Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (4 page)

     Linda was far more liberal about sex than Sissy was. When Linda had heard of a bordello for women in Beverly Hills, she had flown there to see for herself. She had found it, Butterfly on Rodeo Drive, but you had to be a member, and to be a member you had to get someone to sponsor you. Linda had come home disappointed, but when they all read the about the bordello being raided by the police several months later, Linda said, "Pity," but was secretly glad she hadn't joined. The town of Rockford would never have gotten over the scandal. "I wonder if The Grove is owned by the same woman," Linda had speculated while watching Sissy pack for her free week at the resort. "Beverly Highland disappeared, and they say the woman who owns The Grove is very mysterious and secretive."

     Sissy suddenly heard laughter outside. Her cheeks burned when she recalled the way the man next door had grinned at her as he pumped away—a wicked grin, as if inviting Sissy to join them.

     She shook her head and addressed the project, laying out tweezers, scissors, silhouette punches; trimmers, stickers, rubber stamps; colored pens, pencils and markers. Sissy had gone wild at the craft store back home—

     How
did
a threesome work anyway? Could one man satisfy two women?

     Her thoughts shocked her. Raised a strict Catholic, the most Sissy had done with boys in high school was make-out. She lost her virginity on her wedding night and had been with no other man since. Ed was a considerate lover, every Saturday night after dinner at the Country Club, and he even stayed awake a little afterward. It wasn't skyrockets for Sissy, but she didn't believe women were supposed to feel that way.

     She began sorting the photos and theater stubs and little bits and pieces of happy moments, wondering, should she place the photos and mementoes chronologically or grouped into themes?

     She frowned. Where was the glue? She searched through the adhesives and mounting tabs and photo corners but found no glue. Maybe she had hastily thrown it in with something else. She went through the boxes and manila envelopes. No glue. The last item she inspected was something unfamiliar to her. She had grabbed it in her sweep of everything off the closet shelf. A brown accordion file secured with a black elastic band. She couldn't recall ever seeing it before. It must have been tucked away at the back of the
closet for a long time for her not to even recognize it. The pictures in it must be very old.

     She opened it and looked inside. Her frown deepened as she brought out the contents. Bank and credit card statements. But whose? Ed was very careful about their financial files and kept them in neatly organized folders in a metal filing cabinet. Perhaps they had been left behind by the people they had bought the house from, six years ago. But the dates on the credit card statements were recent. And they all had Ed's name on them.

     What on earth
was
all this?

     She scrutinized the charges more closely and saw that none were familiar to her—jewelry stores, florists, expensive restaurants, even hotel charges. It had to be an error. That was it. Identity theft. Someone using Ed's name. He was most likely fighting it out right now with the credit card company and hadn't told Sissy because he didn't want to worry her.

     She gazed into the sunbeams slicing through the diaphanous drapes, saw golden dust motes dancing in the light. And got a very strange feeling.

     She rarely called Ed at work, but this was something that needed explaining. "Sorry, Mrs. Whitboro," his secretary said now. "He's out with a supplier at the moment."

     "Would you ask him to call me please?" And she gave the woman the number at the resort.

     One of the file pockets contained phone bills stapled together. Sissy didn't recognize the number on the account. It was a cellular service. Did Ed have a second cell phone she didn't know about? She noticed that one number appeared numerous times. Out of curiosity, she dialed.

     A woman's voice, deep and sultry, answered. "Hi, this is Tiffany. What can I do for you?"

     
Tiffany?
"Is Ed there?"

     "If you say so, sugar. What would you like Ed and me to be doing?"

     Sissy frowned. "I'd rather you weren't doing anything."

     "Okay, sugar. I get it. You want Ed to watch while you and I get it on? Tell me what you're wearing. Describe your breasts to me—"

     "I'm looking for my husband! I found this number. He's been calling you."

     A brief silence and then, "Jesus. You're a
wife!"
Sultriness gone.

     "Where is Ed?"

     "Look, honey, I don't know where Ed is and you still gotta pay for this call."

     The connection broke, leaving Sissy to sit in bafflement.

     Selecting another number on the phone bill, she dialed and heard a recording: "Hi, I'm Bambi," breathy and soft, "and I'm not in right now. I'm out buying lingerie, the crotchless panties you like so much. But, ooh, I want to talk to you, I'm here for you and I'm hot and ready. Just leave your number and—"

     Sissy quickly hung up. She scanned the lists of numbers, the minutes, and the total at the end. One month's phone bill came to over five hundred dollars.

     Sissy knew she was not worldly when it came to certain matters, but it did not take a genius to recognize what these calls meant. Her head swam. Ed was into phone sex?

     No, it was a mistake. It had to be. It wasn't like him. She and Ed went to church every Sunday. Ed coached their kids' soccer team, was a member of the Kiwanis and the Knights of Columbus. He led retreats for Christian youth on the weekends. Ed never even looked at another woman, not even at the company Christmas parties where everybody got drunk and flirted. He and Sissy had been devoted to each other for fifteen years.

     She was sure there was a reasonable explanation for what she had found inside the accordion file.

     And then she saw that there was more in there, and she was suddenly afraid to look.

A
BBY
! A
RE YOU AWAKE
? W
E HAVE AN EMERGENCY
!"

     Abby Tyler opened the door wearing a silk dressing gown, her hair damp from the shower. "What is it?"

     "Trouble," Vanessa said, hurrying inside, closing the door behind herself. "It's the kitchen again. The lobsters did not arrive on this morning's flight, and the caviar that came is not Beluga. On top of that, someone left the
foie gras
out overnight so that it has spoiled. Maurice is throwing a fit."

     The kitchen was the heart of the resort, known for its fabulous menus, and Maurice, the head chef, trained at Cordon Bleu and world-famous for his quail in port sauce, possessed a temperament that was as changeable and extreme as the desert surrounding the resort. If he walked out it would bring the Grove to a standstill.

     "I'll go talk to him." Abby hurried back into her bedroom where she had been in the middle of selecting her wardrobe. She was to have lunch with Sissy Whitboro and Coco McCarthy. Now it would have to be rescheduled. And dealing with Maurice could take all day, calling for psychology, diplomacy,
emergency phone calls, and sending the plane to Los Angeles on an emergency run.

     Vanessa followed her friend into the bedroom. "Abby, you look awful. Did you get any sleep at all?"

     "No, I was up all night." Coco and Sissy. Two of the three women the private detective had tracked down.
Three babies kidnapped three decades ago, stolen from their mothers and sold to desperate families.

     As she snapped a brush through her short dark hair, she looked at the woman in the mirror, in her late forties but looking younger because of careful avoidance of sun and smog. A face she had kept hidden. "Were you able to get through to Ophelia Kaplan?"

     "I placed a call to her home last night but haven't yet received a response. Abby, what if she doesn't accept the prize?"

     "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Maybe, for the first time in fourteen years, Abby was going to have to leave The Grove. She had invented the contest as a way to get the three to come to her because she couldn't go to
them.
But if she had to, to see Ophelia Kaplan face to face and learn the truth, she would do it.

     She reached for a sweater. "What about the man I asked you to keep an eye on?" The surprise twenty-first passenger. Mr. Aviator Glasses.

     "Jack Burns. He hasn't requested anything so far. No special services. Hasn't signed up for the spas or tennis. Dined alone in his room last night—steak and fries. Ordered a bottle of Black Opal Shiraz."

     That surprised Abby. Few of her guests were hip to southeastern Australian wines.

     "Female companionship?"

     "Nothing."

     Abby headed for the front door. "When did he make his reservation?"

     "He's been on stand-by for three weeks. We got a cancellation. Burns was notified and he came right out."

     "From where?"

     "Los Angeles."

     Stand-bys were not unusual, but the fact that he wasn't taking advantage of the resort's many offerings was. No one ever came here to do
nothing.

     "Paparazzi?" Vanessa suggested. "Or a celebrity stalker?" The Grove saw more than its share of famous people. Those who wanted to get into the "business" came here hoping to make connections. Security was constantly on the watch for guests pestering the celebrities. Maybe this one had a screenplay to shop, or an idea to pitch, a portfolio to show. "Do you want security to have a look in his room?"

     Abby shook her head. Privacy was her number one rule. She had never snooped in a guest's room and wasn't about to start now. Pushing Jack Burns from her mind, she focused on damage control in the kitchen and averting a disaster with Maurice the head chef.

     "We need fingerprints, Jack," his friend at the forensics lab had said. That was why Jack was here. To get fingerprints from a woman known never to socialize with her guests. "Buy her a drink. Take the glass."

     Easier said than done.

     But he had made a promise over a coffin, and so now he was here, in the morning sunshine exploring The Grove, figuring out a way to get Abby Tyler's fingerprints.

     The night before, when the plane landed, he had seen her at the edge of the tarmac, observing the arriving passengers. She had looked younger than he expected. Attractive, too. To his surprise, she had also looked vulnerable, standing there anxiously surveying the new arrivals. He had seen her stiffen when she saw him, her guard suddenly up. Did she know? Had she guessed why he was there?

     In the desert sunshine, tall and slender palm trees bent seductively in the breeze, long green fronds swaying like hula skirts. The sky was so blue and sharp it hurt the eyes. A waterfall splashed nearby. Jack was approached by a young woman in a curvy sarong carrying a tray of colorful drinks, paper umbrellas sticking out of them. She gave him the once over and smiled in a flattering way. An act? Part of the resort's policy to entertain guests? Perhaps not. Jack had encountered such smiles before. He had been told by various ladies that he "wasn't bad looking." A bit weathered, they said, but what man would-n't be in his line of work? You don't squint at a city's underbelly for years without carving a few creases and lines in your face. At forty-seven, Jack kept himself in shape, not overly so, just enough to outrun a purse snatcher if he had to.

     He politely returned the smile and strolled on. Recreational sex wasn't his scene. Jack preferred emotional attachment with his bed partners. Which was why his bed had been empty of late.

     Finally he saw her, hurrying past a giant aviary filled with exotic birds.

     He followed, watching the long stride and confident step, hands tucked into the pockets of her tailored slacks, silk blouse fluttering in the breeze, molding to her form so that he couldn't help notice nicely rounded breasts. He knew how old she was. He grudgingly admitted she kept herself in good shape. Her colors surprised him—Jack thought a woman in hiding would try to be as invisible as possible. But Abby Tyler's slacks were crimson, her blouse flame-colored

     Last night she had looked vulnerable. But looks can be deceiving.

     And then he saw on the path ahead one of the housekeeping maids struggling with a large load of linen. A small Hispanic woman in a green and blue uniform, she was wrestling with a duffle nearly her own size, and blocking the path.

     Jack knew what would happen next. He had witnessed it before in other retreats that catered to the very rich and spoiled. The maid would be ordered to remove the cart from the path and to see to it that she never again made her self so visible. Some hotels, guests never even saw housekeeping personnel, they were that adept at keeping themselves invisible.

     Jack hung back as he watched Abby Tyler and her companion, a tall woman in a long white caftan, stop and say something to the maid. The breeze carried their voices so that Jack could hear. To his surprise, no reprimand from Tyler. Instead she took the large bundle from the maid and lifted it up and over into the clumsy cart. Jack caught bits of what Tyler said: "Never lift heavy things...must think of your baby...call one of the men to help."