Mrs. Branford, though, was taking it all in for the first time, oohing and aahing from the passenger side at every massive Mediterranean estate, every pillar and fountain dotting the properties we passed, every expanse of flawless emerald lawn and picture-perfect flower beds blooming with explosions of color. “Lovely,” she said, more to herself than to me.
I hadn’t expected her to like the neighborhood, with its new construction and story-less homes. I replied anyway. “They are beautiful.”
And then she shrugged and gave a half frown. “Pft. If you like this sort of place.”
Her abrupt shift gave me whiplash. “You don’t?”
“Pft.” This time the sound was twice as loud. “If I did, I would be living in a place like this. Jimmy and I made our choice years and years ago. We wanted to raise our kids in a house that had history. On a street with character. We made our choice. And I don’t regret a single minute of a single day we’ve spent on Maple Street.”
After circling around and around, driving down streets I’d already been on, I was ready to pull over to look up Max’s address. Once I had it, I’d be able to queue up Google Maps. Before I stopped, though, I finally spotted it. I came to a stop in front of the massive house Max Litman had built for himself. I’d forgotten just how pretentious the terra-cotta-colored house was, what with its stucco walls, massive fountain, and pillars. The tiered centerpiece of the fountain still cascaded water over the sides of each of the washbasin vessels. It must be on a timer, I realized, but with Max gone, shouldn’t they be turned off?
Just like I had when I’d first laid eyes on this house, I drove past it, made a U-turn at the end of the street, and parked just opposite the house. “It fits him,” Mrs. Branford said, and for the third time that day she swung herself out of the car and was halfway across the street before I managed to get myself out of the driver’s side and catch up to her.
I touched her lightly on the shoulder once I reached her. “You have to stop doing that,” I scolded.
She turned, still walking, but directed her innocent gaze up at me. “Stop doing what?”
“Leading the charge. Beating me to our destination. Risking an injury.”
She waved away my concerns, never stopping the swing of her cane or the lightness of her step. “Finally, things are getting interesting. Maybe Max has a mail-order bride tucked away. Or maybe he’s been laundering money and has a whole counterfeit money machine, or whatever those counterfeiters use. Diversification, you know.”
“Seems a little unlikely on both counts,” I said.
“I concede the point, but my excitement remains. There could very well be something of interest in Max’s house. Something that might take the focus off of Billy. Or something that could point us in the direction of Max’s murderer.”
Which is exactly why I’d driven us here. “There’s only one problem,” I said. “We can’t actually go into the house.”
That brought her up short. She turned around to face me. “That is a problem, isn’t it?” But then she swung her cane again, directed herself toward the house, and was off again.
“You are not breaking and entering,” I said, wagging my finger at her back as if she were a child.
She threw up her hand and waved nonchalantly—an acknowledgment of sorts—but didn’t turn around to quell my concern. We walked up the driveway, circled around the fountain, and stopped on the far side. I hadn’t gotten this close to the house the first time. Now I tilted my head back and stared up at it. The home’s features, from the off-white stucco, the red tile roof, and the wood-framed windows to the rose bushes, the lushly planted pots, and the neatly trimmed boxwood shrubs, were elaborate. It wasn’t over-the-top gaudy with everything gold and ornate, but it still screamed money. Apparently, Max didn’t believe in subtlety.
“I’ll stick to my Maple Street house with the slanted porch and ancient wood,” Mrs. Branford said.
“Me too,” I said. I would never trade my Tudor for a McMansion. Or for any mansion. “Still, it is pretty in a Richie Rich kind of way.”
“I will concede to that,” she said.
“Wait here,” I said. I left her on the solid ground of the driveway and tiptoed onto the grass. It was broad daylight, but I crept along the perimeter of the house like a cat burglar. Sheriff Lane had sent us packing from Litman Homes, so to speak, but he hadn’t said a word about staying away from Max’s house. I might be splitting hairs, but I was going with the philosophy of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. I might not be able to get inside the house, but if I could sneak a peek, who knows? Maybe I’d learn something.
I went from window to window, cupping one hand over my eyes to block the sun, but the glare made it impossible to see inside. The windows were completely blocked. If Max had taken the time decorating the interior of the house as he had with the details outside, it was probably gorgeous, and well worth protecting with some high-end window coverings. I might not want to live in such a place, but I was never opposed to educating my taste.
It didn’t look like that would be happening today. I walked back across the grass, sidling up next to Mrs. Branford. “Nothing?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“And I don’t imagine you want to scale the fence into the backyard.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Uh, that would be a hard no, Mrs. Branford.”
“Penelope.”
She had been trying to get me to call her by her first name, but I couldn’t do it. I’d met her as Mrs. Branford, and Mrs. Branford she would stay. I was the ghost to her Mrs. Muir. “Mrs. Branford,” I repeated.
I started back to the street, guiding her by the elbow, but she pulled free. “We can’t leave yet,” she said.
“But there’s nothing left to do here.”
Mrs. Branford, however, seemed to have her own agenda. She swung her cane, turned on her heel, and walked straight to the front door, pausing only slightly to get up the two curved steps. “Of course there is,” she called over her shoulder; then she knocked on the door with the handle of her cane.
“Are you hoping Max’s ghost will answer the door?” I asked, coming up beside her, my hands on my hips.
“Of course not, Ivy. I haven’t gone senile, for heaven’s sake.”
“Then what?” I asked, but my question was answered half a second later when the front door jerked open.
Mrs. Branford teetered, her orthotic shoes no match for the surprise of seeing a frazzled-looking blonde, her arms full of clothes, suddenly staring at us. I had no time to formulate a thought about who she was or why she was at a deceased man’s house because Mrs. Branford was going down. “Oh oh!” Her body moved from its center of gravity, angling left . . . left . . . left.
I lunged, crouching and positioning one of my legs under her to block her fall, grabbing her arm at the same time. It slowed her, but I felt myself going down, too. And then suddenly, I wasn’t. The woman standing in the threshold of Max Litman’s house had dropped the load she’d been carrying and had Mrs. Branford by her other arm. The woman was thin, but she was stronger than she looked. She hauled Mrs. Branford upright; then Mrs. Branford stretched her arm out to me, dragging me up right beside her.
“I do not know who you are, my dear,” Mrs. Branford said to the mysterious woman, “and while my orthopedic surgeon may not be happy, I thank you for saving my left hip.”
“Is it the doctor who won’t be happy, or the insurance company?” the woman muttered in a tone that suggested she had some less-than-positive personal experiences with both.
Mrs. Branford responded without missing a beat. “The doctor for the blow to his Porsche payment, and the insurance company for just . . . losing.”
And then the woman arched her eyebrows and dipped her head as if she were saying touché. “I don’t know who you are, old woman, but I like you.”
Mrs. Branford threw her shoulders back, lifting her chin indignantly. “Old woman?”
The woman had bent to
retrieve some of the clothes she’d dropped when she’d saved us both from meeting the stone porch, but Mrs. Branford’s words had wiped the brief moment of levity off her face. She blinked rapidly and her lips quivered. “I-I-I’m sorry,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She was younger than I’d initially thought. Maybe early thirties. From my viewpoint, there were only two logical possibilities for who she was and why she was here. Either she was one of Max’s girlfriends, or she was his daughter. Since he didn’t have children, at least as far as I knew, I went with the former as my prediction.
But I let the interaction between Mrs. Branford and the woman play out before I tried to confirm. Mrs. Branford did not disappoint. She waited just long enough for the poor woman to sweat; then, diabolical creature that she was, she threw her snowy head back and guffawed. “Young lady—and I call you that honestly, because you are a young lady compared to me—I am an old woman. I can’t hide it, so I choose to embrace it. Now, what do you have there?” she said, pointing her cane at the clothing scattered around.
I watched the woman carefully, noting two things. Number one, she had definitely been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her tears had left tracks on her cheeks. And number two, she was up to something.
She looked around, guilt painted on her face. “Um, clothes?”
A few things had been flung my way. I bent, picking up a brown and rust-colored scarf, as well as a cami, and a creamy white pair of gauze palazzo pants. From the looks of her wardrobe, I was leaning toward a live-in girlfriend. Another of Max’s secrets, it seemed.
“Are you going somewhere?” I asked, handing over the garments.
Once again, she was flustered. “Oh, well, yes, I’m just getting some of my things. I don’t, you know, live here.”
I’d learned that staying silent was an excellent tactic for getting information. People didn’t like silence, and they’d eventually fill it. I caught Mrs. Branford’s eyes, communicating that idea with my eyes; then I nodded—and waited.
The woman didn’t say anything for what felt like a long minute. It felt like a game of chicken and I was just about to blink, but she finally spoke. “I’m an . . . advisor,” she offered, but instead of being an answer to something, the statement left me with questions. She was an advisor for Max? In what capacity? And did she dispense that advice while lounging by the pool? Did she do more than advise?
Mrs. Branford placed her open palm against her chest. “I’m Penelope, and this is Ivy.”
“Vanessa,” she said, nervously running her tongue over her lips.
“What kind of advisor?” I asked, hoping she’d just answer my questions and not ask any of her own—like who we were and why we were there.
She hesitated long enough that I feared she might not answer, but then she did. “I’m a . . . spiritual advisor.”
Somehow, I managed to keep my jaw from dropping. My mind had hypothesized long-lost daughter to Vegas bride. After she’d uttered the word advisor, I’d even entertained the idea of attaching the word financial to it. Spiritual advisor, however, had never entered my mind. It had never even come close.
Max Litman had been a lot of things, but spiritual was not one of the words I’d ever heard him described as. “Does Max need spiritual counseling?” Mrs. Branford asked.
The woman threw her shoulders back. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Mrs. Branford and I looked at each other. I suppose it was a valid question, what with the state of the world. Spirituality might not make anything better, but it could help a person cope.
The woman took our silence as us conceding the point. If she wondered who we were and why we were here, she didn’t let on.
“So, where are you going?” I asked, nodding to the clothes now scattered about.
She darted her gaze this way and that. “Did you not hear?” She slapped her open hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, do you not know?”
Of course, I knew exactly what she was going to say, but instead of playing my hand, I feigned ignorance and gave her my best blank stare. “Know what?”
She pressed her lips together, lifting her chin and giving a slow blink. “Max.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “He’s dead.”
An odd sound, like a mewling cat, came from Mrs. Branford.
“Max is dead?” she croaked, her hand losing its grip on her cane. I stopped and stared at her, shaking my head. Maybe in astonishment. Maybe in pure admiration. This was not the first time I’d seen Mrs. Branford use her age or supposed frailty to her advantage. And just like before, it was perfectly staged.
She teetered, but I was by her side in an instant, falling into my role. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” I ushered her toward the door, looking at the spiritual advisor.
Vanessa seemed frozen in place, but her eyes had grown wide. “Is she okay?”
“She will be. If she could sit down for a few minutes . . . ?”
Still, Vanessa stood stock-still. Right on cue, Mrs. Branford moaned again. I stepped across the threshold, not giving Vanessa the opportunity to say no. “Do you mind?” I asked.
She had no choice but to move. “Right, right. Of course. I mean, no. Come in.” She kicked the clothes just inside the door out of the way, standing back so I could help Mrs. Branford all the way into Max Litman’s house. Just as I knew it would be, the inside was beautifully decorated. Dark hardwood trims and moldings, travertine tile, plush pile carpets. The entire space was meticulously detailed. I couldn’t imagine living in such a place. There was no warmth here. No personality. No sense of welcoming, with a hearty, “Come in! We’re glad you stopped by.” No, Max’s house presented like a picture-perfect design abode meant to sell the space and the furniture, but not really meant for living.
Vanessa led the way, taking us through the open foyer and into the adjacent living area. Pillars and archways denoted the separation of one space from another. She pointed to the massive off-white sectional sofa. “Sit. I’ll get her some water.”
I helped Mrs. Branford onto a firm-looking chair instead of the sofa. The open floor plan made it easy to watch Vanessa from the corner of my eye. She knew her way around the kitchen, opening a cupboard to retrieve a glass, tugging open the paneled door of a built-in freezer to get ice, pulling a dish towel from a drawer to mop up the water she accidentally sprayed onto the counter from the sink faucet.
As Vanessa came back, I refocused on Mrs. Branford. She slumped in the chair, her back curved, her head lolling. I had a moment of panic. Even when she was channeling Meryl Streep, seeing her so indisposed made my heart skitter out of control and sent cold beads of sweat down my back. I wanted her alive and well, and her current posture did not portray either of those things.
I crouched down next to her, offering her the water Vanessa had handed me. She slowly pried open her eyes, having somehow managed to make them look glassy and dazed. She laid her hands on mine, guiding the glass of water to her lips. She drank as if she were completely parched, her performance utterly perfect. Which, once again, made me wonder just how much was an act versus a reality I didn’t want to see or face.
I kept my voice low as I asked, “Are you okay?” I needed reassurance.
She pushed the glass away and focused on me. “Right as rain,” she whispered; then she winked. It was too quick for Vanessa to see, but it convinced me that all was fine and we could carry on with our investigation.
I sat on the couch, staying as close to Mrs. Branford as I could. It was clear we weren’t going anywhere, so Vanessa had no choice but to sit. Which she did. Before she could formulate any of her own questions to ask—namely, Who are you? and What do you want?—I forged ahead, leaning forward and painting a disbelieving expression on my face. “Max is dead.” I ended on a slight lilt, framing it ambiguously. It could have been a statement or question. For some reason putting it that way made me feel a little bit better, as if I wasn’t quite lying. Or not lying quite so much, anyway.
Vanessa’s doe eyes grew even bigger, bright with emotion. “It’s been all over the news.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a loud conspiratorial whisper. “He was murdered.”
Mrs. Branford and I both reacted, showing shock, followed by a hint of fear. “Murdered?” Mrs. Branford asked.
Vanessa nodded gravely. “And his murderer is still out there.” For some reason, she had decided that she trusted us. She looked around, as I’d noticed almost all people did when they were about to reveal a secret or disclose some important bit of information. She was apparently satisfied that we were still alone and that no one had managed to break into the house unawares and sneak up behind us. “The police were here. They said it was routine and that they have to look at all sides of things, but that they have a”—she made air quotes—“person of interest.”
I lowered my head, not trusting my response. I didn’t want her to see my nostrils flare or my eyes flash. My skin went cold, spots dancing behind my eyes, and once again, my heart plunged to the bottom of my stomach. And then Vanessa, like everyone else, named my brother as the main suspect in Max Litman’s murder.
Chapter 14
I took Mrs. Branford home before sitting down in my backyard. With Agatha running around in her usual circles, I called Emmaline. I filled her in on the big reveal of the investors from Johnny Wellborn, as well as meeting Vanessa, the spiritual advisor. “I never would have pegged Max as the spiritual type,” I said.
“She’s definitely someone we need to look into. But the other, the real-estate investment gone bad? Those people, whoever they are, have solid motives,” Em said, a trace of hope in her voice.
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