Bones and Roses (19 page)

“If I dig down deep, I might find a compliment buried in there somewhere.”

“That was my clumsy way of saying you look good.”

“Emphasis on ‘clumsy.'” I feel the tension go out of me as we banter.

“In my defense, I'm out of practice. In Muslim countries it's generally considered unwise to pay a compliment to a woman who isn't your wife or sister. God help me if I were to tell a woman I wasn't related to, who happened to be sitting across from me in a restaurant, she looked lovely.” He makes a gun with his thumb and forefinger and holds it to his head as he clicks his tongue.

“In that case, you're forgiven.” I keep my voice light, though his pantomime sends a shudder through me, as if I'd swallowed an ice cube whole. The compliment isn't lost on me, however. I'm glad I took the time to blow out my hair and put on makeup. I'm wearing the nicest clothes I could find in my closet that wouldn't have me looking like I'd purposely dressed up: slim-fitting black jeans and a fuchsia jersey top with a scoop neck. I don't normally wear jewelry to work, not since a parrot belonging to one of my clients nearly tore off my earlobe along with one of my hoop earrings when it flew onto my shoulder as I was cleaning its cage. But today I'm sporting silver studs in my ears and a moonstone pendant, one of Ivy's creations, on a chain around my neck.

Bradley signals to our waiter, a college-age kid with shaggy blond hair who looks vaguely familiar. As he's walking toward us I remember where I know him from—we met at a university function; he's one of Daniel's grad students. I duck my head, pretending to study the menu even though I know it by heart from all the times I've eaten here. It's a knee-jerk reaction and totally juvenile. I'm acting like a high school girl who's worried her boyfriend will get jealous if it gets back to him she was seen with another guy, not a grown woman who's free to have male friends. I'm relieved nonetheless when the grad student/waiter takes our orders without showing so much as a flicker of recognition.

When our food comes—the buckwheat-pecan waffle for me, and green chili breakfast burrito for Bradley—and I'm attacking what's on my plate (I didn't realize how hungry I was until I inhaled the delicious smells wafting toward me), Bradley observes, with a wry chuckle, “Nothing like criminal activity for working up an appetite. Good thing you didn't spend the night in jail.”

“Why is that, aside from the obvious?”

“The food isn't nearly as good.”

“And you know this because …” I twirl my fork at him in a let's-hear-it gesture.

“I spent a night in jail once when I was sixteen.”

“DUI?” It's the first thing that comes to mind, having been pulled over on more than one occasion during my drinking days.

“No, but close. I was at a party that got raided. Me and a bunch of other kids were charged with underage drinking. I also got possession—I had a couple joints on me. I was a first-time offender so I'd have had it easy except that Dad decided to teach me a lesson—over my mom's strong objection, I might add. He didn't bail me out until the next day. Which was how I ended up overnighting in the drunk tank at County with a couple of homeless winos named, I kid you not, Hank and Frank.” He places a hand over his heart, eyes twinkling. “I promise you I'm a reformed man.”

“Reformed my ass,” I tease him. “You just found a way to get your kicks legally.”

He shrugs, flashing me an unrepentant grin. “What about you? What's your excuse?”

I consider how best to phrase it. “I broke the law, okay, but there were mitigating factors.”

“Such as?”

“I was looking for information.”

“And did you find it?”

“Yes and no.” I use my fork to spear a morsel of waffle with which to mop up the syrup on my plate while I studiously avoid his gaze. “Actually, I'm thinking I may have been wrong about Stan.”

“Really. What made you change your mind?”

My heart starts to pound again. I want to give him an honest answer, but how do you tell someone you care about that his grandfather was a serial killer and his father might be one, too? “He was there when I got home last night. He wanted me to know he was dropping the charges against me.”

Bradley considers this as he refills his coffee cup from the thermos on the table. “I'm glad the charges were dropped, but I'm having trouble with the bit about him showing up unannounced. To me that says ‘stalker.' Why drive all the way over to your house in the middle of the night when he could've picked up the phone, or better yet, had your lawyer give you the good news?”

“I guess he felt he owed it to my mom.” It sounds lame even as I'm saying it.

“And based solely on that you're prepared to give him a pass?” I can tell his newsman's nose is twitching. He senses there's more to the story. But I'm not going to give it to him. Not just yet.

“I've been known to be wrong from time to time.” I strike a casual note, even as the horrid knowledge I bear twists and gnaws inside me. “How's your burrito? Not too spicy, I hope?”

“No, just the way I like it. It's delicious. I haven't tasted anything this good in a while. Not since Genevieve left.” He pauses to reflect on this as he chews. “I do miss her cooking, I have to admit.”

I refrain from asking,
Is that all you miss?
“Are you two still on speaking terms?” I ask instead.

“Sure. Just because we broke up, it doesn't mean we aren't still friends.”

“It's not the same for every couple. Look at your parents.”

He makes a face. “Point taken. But that's an extreme example. She and I are … I was on the phone with her for an hour last night, as a matter of fact.” If I was looking to get a status report on their relationship, he's not giving me much. I have no choice but to take the direct approach.

“Any chance you'll get back together?”

“I don't see how. There's no middle ground.” He puts his fork down with a sigh. “Christ. I feel like such a jerk. She's not wrong to want what she wants.”

“No, but we don't always get what we want.”

“True,” he agrees, wearing a look of regret.

“I feel that way about Daniel. We're compatible, but we don't always see eye-to-eye. It's not that we want different things, just that we're very different from each other.” I feel a stab of guilt. I shouldn't be discussing my relationship with an outsider. Not just any outsider, a man on whom I have a secret crush. It doesn't seem fair to Daniel. “Maybe that's how it is with most couples. What do I know? I have nothing to compare it to. My parents' marriage was anything but normal.”

“My mom and dad put a lot of energy into making theirs seem normal, but I, for one, was never fooled,” he says. “You know it's bad when your kid is begging to be sent to boarding school.”

“You don't have to be from an unhappy home to want to go to boarding school,” I point out.

“I was nine.”

“Oh.”

He pops a piece of bacon in his mouth and chews. “There should be a patron saint for fucked-up families.”

I wince inwardly. If only he knew …

Talk turns to his work. You'd think it was all a great adventure, to hear him tell it. He'd traveled the Taliban strongholds along the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, embedded with an army infantry division; seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan; and, in the past five years alone, witnessed the toppling of the dictatorships in Egypt and then Libya. “Got some killer footage of them storming the presidential palace,” he reminisces fondly of the latter, seemingly unaware of my mouth hanging open. I never thought I'd meet someone who was more of an adrenaline junkie than Ivy.

“When do you go back?” I ask, torn between wishing he'd stick around longer and wanting to spare him the worst of the media storm when the truth comes out about his grandfather. That is, if I succeed in creating one. I don't know whether or not Joan will cooperate in that effort. I have a feeling she will, but I can't be sure until I've spoken with her. Just thinking about it causes my stomach to twist, bringing the sour taste of maple syrup mixed with bile.

“Week after next. Just got word from the bureau chief.” He studies me when I don't respond right away. “Why the long face? Don't tell me you're going to miss me.”

“Maybe just a little.” I hold my thumb and forefinger a scant inch apart, at which he breaks out in a grin. “But how can a lone projectile-throwing woman compete with the thrill of the war zone?”

He chuckles. “My life isn't as exciting as yours, apparently.”

“That reminds me. I should give your mom a call and explain about last night. You know, so she won't think I'm moonlighting as a cat burglar.”

He nods his approval. “I only gave her the bare bones, so she'll want to hear from you. Oh, and throw in a good word for my dad while you're at it.” He means the fact that his father came to my rescue. My stomach executes another half gainer as I think about how I'd been alone in a car with a man who'd been complicit, if not actively involved, in at least three murders.

“Believe me, he'll be topic number one.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Trousdales' townhouse in the exclusive district of Pacific Heights is a prime example of turn-of-the-century Second Empire architecture. Easily the most impressive on the block, its three stories boast rounded cornices and classical pediments, a center wing flanked by French windows with ornate wrought-iron balconies. Round
oeil de boeuf
windows peer like old-fashioned monocles from either end of the patterned-slate mansard roof. A small entry porch with a domed portico leads to a hallway that opens onto a formal parlor furnished in period antiques.

“What can I get you to drink?” inquires Joan after I'm settled on the rose-silk settee by the fireplace. An array of non-alcoholic beverages sits on a silver tray on the Sheraton sideboard. I'd confided to her that I was in AA, and clearly she hasn't forgotten. I appreciate her thoughtfulness even though I don't mind when others drink around me. I tell her I'll take a Diet Coke.

As she pours our beverages I take a moment to survey the room, taking in the carved, Italianate marble fireplace, twelve-foot corniced ceiling, and bay window flanked by stained-glass panels. “You have a lovely home,” I remark. “The photos don't do it justice.” I'm referring to the five-page spread in the book on historic mansions of San Francisco, a copy of which sits on the coffee table at the La Mar house.

She turns to face me, a frosty drink in each hand. “Thank you. Remarkable, isn't it? That she's still standing after two catastrophic earthquakes.” She means the 1901 quake that decimated most of the city's buildings and the one in 1989, known as Loma Prieta. “She's a tough old gal,” she adds, smiling, and I have a feeling she's referring to more than the house. She crosses the room and hands me my drink, then sits down on the Empire sofa opposite me with her iced tea. The flames flickering in the gas fireplace cast a rosy glow over her face, with its fine patrician features, that's benefited, in my opinion, from not having been nipped or tucked or injected with Botox. “Now then, you said over the phone there was something important you wanted to discuss?”

I take a sip of my Diet Coke. I'm so nervous my hands are sweating, but my throat is parched. Unless I enlist Joan as an ally, my mission is doomed. “First, I should explain about last night …”

“I assumed you hadn't come all this way to tell me the pool filter was acting up again,” she puts in, arching an eyebrow at me. She looks every inch the lady of the manor dressed in a cream silk blouse and fawn slacks, a rope of pearls around her neck and matching pearl earrings in her ears.

“It is, but we can get to that later. If I still have a job, that is.” I give her an ingratiating smile.

“Of course, that goes without saying.” She dismisses my concern with a wave of her manicured hand. “I'm sure you have a perfectly good explanation for why you were arrested.”

I continue to smile, my lips stretched like a rubber band that might snap from my face and go flying across the room at any moment. “I promise you I'm not in the habit of breaking into other people's homes. I mean, what kind of property manager would I be? How would that look on my resume? ‘She waters your houseplants by day and robs you blind at night.' Can you im—” I break off when I realize I sound like a comedian with a bad case of flop sweat playing to a handful of angry drunks in an otherwise deserted night club. Though, in all fairness to Joan, she seems more confused than unsympathetic. “Um. See, the thing is … I was conducting an investigation. Into my mom's death. The cops weren't getting anywhere—their hands are tied—but being as I'm a civilian, I figured I could … go outside the box. Unfortunately, my plan backfired.”

“I see. Yes, I remember your mentioning you were making some inquiries.” She puts it politely.

“I was looking to get the dirt on my mom's former boyfriend. But it turned out I'd only scratched the surface with him. There was something much, much bigger and a whole lot nastier underneath.” I take another sip of my Diet Coke. My throat is so dry you could strike a match on it.

She regards me with bright interest. “Well? You mustn't keep me in suspense.”

“I'll get to that in a minute. First, did you know it was your husband who bailed me out last night?”

“My soon-to-be
ex
-husband,” she corrects me. “Yes. How very kind of him.” Her voice is thick with sarcasm. “Let me guess. He was hoping to persuade you he's entirely innocent of any allegations against him.”

“Something like that. But don't worry, I won't be testifying in his defense.”

Mistaking my meaning, she says, with a sigh of resignation, “I appreciate your partisanship, my dear, but I'm afraid there's no chance he'll be charged, much less put on trial, for what he did to me. It was naïve of me to ever think the authorities would take my word over his.”

“No doubt you're right about that. But let's say he was guilty of other crimes.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “Did he—?”

“No, he was the perfect gentleman last night. I'm talking about when he was shooting at me.”

“So that
was
him? I knew it!” she cries.

“Or someone who was working for him,” I say, recalling Ivy's theory about the ex-military hit man.

“Do you have proof?” she asks. I'm feeling better about my chances of enlisting her help. The eagerness in her voice tells me she'd be willing to stick her neck out if it meant putting him behind bars.

“Not yet, but I'm working on it. It's more complicated than you know.” I pause for dramatic effect, the brief silence measured by the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway, before I drop my bombshell. “I have reason to believe he was involved in at least three murders.”

She gasps, the color draining from her face. “You're saying there were …
others
? But how—I don't understand. Where did you come by such information?” I notice she isn't questioning his guilt.

“Let's just say I have it on good authority.” I repeat the tale as it was told to me by Stan.

“No!” she cries when I get to the part about Leon. “That's preposterous. Leon wasn't like that. He would never … he wasn't a monster. He was a good man.” I've never seen her so agitated.

“No, he was good at fooling people.”

“It wasn't an act,” she insists. “He was a gentle soul.”

“He was the mastermind. It all leads back to him.”

“The man you're describing … that's not the man I knew.” She frowns as she stares into middle space, absently playing with the rope of pearls around her neck, looping it around and around her fingers until it resembles a hangman's noose. She has it pulled so taut it's left a red mark on her neck. “We were close. He was like a father to me. I'd have known, or at least suspected …”

I realize I need to take a different approach, given the deep bond between she and her father-in-law—Douglas wasn't lying about that—so I say in a gentler voice, “Okay, let's say I'm wrong and he really was the man you describe. You'd want to clear him of suspicion, wouldn't you?”

“W-what do you mean?” She eyes me in confusion.

“Let's suppose Douglas acted alone without his father's knowledge. If we could find a way to prove it, Leon's name wouldn't be dragged through the mud.” I pause to let this sink in. “Do you know if the Fontana has records that date back to when my mom worked there?”

For a long minute the only sounds are the ticking of the grandfather clock and hissing of the gas flames in the fireplace. Then Joan answers, “I believe so. When I worked there, we had a system. Everything pertaining to the tax returns for that year went into one file, in case we were audited. There's a storage area in the basement below the offices where all those boxes are kept.”

I'm reminded that she worked at the Fontana, as an administrative assistant—secretary, they were called back then—before she was married. It was how she and Douglas met. I imagine her being swept off her feet by the handsome, charismatic son of her employer. It must have seemed a dream come true. Instead it ended up being her worst nightmare. Now she's faced with an impossible choice: bring down her hated husband or let him get away with murder to protect the man she revered.

“Can you get access?” I ask, my pulse racing.

“I can, yes. The question is, will I?” she says sharply. She knows I'm talking about more than a set of keys and the passcode for the alarm system.

“We need to put an end to this,” I appeal to her, “before he hurts someone else. Don't forget what he did to you. If you hadn't caught that ledge on the way down …”

She releases her death grip on the pearls and abruptly rises to her feet, pacing over to the fireplace. She holds onto the mantel as if to steady herself as she stares at the grouping of family photos that sits on it—Bradley, in his cap and gown on graduation day; a formal portrait of the family taken back when Bradley had braces on his teeth; a candid shot of Joan and her young son at the beach, building a sand castle together—as if to remind herself of the life she once knew. “Forget? How could I ever forget? I can't close my eyes at night without seeing those rocks below …” She trails off with a visible shudder, then straightens and turns to face me. “Don't think I don't know what you're asking of me. If what you're saying is true, my husband didn't act alone. He lived for his father's approval. He'd have done anything for him.
Anything.
” Her eyes flash.

“Those other people … my mom … they didn't deserve to die. You can help me avenge their deaths.”

Her mouth contorts in an expression halfway between a mirthless smile and rueful grimace. “Would you think me horribly selfish if I said I was more interested in putting my husband behind bars?”

“No. I'd think you were only human.”

She nods and says, with grim resolve: “Then let's do this.”