“Your date phoned,” Gwen said as she set a basket of fresh-baked bread on the table. “She’s minutes away.”
“Whoa. What’s this?” I clasped her hand and studied the sizeable diamond ring she was wearing. “You can’t be engaged.”
“I am. He’s driving up as we speak.” Her cheeks warmed. Her eyes sparkled. “You’ll meet him. He’s yummy.”
“But you’ve only been dating two months,” I argued, trying to sound like the voice of reason. Not. My ex and I had known each other a mere two months before careening into our failure of a marriage. Two months overflowing with lust followed by three years of emptiness. How I wished I could listen to classical music without being reminded of his betrayal.
“I know a good man when I meet one, and this one is terrific. We’re getting married July Fourth.” She cleared her throat. “Also, heads up, I’m going to sell the Tavern.”
“What? No.”
“It’s time I traveled. Had fun. He wants to spoil me.” Gwen ogled me. “Want to buy the place? You’d be a fabulous owner.”
“I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.”
“My day bartender wants to manage it, and truthfully, that’s what she’d do best. Three years of pouring drinks and she’s still hopeless. But she’s great with the staff and knows the books. Now Peggy is another story. She’s pathetic at both but she has pluck.” Gwen winked. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lease-to-buy offer that you can’t refuse, and I’ll cosign any loan. Let’s get you out of the PI business. No more danger. Nick would approve.”
Peggy, looking frazzled, ran to Gwen and whispered in her ear.
Gwen said to me, “I’ve got a shipment to sign off on. Think about my offer.” She pointed at my waitress, who was taking an order at a nearby table. “Darlin’, bring this table two glasses of merlot on me.”
If an 8.0 quake rocked the area, I couldn’t have felt more shaken by Gwen’s news. Questions people had asked me in the past two years popped into my mind: What are you doing with your life? Are you satisfied? Are you happy as a PI? Buy the Tavern? That was sheer lunacy.
Sorcha swept into her chair, yanking me from my battle with self-doubt. She was dressed in a simple black sweater, capris, and sandals. “This place is gorgeous.”
“Did you have trouble finding it?”
Sorcha shook her head. “I often ski Homewood in the winter.”
“You ski?”
She grinned. “I wrap my knee and chew on a bullet.”
A woman who could handle pain. I admired her. My shoulder was still smarting from the ride in the elevator.
Sorcha rolled some kinks out of her neck and nabbed a slice of bread from the basket. “This is my first night off in a long time.”
“Is Finn a taskmaster?”
“Hardly.” She laughed easily. “No, it’s my own doing. I’m an overachiever.”
“Why is an overachiever working as a security guard? I mean, I know you had an accident, and if you don’t want to talk about it—”
A waitress set two glasses of wine on the table and asked if we were ready to order. We weren’t, so she moved on.
Sorcha took a sip of wine and set the glass down. “I was chasing a perp who had murdered his wife. He was dragging his son from the apartment. I had the guy in my sights, but I couldn’t shoot because of the child. Instead, the guy shot me and I went down. That split second of indecision . . .” She shook her head. “Luckily, he’s behind bars.”
“And the boy?”
“He’s been through two foster homes.”
My past roared into focus, and I envisioned my last patient. A sensitive fourteen-year-old. A gifted sculptor. Abused by his father, abandoned by his mother. Shuttled between foster homes. Failed by the system. Failed by me. I’d arrived at the rehab clinic that morning and heard screaming down the hall. The boy was holding a doctor hostage. One of the nurses claimed the doctor had dissed the boy’s mother. I rushed in and tried to get control of the situation. I urged the boy to release the doctor. He lashed out and connected with my jaw. The blood pouring out of me set him off. He howled as if he were the one in pain. I comforted him and assured him I was fine, but that night, he used his bedsheet to hang himself. I would always wonder whether, with more training, I would have sensed he’d turn his anger on himself.
“Hey, are you okay?” Sorcha touched my arm.
“Yes.” But I wasn’t. I hoped I would be, in time. “Do you like working for Finn?”
“Most of the problems at the casino involve obnoxious drunks.”
“Do you trust him?”
Sorcha opened her menu. “Are you trying to get the lowdown on him because he’s a charming, attractive man, or so you can pin a murder or two on him?”
Nailed. I took a sip of my wine and studied her over the rim of the glass. “Did he send flowers to Gloria Morning?”
“I have no idea. He did not send her notes.”
“About the rivalry between him and Tony Vittorio—”
She closed the menu. “Like I said before, if Tony Vittorio had a problem with anybody, it was his brother, Enzo.”
Tripp’s parting words echoed in my head. Was it true that Enzo was having an affair with his sister-in-law?
“As for the third murder,” Sorcha said, “Finn swears he didn’t know Miranda Tejeda.”
Interesting. He’d told me the same thing in his penthouse. Why had he felt the need to reiterate it to his head of security? So she would drive the point home with me?
“What about Dr. Fisher?” I asked. “Did he know her?”
Sorcha shifted in her chair. “The sheriff didn’t question him about her, but I’m sure he didn’t. Since he’s divorced, he wouldn’t have need for a gynecologist.”
“Jules Marsh might,” I said, though I recalled Jules referring to her doctor as a man.
Sorcha’s gaze wavered. “Can we not talk business?”
I smiled. “I’m sorry. Hazard of the job.”
Our waitress returned to take our orders, after which our conversation turned to more mundane topics. Good books and movies. What we liked and disliked in a man. When our dinners arrived, we talked about how much both of us loved living in Lake Tahoe. I shared a few of my hiking adventures; she revealed that she enjoyed jet skiing and kayaking.
Later, as I was paying the check, I caught sight of the time. “Whoa. I’m late. I have to fetch my niece at the ice cream parlor.”
“Rats. We never talked about your life as a PI.”
“Because you asked me not to talk business.”
“Touché.”
“Hey, I know, come with me. I’ll drive you back to your car afterward.”
“Don’t leave yet.” Gwen glided toward us with a handsome man in tow. She was beaming. “Honey, this is Aspen Adams and Sorcha McRae. Ladies, meet Owen.”
Dressed in a collared polo and pressed slacks, his silver hair outlining his rugged face, Owen reminded me of an aging pro golfer. He offered a warm smile and gazed at Gwen with adoring eyes.
Gwen squeezed my shoulder. “Next week plan to have dinner at my place and spend a little time with us, okay?”
“Gwen’s a fabulous cook,” Owen said.
I liked him instantly. Gwen could burn water.
Chapter 22
Sorcha followed me into the ice cream parlor. I was shocked by the size of the crowd. There were three lines, each at least ten people long. If this was June traffic, I couldn’t imagine what the lines would look like by the middle of summer.
Through a narrow opening in the throng, I spotted Candace and Waverly sitting at a white bistro-style table.
I approached them and introduced Sorcha. “Where’s your mom, Waverly?”
“Where do you think?” Waverly toyed with her curly hair. “Another emergency at the shop.” Her mother did very well selling Lake Tahoe memorabilia at a boutique in town. “She said she’ll be right back, but you know Mom. She packs three days into two.”
“Where’s your ice cream
?”
Candace pointed toward the counter. “Rory’s getting it. That’s him, center line.”
I tried to determine which one he was. Two young men in the middle line had reached the counter. One, with a golden tan and curly tresses cascading around his shoulders, was wearing shorts and a sleeveless yellow shirt featuring a Grateful Dead logo on the back. Definitely an Adonis. Warning bells rang in my head. His sidekick, who stood in profile, had short hair, a square jaw, and a lean body. He wore a tame blue T-shirt.
Hiding my concern, I said, “How was the movie?”
“Lots of dumb jokes. And lots of drinking. The boys thought it was a hoot.”
After the last teen movie I’d seen, I vowed I would never go to another—bathroom humor wasn’t my thing—although with Candace in my life, I might have to break my promise.
“I’m never going to drink,” Candace added.
“Never?” Waverly said.
“Well, maybe wine. Even you said you’ll drink that, and you’re a real stiff.”
“I’m not a stiff.” Waverly adjusted her ramrod-straight back.
“Yes, you are. Nothing bad comes out of your mouth, and nothing bad goes into your skinny body.”
“You should talk. You’re skinnier than me.”
Waverly stuck out her tongue and giggled. So did Candace. I couldn’t believe how quickly the girls had become friends. Amidst a second fit of giggling, Adonis and his sidekick arrived toting four banana splits.
The girls quickly sobered.
“Rory,” Candace said, her cheeks blooming pink. “This is my aunt Aspen Adams and her friend Sorcha McRae.”
Adonis thrust his hand out. I braced for the handshake. If the guy were half as bold as he came across, I would have to ground Candace for life.
“Hi, I’m Billy,” he said.
Quietly, I breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to Rory, the one I considered more worthy of my trust . . . until he opened his mouth.
“Nice to meet you.” His voice alone would rev any young girl’s engine. “May I get you two something?”
And he was polite to boot? Shoot. I’d met lots of good-on-the-surface kids who, over the years, had turned out to be rotten seeds. How I hoped Rory disproved my concern.
“We’ll get it,” I said. “Eat yours before they melt.”
As Sorcha and I joined a line to purchase ice cream, Rory drew two extra chairs to the table.
When we returned to our seats with our single scoops, Candace said, “Miss McRae works at Ambrose Alley, a new casino in South Lake Tahoe.”
“Rad.” Rory was a guy of few words.
“Tripp sure is cool,” Candace said to Sorcha.
Rory frowned. “Who’s Tripp?”
“Mr. Ambrose’s son.”
“Candace and Tripp have been emailing,” I said to Sorcha.
“Oh, yeah?” Rory worked his tongue inside his cheek.
Candace petted his hand. “He’s a friend. That’s all. His mom died and he wanted to talk—”
“His mother isn’t dead,” Sorcha cut in.
“She died a few years ago,” Candace said. “That’s when Tripp started drinking.”
“No,” Sorcha countered. “You’re wrong. Tripp’s mother walked out. She and Finn are divorced.”
Candace shook her head. “Tripp said his mom was very sick.”
My insides fluttered with tension. How had Candace gleaned so much about the boy? And how had Sorcha not known about the mother? She looked shaken. Was she wondering if she could trust Finn Ambrose? If he’d lied about that, then maybe he’d lied about other things, like his various alibis and not knowing Miranda Tejeda.
“Tripp thinks his dad’s girlfriend is nice,” Candace said in an effort to smooth things over.
“You sure know a lot about this guy.” Rory’s voice had an edge to it.
“Cool your jets, you dork.” Candace offered a dismissive look. “Tripp has a girlfriend. She lives somewhere in Incline, I think. Near or on the water.”
Waverly said, “She’s older.”
As they continued to discuss Tripp, I was drawn to movement outside the ice cream parlor. Heather Bogart was tying the leash of a raggedy sheepdog to a pole. Nearby stood her ex-father, Edward. He said something and Heather smiled tightly. Was this their first meeting since her mother died? Had he reached out to tell her he was ceding his inheritance to her? Had she contacted the estate attorney? She had taken great care in putting herself together. Her blouse was starched and her jeans pressed. She was wearing her hair in a neat bun. In a rare burst of emotion, she nuzzled the sheepdog and kissed his forehead. The dog licked her like she was raw steak.
My mouth went dry when I saw Heather plucking dog hair off her face. I thought of the Post-it notes Candace had seen at the sheriff’s office: hair with roots; hair without roots; dog hair; horsehair. I flashed on the techie at the Vittorio murder site using tweezers and tape to lift hair off the victim and floor and recalled Gloria brushing hair off her dress at the studio after hugging Beau in his kitschy horsehair vest. Could the hair without roots have come from it?
“Aspen.” Candace tugged on my sleeve. “You’re, like, gawking. Stop.”
But I couldn’t. Was it possible everything in the string of murders could be tied together by one strand of hair?
Chapter 23
On the way to Sorcha’s car, she didn’t say much. I think the news that Tripp’s mother might be dead and that Finn lied to her about it was weighing on her. As she climbed into her BMW, I yelled out the window that I’d call her. She muttered her thanks and tore off.
On the drive to the cabin, Candace talked nonstop about Rory. Wasn’t he cute? And a gentleman? Wasn’t blue the perfect color for him?
After we picked up Cinder from the neighbor’s house, Candace sailed to bed, and I sent an email to Max relating the facts of my day.
Later, when the house was quiet, I fell into a funk about Nick brushing me off at the station, so I did the only rational thing I could think of. I grabbed a bag of M&Ms, retreated to a chair on the porch, and wallowed in a late-night pity party. Cinder joined me and nudged my arm. I scratched his ears and leaned my head back to search for shooting stars in the cloudless night sky.
A half hour later, I admitted that Nick’s silence about the case wasn’t the only thing bothering me. I wanted more from our relationship. We were boyfriend and girlfriend, but I loved him beyond words and I wanted to be engaged. Not like Jules Marsh, engaged for years on end. I wanted to be like Gwen, engaged with a set date to be married.
Around midnight, too revved up to sleep—downing half a bag of chocolate might not have been the best idea—I decided to watch a few of the DVDs from KINC. Each jewel case was marked with a date. On closer inspection, some included names, too. I found one for Vittorio: April 24 and slid it into the DVD player.
I settled on the couch and pressed Play.
A slate appeared, giving a title to the interview: Tony Vittorio. Gloria’s interview with Tony was much like her interview with Finn, each trying to out-charm the other.
“Did you research the Lake Tahoe area before opening your business?” Gloria asked.
“Did you research it before becoming a newscaster?” Tony countered. He came across as a bit of a flirt. He was a handsome man in his fifties with high cheekbones and what some might call soul-searching eyes.
“Your food is exquisite.” Gloria rubbed her forearm in a sensual way.
“You are more so.”
“All right already. Cut!” Fuming, Camille climbed onto the set and ended the interview. The screen went blank.
I fast-forwarded the DVD but couldn’t find any more of the exchange. I ejected it and inserted another marked with an April date on which Gloria interviewed an attorney championing the Clean Water Act. Camille interrupted that interview twice, inserting a few of her own questions, a producer’s right, I supposed, though it made her look like a control freak.
I hit pause and considered Camill
e. Had she intentionally cut into interviews to sabotage Gloria’s work? Gloria worried that Camille would fire her if she received more bad press, but I’d bet the truth was that Camille was interested in Beau and wanted Gloria gone. What if Gloria’s contract was ironclad? What if Camille wrote the notes to scare Gloria so she’d quit?
No, someone who wanted to protect Gloria had written the notes, and Camille clearly did not want to do that. On the other hand, that could be the way she could steer the sheriff’s detectives in another direction. If I were to print something from Camille’s computer, would there be a string of ink smudges down one side of the paper?
I sorted through the remaining DVDs I’d swiped plus those Camille had offered Candace and found one marked Ambrose. Expecting to see the interview from the other day, I pressed Play. Gloria and Finn sat on the same set as before, but both were wearing different clothing. In seconds, Camille leaped onto the set and announced they were having technical difficulties due to the electrical storm. Man, she could be abrupt.
With a little diligence, I located the DVD for Dr. Fisher’s interview. Heather was featured in the opening shot, which took place in the doctor’s office. Heather, clearly starstruck, gushed when the doctor introduced her to Gloria Morning. She left the consultation room, and the portion of the interview I’d viewed at the Tavern began. My eyes welled with tears as I watched Dr. Fisher advise Gloria. How I would miss her. All her patients would, too. And Heather, most of all.
“Hey.” Candace perched on the sofa arm and stretched her arms while yawning. “What are you doing?”
“I’m watching DVDs of Gloria’s interviews.” I stopped the disk and ejected it. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“I didn’t go to sleep. Waverly wanted to talk my ear off.” She plopped onto the couch and tucked her legs under her rump. “Why do girls like to talk so much?”
Fan Mail Page 15
