The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (123 page)

“At least you knew what you were getting into,” he said.

“You can say that again.” She laughed. “At my age, you know every single thing that can go wrong.” She started toward the house, motioning for them to join her.

Finch stepped inside to find Jack asleep in his playpen in the living room. As Sam reached to switch off the baby monitor, he stirred and lifted his head, blinking up at them sleepily. His cheeks were flushed and his golden curls mashed on one side of his head. Seeing Finch, he broke into a grin showing four tiny teeth.

“Fah!” he cried, hauling himself upright and holding out his chubby arms.

He knew the way to her heart all right. One look at that face and she was butter. She scooped him up. “Wow. What’ve you been feeding this kid? He weighs a ton!”

“He takes after his dad.” Sam beamed with pride.

“Speaking of the devil, where’s Ian?”

“He’s doing a civic center in Sausalito. He’ll be back next week.” Sam didn’t seem to mind that he was away a lot—the life of a muralist was a nomadic one—though Ian did his best to limit his trips.

“Down,” Jack ordered, wriggling to free himself. Finch lowered him onto the rug, watching him toddle over to Sam, who wrinkled her nose as she lifted him into her arms. “Phew. Somebody needs his diaper changed. Be right back, guys. There’s lemonade in the fridge—help yourselves.” She waved toward the kitchen, where a large bowl heaped with lemons sat on the counter. “Lupe brings them over by the bushel. I’ve run out of things to make with them.”

“Cool grandma.” Lucien voiced his approval when Sam was out of the room.

Finch smiled. “She is, isn’t she?” Sam was one of the best things about being adopted into this family. They wandered into the sunny kitchen that looked out over the backyard, where Finch poured them glasses of lemonade. By the time Sam returned with a freshly diapered Jack, they were seated on the sofa leafing through an album of his baby pictures. Finch smiled at one of Jack eating cake, his chubby cheeks smeared with chocolate frosting.

Sam set him down, and he immediately toddled over to the basket of toys by the fireplace, dumping a cascade of puzzle pieces, alphabet blocks, Playskool trucks, and plastic farm animals onto the rug. She gave an indulgent sigh as she sank into a chair, asking Lucien, “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Nope, but I always wondered what it’d be like,” he said, smiling at another photo of Jack covered in mud. “It looks like there’s a fair amount of cleanup involved.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Sam laughed, and Finch was once again struck by how easy she made it seem—balancing grown daughters with a toddler. Always the perfect hostess, too.

But they hadn’t come to socialize. Finch cleared her throat. “Um, about Anna—”

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Sam shook her head. “I just wish there was something I could do.”

“Actually, there is.” Finch raised her voice to be heard over the sound of Jack happily bashing at his Busy Box with a toy truck. “We’re raising money for her legal expenses.”

Sam brightened. “What a wonderful idea.”

“Whatever you can afford,” Finch was quick to throw in, not wanting her to feel pressured.

“Keep an eye on Jack. I’ll just be a sec.” Sam darted from the room, reappearing moments later with a check in hand.

Finch gasped when she saw the amount—a thousand dollars! “It’s … uh … I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

“It’s the least we can do,” Sam said, though Finch knew it was far more than she and Ian could afford. “In fact, if it weren’t for Jack, I’d be out there with you knocking on doors.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Come to think of it, there’s no reason I can’t make a few calls.”

“Um, that’d be great.” Finch found her voice at last.

“I knew my old Junior League directory would come in handy one of these days.” There was a glint in her eye as she stood to see them out. Under that PTA mom’s surface beat the heart of a rebel: She’d love nothing more than to hit up those ladies, many of whom would be horrified at the idea of giving to an alleged murderer. Sam hugged her at the door, and when Lucien put out his hand, she ignored it to hug him, too. “Any time you want to try on a kid brother for size,” she told him, “you can borrow Jack.”

He grinned. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”

They were almost out the door before Finch remembered to ask, “Will you be at the funeral?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Sam sounded more matter of fact than mournful. And why not? Monica hadn’t gone out of her way to endear herself. Though the funeral was sure to draw a crowd, if for no other reason than to gawk at all the celebrities, few would shed a tear at her grave.

By the end of the day they’d canvassed a dozen more homes, raising several hundred dollars on top of Sam’s contribution. At the Ochoas’, she and Lucien had politely nibbled on cookies and at the Sharps’, coffee cake. As they were leaving the Ratliffs’, where Mrs. Ratliffs elderly mother had insisted they try her homemade strudel, Finch had muttered under her breath, “I’m not sure my stomach can take any more.”

In the car, on their way back to town, she said, “Not too bad for our first day.”

“Only one person slammed the door in our faces.”

“Did you believe that old hag?” Though Mrs. Wormley hadn’t exactly slammed the door, she’d said snippily that the police didn’t go around arresting people without good reason and she, for one, wasn’t in the habit of aiding and abetting criminals. “It’s probably because Anna wouldn’t join her stupid church committee.”

“They’re the biggest hypocrites, those religious types.”

“They’re not all like that.” Finch thought of her friend Sister Agnes. That time she’d run away from Laura’s, it was Sister Agnes who’d found her and brought her back. “Hey, pull over. I want to show you something.”

They were headed south on Old Schoolhouse Road, and Lucien drew to a stop in front of its namesake, a ramshackle building long abandoned, its windows boarded over and the weeds surrounding it waist high. It was where Sam’s father had gone to school, and his grandfather before him, but now it was mainly a make-out spot for the kids who went to Portola High across town. He cast her a dubious look. “
This
is what you want to show me.”

“Are you coming, or not?” Finch got out, motioning for him to follow her.

They picked their way through tall weeds and brambles, mindful of the broken glass and rusty beer cans scattered about. When they reached the schoolhouse, she saw that the railing was missing from one side of the steps that creaked ominously as she climbed them. She pulled a strip of peeling red paint from the door to reveal traces of the original blue underneath.

“Do you know the movie
Stranger in Paradise
?” she asked.

“I think I saw it on TV.” He eyed her with interest.

“One of the scenes was filmed here. It was a wreck then, too, but they fixed it up. I heard about it from Sam. Her mother spent a day on the set—she knew the director or something.”

“I didn’t know you were into old movies.”

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “That’s how I know about Lorraine Wells. She was listed in the credits.” Finch paused, turning to him. “I know it’s dumb. I mean, what are the chances we’re related?”

“Next to none,” he agreed.

“Still, I can’t help wondering: Maybe there’s a reason I ended up in Carson Springs.” She pushed against the door, but it was wedged shut. She delivered a hard kick, and the hinges gave with a rusty squeal. “Don’t get the wrong idea— I’m not into all that New Age crap. It’s just a thought.”

“Creepy,” Lucien said as they stepped cautiously inside. She turned to find him looking apprehensively about.

“I wouldn’t want to be here alone.” She hugged herself amid the gloom.

The room was dark and smelled like a hundred years’ worth of neglect and debris, its only light the pale shafts that had found their way through the holes in the roof. As they crunched over drifts of dried animal droppings and leaves, stepping around chunks of decayed flooring and warped boards, Finch and Lucien were greeted by a furious skittering. She nervously eyed the potbelly stove in one corner, rusted through in spots and home, from the sounds of it, to legions of mice.

Lucien turned to her with his slow-breaking smile that took away some of the chill. “It’s not much to look at, is it?”

She glanced about, trying to picture the walls hung with colorful maps and diagrams, but all she could see were rotting studs and peeling tar paper. “I guess some things are better left to the imagination.”

She began to shiver, drawing the sleeves of her jersey down over her fingers. It seemed only natural, like one heartbeat following another, when Lucien wrapped his arms around her from behind. His breath was warm against her ear.

“We should go,” she said, making no move to pull away.

“Yeah.” He tightened his arms about her.

With a sigh, she swiveled around to face him. But whatever she’d meant to say, the words died on her lips. His eyes were so black in the half light that when he kissed her, it felt as though she were melting into all that velvety darkness. She parted her lips, letting the tip of his tongue play over hers.
Stop,
a voice cried in her head,
you’ll ruin everything.

After a moment she drew back, breathing slowly and deliberately until her heart stopped pounding. “We really should be going,” she repeated in a trembling voice.

He just stood there, looking at her. “What are you afraid of?”

“Who said I was afraid?”

“You didn’t have to say it.”

She ducked her head, letting her hair slide past her ears so her face was hidden from view. “It’s not you.”

“Whoever he is, I’m not like him.”

Her head jerked up. “Who said it had anything to do with anyone?”

“I can see that you’ve been hurt.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and the smell of rotting leaves and wood given over to termites grew more pungent. “It wasn’t just one guy,” she said in a strange choked voice. “I … I can’t even remember all their names.” She waited for him to draw back in disgust.

“That was then; this is now.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing over hers.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“We’ll go as slow as you like.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Either way, we’ll still be friends?”

“That’s up to you.” He smiled, taking her hand and wrapping it around his.

She felt a burden lift from her. The acceptance she saw in Lucien’s face was what she’d needed without knowing how to ask.

They retraced their steps. Outside, the sun was setting, bathing the mountains to the east in a reflected rose-colored glow, the pink moment that drew tourists from miles around. The wonder of it wasn’t lost on Finch, either. She stood with her head tipped skyward, her long hair catching the breeze and lifting off her shoulders like a bird taking flight. When Lucien slipped an arm around her shoulders, she scarcely noticed.

“I wonder how Andie and Simon made out,” she said.

“I’ve never known either of them to take no for an answer.”

“About tomorrow,” she said, “how tacky would it be to hit people up at the funeral?”

“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say about eleven or so.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” She thought of Anna, alone and frightened, and her spirits sank with the sun dipping below the mountaintops.

Lucien drew her in so that her head was tucked under his chin. “You’re doing everything you can. That’s all anyone could ask.”

By morning Anna had lost all hope. As she sat staring sightlessly at her breakfast, long since gone cold on its tray, all she could think of was that an hour from now the mourners would be filing past Monica’s casket, the famous rubbing elbows with those whose closest encounters with celebrities thus far had been occasional glimpses of the ones that frequented the spa and La Serenisa. Liz would be in attendance, along with their mother. Anna’s friends, too, and people from church. The only one who wouldn’t be there was the one person who’d known Monica the best—Anna herself.

I’m sorry, Monica.
However bad things had gotten toward the end, she felt no rancor toward her sister, only the most profound pity. No one deserved to die the way she had.

At the sound of footsteps, she brought her head up so sharply she felt something crack in her neck. Not Benny this time, but a pimple-faced rookie who scarcely looked old enough to drive, much less carry a gun. He stopped chewing his gum long enough to announce, “Bond’s been posted.”

“What?” Anna wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

“You’re free to go.” The door to her cell clanged open.

Anna’s mind spun. Who had that kind of money? None of her friends, that was for sure, unless it was borrowed. She rose shakily to her feet, feeling as she had when she’d been bedridden with pneumonia. As she stepped into the corridor she held out her hands to be cuffed before remembering. She quickly dropped them. The rookie handed her a paper bag with her things, pointing toward the shower room. “You can change in there.”

Expecting to find only the clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived, Anna was surprised to find a brand-new dress in a soft shade of gray as well, along with pantyhose and a pair of black pumps from her closet.
Laura,
she thought. She’d guessed there wouldn’t be time for her to go home before the funeral. She and Hector must have been the ones who’d posted bond, though God only knew where they’d gotten the money. Anna felt a rush of gratitude mixed with shame for what she’d put them through.

The dress looked as if it would be too small, but when she slipped it over her head it was a perfect fit. Moments later she was being ushered into the visitors’ area, where another surprise was in store. It wasn’t Laura and Hector who awaited her, but Laura’s younger sister, stylishly dressed in a slim-fitting navy coatdress and high heels, her handsome husband at her side, Alice stepped forward, seizing hold of her hands. “I’m sorry it took us so long, but we were out of town when we heard. We didn’t get back until late last night.”

Anna stood there, gaping at them. “I don’t understand. I thought—”