Bones and Roses (9 page)

I'm warmed by the show of concern, and at the same time annoyed at Daniel, although I know he was only being protective. “That's not entirely true. I was only screening my calls. Because I was sick of dealing with the press. Present company excluded,” I remember to add. “Thankfully that seems to have died down.” Interest in my story had faded with the news of another celebrity death. The husband of actress Delilah Ward, whose twin-engine Cessna, which he was piloting at the time, went down in the ocean off Catalina Island.

“That's a relief. One less thing to stress about.”

Right. Now I only have to worry about nabbing my mom's killer
. “You can say that again. Now I know what it's like to be famous. The not-so-fun part, anyway. You can't walk out of your house without blow-drying your hair or putting on makeup. Believe me, no woman in her thirties looks good on her own at six in the morning. At least not on camera. Except maybe Kate Middleton,” I blurt.

He chuckles. “I'm just glad to see you looking so well.”

“Getting there. I'm behaving myself, at least, which must mean something. Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt, by the way. You know, for not assuming I was a madwoman.”

“Maybe I did at first,” he admits, smiling as he moves closer to let a heavyset woman squeeze past. “But I've seen it before, with soldiers just off the battlefield—they'll fire at anything that moves, their nerves are so shot—so I knew what I was looking at. Lucky for me you weren't armed.”

“Lucky for us both. Then your mom really would kill me.”

He chuckles again, then his expression turns serious. “Have there been any breaks in the case?”

“None that I know of. But I'm not on the warmest of terms with the lead detective, so he's not giving me much. He and I went to school together,” I explain when Bradley arches his eyebrow at me in a questioning look. “Long story. And no, we were never romantically involved.”

“So he's not secretly carrying a torch?”

“Hardly. Though a torch was involved.” He gives me another quizzical look, at which I explain, “I set fire to his car in high school.” No sooner are the words out than I want to snatch them back. God. What's wrong with me? What is it about him that makes me want to pour out my innermost self?

He gives a low whistle. “Whoa. You don't mess around, do you?”

“It wasn't my finest hour.” I feel my cheeks warm at the memory.

“He must have done something pretty bad to piss you off that much.”

“It wasn't so much what he did but that he wasn't very gentlemanly about it afterwards.”

“Ah. I see.” Bradley nods in understanding.

“The trouble with getting even is,” I reflect aloud, “that it doesn't make things better. If I had to do it over again …” I shrug, my voice trailing off. “You want to know why I don't drink anymore? That's why. It tends to cloud your judgment. Though it took me years to figure that out.”

“Better late than never.”

“
Too
late as far as Spence Breedlove is concerned. What happens in high school doesn't stay in high school when you've lived in the same community your entire life. It comes back to haunt you. Or bite you in the—” I break off when I'm bumped by someone from behind. Thrown off balance, I grab onto Bradley's arm to steady myself, mindless of the fact that he's holding a glass of wine in each hand. Next thing I know, I'm looking at a red wine stain splashed across the front of his white shirt. I stare at it in horror.
Oh no. Not again
. He must think I'm a walking disaster zone.

“God, I'm so sorry!”

“Not your fault,” he's quick to assure me, casting a reproachful glance at the retreating back of the offender, a stocky man in a plaid sports coat who appears oblivious.

I feel awful nonetheless. “Once is an accident, twice is cursed.”

“It's no big deal, really.”

“Come with me.” I motion for him to follow as I head for the restroom. If there's one thing I'm good at it's getting out stains.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he intones theatrically when we're closeted in the restroom.

I play along, placing my hand over my heart. “It's no use fighting it, my darling. It's bigger than the both us.”

We burst into peals of laughter. Then our eyes lock as the laughter drains away. The restroom is built to accommodate only one person, so it has us standing practically toe-to-toe. For a crazy moment I have the feeling he's about to kiss me. I catch the mingled scents of his minty breath and the wine on his shirt. For a second I forget to breathe. Only when we break eye contact, as he moves to take off his blazer, is the spell broken. He unbuttons his shirt and hands it to me.

I try not to stare at him when he stands before me bare-chested. The last time I saw him in a semi-naked state, I was too freaked out to fully appreciate it. Now I find myself studying him out of the corner of my eye as I get to work on the stain with my handy Tide To-Go pen. When you live in a beach community, buff bodies are part of the scenery, but Bradley's is unlike that of the surfer dudes or volleyball players I'm used to seeing. He's like a panther sighted in the wild, a marvel of symmetry, the wicked scar on his shoulder testament to the dangers he faces in his line of work. With another man I might have worried he'd try to take advantage of me, but with Bradley I worry about what I'd like to do to him, which is to tear off the rest of his clothes.

I avert my gaze to focus on the stain, attacking it with a vigor I normally use in stripping paint from woodwork. “There you go. Good as new,” I say, handing his shirt back when I'm done.

“Amazing. How did you do that? It's like a magic trick.” He admires my handiwork, but I notice he's in no hurry to put his shirt back on. Maybe because the front is soaking wet. I guess I was a little too assiduous in applying cold water to get the stain out. I grimace and grab a handful of paper towels. “We might do better with that.” He points toward the electric hand-dryer on the wall next to the towel dispenser, then punches it on, holding the wet part of his shirt in the airstream until it's dry. “Next time I'll remember to bring a change of clothes,” he teases.

I groan. “I'm cursed, I'm telling you.”

He turns so we're face-to-face, placing his hands on my shoulders, his eyes crinkled in amusement as he looks into mine. My heart stutters in my chest and once again I forget to breathe. “Accident-prone maybe, not cursed. Just promise not to go off on me if I ever make you mad.”

“I don't see that happening,” I reply with a shaky laugh.

We emerge from the restroom to find that a line has formed. The guy at the head of the line, a skinny blond hipster with a pierced eyebrow, gives me a knowing smirk as I pass by. I respond with a withering look, the effect of which is kind of spoiled by the fact that my cheeks are on fire.

Joan and Genevieve are still deep in conversation when we rejoin them after another trip to the bar. I perk up when I overhear them talking about the upcoming gala. Until I learn the price of admission is $500 a plate and, even if I could afford to pay that kind of money, seating is at maximum capacity. My heart sinks. When Bradley says to me, “You and Daniel should come,” I could have sworn he'd read my mind. He turns to his mother to ask, “You can comp them, can't you?”

She looks momentarily taken aback but quickly recovers her manners. She smiles indulgently at him. “Afraid you'll be bored to death by all the old people? I don't blame you one bit.” To me she says, “I'm sure that can be arranged, my dear. There are always last-minute cancellations, so finding seats shouldn't be a problem. That is, if you and Daniel don't have other plans.”

Normally I go out of my way to avoid large social gatherings, black-tie affairs in particular. There are few things in life more torturous than having to make small talk with strangers while standing for hours in high heels sucking in one's gut (I've never known evening wear that didn't call for serious flexing of stomach muscles). I used to enjoy parties when they were an excuse to drink, but nowadays I don't see the point unless it's for a good cause like tonight's. But I'll gladly strap on my pantyhose, in lieu of a holster, for a chance to do some detective work.

“We'd love to come,” I tell her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Saturday evening of the gala I pull into the parking lot at the Fontana at the appointed hour. I feel like the poor relation at a Mafia funeral in my dusty Ford Explorer amidst all the shiny, late-model luxury vehicles. I'm nervous and excited all at once. I take a moment to drink in the view after I've climbed out. The best thing about the Fontana is its spectacular setting, perched on a windswept bluff overlooking the sea, surrounded by open land awash in coastal scrub and dotted with Monterey cypress. I gaze out at the ocean, watching the sun set fire to the horizon in a blaze of crimson and gold. Seagulls soar overhead and pelicans skim the swells.

“Never gets old, does it?” Ivy steps up alongside me. She's my plus-one for tonight. I'd forgotten Daniel had a prior engagement when I accepted for him: He's attending an oceanographic convention in Monterey at which Professor Gruen is the keynote speaker. Ivy looks like a fairy princess with her raven curls piled atop her head, secured with mother-of-pearl inlaid combs. She's wearing vintage Balenciaga made of rose silk chiffon, the same gown worn by Grandmother Ladeaux at the debutantes ball in New Orleans the year she came out. My own gown is a designer knockoff, silk crepe in a shimmery gold with a low-cut neckline that highlights my best assets. In my high heels I tower over Ivy—Malibu Barbie meets Madame Alexander.

“It makes me think of the kingdom in Hamlet,” I observe.

Ivy slips her arm through mine. “Let's hope there are no ghosts.”

We start down the path that leads through the lushly landscaped grounds to the main building below, built hacienda-style around an inner courtyard. A sand-colored stucco façade splashed in bougainvillea leads to a tiled reception area where we're greeted by an attractive blonde wearing a black silk
cheongsam
embroidered with the Fontana crest. She consults the guest list before waving us on through. We step through an archway into a tiled passageway, which takes us to the courtyard, thronged with party guests. Elegant-looking men and ladies in tuxedos and evening wear stand chatting with one another, bathed in the glow from the foot lights and sconces that ring the perimeter and fairy lights strung along the trellises at either end. The shimmer of satin, the sparkle of jewels—everywhere I look I see something to dazzle the eye.

This year's fundraiser is for Smile Train. I noticed the poster in the reception area on my way in, with its before-and-after photos of underprivileged children whose disfigured faces had been transformed by the surgeons affiliated with the charity, but here in the inner sanctum there's nothing to remind one of life's harsher realities. Servers circulate among the guests with trays of canapés and flutes of champagne. A string quartet plays by the signature mosaic fountain at the center of the courtyard and, poised at either end, are tonight's host and hostess, Douglas and Joan Trousdale. She looks regal in a high-necked lilac chiffon gown; he's the silver fox from Central Casting with his salt-and-pepper hair, athletic build, and golfer's tan. If this were a world map, she'd be in Antarctica and he the Arctic Circle, an apt metaphor given the sub-zero atmosphere between the two. I give them credit for putting on a good face, though. At next year's gala it'll be a new Mrs. Trousdale co-hosting the event, but until then the current Mrs. Trousdale stands proud.

I spot Ivy's boss, Parker Lane, accompanied by his long-time partner, Desmond, and he waves to us. He's dressed as though for a nineteenth-century ball, wearing a morning coat that has him looking like an extra from
Downton Abbey
. Parker is a frustrated costume designer at heart, I'm convinced. Ivy goes over to say hello while I make my way across the courtyard to greet our host.

“Tish, good of you to come.” Douglas treats me to his executive handshake while nearly blinding me with his porcelain veneers. I'm surprised he even remembered my name. When I worked at Trousdale Realty, I was just another cog in the wheel; since I became his property manager all my dealings have been with Joan. “Have you met my fiancée, Tiffany?” He turns to the twenty-something blonde at his side, who dutifully offers her hand like a dog performing a trick.

“Delighted,” she murmurs.

She could be a model straight out of a Victoria's Secret catalogue, only not as scantily clad. Though the backless and semi-transparent turquoise crepe de chine gown she's wearing, with its neckline that plunges practically to her navel, could certainly qualify as lingerie. Lush, buttery locks tumble over bronzed shoulders and her baby blues are as big and bright as the rock on her finger. I lean in to admire the ring. “Congratulations on your engagement. Have you set a date?”

Her smile falters and she looks to Douglas, who answers for her, “Not yet, but soon.”
Soon as I'm done mopping the floor with the current Mrs. Trousdale,
I mentally fill in
.
Then his gaze moves past me as he greets the couple coming up behind me. “John, Nancy, good of you to come.”

I head over to greet Joan, helping myself to a glass of bubbly—sparkling water, that is—along the way. She gives me a smile as genuine as her husband's was false, informing me that she had arranged for Ivy and me to be seated at Bradley's and Genevieve's table at the banquet that's to follow. I don't know whether to be pleased or worried, given how unsettled I feel whenever I'm around Bradley. I thank her nonetheless, and she says, “They insisted on it. Knowing my son, he'd have found an excuse not to come otherwise. He loathes these affairs. His idea of a party is beer with his buddies.” She shakes her head in fond exasperation, while I think,
My kind of guy
.

We chat for a few minutes more before I head off in search of Ivy. I spot her by the fountain chatting with a tall, dark-haired, and saffron-skinned man handsome enough to be a Bollywood star. True to form, she has him captivated; he can't take his eyes off of her. Ivy's irresistible to men. Even when she's not trying to be. Especially then. I leave him to bask in her unadulterated glow while I mingle. I buttonhole several, longtime Fontana employees, who I'd recognized from the website, before I hit pay dirt with an older woman named Seraphina, the colonic irrigation therapist at the wellness center, who's worked there since the seventies when it was a funky Esalen-style retreat owned by Douglas's father, Leon. Better yet, she remembers my mom.

“You're Ava's daughter? Yes, I see the resemblance, now you mention it.” She peers at me through the dim glow from the recessed lights in the brick walls of the courtyard, then shakes her head. “She was a lovely woman.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Well enough. It was quite a shock when I read about her in the paper. I just assumed … well, she was always talking about exotic places she'd like to visit. I'd pictured her living in a foreign country. South America perhaps.”

“Why South America?”

“No reason. But if anyone would move there, it was your mom.”

“What else do you remember about her?”

“She was very outgoing.” Seraphina is the polar opposite: drab and plain. A plainness emphasized by the shapeless gown she's wearing and her unadorned face framed by a coronet of braids. “Everyone liked her. I never heard anyone say a bad word about her, even after—” She breaks off, her cheeks reddening. She seems grateful for the distraction when a server appears with a tray of canapés. She helps herself to a puff pastry. “Have you tried these? They're delicious.”

“I know about her lover. It's okay to talk about it,” I assure her.

Seraphina makes a rueful face. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

“In the larger scheme of things, the fact that she cheated on my dad is the least of it.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Her eyes dart past me as if in search of a familiar face, someone who will give her an excuse to ditch me and what's shaping up to be an uncomfortable conversation.

“I don't know much about him, though, except that he was on the construction crew that was working here at the time. I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me about him.”

“Not really, no. I only knew him to say hello to. There wasn't much socializing between the staff and crew.”

“Except with him and my mom.”

The color in her cheeks deepens. “Well, yes, there was that. He was very handsome. A lot of the ladies had crushes on him.”

Something about the way she said it makes me ask, “But not you?”

“Goodness, no,” she says with a laugh. “I'm in a committed relationship.”

“So was my mom.”

“With my partner, Monica.”

“Oh.”

“He reminded me of that actor. I can't think which one …”

“Clint Eastwood?”

She brightens. “Yes, that's him.”

We're interrupted just then by the muffled trilling of my ringtone. I extract my phone from my beaded clutch to see Arthur's bespectacled image on the screen. I'm tempted to let it go to voicemail, but what if it was an emergency? I'd never forgive myself. I excuse myself to take the call.

“This had better be good,” I growl into the phone after I've ascertained it's not an emergency.

“Tish, this is
huge!
” he cries excitedly.

“What's huge is that I'm going to be hugely pissed off if this is because you ran out of milk for your cereal or you can't tune in to Showtime. Because I already explained to you why I had to cancel your premium channels. You can't afford it. It was putting you over your monthly budget.”

“It's not about that,” he replies impatiently. “That's not why I'm calling.”

“What, then?”

“I discovered the answer. The key to it all!”

“Arthur, what are you talking about?” An alarm pings in my head.

“It's too complicated to give you a detailed explanation. Think of it as the
psi
of all things computer-related. I stumbled on it by accident when Ray and I were writing the code for our video game.”

“Who knew the answers to the universe could be found in gaming?” I remark dryly.

“Tish, this could alter the face of the entire computer industry!”

“Arthur.” The alarm in my head is shrilling now. “Did you take your meds today?”

“Yes, I'm sure I did. Don't I always?” he answers distractedly.

“No, you don't. What about yesterday?” I hadn't had time to stop by on my way home from work to check up on him—a broken pipe at the Belknaps' had kept me working late into the evening. “You know what happens when you forget to take your meds.”
This is what happens.

“You're not listening,” he says irritably. “This is
important.
”

“I don't doubt it, but can it wait until tomorrow? I'll take you to breakfast and you can tell me all about it then. In the meantime do me a favor and check to make sure you took your meds.” I keep them sorted in a pill organizer so, if he skips a day, I'll know.

He blows out an exasperated breath. “All right, if you insist.”

“Also, get some sleep.”

“Sleep?” His voice rises. “Did Einstein sleep after he discovered E=MC2?”

“Einstein wasn't mentally ill. Plus he was, you know. Einstein.”

Seraphina has vanished into the crowd by the time I hang up. I'm wandering around in search of her when I catch sight of Bradley and Genevieve. They might have been walking in on a red carpet; I see heads turning in their direction, eyes tracking their movements. He looks like James Bond fresh from the casinos of Monte Carlo in his tuxedo; she, the princess to whom she bears a striking resemblance, wearing a pearl gray gown shot with silver threads that shimmer around her like spring rain. My green-eyed monster rears its ugly head, and I struggle to contain it. It's not her fault I feel inadequate next to her. Also, what if my leg was about to be amputated, after some terrible accident, and she was the only one who could save it? She'd be a godsend, then.

She spots me and breaks into a grin as she hurries over. “Where's Daniel?” she asks after we've exchanged greetings. I explain that he had a prior engagement and couldn't make it. “What a shame. But I must say, I'm terribly glad
you're
here. I don't know a single other soul.” She tucks her arm through mine—my new BFF—but I swiftly extricate myself under the pretext of admiring her dress.

“What are you wearing?” I borrow a red-carpet term. “It's gorgeous.”

“Oh, just something I picked up at Harvey Nichols.” She casually names an exclusive London department store before complimenting me on my knock-off. “
You
look absolutely smashing.”

“Smashing,” echoes Bradley, coming up behind her. He tips me an impudent wink, and I flip him the bird when his girlfriend's attention is diverted by the call to supper. “Shall we?” he says, offering us each an arm when the other guests begin making their way toward the tent on the lawn.

Ivy is already seated when we get to our table, conveniently, or more likely through a last-minute shuffling of place cards, next to her new admirer. His name is Rajeev Jaswinder and he's a Stanford-educated computer analyst for IBM, I learn as we chat over the first course—a salad of Meyer-lemon infused crab, baby lettuce, and heirloom tomatoes. If he and Ivy end up getting married, my brother will have someone, besides Ray, who speaks his language. I'm not holding my breath, however. Ivy has rejected more marriage proposals than I have the indecent kind.

I'm conscious of Bradley seated across from me, and it has me feeling the heat that isn't just from three hundred warm bodies inside a tent. I catch his eye at one point, and he gives me a look that seems to say,
I'd rather it was just us, but we have to make nice to these other people because we're well-mannered adults.
The Spanx I'm wearing under my gown suddenly grow that much tighter.