Genuine Lies (56 page)

“Oh.” Her thoughts scrambled. “You
are
there.”

He glanced back at the screen of his word processor, at the cursor impatiently blinking. “More or less.” Deliberately, he pushed back from the desk, taking the cordless phone with him as he walked out of the office and onto the circular deck. “Did you get some more sleep?”

“I …” She couldn’t lie to him, even though she knew the only reason he’d left her was that she’d agreed to stay in bed through the morning without answering the phone. “Actually, I went ahead with the interview.”

“You—” She winced as his anger erupted through the telephone line. “Goddamn, Julia, you promised to stay home. You had no business going out alone.”

“I didn’t promise, exactly, and I—”

“Close enough.” He shifted the phone to his other ear and dragged a hand through his hair. “Where are you?”

“I’m in a phone booth in the Beverly Hills Hotel.” “I’m on my way.”

“No. Dammit, Paul, stop playing Sir Gallahad a minute and listen. Just listen to me.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, hoping to dull the headache that worked behind them. “I’m perfectly all right. I’m in a public place.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“All right, I’m being stupid.” Eyes closed, she leaned her head back against the wall of the booth. She hadn’t been able to shut the door, simply hadn’t been able to pull it to and shut herself in the glass box. It forced her to keep her voice low. “Paul, I had to get out. I felt trapped in there. And I thought, I hoped, if I talked to Gloria, I’d get a clearer picture for myself.”

Swallowing another oath, he rested a hip on the rail. Behind him he could hear the rush and tumble of waves against sand. “And did you?”

“Hell, I don’t know. But I do know I have to talk to Eve again. I need a little more time to myself, then I’m going to go back and try.”

“Do you want me to be there?”

“Would you …” She cleared her throat. “Would you wait until I call? CeeCee’s taking Brandon to her place after school … to give me time to talk with Eve. I don’t even know what I’m going to say, or how I’m going to say it. But if I knew I could call you when it’s done, it would be easier.”

“I’ll be waiting. Jules, I love you.”

“I know. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to work it out.”

“We’re going to work it out,” he corrected her.

After she hung up, she stayed where she was a moment. She wasn’t sure she could go back yet, face Eve. There was still too much anger, too much hurt. How much time it would take to ease either of those emotions was uncertain.

Slowly, she walked back through the lobby, back outside, where the air was beginning to thicken with afternoon heat.

Like a shadow, the man she would have recognized from the airport, trailed behind her.

•   •   •

Drake decided he was finished with fucking around. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He was riled up enough to stand on the roof of his car without worrying about scratching the spiffy red paint. He didn’t give more than a passing through to ripping his Savile Row suit as he scrambled, awkwardly, on the wall of Eve’s estate.

She thought he was stupid, he reflected grimly as he scraped his palms on stones. But he wasn’t stupid. He’d been smart enough to detour through the house on his way out to switch off the main power of the security system.

Thinking ahead—that’s right, he was thinking ahead. To his future. His belt buckle clinked against stone as he bellied his way over the wall. She couldn’t have her goddamn secretary give him the old heave-ho. She was going to listen to what he had to say, and she was going to understand he meant business.

He landed with a grunt, his left ankle giving way so that he tumbled back into a hedge of Russian olives. The thorns raked over the back of his hands as he fought his way clear to his knees.

He was sweating hard, breathing hard. She wasn’t going to cut him out. That one certainly was in his mind as he pushed himself up to limp toward the putting green. He was going to bring that single point home to her. With a vengeance.

The man shadowing Julia spotted the Porsche. He was circling the estate after watching Julia turn through the gates. He’d decided to spend the rest of the afternoon staked out down the block, in case she came out again.

It was a boring job, but the pay was good. A man tolerated a lot of inconveniences, like heat, tedium, and pissing in a plastic bottle, for six hundred a day.

When he recognized the Porsche, natural curiosity had him pulling up behind it. It was locked up tight, and was clean
as a whistle except for a couple of scuff marks on the roof. Grinning, he hopped up and peered over the wall.

He was just in time to see Drake hobbling between the green and the tennis courts.

It took him only a moment to decide to hop the wall. When opportunity knocked, a smart man opened the door. He was bound to find out more inside than out. And the more he found out, the more he got paid.

Julia pulled through the gates just as Gloria’s Mercedes shot out. Without sparing her a glance, Gloria punched the gas and had her wheels screaming on asphalt.

“Nearly took off her bumper,” Joe called out. He shook his head smiling through the window at Julia. “That lady drives worse than my teenager.”

“She looked upset.”

“Looked the same when she got here.”

“Was she here long?”

“Nah.” He worked a cherry Life Saver out of the roll, offered it to Julia, and at her murmured refusal popped it into his mouth. “Fifteen minutes maybe. People been coming and going all morning. I’da made a fortune if I was charging toll.”

Because she knew he expected a smile, Julia accommodated him. “Is anyone with Eve now?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“No problem. You have a good day now.”

Julia drove slowly, trying to decide whether to make the turn for the main house, or go on. She let instinct take her and followed the route to the guest house. She wasn’t ready, she admitted. She needed a little more time, a little more space.

The moment she got out of the car, she turned toward the gardens, lost herself in them. Behind her a curtain twitched open, then back into place.

It was an indulgence, but only a small one, to sit on a stone bench and let her mind empty. With her eyes closed, she could absorb the sounds and smells of the garden. The low
hum of bees, the rustle of birds among lush leaves. Oleander, jasmine, lilac, all those sweet fragrances mixed with the richer, deeper scent of earth freshly watered.

She’d always loved flowers. In the years she’d lived in Manhattan, she’d put geraniums on the windowsill every spring. Perhaps she’d inherited that love, that need for flowers from Eve. But she didn’t want to think about that now.

As the minutes passed, she grew calmer. While her mind drifted, she began to toy with the broach she’d pinned to her jacket that morning. The broach her mother—the only mother she’d ever known—had left her. Justice. Both of her parents had devoted their lives to it. And to her.

She remembered so much—being driven to school on that first terrifying day, being held and rocked. The stories she’d been told at bedtime. The Christmas she’d been given the shiny two-wheeler with the white plastic basket on the front. And the pain, the confusion when divorce had separated the people she loved and depended on most of all. The way they had united in support of her during her pregnancy. How proud they’d been of Brandon; how they’d helped her finish her education. How painful it had been, and still was, to know she had lost both of them.

But nothing could dim her memories, or her emotions. Maybe that’s what she’d been most afraid of. Afraid that if she’d known the circumstances of her birth, it would have diminished somehow that connection with the people who had raised her.

That wasn’t going to happen. Steadier, she rose again. No matter what was said, no matter what transpired between her and Eve, nothing could change that bond.

She would always be Julia Summers.

Now it was time to face the rest of her heritage.

She started back to the guest house. Eve could come to her there, where they could have complete privacy. She stopped at the door to search through her bag for her keys. When was she going to learn not to drop them so carelessly into the black hole of her purse? When her fingers closed over
them, she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Her mind sketched out a vague plan as she unlocked the door.

She would treat herself to a glass of white wine, marinate some chicken for dinner, then call Eve. She wouldn’t plan the conversation at all, but let it happen naturally. After it was over, she would call Paul. She could tell him everything, knowing he would help her sort it out.

Maybe they could take Brandon away for the weekend, just to relax, just to be together. It might be healthy to put a little distance between herself and Eve. After dropping her briefcase and purse on a chair, she started to turn toward the kitchen.

It was then Julia saw her.

She could only stare. Not even scream. It wasn’t possible to scream when she’d stopped breathing. It passed hazily through her mind that it must be a play. Surely the curtain would come down any second, then Eve would smile that dazzling smile and take her bows.

But she wasn’t smiling, or standing. She was sprawled on the floor, her magnificent body turned awkwardly on its side. Her pale face was propped on one outstretched arm, as if she’d settled herself down for a lazy nap. But her eyes were open. Wide and unblinking, their zest and passion drained.

Seeping darkly into the pretty rug in front of the low hearth was the blood that dripped from the gaping wound at the base of her skull.

“Eve.” Julia took one stumbling step forward, then dropped to her knees to take Eve’s cold hand in hers. “Eve, no.” Frantic, she tried to lift her, to force the limp body to its feet. Blood soaked her shirt, smeared her jacket.

Then she screamed.

On her wild rush to the phone, she tripped. Still reeling with shock, she bent down to pick up the brass poker that lay on the floor. Blood glistened wetly on it. With a sound of revulsion, she tossed it aside. Her fingers trembled so badly she was sobbing by the time she managed to dial 911.

“I need help.” Saying the words had her stomach heaving into her throat. She fought it back. “Please, I think she’s dead.
You have to help.” Breath hitching, she listened to the dispatcher’s soothing voice and instructions. “Just come,” Julia demanded. “Come quickly.” She forced out the address, then jangled the phone back onto the hook. Before she had time to think, she was dialing again. “Paul. I need you.”

She couldn’t say any more. As his voice buzzed through the receiver, she dropped the phone to crawl back to Eve. To take her hand.

There were uniformed police at the gate when Paul got there. But he already knew. Unable to contact Julia again on the car phone while he’d raced from Malibu, he’d finally reached a hysterical maid at the main house.

Eve was dead.

He’d told himself it was a mistake, some kind of horrible joke. But his gut had known differently. All through the long, frustrating drive he’d fought to ignore that empty, clutching feeling in the pit of his stomach, that dry burning in his throat. The minute he pulled up at the gate, he’d known it was hopeless.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The cop moved over to speak through the window of Paul’s car. “No one’s allowed through.”

“I’m Paul Winthrop,” he said flatly. “Eve Benedict’s stepson.”

With a nod, the cop turned away and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. After a brief conversation, he signaled the gate.

“Please drive directly to the guest house.” He slid into the passenger’s seat. “I’ll have to go with you.”

Paul said nothing, only started up the drive he’d cruised along countless times. He spotted more uniformed police walking over the estate slowly, fanned out like a search team. Searching for what? he wondered. For whom?

There were more cars, still more police surrounding the guest house. The air buzzed with the squawking from the radios. It rang with weeping. Travers was slumped onto the grass, sobbing into the apron she held to her face. And Nina, her arms
around the housekeeper, her own face damp with tears, blank with shock.

Paul got out of the car and took one step toward the house before the cop stopped him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winthrop, you can’t go in.” “I want to see her.”

“Only official personnel allowed on the crime scene.”

He knew the drill, goddammit, knew it every bit as well as this snot-nosed cop who’d barely begun to shave. Turning, he frosted the young officer with a single glance.

“I want to see her.”

“Look, I’ll, ah, check, but you’re going to have to wait until the coroner gives the okay.”

Paul yanked out a cigar. He needed something to take the taste of grief and waste out of his mouth. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Lieutenant Needlemeyer.” “Where is he?”

“Around in back. Hey,” he said as Paul started around. “He’s conducting an investigation.” “He’ll see me.”

They were on the terrace, seated at the cheerful table, surrounded by flowers. Paul’s gaze passed over Needlemeyer briefly, locked on Julia. Ice. Her face was so clear, so pale, so cold. She was gripping a glass in both hands, her fingers so tightly molded to it, they might have been glued.

And there was blood. On her skirt, on her jacket. Terror ripped through his grief.

“Julia.”

Her nerves were stretched so tight, the sound of her name had her leaping up. The glass flew out of her hands to shatter on the tiles. For an instant she swayed as the air went thick and gray. Then she was racing toward him.

“Paul. Oh, God, Paul.” The trembling started again the moment his arms came around her. “Eve” was all she could say. And again. “Eve.”

“Are you hurt?” He wanted to yank her back, to see for
himself, but couldn’t force his arms to loosen their grip. “Tell me if you’re hurt.”

She shook her head, gulping in air. Control. She had to take back some control now or she’d never find it again. “She was in the house when I got home. In the house, on the floor. I found her on the floor. Paul, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”