“She should have passed along time ago,” said she. “She’s a pain in the patooty. That’s what happens when you don’t behave. She should have done what doctor say. She shouldn’t never resist help when he know best. Now I got this and I don’t know what to do with. Here you take.”
Judging from the weight and heft of the bag, she’d gotten into some resistance of her own, letting all the paperwork pile up. It’d take Henry weeks to get everything sorted out. He emerged from the backdoor and crossed the patio to us. He’d changed out of his tank top and shorts into a flannel shirt and long pants.
“I gotta scoot,” I said, and set the bag on the ground. Henry peered in. “Is this trash?”
By the time I let myself into my apartment, he was already hauling the bag toward his kitchen door, nodding sympathetically while Rosie lurched through an tortured explanation of her plight.
I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool while I circled the apartment, closing windows and locking them. I turned on lamps as I went so the place would look cheerful when I got home. Upstairs, pulled on a clean white turtleneck, which I wore with my jeans. I shrugged back into my gray tweed blazer, traded my Sauconys for black boots, and studied myself in the bathroom mirror. The effect was just what you’d expect: a tweed blazer with jeans. Works for me, I thought.
Paloma Lane is a shady two-lane road that runs between Highway 101 land the Pacific Ocean, sharing the irregular strip of land with the Southern Pacific Railroad. Despite the proximity to the freight and passenger trains thundering past twice daily, many houses along Paloma sell in the millions, depending on the number of linear feet of beachfront a property claims. The houses vary in style from |Pseudo-Cape Cod to Mock Tudor to Faux Mediterranean to Contemporary. All are situated as far away from the railroad tracks as possible and as close to the sand as county setbacks permit. Crystal Purcell’s lot was one of the few without electronic gates. The house next door, to the left of hers, bore a discreet For Sale sign with a PRICE REDUCED banner across the center.
Crystal’s house filled the narrow lot. The glass-and-cedar structure was probably forty feet wide and three stories high, each floor angled strategically to keep the neighboring houses out of sight. To the left, an open carport sheltered a silver Audi convertible and a new white Volvo, with a vanity license plate that read CRYSTAL. The end slot was free; probably where Dow Purcell had parked his Mercedes. To the right, there was room for an additional three cars on the gravel stretch where I parked my slightly dinged 1974 VW.
The rear facade of the house was austere, a windowless wall of weathering wood. On either side of the door, a row of thirty-foot fan palms had been planted in enormous black jars. I trudged across the gravel to the entrance and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door carried a wide martini glass by the rim. She said, “You must be Kinsey. I’m Anica Blackburn. Nica’s the name most people use. Why don’t you come in? Crystal’s just finished her run. She’ll be down in a bit. I told her I’d let you in before I headed home.” Her dark auburn hair was slicked back, strands looking wet as though she was fresh from the shower. A faint, damp heat seemed to rise from her skin, which smelled of French milled soap. Her body was slim and straight. She wore a black silk shirt, crisply pressed jeans, and no shoes. Her bare feet were long and elegant.
I stepped into the foyer. The lower level widened from the entry, expanding into a great room that utilized the entire width of the house. Tall windows looked out onto a weathered wooden deck with worn canvas chairs bleached to a hue somewhere between putty and dun. The floors were a pale wood, covered with pale sisal carpeting, probably selected for its ability to disguise sand tracked in from the beach. Everything else within view, from the walls to woodwork to the plump upholstered furniture dressed in wrinkled linen slipcovers, was as white as whole milk.
Beyond the deck, there was an apron of scruffy grass about ten yards wide. Beyond the grass, the ocean looked cold and unforgiving in the late-afternoon light. The sea was a pearly gray, dark at the horizon where the water and cloud cover met and melded into one somber mass. The surf tumbled monotonously against the shoreline. Waves relaxed and fanned out, reached, hesitated, and then withdrew again. Inside, somewhere above, I could hear voices raised in heat.
“SHUT UP! That’s bullshit. You are such a bitch. I HATE you! . . .”
The reply was low and firm, but apparently ineffective.
A shrieking invective was hurled in response. A door slammed once and then slammed again so hard it made the windows shake.
I glanced at Nica, who had her face upturned, regarding the ceiling with an air of bemusement. “Leila’s home for the weekend-Crystal’s only daughter, age fourteen. That’s skirmish number one. Trust me, the fights will escalate as the hours wear on. By Sunday, it’s all-out war, but then it’s back to school for her. Next weekend they start in again, and so it goes.” She gestured for me to follow and then moved into the great room and took a seat on the couch.
“She’s in boarding school?” I asked.
“Fitch Academy. Malibu. I’m the school guidance counselor and I provide personal transportation to and from. Not part of my duties. As it happens, I rent a house two doors down.” She had strong, arched brows over dark eyes, high cheekbones with a smattering of freckles, and a pale wide mouth, showing perfect white teeth. “This particular Donnybrook is about whether Leila’s going to spend the night with her dad. Four months ago she was fanatical about him. If she couldn’t spend the weekend with him, she’d regale everyone in ear range with loud, shrieking fits. Now they’re on the outs and she refuses to go. Up to this point, she was winning the battle. Once she slams the door, it’s over. She loses big points for that, giving Crystal a tactical advantage.”
“I’d find it difficult.”
“Who doesn’t? Girls her age are melodramatic by nature and Leila’s high-strung. She’s one of the brightest kids we have, but she’s a handful. They all are-except for a few Goody Two-shoes. You never know where you stand with them. Personally, I prefer this, though it does get tedious.”
“Fitch is all girls?”
“Thank God. I’d hate to imagine having to deal with boys that age, too. Can I fix you a drink?”
“I better not, but thanks.”
She finished the last of her martini and then leaned forward and set her empty glass with a click on the light wood coffee table. “I understand you’re here about Dowan.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry to intrude. I’m sure she’s been through a lot since this ordeal began.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“How’s she doing?”
“I’d say fair. Of course, the strain’s been enormous. The days drag on and on, some worse than others. She keeps waiting for the phone to ring, looking for his car. The rumors keep flying, but that’s about all. No real sign of him yet.”
“I’m sure it’s hard.”
“Impossible. It really gets to her. If it weren’t for Griff, I don’t know how she’d manage to keep sane.”
“Where was she that night, this house or the other one, in Horton Ravine?”
Nica pointed at the floor. “They’re usually here on weekends. Crystal’s a Pisces-a water baby. This is more her style than that pretentious pile of shit Fiona built in town. Have you been there?”
“Not yet.”
“No offense,” she added mildly. “I know she’s your client.” You poor thing went unsaid.
“What about you? When did you hear Dow was missing?”
“Well, I knew something was going on that first night. I’d driven Leila up from Malibu as usual-we arrived about five o’clock-and she went off to her dad’s. He’s her stepfather, really, but he’s helped raise her from infancy. At any rate, Crystal had already talked to Dow when we pulled in from school. He knew he wasn’t going to be free in time for supper, so it was just Crystal and Rand and me.”
“Rand?”
“Griff’s nanny. He’s great. He’s been with the baby ever since Griff was born. You’ll meet both in a bit. Rand’ll bring Griff in for his goodnight kiss right after his bath. By then he’s had his supper and he’s ready for bed. On the twelfth, we put together a cold picnic and ate it out on the deck. It was gorgeous-quite clear and very balmy for that time of year; warm enough to linger without sweaters, which is unusual out here. We chatted about nothing in particular while we worked our way through a couple bottles of red wine. At seven forty-five, Rand took Griff and went over to the other house. He’s got a couple of TV shows he likes and he wanted to be there in time to settle in for those.”