haven't heard her say she likes my butt, though. And you agreed? That's nice.” He looked beyond her left shoulder, his attention taken by something.

“She seems to admire Jack Wolf's butt, as well, so I wouldn't crow too much about it.”

“I'll wait to tell him when he's taking a drink off a beer, watch him spew it all over everything.”

She followed his line of vision and saw her sister Kelly looking toward them, her face cold and set.

This wasn't good. She said quietly, “It's tough to be in a small town when there's a breakup. And now my sister sees me consorting with the enemy.” She was reminded of
The Young and the Restless
, and laughed at herself.

“That's me, Kelly's enemy. Patricia Bigelow's enemy. I am very unpopular at the moment. By the way, you really don't look bad in Bethy's dress. But why does Jack look like he wants to throw you in his jail without a blanket?”

“You could say I got in a little trouble before I left three years ago, and as a matter of fact, I did spend some time in his jail. I don't remember if there was a blanket or not.”

“What possible kind of trouble could you have gotten yourself into to warrant a jail cell? Parking on Lover's Lane up on Grayland's Point? Four-wheeling on the sand dunes?”

“I was too old even then to park on Lover's Lane. And no four-wheeling either, not on those fragile sand dunes.” She smiled at him, but said nothing more.

He glanced quickly at Kelly again, gave Mary Lisa a small salute, and turned on his heel to walk through the crowd to where his mother and father were holding court. She saw Patricia Bigelow looking after him.

“Beth's dress makes your shoulders look all bony. It never looked good on her either.”

Mary Lisa turned to face her sister, saw the bright eyes, the flushed face. She had obviously downed too much of Monica's excellent champagne and was in a mood to rock and roll, or kill. It hadn't taken her long to spot Mary Lisa finally alone on the living room balcony. She took her sister's hand and squeezed it, to get her attention. “Kelly, listen to me now. I'm your sister. You're supposed to be kind to me, perhaps even love me a little bit.”

“Yeah, yada, yada, but I just saw my sister yucking it up with John. Did you mention me?”

“I'm very sorry to tell you this, Kelly, but the world isn't always focused on you. It's a bummer, but it's true.”

Kelly drank half of her champagne, gave a dainty hiccup, and eyed her sister with glaze-eyed frustration. “Monica says you're after Mark again and you think you can get him back since you're a big star now. She says men are so brain-dead it might be true.”

“Is that really what Monica says?”

“Stop making fun of me, Mary Lisa!”

Mary Lisa sighed. “Then why did Monica throw this party for me if she thinks I'm a home wrecker?”

“Are you stupid? You know very well it's for her political campaign. You could have run down her mother-in-law and you'd still be her guest of honor.”

“I'm surprised she'd believe I could be that important to her.”

“I don't want to talk about Monica, I want to talk about John. I want you to keep away from him, Mary Lisa. Don't run tomorrow morning. He'll want to meet you because he's using you to upset me, make me jealous.”

“But why would it upset you or make you jealous when you were the one who kissed him off? Why would you care what he does or who he dates now?”

Kelly downed the rest of her champagne. She walked to the railing with the careful gait of a person who knows they're seriously impaired. She leaned on the railing, looked down into a mess of rosebushes, and, laughing, dropped her champagne glass. It disappeared into the thick leaves.

She turned, leaned her elbows on the railing. “You're right. He's not worth my time, never was. I've decided I want Jack. Did you get a good look at him tonight? In that tux he's wearing, he looks elegant, more classy than dear old John.”

“Not as elegant or classy as Dad.”

Kelly ignored her. “I know for a fact Jack hasn't dated for a long while. I know he was married before he came here, back in Chicago. So he must be ready by now. Don't you think?”