Louella was shaking her head. “This doesn’t add up. We confirmed your whereabouts and you were in Santa Barbara when Daniel was killed.”
Alicia spoke before Libby Hudson did. “But she may well have driven up to Carmel from Santa Barbara with no one knowing. And gone back the same way.” Much as her daughter went back and forth from Santa Cruz.
The older woman nodded. “Yes, I made certain to appear to be out of town. I was at San Ysidro Ranch. I knew that on December twentieth Joan planned to stay overnight at Courtney Holt’s home. I knew Daniel would be alone. I made the drive north and arrived at Joan and Daniel’s home at about eight-thirty in the evening.
“It was I who summoned Treebeard to the house. It was I who wrote the letter that I gather you have now found. It was I who posted the letter at Treebeard’s campsite, and stole an arrow from the quiver he left there. I knew I could not carry a bow in and out of the house, for the risk of being seen with it, so I used one I gave Joan years ago and hid it where I believed it would not be discovered.”
It all made a sort of crazy sense. Joan might well have been telling the truth when she said she went back to her home that night to see if Daniel was having an assignation with Molly Bracewell. Then another thought occurred to Alicia. Could Joan be as much a perpetrator of this crime as her mother was? Were mother and daughter in league together?
Libby Hudson turned her head as if to gaze out the dirt-streaked windows. “I’ve always been athletically inclined, from when I was a young girl. Horseback riding, tennis, golf, sailing. Diving, a bit. But my greatest passion was archery.” Her eyes took on a faraway gleam. "It’s a magnificent sport,” she murmured, almost as if to herself. “Such artistry. Such beauty and grace.”
Alicia had the fleeting thought that Libby Hudson no longer was speaking of archery but of the murder of her son-in-law. For there had been a gruesome beauty to that as well. The perpetrator very nearly had escaped justice. She had left almost no trace of evidence and betrayed no guilt. Perhaps because she had felt none.
Even now she was getting what she most wanted. Her daughter was safe. Ironically, it might have been the perfect crime were it not for the very person Libby Storrow Hudson had committed it to protect.
For it is Joan who lacks character, Alicia thought, Joan who both benefits from this extraordinary sacrifice and is undeserving of it. And who most likely will never fully grasp its extent.
Epilogue
Three days after Libby Hudson’s confession, Alicia woke at dawn, drove two hours to San Francisco Airport, left the VW in an economy parking lot, and boarded the third transcontinental flight of her life. She disembarked at Dulles International Airport and took an express train to Washington, D.C. Without pausing at any of the city’s tourist attractions, all of which she longed to see, she splurged on a cab that delivered her and her battered Samsonite directly to the redbrick town house owned by Milo Pappas.
It was shortly after seven in the evening, dark and cold, with snowflakes blowing. Some collected on the street lamps that threw golden bowls of light on the browned lawns of a winter city. Some dusted the peaked roofs of the stately homes and embassies that lined Milo’s street. And some settled on Alicia’s hair and eyelashes as she stood at Milo’s door and wondered whether, after coming all this way and spending all this money she didn’t have, she should ring his bell.
Ring it. Because if you don’t it’ll be the biggest mistake of your life.
She had a way of blowing opportunities, she knew. Her failures plagued her even more than her successes buoyed her. What a failure it would be to let Milo Pappas get away. And for what? Pride?
Her hand reached out and rang his bell.
It didn’t take him long to answer. When he did, he stood in his foyer simply staring at her, amazement lighting his eyes and causing an uncharacteristic lapse in his manners.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“Of course! I’m sorry.” He stepped aside quickly, then reached out his unbroken arm to hoist her luggage over the threshold into his entryway.
Once inside, she felt very awkward. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first.”
He scoffed at that. “You don’t need to call first, Alicia.” Somehow it made her feel better to hear him say her name. “Let me take your coat,” he offered then, and that made her feel better still. Maybe he wouldn’t try to get rid of her quickly.
He led her down a few stairs into a living room. It had art on the walls, towering ceilings, and a brick fireplace in which a log fire blazed. It looked like something that would show up in a decorating magazine.
From the indentation in a sofa, and the glass of red wine next to an open paperback, she could guess what he’d been doing when she showed up unannounced at his door. Maybe he didn’t have plans for the evening? Or maybe they were late plans? It was hard for her to imagine how Milo might fill his hours, but reading alone in front of a fire was what she could see herself doing, not him.
He invited her to sit, and offered her wine. He returned and handed a glass to her with a smile. “It’s no Opus One.”
She sipped. “It’s delicious, though.” To her it didn’t taste all that different from Opus One. She wouldn’t confess that just yet.
He sat across from her and took his own wineglass in his hands. In the fire a log broke, then crackled in a cloud of sparks. “How’d you find me?”
“I have friends who are investigators.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Louella has access to some kind of database.”
Louella was heavily in favor of Alicia making this trip. Though there was no reason for it, clearly Louella felt guilty for planning to pounce on Jorge as soon as a decent interval passed. The last Alicia had spoken to her, the interval had shrunk from three weeks to five days.
“You’ve been watching the news?” Alicia asked, then instantly felt a pang at the question’s stupidity.
Milo simply shook his head. “Libby Hudson’s confession? I’m astonished by it.”
“It makes sense, though.”
“I always had trouble believing Joan could pull something like this off.”
“But I believe her mother could.” She paused. “I’m embarrassed I didn’t suspect her earlier. Once I knew about Daniel’s control of the living trust, and that he had bought Web Hudson’s stake in Headwaters, it should have occurred to me. I was just so focused on Joan.” Again she hesitated. “Once I get an idea in my head, sometimes I can’t see past it.”
He met her eyes, saying nothing. It was time. This was what she had flown across the country for.
“I did that to you, too, Milo. I’m really sorry. You were right. Somehow I always expected the worst of you. It was totally unfair of me and I really regret it. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, then swirled the wine in his glass and watched it as if with fascination. “I’ve got something to do with how people judge me, Alicia. Don’t worry about it.” He raised his eyes, and she was startled to see sadness there, and a sort of wisdom. “But I accept your apology, and I appreciate it.”
They fell silent. Then he smiled, and she caught a glimpse of the jaunty Milo she was used to. “So I guess this means you’ll get your old job back?”
His tone was light, but she had the idea this wasn’t a casual question. “I will. And I’ve been getting calls from people in my party wanting me to run against Penrose for D.A.”
Milo’s brows rose. “This November? Are you going to do it?”
“I’m thinking about it.” She paused. “Actually, I’m pretty ready to do it.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
She was curious. “What?”
“Will you call Molly Bracewell and ask for advice?”
“Oh ...” She didn’t like that idea. “She’s such a slick one, I don’t know ....”
“Alicia.” Milo raised his index finger in the air. “Does she win or not?”
There was only one answer to that question. Alicia was silent.
“The
n talk to her. She’ll put you in touch with people who can help you.”
“You’re telling me to play the game.”
“Do you want to win this time?”
She’d better. It was her third try. It was really now or never. Milo leaned back as if satisfied. “What about you?” she asked. Another noncasual question.
He didn’t quite smile, but almost. “My agent’s getting some calls.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised! Calls from whom?”
“Well, one is a correspondent position with ABC. Back in London, where I started in TV. Not a prime-time magazine, though. Loads of travel. And far from the brass in New York, which isn’t a good thing.”
He didn’t seem to like that one. Somehow that pleased her. “What about the others?”
“One’s a local anchor job, here in D.C.” He shrugged. “I’m not so sure I want to go local, though. I’ve never done it, so maybe I’d like it. I just don’t know.”
“Are there any more?”
“There’s one more.” Again he stared into his wineglass. She got the funny feeling he was avoiding her eyes. “This one’s in L.A., with Fox. They’re launching a new prime-time magazine this summer.” He paused. “I’d be the anchor and also do stories.”
She liked the sound of that one. “Wouldn’t that be good? It’s national and you’d be the anchor?”
“True,” he allowed. “But it’s a little less prestigious than Newsline.”
“But it’s in the U.S.,” she pointed out.
He smiled at her, and there was the old Milo glint in his eye. “Actually, it’s in California.”
“Yeah, I think you mentioned that.” But she couldn’t help smiling back.
Then he left his place across from her and came to sit at her side. They looked at each other. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He raised his hand and brushed her cheek. Lightly, so lightly. She closed her eyes. His touch lingered, the way she remembered, the way that tied a knot in her heart that somehow hurt so good.
Then his doorbell rang. Alicia’s eyes fluttered open. She tried hard not to feel a crashing disappointment. Was this a friend coming over? A date, maybe?
“Hold on.” Milo rose and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
She waited, trying to make out what was going on. Then Milo came back bearing red plastic bags clearly loaded with takeout. He raised them in the air. “You like Chinese?”
Her heart soared, like a kite released in a happy wind. “I love it.”
He walked out of the room, she guessed into a kitchen. “I always order more than I can eat. Come help.” Then he appeared again, bereft of the takeout. “But not until you move that suitcase of yours into my bedroom. I’ve got a broken arm, you know.”
She smiled. Maybe the bad part was over. Maybe they could be comfortable again. Maybe they could be more than comfortable.
He disappeared back into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. “Would you mind watching Newsline later? It’s on tonight.”
She set down her wineglass and rose from the couch. “Is it any good?”
“Not as good as it used to be.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had a different note in it, a hopeful note she recognized in her own heart. “Though I think a lot of things are changing for the better.”
She walked toward his voice, smiling. Imagine that. For once she agreed with him.
Diana loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at www.dianadempsey.com and be sure to sign up for her mailing list while you’re there to hear first about her new releases. Also join her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.
Continue reading past the brief acknowledgments for an excerpt from Diana’s novel Chasing Venus, the story that readers call a perfect blend of romance and suspense …
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing To Catch the Moon allowed me to live vicariously on the gorgeous Monterey Peninsula. It also introduced me to an arena I previously knew little about: criminal prosecution and the inside workings of a district attorney’s office. Two women proved fantastic guides: Monterey County Deputy District Attorney Ann Hill and Los Angeles County Deputy District Attorney Marlene Sanchez. Both were tremendously generous with their time and expertise, and I thank them.
I am grateful also to Audrey LaFehr, Jen Jahner, Francesca Farr, Martha Caskey, Ann Shannon, Dr. Paul Robiolio, Aixa Martinez, Christina Papoulias Barton, Mona EINaggar, Donna Edmondson, Yu-Jin Kim, Burt Levitch, and Robert Scott.
I run out of superlatives when it comes to my critique partners: Bill Fuller, Tracie Donnell, Danielle Girard, Sarah Manyika, and Ciji Ware.
Rhonda Freshwater of Freshwater Design again delivered terrific cover art, and I thank her.
Writer though I may be, I lack the words to thank my husband, Jed. He is excellent in his editorial advice, tireless in his encouragement, and unstinting in his praise. Not only that, he’s willing to fetch nightly takeout when I get close to deadline. This book is for you, Jed, though it’s paltry reward.
CHASING VENUS
Known for page-turning romantic novels that keep you reading late into the night, Diana Dempsey delivers a suspenseful tale about a man and a woman who must shed the past to embrace the future …
Annette Rowell’s latest novel is leapfrogging up the bestseller lists, and with every surge in sales she’s becoming more of a household name. The literary success she’s struggled so hard for would be a dream come true were it not for the killer preying on bestselling authors.
Reid Gardner hosts a syndicated crime show dedicated to capturing dangerous fugitives. The former LAPD cop knows only too well how violence can shatter lives. No victim arouses his ardor more than the pretty author who’s become the target of a psychopath. Yet falling in love with her could cost him not only the reputation he’s spent years building, but the one killer who’s eluded him for years …
PROLOGUE
Death was not on the guest list, but it appeared all the same.
Maggie Boswell, reigning queen of mystery fiction, sat at the signing table as if she were royalty on a throne. Around her, in teetering piles, was her latest bestseller. Grabbing at the books were members of the literary elite—authors, editors, agents. It was a huge irony that Maggie had invited them into her home for this book party. Most of them she disliked. Now all of them she distrusted.
For any one of them might try to kill her.
Someone handed her a book. She scribbled the inscription, struggling to rise above her fear. In the shifting terror of her worst imaginings, even her beloved home unnerved her. Its enormity was no longer a joy, but a threat. It had too many corners, too many shadows. And outside its stucco walls the night was moonless, and the silver-gray Pacific beyond the terraced garden unnaturally still.
A breeze from the open French doors behind her wafted over the back of her neck, chilling her skin like a spectral caress. She shivered, turned to look. Yet there was nothing there, nothing but the unrelieved blackness of her garden.
“Ms. Boswell?”
She spun at the woman’s voice, and pursed her lips. A pretender to her throne, in the form of a brunette wisp with—in Maggie’s opinion—dubious talent.
The woman held a book toward her and smiled. "I’m Annette Rowell. I’m a huge admirer of your work."
Maggie took the book but didn’t care to smile back. “Are you?”
"I’ve really been looking forward to this one."
Read it and weep. “Shall I sign the book to you?”
“Please.”
Maggie scrawled To Annette and then her signature in expansive script. She slapped the hardcover shut and held out the volume.
"You may remember that I have a mystery series of my own," the woman said.
Maggie was well aware of it. "Is that so?"
Again the woman smiled. “Thank you so much for including me tonight."
Maggie wonder
ed how this upstart had made it onto the guest list. She averted her head in silent dismissal and the woman moved along.
The books kept coming, endlessly. Greet, open, sign, hand back, smile, over and over again. At one point, Maggie jolted upright. She’d felt something, sudden and swift, in the nape of her neck. A piercing, like a bee sting, or a needle making an entry into flesh. Deeply and with purpose. Then, just as quickly, gone.
She frowned, twisted to look behind her out the French doors. Again, nothing. Just the yards of flagstone terrace and the lawn sweeping to the sea. With some trepidation she touched the back of her neck, then stared aghast at the unmistakable crimson smear on her finger.
My God. A thought came, a terrifying idea she immediately banished. It can't be.
Someone held another book toward her. Mechanically she signed it, her mind whirling. As she returned the volume to its owner, she grimaced again.
An unnatural tingling sensation had begun in her body. Maggie stilled, gave it her full attention. Yet the feeling didn’t disappear, but grew, strengthened.
She shivered. Coldness writhed within her. The hideous thought returned, taunted her. Just like in my second book.
No. She wouldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be so easy, that what she feared most would simply come to pass. Just like that. All the while the iciness intensified, knifing through her body. A harbinger of doom.
This cannot be happening.
Yet, she knew, it could.
The people around her seemed to grow distant, as if a veil had dropped between her and the living world. She saw their faces, she heard their voices, but she was alone among them in a way she never had been before. She tried to move her mouth to speak but her lips failed to respond.
So fast. It really is so fast.
She was almost admiring of the poison's power. Just as she had written about it, so it was.
To Catch the Moon Page 37
