Bones and Roses (10 page)

Meanwhile, I'm keeping a bead on Seraphina, seated at another table, the one closest to the entrance. I'm eager to pick up where we left off, but that will have to wait until I can catch her alone.

After supper come the speeches. Joan introduces the director of the charity, a dynamic Jamaican woman in her forties who speaks of the work her organization does. She's followed by a silver-haired surgeon who tells stories of the young people, like the ten-year-old Indian boy, born with a harelip, he'd recently operated on, whose lives have been transformed by Smile Train. Douglas Trousdale makes the closing remarks and thanks everyone for “giving so generously.” You'd never know he was being anything but generous toward the wife he'd discarded.

When I glance again at Seraphina's table, I see that her seat is empty. She must have slipped away during the last speech. I excuse myself to go in search of her. That's when I notice Joan and Douglas's chairs (at separate tables naturally), are sitting empty as well. Probably a coincidence. I can't think of a reason why those two would meet in private unless it was to rip each other's heads off. Which is precisely what they're doing—verbally if not physically—when I encounter them a few minutes later as I'm crossing the lawn on my way to the restrooms. They're in the Zen garden, described on the Fontana website as “a place for quiet reflection,” engaged in a heated argument. Low, angry voices ripple through the night air like the currents out at sea.

“… not one cent more. That was my final offer.”

“You think thirty-five years counts for nothing? We'll see what the judge has to say about that!”

“You're forgetting the pre-nup.”

“The only reason there's a pre-nup was because your lawyer insisted on it. As I recall, you were against it.”

“It's a signed contract. That's all that counts.”

“There are ways around it. And it's going to cost you a fortune.”

“You greedy bitch. You'd be nothing if it weren't for me,” Douglas snarls.

“I should be grateful, is that what you're saying? Oh, that's rich! After all I did for
you.
I was the perfect company wife. All those dinner parties, the functions I organized, the weekends away with your cronies. And the women. Let's not forget that. For her sake I hope your little tramp wises up before it's too late. She'll soon realize she's not the first and she won't be the last.”

“You want to know why I cheated on you? Look in the mirror.”

“You bastard! How dare you suggest
I'm
to blame?”

“Keep it down!” he hisses. “Christ. Haven't you made enough of a spectacle of yourself? You should have been an actress. You're so good at playing the victim. The loyal, unsuspecting wife, kicked to the curb by her heartless husband. If only our friends knew what you were really like.”

Joan gives a shrill laugh. “‘Our' friends? They're not your friends. They laugh at you behind your back. You're a walking cliché. You and your trophy wife-to-be. Tiffany.” She spits out the name.

I hurry off before I get caught eavesdropping, their angry words ringing in my ears. That's it, I'm never getting married if this is what it can lead to. I'm sure those two were in love at one time like most newlyweds, filled with dreams for the future. And look what's become of them.

Seraphina isn't in the ladies room. Thinking she might have gone for a stroll to get some fresh air, I take a quick tour of the grounds before heading down the footpath that winds along the cliff. The night is cool and clear, the thickly-clustered stars overhead like a lace curtain drawn across the sky. The only the sound is the booming of the surf. I follow the path all the way to where it ends in a scenic overlook and I'm doubling back when I hear a woman's voice cry out. I hurry in the direction from which it seems to be coming, imagining the worst when I spy a scrap of torn fabric caught, fluttering, on a branch of the stunted conifer by the edge of the cliff a few feet away.

“Help!” the voice warbles, louder.

“I'm coming!” I call, my heart pounding.

I squat down and peer over the edge, holding onto a branch of the conifer to keep from falling over. In the moonlight I can make out a female figure in a pale chiffon gown that floats around her like a downed parachute, blown by the ocean wind, huddled on a narrow rock ledge about ten feet below—the only thing preventing her from plunging to certain death. Joan Trousdale.

CHAPTER EIGHT

During my hard-partying days I once took a tumble into a swimming pool. It wouldn't have been a big deal except the pool had been drained; as a result, I ended up in the ER with a broken wrist and two cracked ribs. So the first thought that goes through my head is that Joan must have tripped and fallen after one too many. Not until after she's pulled to safety by the fire department's rescue squad—a necessity of life in a seaside community where tourists are forever getting stranded by high tides or hiking where they shouldn't—do I learn otherwise. I don't smell liquor on her breath and she's not slurring her words when she whispers in my ear, “It wasn't an accident.”

She asserts as much to the cops who take her statement at the hospital, then later to me and Bradley. When she insists, “Your father tried to kill me,” I know it's not the pain medication talking.

Bradley looks as if he'd sooner be in Syria with mortars exploding around him. His voice is gentle, however. “Mom, you're confused is all. However you feel about Dad, this wasn't his doing.”

She remains firm in her conviction. “You weren't there. You don't know. Ask Tish. She'll tell you.” She gestures toward me. She'd asked me to come along as a witness, and I could hardly refuse.

“I didn't see anything.” I repeat what I told the cops, reminding her I wasn't an eyewitness while taking care not to dismiss her, admittedly biased, account. “It was over by the time I got there.”

We're in a suite in the VIP wing, which is nearly as well-appointed as a luxury hotel's: one of the perks of being a major donor of the hospital it would appear. Although Joan's injuries are minor—scrapes and bruises, a sprained wrist—she's being kept overnight for observation. She lies propped in her hospital bed, hooked to an I.V. with her other arm in a sling. I'm seated in the leather recliner. Bradley stands by the window, which looks out on an ornamental walled garden.

“You didn't see his face,” Bradley reminds his mom.

“I didn't have to. We'd been arguing not five minutes before. He must have followed me.” She told the cops she'd gone for a walk to calm down. “If I hadn't caught that ledge on my way down …”

I feel sick to my stomach. I know Douglas Trousdale to be a ruthless businessman, but is he that coldblooded? Maybe, but I find it hard to believe he'd be reckless enough to push his wife over a cliff with a black-tie affair taking place not more than two hundred yards from the scene. Anyone might've come along. As I did. More likely, Joan accidentally tripped in the dark and lost her footing. It must have felt like a push as she was propelled forward by her own momentum.

Bradley sighs. “Mom, you don't know for a fact—”

“He hates me!” she cries tearfully. “
That's
a fact.”

“Dad doesn't hate you,” he says in a weary voice. “I know you're angry at each other, but once the divorce is final, you can both move on with your lives.”

“That won't happen if I'm dead! Mark my words, he'll try again.” She turns to me. “Tish, you heard what he said. How beastly he was toward me.” I regret now having reported that I'd overhead them arguing.

“I didn't actually say he was …” I trail off, aware of the awkward position I'm in. I can't discount Joan's version without making her look like a liar, or worse, a nutcase. But to go along with her would only cause further distress to Bradley. It seems I can't even make a 911 call without putting my ass in the wringer. “Um. Well, whatever, it sounded like you were both pretty upset.”

“Of course he wasn't foolish enough to threaten me outright. That's not his style. How often have you heard him say the way to outwit your opponent is to catch him unawares?” she reminds Bradley.

“Business tactics are one thing. That's not the same as attempted murder. And, frankly, I've heard enough.” There's a new sharpness to Bradley's voice. “We'll discuss it when you're feeling calmer.” He and I exchange a glance. “I'm sure Tish would like to get home. And you should get some rest.”

He walks me to the elevator. As we make our way along the corridor, which is deserted at this hour, I'm struck by the peacefulness of the VIP wing compared to the constant swirl of activity on the other floors. “Hospitals are no place for sick people,” my grandma used to say, which makes sense only if you've ever tried to get a decent night's sleep in one. When my dad was dying of cancer, in a semi-private room two floors down, his roommate's TV had never stopped blaring and there had been hospital personnel and visitors coming and going at all hours. Here there's only the sighing of respirators and beeping of monitors, and the murmuring voices from the nurses' station.

“She's been under a lot of stress lately,” Bradley says after we've walked in silence for a minute.

“Because of the divorce, you mean?”

He nods. “She's taken it hard.”

“Divorce is never easy.”

“Especially when you're in the middle of one. The only reason I'm here and not in New York is because I knew Mom needed me.” He appears to regret that decision. “My dad can be a real prick.”

I pause in mid-step, my eyes searching his face. “You don't think—?”

“No,” he answers with an emphatic shake of his head. “He may go too far sometimes, but—no. The only thing he ever killed was my respect for him. I'd have forgiven him for walking out on my mom. But he didn't have to humiliate her or try to screw her over in the divorce.”

I put myself in her shoes. “I don't know which would be worse, a nasty court battle or finding out my husband was engaged to be married before we were even divorced. Though I have a feeling he'll live to regret it.” At the quizzical look he gives me, I clarify, “I met his fiancée.”

“Exactly,” he says, grim-faced, as if I'd expressed my opinion aloud. “Knowing my dad, she'll end up regretting it even more than him. He likes them young, so if she sticks it out long enough to get crow's feet …” He trails off with a shrug, and I cringe at the image of Douglas as an old coot bedding a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. Hugh Hefner redux. Thankfully, I'm too old for him, at thirty-six. Not that he's ever shown any interest in me. I must not be his type.

Bradley lingers when we get to the elevators. “You're sure you don't need me to drive you home?” He's probably worried I'll get into an accident, with good reason given my recent history with him and current state of exhaustion. I'm warmed by his concern. What he doesn't know is that I could've driven the route blindfolded. I'd practically lived here when Dad was dying.

“I'm sure.” I touch his arm. “Go back to your mom.”

He exhales and pushes a hand through his hair. “Something tells me it's going to be a long night.”

I'm tempted to stick around so he won't have to stand watch alone, but it might send the wrong message, so instead I say, “I'm sure Genevieve would love to keep you company.” She'd wanted to come with us to the hospital—as had Ivy before I'd persuaded her to have Rajeev take her home instead—and seemed a bit hurt at being rebuffed, however gently. “You should give her a call.”

“You're right. I should.”

From his tone I can tell he has no intention of doing so. And because I'm me and can't leave well enough alone, I have to weigh in. “Look, it's none of my business, but if you're worried about disturbing her this late, you should be more worried about how mad she'll be if you don't.”

“Believe me, it's for her own good,” he says.

“Why is that?”

“She'll realize soon enough how fucked up my family is. No sense bursting her bubble.”

When the elevator door opens on the main floor, I almost run smack into the man who's stepping in as I'm stepping out. As he lifts his arm to stop me from plowing into him, I catch a glimpse of the black nylon holster strapped to his chest under his navy windbreaker. Then my gaze travels up and I find myself staring into the face of Spence Breedlove. Which probably shouldn't come as a surprise with everything else that's happened tonight—it's merely the coup de grace.

I glare at him. “What, so now you're stalking me?”

“I could ask you the same thing. You seem to have a habit of showing up at crime scenes.”

“I didn't realize that's what this was.”

“That has yet to be determined. Which is why I'm here.”

“Well then, don't let me keep you.” I start to move past him, but he seizes my arm, preventing me from going any further, his firm grip at odds with his mild tone.

“Matter of fact, you're just the person I wanted to see.”

I yank my arm free, scowling at the blond behemoth towering over me. From the puffiness around his eyes and pillow crease on his cheek, it appears he was pulled from his nice, warm bed, which means he's not in the mood to be messed with. Normally he wouldn't be called in on such a matter, but this wasn't just any domestic dispute; it involved two of the town's most prominent citizens. “What do you want? I already gave my statement to the officers who were here earlier.”

“Good,” he says. “Then this shouldn't take long.”

“This is police harassment,” I grumble.

“No, this is me asking nicely.” His steely blue eyes hold my gaze.

“This is a total waste of time. You should be talking to Mr. and Mrs. Trousdale. All I did was make the 911 call. That's the extent of my involvement.” I rub my arms to quell the goose bumps that erupt from the blast of chilly air as the automated doors at the lobby exit swoosh open. The dress coat I'm wearing over my gown is more for show than warmth.

“And yet,” he observes, “I find it curious, your being connected with two separate incidents. Makes me wonder if they might be related in some way.”

A minute ago, I was flat-out exhausted. Now suddenly I'm wide awake, my blood buzzing in my veins. “Seriously? Are you suggesting I had something to do with Mr. Trousdale allegedly pushing Mrs. Trousdale over a cliff? Because if you are, then I'll
know
you have it in for me.”

“Right. I forgot. You were just the Good Samaritan,” he replies in a flat voice.

I narrow my eyes at him. “What, you think I'm lying?”

“I didn't say that. But, see, this is what happens when you interfere with a police investigation. It tends to undermine your credibility.” I feel my face redden, at which he goes on, “Yes, that's right, I know about the visit you paid Mr. Cruikshank.” I hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice.

“Oh, that.” I adopt a nonchalant air. “There's a perfectly good explanation.”

“I'm sure there is, and I'm dying to hear it.”

“Well, unless you have a warrant for my arrest, it'll have to wait until tomorrow. It's been a long night and I'm tired. I'm going home to bed.” I pull my coat around me as I move past him.

The staccato clacking of my high heels against the tiled floor of the atrium lobby is loud in my ears as I hasten toward the exit. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a beefy security guard walking toward me with his two-way in hand and an alert look on his face. All he sees is a woman in distress with a big, scary-looking dude chasing after her. He's closing in on us when Spence flashes his badge and calls, “Police business!” loud enough to have heads turning our way.

God, could this get any more excruciating?

The guard melts away and Spence falls into step with me, saying in a low voice, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice. But if you think I'm getting some sadistic pleasure out of this, you're mistaken. I'd love nothing more than for you to be someone else's problem.”

I come to a halt as I'm closing in on the glass doors at the exit. Two more steps and my body would trigger the magic eye that would have them sliding open. From there it's a ten-minute drive to my place and the bed that awaits me, where if I'm lucky, I'll catch a few hours of shut-eye before it's time to rise and shine and greet the new day. A day that will have me embroiled in a cold case involving a suspicious death, an attempted murder (if Joan Trousdale is to be believed), and the latest craziness with brother. But I don't take those steps. Because I know what it would cost me.

“Fine. You win.”

Spence gives an unsmiling nod. “Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee.” He holds his hand lightly against the small of my back as we move forward, the doors whooshing open as if at his command.

The nearest place to get coffee is the Denny's on the freeway access road. Normally I wouldn't go there; I avoided all-night eateries even in my drinking days when they were the only places that were open after the bars had closed. Aside from the fact that they're depressing as hell, I've read one too many news accounts of robberies that occur in the wee hours. But I'm with a cop, so I don't have to worry that on top of everything else I've had to endure these past weeks, I'll be kissing the linoleum while some crackhead relieves me of my purse. It's a small consolation.

“Jesus. What happened to you?” Spence stares at me after he's helped me off with my coat, his gaze taking in my evening gown that's torn at the hem and smudged with dirt. I hadn't given much thought to my appearance, but suddenly I'm self-conscious. I flash back to my senior prom and see myself stumbling up the front walk to my house after being dropped off by my date, thoroughly trashed and disheveled. The only thing missing now is the crushed corsage.

I quickly slide into the booth, keeping my coat draped over my shoulders. “This is the price you pay for wearing a knockoff.”

I thought it was pretty funny, but he's not smiling as he slides in opposite me. Our waitress, a platinum-haired Marilyn Monroe look-a-like—that is, if Marilyn were still alive today and a senior citizen slinging joe for minimum wage plus tips—materializes to fill the coffee mugs on the table. He says to me, after she's shuffled off, “I think we can both agree the sooner we get this over with, the better, so why don't we make this easy? I'll ask the questions and you answer.”