by Meg Gardiner
‘‘Mom,’’ he said.
‘‘Hang on.’’ Patsy put the phone against her stomach and frowned at him. ‘‘You skipped David’s bachelor party?’’
Keeping his face blank, he headed to the stairs and craned his neck. ‘‘P.J. Come down.’’ He turned to me. ‘‘Go up and haul his ass out of bed.’’
I gave him a sour look. This wasn’t my house. And I didn’t like being ordered around, though I knew it cost him to ask, because it emphasized that he hadn’t gone up these stairs in years.
Patsy stage-whispered at him, ‘‘Would it have killed you to spend one evening having fun with your cousin? He’s included you and Evan in the wedding party. Do you know how this makes us look?’’
Jesse spun. ‘‘Hang up the phone.’’
‘‘Bad enough you two called off your wedding. Now you’re going to embarrass me in front of my sister?’’
He wasn’t quick, but she wasn’t sober. He grabbed the phone out of her hand.
‘‘Aunt Deedee, she’ll call you back.’’ He hung up.
Patsy punched to her feet. ‘‘Jesse, this wedding is the biggest—’’
‘‘P.J. is in deep shit. Next time it won’t be me at the door. It’ll be the cops.’’
She didn’t exactly sway, but her posture eroded. Her gaze broke from his and, seeking a new target, lit on me.
‘‘Less than a week to the ceremony. Can’t you get him to think about the family for six lousy days?’’
I spoke softly. ‘‘Does P.J. know any girls with a blue streak in their hair?’’
‘‘He has a dozen girlfriends. I don’t know.’’ She put up her hands. ‘‘You work it out with him, Jess.’’
‘‘You’re not listening. This isn’t about us,’’ he said.
Crossing to the kitchen, she opened the fridge and took out a pitcher of iced tea. I saw confirmation that P.J. had been here recently: a pizza box, bottles of Corona beer, and Tupperware containers labeled Patrick’s—specialties Patsy cooked to mollify his food allergies, which was what P.J. claimed made him averse to early mornings and schoolwork and a steady job. Such as his work at the animal shelter, which had been imposed as community service after a DUI arrest.
‘‘Dad drove him before I got up. I don’t know where,’’ she said.
She poured herself a refill from the pitcher. I couldn’t smell the vodka, but of course that’s why it was her drink of choice.
Jesse watched. ‘‘Take it easy. Please?’’
‘‘It’s Saturday. Cut the world some slack.’’
Bang, slam that door right in his face. He leaned back. Then cut a sharp turn and headed down the hallway for the door.
She thumped the highball glass onto the counter. ‘‘He’s my sister’s only son, Jess. And you’re standing up for him. This is just . . . it’s the country club, and your uncle’s colleagues are flying out from New York; it’s so—’’
‘‘Whatever.’’
I followed him. ‘‘You have to tell her.’’
Her voice trailed us. ‘‘Honey, wait. I’m sorry.’’ She came down the hallway. ‘‘I didn’t mean it. You know that, sweetheart.’’
At the step into the entryway he popped his front wheels up and held out a hand. The rise was too high for him to manage on his own. I pulled him up. Patsy watched, her face stricken.
She looked away, blinking. ‘‘I’ll see you at the rehearsal. Okay?’’
He made for the door, but I stood in front of it.
‘‘Patrick’s going to be all right. You’ll see to that, won’t you?’’ she said.
I crossed my arms. He had to tell her. His shoulders dropped.
‘‘No, he’s not.’’ He waited for her to look at him. ‘‘P.J. took your charm bracelet, and it ended up on a girl who’s dead.’’
Her hand went to her throat. ‘‘Why would you say a thing like that?’’
‘‘She was murdered. The police are going to be coming around to question him.’’
‘‘No.’’ She waved him off. ‘‘Don’t do this.’’
The phone rang.
‘‘That’s Deedee. I have to get it,’’ she said.
Without a word, she hurried back down the hall.
Blowback took longer than I expected—twenty minutes. I walked out of the animal shelter, where a canine sonata racked the air, and saw Jesse on the phone. The wind shivered across pewter puddles. I got in the car, shaking my head. P.J. wasn’t there.
‘‘Playing head games is the last thing I’m doing. This is extremely serious, and if she . . .’’ Hand through his hair. ‘‘No, Dad. I can’t help it if— Fine. Yes. Soon as I can.’’
He hung up. ‘‘I have to go back to their house.’’
He started the car. ‘‘P.J.’s at the Jimsons’.’’ Can you go? We have to talk to him before Mom gets riled up and starts calling him every two minutes. He’ll rabbit.’’
As Patsy lost count of her drinks, she lost control of her tongue. But it meant a potential run-in with the Iron Pixie.
‘‘Sure.’’
He shot me a glance. ‘‘Don’t let her scare you.’’
‘‘I won’t.’’
I lied. But P.J. was going to tell me the truth.
Santa Barbara believes it escaped the Fall. The bumper sticker says so: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE. We find proof everywhere—in the sunshine, the beaches, the relative infrequency of gang wars. And, of course, the celebrities.
We’re a straight shot up the freeway from Hollywood, so stars seeking a haven from L.A. land here constantly, like space debris. It convinces us we’re hot stuff. Sight an Oscar winner buying taquitos at La Super-Rica, and we coast on it for weeks.
Montecito, the tony suburb that styles itself a village, draws the biggest names, and has the most pretensions. Quiet and lush, it’s a place where old money needn’t speak, rock gods don’t raise their heads, and if your house can be seen from the street, you plain ain’t rich. Granted, Jesse had a village address—but in the neighborhood that surf rats call Baja. Lower Montecito, where you get fog, and train whistles at midnight.
Karen Jimson, on the other hand, had installed her family on a Spanish-style spread with a pool, tennis court, gym with sauna, and Japanese rock garden. They called it Green Dragons, after a slang term for jimsonweed.
I followed the winding drive up to the house. The sun was spearing the clouds, gold light through the gray. Parked in front of the garage was the BMW four-by-four I’d seen that morning outside Sanchez Marks, with the JMSNWD tags. Oaks arched over the house. The adobe walls had a creamy heft. Inside, music was thundering. I rang the bell, bracing myself for Karen.
The door opened and gangsta rap rained down on me, lyrics hitting the air like buckshot. A young woman stood in the doorway. Early twenties, Karen-sized. Her long hair flashed like black water. Sunlight kicked against her silver earrings and bracelets, and the eyelets of her steel-toed Caterpillar boots. Not to mention the diamond stud in her nose.
She jerked her head, nodding me in.
She wore fatigue pants and a ribbed white undershirt. She was eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the carton, licking a mound of chocolate ice cream from the spoon, and she was chilly. Her nipples protruded like rivets through the clingy undershirt. She was, I surmised, the Jimsons’ daughter. Without a word she turned and walked off.
After a few seconds, realizing that she wasn’t coming back, I followed.
Ricky’s gold records formed a receiving line along the walls of the entry hall. To the left, a cavernous living room sported leather furniture and six-foot cacti. Above the mantel hung an original Georgia O’Keeffe. A white flower filled the canvas like the bell of a trumpet, green leaves spiraling behind it. Jimsonweed.
The rap music hammered the floor. The young woman kept walking.
‘‘Excuse me,’’ I called.
She was passing the kitchen, which led to another wing of the house. Spinning around, she pointed with her ice-cream spoon. ‘‘Ricky’s in the sauna.’’
‘‘I’m looking for P.J.’’
She kept spinning and walked away.
Though she dressed like a welder, her carriage was pure princess. It was the sway of her hips, the thrust of her chin, the cut of her hair—like Pharaoh’s daughter, with black bangs cut straight across her forehead. World at her feet, her walk seemed to say, and it had been there for aeons. Top of the karmic heap.
She disappeared into a back room. I followed. It was an entertainment room, and P.J. was slouched on a sofa, his back to me, watching TV. Beyond him, outside the windows, the mountains shone green in the patchy sunlight. Clouds shredded on the peaks.
‘‘Peej.’’ The girl sat down on the arm of the sofa, swinging her feet onto the cushions. ‘‘That was the doorbell. You should have answered it.’’
He straightened. ‘‘Didn’t hear it, sorry. Who was it?’’
‘‘Pizza girl.’’ She licked the spoon. ‘‘Give her a tip.’’ He stood up, looked around at me, and did a double take. ‘‘Hey.’’ He lifted his chin in greeting.
‘‘Let’s talk,’’ I said.
He looked rough. His skin was pasty, his eyes grimy blue. His khakis sagged low on his hips, showing off four inches of his frayed plaid boxers. Nothing looked clean.
The girl gazed at him with sleepy eyes. ‘‘Stepping out on me?’’
She might have poked him with a cattle prod. ‘‘No, this is Jesse’s girlfriend.’’
‘‘Hi, Jesse’s girlfriend.’’ She slid down onto the sofa, arching her back so that her frosty rivets protruded.
‘‘I’m Sin.’’
Right. ‘‘I’m deadly, myself. Evan Delaney.’’
Her eyes slid my way, and her mouth ticked up into a smile. ‘‘Sinsemilla. Or Sinsa.’’
‘‘Jimson?’’ I said.
‘‘Check my driver’s license.’’
‘‘That’s okay. I saw the plates on your X5 this morning, outside Sanchez Marks. In a disabled spot.’’
She turned her bottomless black gaze on me. ‘‘Really?’’
‘‘You were playing the same rap album. Enjoying the lyrics—that line about spanking the bitch’s ass with both hands. You were laughing.’’
‘‘We’d just picked up a friend of mine at the airport.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Nobody was parked there.’’
‘‘There never is, when you pull in.’’
‘‘Bad me.’’ She slapped herself on the wrist. ‘‘Boy-friend. Long time no see. We were in a hurry.’’ She dug a new spoonful of ice cream from the carton and glanced at P.J. He was watching her as though hypnotized. ‘‘Nah, I’m kidding. And P.J. and I aren’t together. We’re fuck buddies, is all.’’
Okay, now I knew exactly what it took to make me feel like a starched shirt. P.J.’s color flooded back. His foot began jittering.
‘‘Excuse us, would you?’’ I nodded toward the door. ‘‘P.J. Outside.’’
He winced at the sight of trees swaying in the wind, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He was monstrously hungover.
‘‘In my car,’’ I said.
He followed me along the hall to the front door, through the thud of the music, gesturing to the living room. ‘‘Can’t we talk in there?’’
‘‘I’d rather not bump into Karen,’’ I said.
‘‘She ran to the store.’’
I shook my head, opening the door. I didn’t want to be overheard. He bent to avoid the wind and hurried to the Explorer, huddling into the passenger seat and tucking his hands into his armpits to warm them.
He blinked as though his eyes felt gritty. ‘‘You okay? You look kind of zapped.’’
I turned to face him. ‘‘They found her. She washed up at Jericho Point.’’
‘‘Who?’’
I gaped at him. ‘‘P.J., don’t. I saw her body at the morgue two hours ago.’’
‘‘The morgue.’’
‘‘She didn’t fall off the balcony. She was murdered.’’
He shook his head as though trying to clear it. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’
‘‘The party last night. She was garroted and dumped off the cliff into the surf.’’
‘‘Party.’’ He shrank back toward the door. ‘‘Stop. You’re scaring me.’’
I stared at him, hard. ‘‘Christ.’’
He was used to fibbing his way out of tight corners. But right now he wasn’t giving me sweet talk or a smile. He was gasping, as though he couldn’t get oxygen.
‘‘Don’t you remember?’’ I said.
He shook his head. Was he lying?
‘‘She’s blond with a blue streak in her hair. Wearing your mother’s charm bracelet.’’
He went stone still, not even blinking. Until he grabbed the door handle. I slammed the power lock button.
‘‘Tell me her name,’’ I said.
His fingers dug for the handle. ‘‘Let me out. I’m going to be sick.’’
‘‘Then be sick. Tell me her name.’’
He glanced at me in panic, and away. ‘‘Brittany Gaines. Open the door; I’m gonna heave.’’
I unlocked it. He hurtled from the car and fell to all fours on the wet brickwork. He spewed with an awful horking sound. I counted to ten, got out, and walked around to him. His head was hanging low.
At the front door, Sinsa leaned against the jamb, pursing her lips. ‘‘Wow, Deadly. You have a helluva way with men.’’
8
Ignoring Sinsa, I crouched down to face him. ‘‘They thought it was me. She had credit cards with my name on them.’’
He moaned. ‘‘This is unreal.’’
‘‘You mean fake? Counterfeit? Like the ID you helped her steal from me?’’
‘‘This has to be a mistake,’’ he said.
‘‘Whose idea was it, yours or Brittany’s?’’
‘‘You can’t be serious.’’ He climbed to his feet.
‘‘Do you need the money to support your habit?’’
‘‘I don’t have a habit.’’
‘‘What do you spend per day?’’ I nudged him against the car. ‘‘A hundred bucks? Two hundred?’’
He put his hands up to ward me off. ‘‘Stop it.’’
I cupped his cheeks and forced him to look at me. ‘‘It was brutal, P.J.’’
He pressed his lips together, looking like an obstinate toddler, and squirmed. I braced to stop him from bolting.
He started to cry.
His chest gulped in and out. He slid down the side of the car and buried his head against his knees. If I ever thought he’d had a hand in the young woman’s death, I didn’t now. I waited it out. Looking at the house, I saw no sign of Sinsa. After a minute P.J.’s tears subsided.
‘‘Who was she?’’ I said.
‘‘My neighbor. The apartment next door.’’
I pictured the Don Quixote Arms, and the curtains twitching on the window next door to P.J.’s place.
‘‘Did you take her to the party?’’
‘‘No. No way.’’
‘‘You sound sure of that,’’ I said.
‘‘I was trying to cool things with her. That’s the last thing I would have done.’’
‘‘So, you were buddies? The same kind as you and Sinsa?’’
‘‘Now and then. It was nothing heavy.’’
I clenched and unclenched my fists. This had just turned ten times worse.
‘‘Get real. You gave her your mom’s bracelet. It was more than that.’’
He flushed. ‘‘It’s not like Mom ever wore it anymore. I gave her that dolphin charm, but she wouldn’t wear it. Not after Jesse . . .’’
He didn’t say the rest. Red spots mottled his face.
‘‘Jesse’s ballistic, isn’t he?’’
‘‘We all are,’’ I said. ‘‘What do you remember about last night?’’
‘‘Jamming with some guys at the party. Then . . .’’ His gaze lengthened. ‘‘This morning. Dad woke me up.’’
‘‘What was
Brittany doing at the party?’’
‘‘I don’t remember her there.’’ His eyes were red. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘‘How come you came out there last night?’’
I told him. With each detail he seemed to shrink.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. ‘‘I tried to stop you from calling search and rescue? What the fuck is wrong with me?’’
With a shard of wind, the rain came again. Sinsa appeared in the front doorway. P.J. furtively wiped his eyes.
‘‘You’re melting,’’ she said. ‘‘Come in.’’
I shook my head, but P.J. clambered to his feet, holding his stomach, and trotted inside. I found him at the fridge, drinking milk from the carton. The kitchen was an echo chamber of chrome and hanging copper kettles.
‘‘You know, that was scary,’’ he said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘In your car, you locking the doors. I’ve never seen you mad before.’’
‘‘You still haven’t.’’
He gave me a guarded look. I took the milk carton and set it on the counter.
‘‘You have serious problems to contend with,’’ I said.
He hung his head. ‘‘You don’t have to tell me. I’m a shithead.’’
‘‘That’s a long-term issue. I’m talking about this afternoon. You should talk to a lawyer.’’
‘‘I’m talking to you.’’
‘‘I mean you should retain legal counsel, officially.’’
‘‘What for?’’
‘‘You said you were jamming at the party. Where’s your guitar?’’
‘‘The Stratocaster? It’s . . .’’ His lips stayed open. ‘‘Crap, I must have left it there. Why?’’
From the far wing of the house Ricky came padding toward us, whistling. He was dressed in psychedelic green swim trunks and glistening with sweat. His blond locks were pulled off his forehead into a samurai ponytail. A white gym towel was draped around his neck.
He waved at P.J. ‘‘Calistoga.’’
P.J. got a two-liter water bottle from the fridge and handed it to him. Ricky glugged half of it down, splashed a swig on his face, and stood there letting water drip onto the stone floor. He burped and broke out a Cheshire cat grin.
‘‘Saunas, man, they revive you.’’ He pointed the bottle at me. ‘‘You weren’t here before.’’
