What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  “Well, if you like plodding horses and drunken caballeros, you’re in for a major treat.” Marco turns his attention to me. “It’s been a long time, Crystal.”

  “It has.”

  “You’re looking good.”

  Liar. I crank a smile.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “Eating.”

  He throws back his head and laughs. “Nice to see that you’ve kept your sense of humor.” His tone grows more serious. “Are you visiting?”

  “I work here.”

  “Nice change of scenery.”

  “It is.”

  “So you moved here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Recently?”

  “In March.” I’m so uncomfortable I could puke.

  Marco nods. “Good choice. I moved here a couple of years ago now. It’s a beautiful town, don’t you think?”

  “What kind of policeman are you?” Mrs. Patel asks politely.

  Marco breaks eye contact with me and turns to her. “I’m a restorative police officer.”

  “Restorative?”

  “I work with the chronically homeless, typically the ones suffering from mental illness or drug dependency.”

  “That sounds like an interesting job.”

  “I started my career as a juvenile probation officer. This has been a nice change of pace.”

  I can feel Dipak shifting next to me. He must be wondering what the connection is. I’ll have to think of something good.

  Marco stands and takes a card from his wallet. “I’ll let you get on with your dinner.” He sets the card in front of me. “Give me a call, Crystal. I’d like to catch up. How many years has it been? Four? Five?”

  “Seven.”

  “Seven? Wow. How time flies. Well, you look great. I always knew you’d do well in life. I look forward to our chat.” He steps away and almost makes it to the exit before pausing and looking back. “By the way,” he calls, “in case you lose my card, where exactly do you work?”

  I begin to cough, so Dipak answers for me. “Pacific Ocean Bank.”

  Marco nods and steps into the night.

  Kathi

  June 22, 2016

  I arrive unannounced at Leo’s office with a headache. His receptionist seems surprised he agreed to see me on such short notice. She has me take a seat across from a stern-looking executive dressed in a dark-blue suit. The man refuses to acknowledge me and won’t even respond to my brief hello. His head is stuck behind the pages of a Wall Street Journal, which he rattles every few minutes.

  The rattling reminds me of my dearly departed Rich. On his grouchier mornings, my not-so-sweet husband would do the very same thing: hide behind his paper and demand I stop my “relentless” chatter. He actually did that on his very last day on earth. In fact he was even meaner that morning, telling me in no uncertain terms I was to “shut my babbling mouth.” That alone tells me his death was no suicide. If he had planned to step in front of a train, wouldn’t he have said a few kind words? Left a loving note? Made a call to his only child? At the very least, he would have taken a moment to kiss me goodbye.

  Leo’s office door finally opens, and he steps out, his face a mask of concern. “Sorry for the wait, Kathi. Coffee, tea, or water?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  I clatter behind him in a pair of too-tall heels, drop into a chair, and wait. Leo glances up at his ugly clock before settling in his chair and regarding me with a forced smile. “So how are you this morning?”

  “Terrible.” Tick. Tick. Tick.

  “I can’t say I blame you.”

  Words tumble from my mouth. “Did you know the police would raid my home?”

  “I had my suspicions.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “And have you worry about every knock?”

  “But this is different. It wasn’t the FBI.”

  Leo opens my file and retrieves a piece of paper. “The warrant came from the district attorney. That was a surprise to me.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It means that there’s more than one investigation going on. Accusations seem to be coming in from all sides.”

  “But this is unbelievable. It’s totally unfair.”

  He pushes his glasses up on his nose and leans forward. “Is it?”

  I lean back. “What do you mean?”

  “You know that old adage—where there’s smoke, there’s fire. There’s sure a lot of smoke in the air.”

  “I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am. But I’m growing increasingly concerned by some of Rich’s past actions and how they may have an impact on you.”

  “So you believe he did something wrong?”

  “Do you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Leo sighs and flips through my file. “I spoke with a friend at the DA’s office. There are allegations of elder abuse.”

  “I know.” I pinch my wrist. “That’s what the police told me when they raided my home.”

  “The accusations were made by an elderly neighbor of yours. Mabel McCarthy. She says she gave Rich a million dollars to invest. The money seems to have disappeared.”

  I make a face. “That woman’s not right in the head.”

  Leo pulls off his glasses and sets them on his desk. “Did you know about her accusations prior to the raid?”

  I feel like a schoolgirl caught cheating on a test. “Yes . . .”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Well . . . Mabel stopped by my house a couple of weeks ago and mentioned she had invested some money with Rich, and it seemed to have disappeared. Of course I didn’t believe her. I think she’s crazy.”

  “Damn it, Kathi.” Leo rubs his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it was important. The woman has dementia. She’s lives in la-la land.”

  He shakes his head. “The police don’t think so.”

  “The police have it wrong.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Rich never spoke to you about Mrs. McCarthy’s investment?”

  “No. I’d remember that.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the file I gave to Arthur, but then he’d know I lied to the police.

  “All right,” Leo says with a shake of his head. “I’ll look into this further. But first I need your promise that you’ll inform me of any future allegations or items of interest.”

  “I promise.” A river of guilt flushes my insides.

  “On another subject”—Leo closes my file with a snap—“Jack called me yesterday.”

  I straighten my shoulders and swallow. “You know Jack?”

  “Rich introduced us several years ago. We’ve chatted a few times.”

  “I didn’t know that. What did he want?” Tick. Tick. Tick. I just might knock that clock off the shelf.

  “He’s trying to understand the money situation.”

  “You told him there isn’t any?”

  “I did.” Leo clears his throat. “He mentioned that the two of you aren’t speaking.”

  “That’s not exactly true.”

  “No?”

  “Jack’s not speaking to me.”

  “Thank you for the clarification.” Leo’s eyes search mine. “He suggested I ask you about the family secret.”

  I try to keep my face straight. “Family secret?”

  “He said it could have an impact on the estate.”

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “If there’s something I should know, now’s the time to tell me. I think I’ve made it clear I don’t like surprises.”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “I can’t help you if I don’t have the full picture.”

  “Well . . .” I slump in my seat. “If you must know, there is a family secret, something that happened long ago. But it has nothing to do with the bank and nothing to do with an investme
nt. It’s something very personal between Rich and me.”

  “And Jack knows?”

  “He found out the day of the funeral. He’s angry right now, but he’ll get over it. He has to understand there was no other choice.”

  “And you’re sure there’s no need for me to know the substance of this secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Positive?”

  “Absolutely.” Tick. Tick. Tick.

  When I arrive home, I shoot right for the refrigerator and treat myself to a goblet of wine. It’s too early, of course. But what does it matter? No one cares what I do. I wander out to the terrace and settle on the bench shaded by the old oak tree. There’s a yellowish sheen coating the ocean today that looks like a vast stretch of oil. There must be a wildfire somewhere. They seem to burn more often than not.

  I wait until I’m sufficiently numb before I review the events of the day. Should I have revealed our secret to Leo? Should I have mentioned the real estate file? Leo is on my side, isn’t he? But why didn’t he mention before that he knew Jack? My thoughts swish round and round until they’re muddier than our filthy pond. I drain my goblet and wobble to my feet. The only thing clear at the moment is the need to refill my glass.

  May 30, 1987

  Rich swears he would’ve asked me to marry him even if I hadn’t gotten pregnant. And he didn’t cheat on me—I don’t care what Monica says. I believe him with all my heart. We’re going to get married at the courthouse, and then we’re packing our things and moving to Reno. I’m a little sad no one is coming to the wedding, not even Aunt Genny. Rich says it’s better that way. That we love each other so much we don’t need anyone else. He’s right, of course, but still . . .

  I wish I could get him to like Aunt Genny, but he thinks she’s really weird. I mean, it’s true she never got married and runs the farm on her own and dresses like a man. But she’s always been good to me, and I know it will hurt her feelings when she finds out we’ve eloped.

  I feel bad about passing on the Random House job, but I’m sure to find something just as good. And if not, then I’ll get started on my novel. Think of all the hours I’ll be able to write with a sleeping baby by my side!!!

  Crystal

  August 6, 2015

  It’s the hottest day of the year. There’s a wildfire raging up the coast. White fire clouds boil above the mountains, and gray ash sifts through the smoky air. And yet where do I find myself standing on this blazing afternoon? At the entrance of the Santa Barbara Zoo selling drink tickets and stamping hands.

  “Why am I here?” I ask.

  “You’re giving back to the community,” Dipak says.

  “What has the community done for me?”

  “Jesus, Crystal. Don’t get started with your negative stuff. Can’t you just enjoy?”

  “I hate being forced to volunteer.”

  “You’re not being forced.”

  “Really?”

  It’s a well-known fact among the bank employees that Santa Barbara’s weeklong attempt to celebrate the town’s Spanish heritage is the president’s favorite time of the year. The days are packed with parades and mercados, the nights with booze and dance. Rumors say the boss is angling to be next year’s king of the Fiesta parade. That means the bank needs to dump money into sponsorships and the employees must volunteer. To not do so is to have the wrong boxes checked in your HR file. Team player? No. Future leader? No. Decent raise? Absolutely not.

  Dipak shakes his head. “Come on, Crystal. This is a fun night. We get to party once we’re done with our shift. Do me a favor and try.”

  “What’s fun about it?”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m walking away.”

  “Sorry. I guess I’m hot and cranky.”

  “You should’ve changed like I did. You’re supposed to dress in theme.”

  I eye him up and down. Dipak is dressed in slim-fit jeans, cowboy boots, and an orange fringed shirt that’s the color and texture of a carrot.

  “In what way does your outfit suggest Old Spanish Days?”

  “In what way does yours?”

  “I didn’t try.”

  “Well, I did.”

  I’m wearing a white shift that would’ve been cool enough if I hadn’t paired it with a dark blazer. I don’t care what my personal shopper says. I don’t like the look of my arms.

  We fall silent for a while. “Aren’t the costumes great?” Dipak finally says.

  “You think?” Sure, the colors are bright, and lots of skin shows through, but what I can’t get past is the absurdity of watching white people playing at ethnic—sexy getups from Mexico and Spain with a few raunchy pirates thrown in.

  “Everyone looks wonderful,” says our starstruck coworker Shelby.

  The recent college grad with the mooning eyes and perfect skin works part-time in the bank’s marketing department. She’s friendly to everyone, including me. Shorter than Dipak, with an even tinier build, she’s small enough I could squish her like a gnat. Or take her in my hands and smoosh her. Dipak’s been flirting with her all afternoon. I just might punch him in the nose. It’s not like I see him as boyfriend material, but his crush still pisses me off.

  A voice booms from behind. “It’s so great to see our wonderful staff volunteering at this incredible event.”

  I turn to find Rich with his hand outstretched, waiting to be stamped. His words may sound nice, but his face looks stern, his eyes unhappy. He’s dressed in a black matador suit trimmed in thick braids of gold, a red cape flung across his back. A Mickey Mouse cap tops his head. Does he know he looks like a doofus? Is that why he’s making the sour face?

  He drops his voice to a whisper, his lips thin and tight. “Get this line moving,” he says. “We don’t have all day.”

  The stamp slips from my hand. I bend down to retrieve it.

  “Hurry up,” he hisses.

  His wife steps out from behind him, and my stamp almost slips again. “Don’t worry, Rich,” she says in a singsong voice. “We have plenty of time. It’s not yet six.”

  “It’s ten after.” Rich shoves his wrist at me, and I stamp it without taking my gaze off the wife. “I’ll meet you up there,” he calls, quickly disappearing into the crowd.

  The wife takes a tissue from her purse and dabs the moisture from her eyes. “It’s my fault he’s late,” she says with a painful smile. “I couldn’t decide which outfit to wear.” She’s poured herself into a pink satin dress, her arms bound by tiered, ruffled sleeves. Silver eyeshadow coats her eyelids, and streaks of rouge brighten her cheeks.

  “My name’s Kathi,” she says, holding out her hand. “And yours?” Sadness reeks from the woman like sweat, but I don’t feel a twinge of pity.

  “I’m Crystal.” I grip her soft, white hand with its three-carat diamond and jam the stamp hard on her wrist.

  “Ow,” she puffs, like a child who’s been stung.

  “Sorry,” I say, hoping for a bruise. “My stamp’s almost out of ink.”

  “That’s okay.” She rubs her wrist. “I’m fine. Just fine. And thank you for volunteering. It’s such a wonderful event, don’t you think?” She flashes the kindest of smiles. I want to slap it off her face.

  It’s after eight by the time the lines disappear and we break down the volunteer tent. By then my feet are swollen and my hands aching from the endless hours of stamping. The weather has shifted—a chill grips the air, and a smoke-laced fog has moved in. I want to go home, but I’m on cleanup duty, so there’s no choice but to stick around.

  I trail behind Dipak and Shelby, breathing hard from the uphill walk. They snuggle close and giggle like schoolkids, making me feel a little sick. Somehow I’ve become the third wheel in this party. I wish myself home and in my bed, a bag of tortilla chips in my hand.

  When we finally reach the fiesta, I ditch my mooning coworkers and head to the bar for a double margarita. The drinks have been flowing for several hours, and more than a few people are stumbling drunk. I snoop around ou
tside the VIP tent, but there’s no sign of Rich and his wife. So I wander across the lawn to take in the action on the makeshift dance floor.

  An aging rock band plays eighties covers, and dancers dart in and out of the twinkling lights. Dipak and Shelby spin by me, laughing, and the ache in my belly grows. I head off in search of another drink, trudging past clutches of chattering couples. After snagging a fresh margarita and a sugar-dipped churro, I veer down a darkened pathway. I stroll past the monkey cage and the lion exhibit and pause at the meerkat enclosure. A few of the furry animals stand sentry outside their burrow. They’re tiny and look like a cross between a rat and a ringtail monkey. One picks nits off the back of his friend. Another cuddles her baby cub. I take a seat on a nearby bench to watch them, sipping my drink and stuffing my face.

  The alcohol begins to work its magic, so I settle back and relax. The moon slips in and out of the fog; the music swirls from above. I close my eyes and begin to fade.

  The sound of urgent voices snaps me awake. A pool of shifting moonlight silhouettes a couple standing beneath a cluster of ancient palm trees. Tall and thin, they whisper something and fall into a lusty embrace. I want to leave them to their lovemaking, but there’s no discreet way to escape. I hoist myself up and step deep into the shadows that ring the backside of the bench.

  “I’m tired of waiting,” the woman says, pulling away from her partner. “I’m sick of it. Really sick.” Her voice reminds me of someone I know. I can’t pinpoint it right away.

  “I’m only thinking about us,” the man responds, his voice quieter than hers. “She’ll get half of my assets in the divorce.”

  “That’s so unfair,” the woman says. “It’s not like she’s worked a day in her life, and for god’s sake, she’s nothing special. I mean, I can’t believe what she wore tonight. She looks like an overweight marshmallow. She doesn’t deserve a single cent.”

  “Which is why I need more time to strip my assets.”

  “So you’re moving ahead with the second mortgage?”

  “A soon as I possibly can.”

  “But when’s that?” The woman’s voice has turned whiny.

  “I’m working through the logistics now.”

  “Can’t you hurry?”