Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

  * * *

  Detective Ramone: Ms. Franc, I understand you spent time with Kate Cross last night at the resort bar.

  Lulu Franc: You say that as if we had a wild affair. We had several drinks with a few friends.

  Detective Ramone: Did you get a sense of whether Kate was harboring anger over her breakup with Maximillian Banks? Enough to kill a man?

  Lulu Franc: What does that matter? I already told you, I’m responsible. I bonked that man over the head with a wine bottle and knocked him right out. This must be the third time I’m telling you the same thing.

  Detective Ramone: That’s funny, Ms. Franc. Because I have three other women with the exact same story. Four confessions, all women claiming to have acted alone, and one dead body—the math doesn’t add up.

  Nineteen

  After her discovery on Elsie’s phone the previous evening, Ginger was relieved when breakfast with her family turned out to be a successful affair. She sat in the brightly lit seating area before a gargantuan buffet—the resort promised an impressive food selection, and according to Ginger’s children, the resort had exceeded all their dreams.

  It wasn’t the relaxing, room-service fancy coffee she had envisioned for herself—lying on a glam lounge chair, wrapped in a fluffy resort robe, listening to nothing but the whoosh of the breeze and feeling drenched with sunlight—but at least her children were happy. And she couldn’t afford to tip the busboys anyway, so that canceled room service.

  Speaking of which, Ginger absolutely must remember to get to the petit fours before they were delivered for the evening. Otherwise, there would be all sorts of questions from her (suddenly perceptive) children about where the ones had gone from last night. Ginger couldn’t help but think there was something to be said for the way her hotel back home did things—no room service, no petit fours, no problems.

  Despite her daydreams, Ginger was thrown unceremoniously back into the breakfast chaos as a splatter of milk landed in her eye. She sighed and tuned in to her family’s conversation.

  Tom: “Dude, did you see the pasta for breakfast? And pizza—score!”

  Poppy: “Mom, can I mix and match cereals? All of them? There’s one, two, three… Did I say three? Four, five—I think thirty cereals!”

  Frank: “Honey, did you see they have a coffee bar? Free lattes. This would cost six bucks at Starbucks. It’s criminal!”

  Even Elsie had managed to fill her plate with bits of this and that, primarily doughnuts with a touch of yogurt on the side for looks, and a banana she’d stick in her bag and never eat. A different day, Ginger would have demanded Tom eat fruit before pizza, and she would have insisted Poppy pick no more than two or three cereals. Then, she’d casually mention to Elsie that eating doughnuts for every meal was not acceptable. But this morning, Ginger didn’t have the energy for it.

  Ginger looked down at her double espresso and doughnut (she was stressed and it was vacation) and figured she couldn’t exactly be preaching from a soapbox. She was still distracted from the messages she’d found on her daughter’s phone. Even worse, she hated how her conversation with Elsie had ended.

  “You okay, honey?” Frank asked, easing an arm around his wife. He looked pleased with himself as he shot a conspiratorial glance around the table. “You look tired. Little too much fun at ladies’ night?”

  “Something like that,” Ginger said. She hadn’t gotten him alone to discuss the messages, so she played along for the kids’ sake. “Mommy’s a little under the weather.”

  “Well, it’s about time you had some fun.” Frank hopped to his feet. “Come on, kids. Quick game of beach volleyball. Who is ready to get smoked by Dad?”

  “You’re not gonna smoke us.” Tom leapt up, then scurried back to his plate and grabbed the last of his pizza with a skinny arm. “I’m so good, you won’t even know what hit you.”

  “I want to play!” Poppy tried to hop up, but she elbowed the cereal and sloshed a mixture of Lucky Charms, Fruit Loops, Cheerios, and some chocolatey things onto the table in a sea of milk. “Oops.”

  “It’s fine,” Ginger said quietly, with eerie calmness. “I’ll take care of this. You guys go with your dad, and I’ll meet you out there soon.”

  “Right-o, kids! Poppy, what do you say to your mother?” Frank demanded with a stern expression. “You have to be more careful, sweetheart.”

  “Sorr-ee,” Poppy wheedled. “Okay, Dad, can we go?”

  “Elsie, can you wait here for a moment?” Ginger murmured. “I’d like to talk to you for a second. It’s—not about what you think.”

  Elsie stood and glared at her mother. “No.”

  Ginger debated trying to stop her by pulling the mom card, but she’d already threatened her children enough this trip. She was tired. Exhausted. Someone needed to come up with a road map that navigated teenage years and sell it. She’d pay good money for that program.

  Ginger had heard that teenagers came back around to being humans sooner or later, but Elsie was only fifteen. She had a lot of years to go, and Ginger suspected things would get worse before they got better. Not to mention the fact that Ginger had two more children who hadn’t even started on the teenage journey yet. God help her.

  As Ginger watched her eldest daughter trot along behind her father, she saw Elsie give the smallest flicker of a smile at something Frank said. Ginger’s gut clenched with jealousy.

  She worked damn hard to keep this family clothed and sheltered and fed. So did Frank, but somehow the kids were drawn to him like sunflowers to light. They tilted toward him, brightened whenever he was in the room. When Ginger walked into a room, her kids seemed to cower or clam up. Ginger wasn’t scary, was she? She loved her children dearly. She’d die for them. Wasn’t that clear? Where had that gotten lost in translation?

  Fuming with the injustice of it all, Ginger mopped up the spilled cereal and cleared the trays from the table as a member of the resort staff came over and waved for her to stop.

  “We’ll take care of all that,” the young man said with an exuberant smile. “Relax. You shouldn’t be working on your vacation.”

  Ginger’s hands shook, and she nearly burst into tears. “Thank you,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “Thank you so much.”

  As she made her way to the lobby, she found a woman in a tennis outfit was serving coconut water out of champagne glasses. Ginger accepted one gratefully before taking an unused corner of the lobby and sitting down with a sigh. She rolled her neck in slow circles and closed her eyes. She tried to count to ten and lost track at eight. She didn’t know what to do with Elsie.

  “How about that massage?” A crisp, efficient voice spoke from behind her, and Ginger recognized it as belonging to Kate. “You look very stressed out. I haven’t seen you like this since finals week.”

  “I am.” Ginger opened her eyes to find her impeccably dressed old roommate standing over her. Kate had no kids, no problems, Ginger couldn’t help but think with a bit of bitterness. Instead, she had money to burn, an ex-boyfriend’s credit card to tear through, and a week of relaxation at her fingertips. “You know how I mentioned I caught my daughter carrying condoms?”

  “Yes,” Kate said. She held a glass of coconut water in her hand and looked like she was heading to the French seaside in her huge, floppy hat and one-piece swimsuit. A sheer cover-up barely masked her beautiful figure. “I remember.”

  Ginger realized she’d been staring. “Sorry. You look so put together, and I feel like a frump. I can’t believe we’re the same age. You don’t even wrinkle.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Oh, right,” Ginger said. “Well, I came down hard on Elsie for it—or I tried to, but she won’t listen to anything I say. I can’t even get her alone in the same room as me. Then last night, I made things worse. I snooped on her phone, and I… Well, I won’t bore you with the details.”

 
Kate glanced at her fingernails and nodded, as if that was perfectly fine by her.

  “But now I have a dilemma.” Ginger shook her head. “If I tell Elsie I snooped on her phone, there’s going to be a whole big blowout and the moral of this will be lost. I need her to know I love her and just want to keep her safe.”

  “Why don’t I have a chat with her?”

  “What?” Ginger gave a shake of her head, thinking she’d heard Kate wrong. “I’m sorry, but how would that help with anything?”

  “I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty-three,” Kate said, her eyes landing crisply on Ginger. “I think I have you beat by…oh, eight years?”

  Ginger’s face heated. “It was with my husband!”

  “I don’t care when you gave it up; I just thought she might want to talk to someone who chose to wait,” Kate said. “If you think she’d like to hear from me, that is. I might not have turned out perfect, but I did all right for myself in most categories.”

  “Oh, Elsie would adore you,” Ginger said. “Are you kidding? But you don’t owe me anything, Kate, and…I wouldn’t even know how to bring it up.”

  “Let me handle it,” Kate said. “I’ll work it into the conversation without bringing you up. I can’t promise it’ll help, but it sure as hell can’t hurt.”

  Ginger inclined her head toward Kate. “I suppose. I don’t know. I have to talk to my husband first. He’s busy with the kids, and he doesn’t even know I checked Elsie’s phone last night. I’ve really made a mess of the situation.”

  “We’ll get it all sorted out,” Kate said. “Go touch base with your husband and see if you can sneak away for a massage this afternoon. Trade him for…oh, I don’t know. Sexual favors. You need a massage, Ginger. You look like the Incredible Hulk all hunched over like that.”

  “I know.” Ginger expelled a breath. “Are you heading to the massage now?”

  “No.” Kate spoke sharply—too sharply—and quickly corrected herself. “I mean, I have something to take care of first. I’m going to find Sydney.”

  If Ginger wasn’t mistaken, Kate left the slightest of pauses before Sydney’s name. Ginger frowned. “Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Kate said uneasily. “I’ll find out soon enough. See you in a bit?”

  Ginger rose, watching as Kate walked away without waiting for an answer. The woman was distracted, that much was for certain. Ginger found herself wondering what on earth had happened last night between Kate and Sydney. Because Kate was on a mission, and Ginger knew from experience—one didn’t mess with Kate unless they were ready to pay the price.

  * * *

  Detective Ramone: Did you notice anything odd about a young woman called Sydney Banks during your stay?

  Ginger Adler: I don’t think so. We spent all evening together on the night of our arrival, and she sort of reminded me of myself a bit. You know, a young, struggling mother. How I was with Elsie back in the day. What would you have done about the condoms, Detective?

  Detective Ramone: So you didn’t notice anything off about Sydney?

  Ginger Adler: No, not really. There was something weird between Kate and Sydney the morning of the seventeenth. But they must have worked out their issues, because Sydney was at the massage, and Kate didn’t seem to be acting weird anymore.

  Detective Ramone: What if I told you there’s nobody at the resort by the name of Sydney Banks?

  Ginger Adler: That’s ridiculous. I met her.

  Detective Ramone: Either the woman known as Sydney Banks gave a false name to resort registration, or she gave everyone else a fake name so that she could fit in with the wedding party.

  Ginger Adler: Well, which was it?

  Detective Ramone: You’re telling me you don’t know?

  Ginger Adler: I met a woman named Sydney Banks with a daughter named Lydia. Why would I lie to you?

  Detective Ramone: That’s what I’m trying to find out, Mrs. Adler. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re all lying.

  Twenty

  A knock on the door startled Emily awake.

  She sat up in bed, cautiously letting her mind place her at Serenity Spa & Resort as she glanced around and took in the resort surroundings. At the second knock, she got a sinking feeling in her gut. She really, really wanted that to be maid service. She knew it wasn’t.

  Slipping into a plush robe, Emily gave a resigned sigh before padding over to the peephole and taking a look through. With an even bigger sigh, she pulled the door open. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good morning,” Henry said, leaning against the door. “You left rather quickly last night.”

  Emily crossed her arms. “We’re having a fling, Henry. You’re not very good at flinging.”

  “I thought I’d check on you.” Henry gave a crooked smile, looking uneasy as he spoke, as if this were the limit to his sentimentality. “Like I said, you left in a rush.”

  After Emily had found the gun last night, she’d calmed her racing heart and talked herself out of a full-on panic attack. This was America. Plenty of people had guns, and enjoyed guns for sport, and kept guns for God only knew what purpose—safety? Henry might be an enthusiast who wanted to be armed in case of an intruder. Or he could have someone after him. Or he could be after someone himself. It was impossible to know.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “I took a shower, and when I got out, you were sleeping. I figured I’d just slip on back to my room.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.” Henry took a step closer to her, the motion intimidating, bordering on dangerous. “I watched you tiptoe out of the room like your ass was on fire. Did I do something? Say something? You didn’t even give a backward glance.”

  “You’re not supposed to ask these questions. You’re supposed to be anonymous!”

  Henry watched her. “It wasn’t hard to Google you, you know. The obituary. The father. His name was Daniel, wasn’t it?”

  Emily froze. She hadn’t allowed herself to say his name since their relationship ended rather abruptly. And violently. Clearing her throat, she gave a stiff shake of her head. “You don’t know anything about what happened. I want you to leave.”

  “Fine.” Henry raised his hands. “I’ll leave.”

  “Now.” Emily’s entire body felt as if it’d been submerged in ice water. She was stiff all over, aching, and exhausted.

  She’d need to get Sharleen on the phone again. Her head was spinning, and the drinking had only made things worse. She was sinking into a dirty, insipid pool of quicksand that had the potential to turn toxic…fast.

  “It’s true you don’t know my name, and it’s true I met you yesterday,” Henry said, keeping his distance and his hands raised in a nonthreatening gesture. “But I figure you told me your darkest secrets last night. Maybe I know you better than your closest friends.”

  Emily’s jaw set in a firm line, horror building in her gut, racing through her body. It was unfair, cruel even, how Daniel had destroyed her ability to have even a thoughtless fling without it turning twisted. “I found your gun last night. That’s why I left. Who the hell are you, Henry?”

  Henry’s face went blank. “I think you’re right. This is where we part ways.”

  “Good.” Emily glared at him. “We can consider this fling, flung.”

  Emily watched as Henry turned and stalked away, stiff, tall, broad. Even if a part of Emily was upset to see him go, it was for the best. Who did he think he was anyway? Robin Hood? He shouldn’t be digging up the past when it wasn’t his to dig. Emily didn’t want to know what Daniel was up to now—or ever. He was someone else’s problem. She’d escaped, and she’d paid a bitingly steep price for her freedom.

  She slammed the door behind her and picked up the phone.

  “Sharleen,” sh
e said when the woman on the other end answered. “I need help.”

  Twenty-One

  Kate left Ginger in the lobby to ponder high-school problems while she went to tackle adult ones. Kate made an effort to keep her head held extra high this morning…because something was most definitely off. Despite her (belated) full beauty ritual the night before, she’d experienced a hangover this morning. Full-on queasy stomach and bleary eyes and shaky limbs.

  Kate didn’t normally get hangovers, so this was quite troubling. She wore huge sunglasses and a swimsuit with a cover-up to hide her frustration. Had she really had that much to drink? She remembered feeling bubbly and energized last night, not horribly drunk. There were no massive blank spots in her memory, just a touch of fuzziness around the edges. All things considered, she remembered having a wonderful time.

  So why the hell was she so shaky? Was this what heartbreak felt like? Maybe it was finally hitting her that Max had left. Except Kate hadn’t even thought about Max beyond using his credit card. He almost felt like a slightly unpleasant dream she’d had a while back.

  She didn’t buy a gallon of ice cream. She didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t feel like doing any of the traditional heartbreak rituals. Mostly, she wanted to get a massage, lay out in the sun, and find out who the hell Sydney Banks really was. Mourning Max fell so far down her to-do list that it didn’t even make the first page. And if she really wanted, she could always book a first-class ticket home on Max’s card whenever she was ready to leave if a week’s stay felt too long. Sydney was right in one regard: having money made some things a lot easier.

  Speaking of money, Whitney’s wedding really was shaping up to be a ghastly, opulent event, as Kate was forced to halt mid-lobby to allow for a wreath of white roses to be wheeled past her. She took two more steps, then paused as Miranda Rosales—voted best wedding coordinator for Bridal Digest four years running—scurried past, shouting for someone to wash their hands before touching the veil.

  Kate wondered if all this hoopla would be worth it. If all the money—hundreds of thousands, easily—would be well spent. Would it honestly cement Whitney’s union with Arthur Banks for life?