“Did they have to tell my brothers?”
“If they wanted the boxes, yeah, they did. They couldn’t just stroll out of there with your property without a reason.”
“I should have called them.”
“Gigi said they’ll be calling here again.”
“I can handle them,” Lyra assured Sam. She knew she was facing a long argument. They were her older brothers, and they couldn’t come to grips with the fact that she had grown up and could make her own decisions.
“There’s a little more news,” Sam said as Gigi returned carrying an empty coffee cup. An uncomfortable glance passed between them.
Uh-oh. “What is it?”
Gigi answered. “Your parents have heard that there’s trouble.”
Her shoulders slumped. “How did they find out?”
“Your father called the ranch while the FBI agents were there, and the housekeeper told him. He and your mother are coming here this afternoon.”
Gigi and Sam waited for Lyra to react. She said nothing, but the blood was rising in her face and her jaw was clenched. Slowly she pushed her chair back and stood. As she was walking out of the kitchen, Sam asked, “Where are you going?”
She didn’t look back when she answered. “To tell Harlan he should hurry up with that panic room.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
MRS. EDITH CASTMAN FOLDED LIKE A HOUSE OF CARDS. She was outside tending her flowers, so Sam didn’t have to knock on her door and identify himself as an FBI agent. Instead, he casually strolled into her yard, his gun conveniently covered by his navy blue sweatshirt. He complimented her flowers, told her he was a bit of a gardener himself, but certainly not as good as she was, and he would love some tips.
She looked at him suspiciously. “You a foreigner?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not here to take a job away from an American, are you?”
“No, I’m not.
She took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with her apron. The wrinkles that extended from her nostrils to her chin were deep craters, and her mouth seemed to be permanently downturned. It took only a second for Sam to size her up: Mrs. Castman was an unhappy woman.
The flowers, she explained, were her pride and joy because they never talked back.
Having no wish to hear a more detailed explanation, he nodded, pretending to understand.
“Not everyone can grow flowers like I do,” she bragged. “Just look at those burned-up flowers next door. Never even came to bloom.”
“They do look pretty bad,” he agreed.
“They’re not bad; they’re dead.” She snickered and lowered her voice. “The woman living there poured holy water on her flowers because she thought that’s what I did.”
Mrs. Castman wasn’t just unhappy, Sam decided. She was mean-spirited, the kind of woman who enjoyed watching other people suffer.
“Wow, look at those!” he said, pointing to some purple flowers. He wanted to draw her back to her garden. “I’ve never seen anything so full of blooms. You have an amazing touch. I’d give anything if I could get results half as beautiful in my garden.”
“Are you going back to your foreign country?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll show you what I use to grow my flowers. I wouldn’t tell you if you were staying around here. I can’t have you competing.”
Harlan was putting sheets of drywall in the back of his truck when Mrs. Castman and Sam walked into her backyard. He wasn’t there by accident. Sam had asked him to hang around as a witness in case the situation came down to Sam’s word against hers.
“That young man is inside that woman’s house all the time,” she said under her breath as she nodded toward Harlan. “I know something’s going on, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m just thankful I won’t have to live next door much longer. I’m moving back to Pennsylvania in the fall. I’ve already sold my house to a young couple. You can be sure I didn’t mention the carrying-on next door when they were looking at my house.”
Sam knew Gigi would be happy to learn that Mrs. Castman would be moving. He followed her through her tiny backyard and waited while she opened her garage door. The light streamed in and Mrs. Castman set the watering can she was carrying on a bench. The odor of soil and fertilizer hung in the stagnant air. Gardening tools were strewn on an old table. Bags of fertilizer lay on the concrete floor, and bottles of liquid fertilizer and pesticides were lined up on the shelves on the wall.
“I use a special mixture of fertilizers,” she confided as she reached for one of the bottles. “It’s my secret formula,” she added with a fiendish grin that reminded Sam of an old silent movie about a mad scientist.
As she poured liquid from several bottles into a bucket, Sam stepped to the side. In plain sight was a black bottle with the words “Perma-Kill” on it.
He picked up the bottle, held it toward her, and asked quite pleasantly, “Did you use this herbicide on your neighbor’s flowers, or did you just mix it into the soil?”
Mrs. Castman’s hand went to her throat. “What? What are you talking about?”
She reached for the bottle, but Sam held it away from her as he read the warning on it. “Caution. If Perma-Kill is absorbed by the soil, it can kill all vegetation for up to a year.” He looked back at the woman’s shocked face. “So you had to reapply this to Mrs. Prescott’s garden each year, did you?”
“You have no right to poke through my things!” she shouted.
“It’s in plain sight,” Sam countered, “and you invited me in. Isn’t that right, Harlan?”
At that moment, Harlan stepped around the corner and stood in the open doorway.
“But I …” she stammered. “I didn’t …”
“Oh, but I think you did, Mrs. Castman. There could be witnesses, you know,” Sam said, suggesting that he already knew of some. He pulled out his badge. “You have the right….”
“Wait, wait. What do you mean, I have the right? Are you a policeman?”
“FBI.”
She took a deep indrawn breath, and Sam could almost see her mind racing as her eyes darted back and forth. “I didn’t break any laws. Did that woman say I did? Did she call you? Don’t you have better things to do than arrest a poor, elderly woman who only wants—”
“You want to know how many laws you’ve broken? Let’s start with trespassing and vandalism and—”
“All right. All right. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“By what?” he asked, hoping she’d admit what she had done.
“I noticed her flowers were dry, so I … They would have died anyway … I don’t want to go to jail,” she cried. “What can I do to make this up?”
Sam pretended to think about the problem. “I should take you in,” he said. “Your neighbor’s yard will have to be torn up, and all that contaminated dirt will have to be hauled away. Then there’s the cost of hauling in new dirt and flowers for planting—”
“I’ll pay,” she rushed on. “I’ll do the right thing here. I’ll have it all replaced.”
He nodded. “Okay, but I’m warning you, you step one foot in your neighbor’s yard and you’re going to jail.”
As Mrs. Castman hurried into her house to make the call to the nursery, Sam walked back to Gigi’s. Harlan stood by the kitchen door waiting.
“Thanks, Harlan.”
“I didn’t do anything to help.”
“Mrs. Castman knows you heard her admit what she did. If she causes any more trouble, you call the police.”
“She’s a mean old lady,” Harlan said.
Sam didn’t disagree.
Harlan was heading back to work in Gigi’s bedroom when Sam said, “If any of Lyra’s family asks what you’re doing in there …”
“I’ll tell them I’m building a closet.”
Sam smiled. “Did Lyra—”
“No,” Harlan interrupted. “I’ve met them.”
Lyra was in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her feet up on an otto
man. Her laptop balanced on her knees, she was typing furiously and mumbling something to herself.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked.
She looked up from her work. “I’m trying to work on the script for my children’s film. I’ve started a dozen outlines, but I’m not happy with any of them. I just don’t know where I want to go with it.”
“You’ll come up with something great,” he assured her.
“Thanks,” she answered, appreciating his confidence.
Gigi came up from the basement carrying clean hand towels. As she crossed the living room to get to the linen closet, she saw Sam.
“Did you talk to Mrs. Castman?”
“I did.”
“And did she confess?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Good,” she said with a nod. “Now I’m going over there and give her a piece of my mind.” She laid the towels on the arm of the sofa and marched to the door.
Sam rushed to cut her off before she stepped outside. “I know how angry you are … and you have every right to be. She vandalized your property and ruined all your hard work. But she’s promised to repair the damage and give you new flowers.”
“That’s the very least she can do,” Gigi said angrily.
“I know, I know,” he said to calm her. With Gigi’s stubborn streak and Mrs. Castman’s mean streak, Sam envisioned the start of an all-out war between the two. “What you really want is vindication, isn’t it? For everyone to know that you really are a good gardener?” He paused to let her think about it, then continued, “Mrs. Castman is going to have to hire people to work on your yard.”
The light was dawning in Gigi’s eyes. “That’s right. They’ll all find out why she has to replace my flowers. I know she’ll use Hatfield’s nursery. They’re the only ones in town, and everyone there likes to talk.” She smiled and patted his cheek. “Thank you, Sam.”
Gigi picked up the towels, and there was a lightness in her step as she walked down the hall.
Lyra had been watching Sam with her grandmother and was in awe. She’d never seen anyone charm her the way he did.
Sam turned and saw her smiling at him. “What?”
“Thank you,” she said.
He smiled back. “I like Gigi.”
TWENTY-NINE
CHRISTOPHER AND JUDITH PRESCOTT WERE NOT LIKABLE people, but Sam didn’t expect they would be. Like actors sweeping onto a stage, they swept into the house. Neither of them greeted their daughter. Sam stood in the doorway to the kitchen observing the reunion. If he had to sum up Lyra’s parents, he would have said that they were polished, pompous, and pretentious.
Lyra’s mother was attractive. There wasn’t a single wrinkle on her face, and Sam figured dermatologists and plastic surgeons deserved all the credit. Her father was tall, lean, and had a deep golfer’s tan. Both of them had blond streaks in their hair—one got them from a salon, and the other from the sun.
Lyra didn’t look anything like them. Her bone structure and her beauty came from her grandmother, who to this day was a lovely woman.
Lyra’s father finally looked at his daughter. “Lyra.”
“Father.”
“Where’s your grandmother?”
“Upstairs,” she said. “She’s on the phone. She’ll be down when she’s finished.”
“And who is this gentleman?” her mother asked. “Try to remember your manners and introduce us.”
Lyra walked over to Sam and stood beside him while she made the introductions. Lyra had always thought of her father as a tall man, but Sam dwarfed him as the two men shook hands.
“FBI,” her father remarked. “And you’re here with Lyra to protect her? That must be very stressful.”
Lyra’s mother went into the kitchen for a bottle of water. “No Perrier?” she called. No one answered her. She poured herself a glass of tea and carried it into the living room. “Darling, would you like a drink?”
“You know Mother doesn’t keep alcohol,” Christopher reminded her.
“I know. I meant iced tea.”
“No, not now. What’s taking her so long? Lyra, go check on her. She might not know we’re here.”
“I know you’re here,” Gigi said as she entered the room.
“It’s not like you to keep guests waiting, Mother,” her son said as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Christopher, you are not a guest. You are my son. Hello, Judith.”
Judith placed a peck on her cheek as well.
Sam could tell that, despite everything, Gigi was happy to see both of them. She took a seat in an easy chair and listened as they caught her up on their busy lives. Every so often, Lyra’s parents would politely draw him into the conversation and ask his opinion or inquire about his background, but for the most part they focused on themselves. He was amazed at how they could be so personable and outgoing, and at the same time be so completely self-involved. Not once did they show concern for Lyra or ask about her life.
“Have you moved into your new house in La Jolla?” Gigi asked them.
“No, but the moving vans will be arriving next week. Because of finances, Mother Prescott,” Judith said with a touch of anguish in her voice, “we’ve had to sell our home in New York.”
“The penthouse?”
“Yes,” she said, bowing her head.
Lyra sat next to Sam on the sofa and leaned into him. She fought the urge to laugh. Her mother made the sale of a penthouse sound like a death in the family.
“Where have you been staying?” Gigi asked her son.
“The apartment in Houston.”
“We want you to come back with us,” Judith said.
“That’s right,” Christopher agreed. “I want you to pack your bags, and we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“We’re staying at the Coronado tonight,” Judith explained.
“I am not going anywhere with you. Christopher, I thought this was all settled in court. You are not taking over my life.”
“Don’t you see how very worried we are?”
“About what?”
“You,” he said, his voice dripping with sincerity. “I’m not blaming Lyra …”
Lyra sighed and whispered, “Here we go. But …“
“But she’s put you in danger,” said Christopher.
“It’s not that Lyra is selfish,” Judith interjected. She didn’t even glance at Lyra as she continued. “She doesn’t have a selfish bone in her body.”
“But …” Lyra whispered.
“But she just wasn’t thinking,” Judith finished.
“Those men coming here to threaten …” Christopher shook his head, a concerned look on his well-tanned face. “I can’t have that, Mother.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Gigi said. She daintily folded her hands in her lap. “I have an FBI agent here for tonight, and tomorrow I’m leaving for the ranch. That was Cooper on the phone. He wants me to come home until Agent Kincaid catches those men, which I’m sure he will,” she added with a smile at Sam. “Besides, I miss my friends and would like to see them again. This house won’t be empty,” she assured them. “Harlan will be here working every day. He’s building a—”
Lyra blurted, “Another gorgeous closet with shelves.”
Gigi frowned at her. “But Lyra—”
“Gigi, shouldn’t you get ready for the spaghetti dinner?”
“Oh my, look at the time. Harlan will be here any minute.” She jumped up and patted her son’s shoulder before he could stand.
“You’re going out?” he asked.
“With a handyman?” Judith chimed in.
“He’s a contractor,” Gigi explained. “He and his family will be picking me up soon to go to dinner at St. Agnes’s. I really must change my dress. Don’t stay away so long, you two.”
“Should you be going anywhere when there’s been a threat against you?”
“There’s been no threat against me,” she insisted. “Besides, I’ll be with Harlan’s famil
y and with dozens of other people at the church. I’ll be just fine.”
“But Mother …”
“Good-bye now. Enjoy your stay at the Coronado.”
Christopher stood. “My own mother can’t spend an hour with me?”
Lyra’s back stiffened. How dare her father accuse Gigi of not spending time with him. How many hours had he spent with her? She sat forward, ready to retaliate, but Sam put his hand on her arm.
“Are you going to the church dinner, too, Lyra?” Judith asked. “You and Mr. Kincaid are more than welcome to have dinner with us at the hotel.”
“I think she should stay away from Gigi,” her father said. “I believe she’s put her grandmother in enough danger.”
“I think I should keep my distance from you, too,” Lyra said.
“Chris, she’s right,” Judith agreed. “It might be dangerous. We don’t have bodyguards like Mr. Kincaid here.”
Christopher turned to Sam. “I’m sure you understand. My mother isn’t getting any younger, and we worry about her. I wish we could convince her she’d be better off with us.”
Sam shrugged. “She seems to be a pretty strong woman to me.”
By the time her parents left, Lyra was ready to scream. She was closing the door on them when her mother said, “We aren’t about to give up. We care so deeply about Gigi and know that she would be much happier living with us. I don’t know why you keep fighting us on this. All we want to do is take care of her.”
“No,” Lyra said angrily. “You want her to take care of you.”
THIRTY
LYRA WAS EMBARRASSED BY HER PARENTS’ BEHAVIOR, AND SHE was ashamed. She couldn’t change who they were, and she accepted that, but she wished Sam hadn’t been there to witness their superficial concern about Gigi’s welfare. They were hypocrites, and their greed sickened her.
Sons and daughters were supposed to love their parents, and that was where the shame came in. After so many manipulations for more and more money, Lyra couldn’t love them. And they certainly didn’t love her. Lyra found it difficult to look at Sam after her parents left, but she held her head up high as she walked past him toward the kitchen to find some chocolate.
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