by Lowe, Shelia
Claudia curled next to him and laid her head on his chest. “Oh, come on, I know there’s a soft heart beating in there.”
“Don’t let that rumor get out; you’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No, I want to forget about it. Tell me about your day instead.”
“Oh, you know, the usual—young, beautiful widow inherits elderly husband’s estate and the kids are pissed. They’re claiming she forged the will.”
He opened one eye. “Trophy wife?”
“She says she was in love with him,” Claudia said. “No, wait, she said she loved him—that’s different, isn’t it?”
Jovanic closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. He gave another wide yawn, not bothering to cover it. “So, what happened to the old guy?”
“Massive stroke; he died.”
“You sure about the stroke? You don’t think the young and beautiful Mrs. Old Guy had anything to do with it?”
“You’ve been a cop too long.” Claudia unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hand into the curly thatch of chest hair. “The signatures are consistent with brain damage from a stroke.”
“You’re positive she didn’t put a pillow over his face and give him a little help over the edge?”
She withdrew her hand and gave him a gentle poke in the belly. “Not everyone has a suspicious nature like you, Columbo.”
Jovanic doubled over and grabbed her ankle, making her squeal. “Is that what you want—Columbo?” In one quick move he had her on the floor and was straddling her, pinning her arms with his legs. “Gotcha! It’s useless to struggle.”
Lying on the carpet, she looked up at him with a sly smile. “So, who’s struggling?”
He grinned and shifted his weight to release her arms. Tugging her T-shirt free of her jeans, he pulled it off over her head. She rose onto her elbows and began unbuckling his belt. His eyes were closed, the rise and fall of his breathing accelerating as she worked his zipper. Then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her up to meet his lips.
The kiss deepened. And the muted ring of a cell phone intruded, ruining the moment.
“Goddamn it.” He groaned, straightening. He grabbed his coat from the arm of the sofa where he had tossed it and dug his phone out of the pocket. “Yeah? Jovanic.”
Claudia rolled onto the sofa, keeping her disappointment to herself. She might as well be involved with a doctor, considering all the times Jovanic had to take calls when they were on the verge of making love.
Just a minute, a little voice in her head mocked. What about your work? A forensic conference, a TV interview about some high-profile case, and weekend plans get canceled.
It had seemed like the ideal relationship a few months ago when they’d reached out to each other like castaways on a desert island, two self-avowed workaholics, survivors of marriages that had been destroyed by their all-out devotion to work. Now history was repeating itself, and the relationship was taking a backseat to their careers.
Jovanic rose to his feet, the phone pressed to his ear with one hand, the other holding up his trousers. “Anyone else there yet? How’s it looking?” And, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
He snapped the phone shut and began zipping his trousers, buckling his belt. “That was Alex. We have to blow out of here tonight. Something’s developing in San Jose with that porn ring.”
Alexandra Vega was Jovanic’s new partner. His very charming, very sexy partner. Claudia handed him his tie and jacket and pulled her T-shirt on. “Do you know long you’ll be away?”
“It’s an extradition. The arrangements could take a while. Sorry, babe.”
“It’s work. Anything I can do to help?”
“Thanks.” He pulled on the coat, fished out his wallet. “Here’s my credit card. Can you get us on a flight tonight? I’ll head over to my place and get packed.”
“Sure. Need a ride to LAX?”
“Alex is picking me up. We’ll leave her car at the airport.”
So much for a romantic evening.
Chapter 3
Morning brought the marine layer: a damp blanket of cloud cover, a pronounced nip in the air. Mist drifted over the beachfront neighborhood like gray fleece and soaked into the wooden slats of the deck off the living room. Fall had barged in overnight.
Claudia threw on sweats and thick socks before opening the sliding door to the deck, which housed her version of a garden.
She loved nature, but had never been much of a gardener. A few herbs in a Mexican clay pot were her consolation prize for the flowers that refused to grow. The greens looked good on the deck and she figured if she ever learned to cook something more complicated than mashed potatoes they would probably taste pretty good, too.
Trimming the dead leaves and watering the soil with her galvanized aluminum watering can gave her some time away from her desk, but her mind was still busy with her latest case.
She soaked the roots of the rosemary, basil, meadow rue, and the rest, working bonemeal into the soil of a struggling tomato plant. But all the time she was thinking about Torg Sorensen’s signatures and about his widow, Paige, whom she found enigmatic.
The sound of a car engine in the driveway made Claudia straighten and look over the balcony. As if her thoughts had conjured the woman, Paige Sorensen stepped out of a Mercedes. Not the vehicle Bert Falkenberg had driven the day before. Paige’s version had a custom paint job that made it the same blue as her eyes.
Claudia wiped her hands on the dish towel tucked into her waistband and waited as Paige exited the car alone. No little dog or Bert Falkenberg today.
Despite the weather, her long legs were bare, tanned, and muscular in khaki shorts and backless high-heeled sandals. In a green silk camp shirt, her long hair drawn back in a ponytail, she looked ready for Club Med.
Moving with the grace of a dancer, Paige came up the flagstone path to the house and waved at Claudia. “Hi there, Ms. Rose—do you have a few minutes?”
Claudia hesitated. She didn’t welcome clients who dropped in unannounced, and she felt at a disadvantage in her gardening clothes and no makeup. Still, she was curious to see which version of Paige had come to visit—the innocent girl, the bereaved widow, or the self-possessed charmer.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, sounding less than welcoming but not refusing the visit outright.
Ignoring the hint, Paige started up the staircase. “I was hoping for a chance to talk to you privately.”
“How about making an appointment?”
“I promise not to stay long. Please?”
Claudia looked back at her for a moment; then curiosity got the better of her. “Wait a second. I’ll come around and unlock the door.” She went inside and wiped her feet on the mat, giving herself a disapproving glance in the wall mirror beside the front door.
This is what happens when you don’t get dressed for the day. Just because you work at home . . . She firmly shut off her mother’s voice and mustered up a smile. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’d love some,” Paige said, following Claudia into the kitchen. She slid onto a chair at the breakfast table while Claudia washed her hands at the sink. “I’m sorry for dropping in like this.”
Claudia busied herself filling the Mr. Coffee with water as Paige plowed on. “I shouldn’t have let Bert come with me yesterday. Honestly, he can be downright annoying. I know he’s just trying to protect me, but he thinks I don’t know how to take care of myself.”
Claudia took a container of Folgers from the freezer and measured coffee into the filter, thinking that it seemed an odd opening to the conversation.
“Protect you from what?” she asked, watching the amber liquid begin to drip into the carafe, perfuming the air with the smell of fresh coffee.
“My stepchildren.” Paige gave a tight little laugh. “Isn’t it dumb to call them that? They’re all older than me. Anyway, they hate me. Bert says they’ll fight to the death to get the estate away from
me.”
Moving through the routine of getting out mugs and spoons, Claudia wondered, not for the first time, about the role Bert Falkenberg played in Paige’s life. Yesterday there had been moments when she’d caught him looking at Paige with desire in his eyes that guaranteed either he was more than just a business adviser, or he hoped to be.
She got the sugar bowl from the pantry and set it on the table. “It sounds like an awkward situation for everyone. What do you take in your coffee?”
“Nonfat milk.”
“Is nonfat half-and-half okay?”
Paige raised a perfectly penciled brow. “Nonfat half-and-half ? You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Made for those of us who like the taste of cream but can’t afford the calories.” Claudia opened the refrigerator and showed her the carton. “I sound like a TV commercial, don’t I?”
Paige smiled. “I’ll take some. Calories are not my friend, either.”
“It must take a lot of work to stay in as good a shape as you look.”
Paige pantomimed lifting weights. “I work out every morning. I have to stay alert to handle the girls.”
“Speaking of the girls, how’s that one doing? The one who kept calling you yesterday?”
“Annabelle. She’d gotten into a fight with her roommate; that’s what all the calls were about. If someone doesn’t see things her way, she has no problem getting physical with them.” A note of frustration crept into Paige’s voice. “Bert had a chat with her about it last night, but I don’t think she’s afraid of anything or anyone.”
“She’s afraid of something,” Claudia reasoned. “You said she tried to kill herself.”
Paige’s expression softened. “Poor kid, she’s had a lot to deal with. Her mother was killed in a car crash when she was six. Annabelle was in the car, but she was thrown clear.”
Claudia’s heart went out to the girl who had suffered such a traumatic loss. “No wonder she has problems.”
“It was big news at the time—you probably saw it on TV. Her mother was Valerie Vale, the actress. Her father is Dominic Giordano.”
“The movie producer?”
Paige nodded. “The head of Sunmark Studios.”
It had been a fairy-tale wedding made for the media— the producer and the starlet. Claudia recalled all the hoopla that surrounded the event. The fairy tale had turned tragic just a few years later when Vale’s car slammed through a guardrail high above Malibu and plunged into the ocean below, leaving behind a young child.
“I remember the story,” Claudia said.
“She’s had plenty of problems growing up. She has trouble making friends and—” Paige broke off. She looked down at her hands, appearing suddenly unsure of herself. “Um, Claudia, the reason I came here today . . .”
Claudia waited, figuring that Paige probably wanted to plead her case, to make sure she was going to offer the “right” opinion on the questioned signature. If that was it, she would shut her down fast. In fact, she had decided in Paige’s favor, but it had to be clear that her opinion was independent of any pressure.
“Yesterday, when I was here, you didn’t let Bert push you around or . . .” Paige paused, then rushed on. “Well, I got the feeling you were someone I could trust.”
“Yes?” Claudia responded cautiously. Paige might trust her, but at this point, the feeling was far from mutual. “What is it you’re concerned about?”
“It’s just—I guess I’m like Annabelle. I don’t have anyone I can to talk to either. No one.”
“You have no friends? I’m not sure I believe that.” Claudia got up and went to the refrigerator and filled the creamer jug, then leaned back against the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to brew and waiting for what might come next.
“Oh, I have loads of acquaintances. The women at the country club tolerate me because I’ve got money, but they make it obvious I’m not one of them. It’s like that movie Pretty Woman, remember? Julia Roberts got all dressed up like a perfect ten in gorgeous clothes, but the women at the party made fun of her because she didn’t belong. Well, that’s how I feel.”
Paige made a wry face. “There’s always plenty of men around with their tongues hanging out. But it’s not the same as having a girlfriend to talk to and, well, I feel like we could be friends.” It almost sounded like she was inviting Claudia to a playdate.
Claudia had a policy that said mixing business with friendship was a bad idea, but something about the wistfulness she heard in Paige’s voice intrigued her. “Okay,” she answered, willing to listen but still wary. “But I’m not a therapist.”
“I need a friend,” Paige repeated. “Not a therapist; someone who’s not involved with the Sorensen family. Someone who doesn’t have any vested interest in what happens with this . . .” She waved her hand. “This mess I’m in. Just someone I can talk to because, basically, I’m scared.”
Claudia swung around from the coffeemaker, where she had been filling their cups.
“Scared? Of what?”
“Not what. Whom. Torg’s son, Dane.”
“Why? What’s he done?”
“He hasn’t actually done anything; it’s just a feeling I have. It’s the way he looks at me; it’s downright creepy.” She gazed straight into Claudia’s eyes and spoke in a low voice. “I get the feeling he’d love to wrap those big hands around my throat and squeeze the life right out of me.”
The dread in her face prickled Claudia’s spine. She couldn’t help feeling uneasy, even though she’d never met Dane Sorensen. Taking the chair across from Paige, she wrapped her hands around her mug for the warmth. “You can understand he’d be upset about the will. You said his father left everything to you.”
“It’s more than that—I can feel it, the way he hates me! It’s not just him, either. He has a twin sister, Diana—the Wicked Witch of the West. It’s weird; the two of them act more like a married couple than brother and sister. They even share a house.”
Claudia sat quietly. She could see the perfect Barbie doll had a less than perfect life, but clearly there was more to the story.
“Bert’s right; Dane is dead set on taking the school away from me.”
“What does Diana think of that?”
Paige snorted. “Diana thinks being twins gives them some spooky supernatural link. He makes the decisions and she follows.”
Claudia wondered again about Paige’s motives in showing up with these revelations. “Paige, it sounds like you’ve got a lot to deal with. But you have to understand, the family dynamics won’t affect my opinion on your husband’s will.”
Paige spread her hands in protest. “I’m not here about that! I know you don’t need to hear the family dirt. I know it makes me look pitiful, but I’m all alone. Honestly, I just need a friend.”
“What about Mr. Falkenberg? You said he wanted to protect you.”
“Not in that way,” Paige said, then fell silent.
Claudia waited for her to clarify her comment, but she didn’t. “So you said they’re out to get the school?”
“The Sorensen Academy,” Paige said, nodding. “It’s this enormous old mansion Torg’s parents built back in the twenties. Then his father got into trouble in the Depression and went broke, so he turned the house into a school for rich girls. Torg inherited it and kept it going.”
No wonder her stepchildren resented her, Claudia thought. Naturally, they would expect to inherit such a place and keep it in the family. But Paige’s next words dispelled that happy notion.
“The land up there off Sunset is real hot property. Dane always expected to get his hands on it, but it turned out he already had plans to demolish the place as soon as his father died. He wants to tear it down and build luxury condos. Pretty cold, don’t you think?
“Didn’t even wait until his father was dead to get an architect and have the blueprints made up. Torg found out about it and went ballistic. The school meant a lot to him, but I think he was more hurt that Dane would do that to him.�
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“So it’s all about money?”
“Dane owns a construction company and Diana sells real estate. They would make a bundle on both ends of the deal if he built those condos.”
“Do you have any of his handwriting?” Claudia asked. As a handwriting analyst, she was always curious about personality and the way it revealed itself in the written word.
Paige’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“Handwriting reveals what motivates people, and it can help you understand how to deal with them.”
“Really? I’d love to know what makes those people tick. I’ll see if I can dig some up.”
“How did your husband find out what his son had planned?”
For the second time, Paige looked uncomfortable. “Bert used to be Dane’s right-hand man.”
That could explain the condition of Bert Falkenberg’s fingernails and his apparent discomfort in the high-quality apparel he wore. Construction seemed to suit him better than an office job.
“Bert was really upset when he found out what Dane planned to do. He thought it was all wrong, that the house and the school should stay in the family. But since Dane was his boss, he couldn’t just go and tell Torg about it.” She fidgeted, swinging her leg back and forth. “He knew I would, though. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. Dane and Torg had this huge fight and then Torg had the stroke. They never spoke to each other again. I feel like it was my fault. If I’d kept my mouth shut, Torg might still be alive.”
“Wow,” Claudia said, at a loss for words. Then she got it. “Is that how Bert came to work for you?”
Paige nodded. “It got even uglier when Dane found out that Bert had betrayed him. He fired him, of course. I felt responsible, but with Torg so sick I couldn’t do anything. Then he passed away.” Defiance crept into her voice. “I couldn’t handle it all on my own, and Bert was out of a job, so . . . it’s worked out well for both of us.”
Claudia knew she should tell Paige to stop. If the Sorensen children’s attorney asked in open court whether she had any knowledge of the family relationships, she would have to answer truthfully. It might appear to be a conflict of interest.
