Bones and Roses (4 page)

“On the house,” she says with a smile.

I almost burst into tears at the small kindness.

Spence gets down to business after that. He punches a button on the tape recorder and states the time and date and both our names for the record before proceeding with the interview. I'm thrown for a loop with his first question. He asks the name of my mother's dentist. “So we can confirm the identity of the victim.”

“I told you already. It—she's my mother.” I swallow hard. “
Was,
I mean.”

He nods and only then do I see a flicker of compassion. “It's not that I doubt you, but we still need her dental records to make it official.” I give him the name of our family dentist, Dr. Hanson.

What follows is a blur of questions. I struggle to answer as best I can in my shell-shocked state. I dredge up memories I'd spent the past twenty-five years trying to forget.

“What can you tell me about him?” Spence asks when I get to the part about Stan.

“Nothing other than what I just told you. I didn't even know his last name until I got that postcard.”

“When was that?”

“I don't recall the exact date, but it's on the postmark.”

“You saved it?” His gaze sharpens.

I nod. “I'll look for it when I get home.” I'd tucked it in one of my drawers.

“I'll have one of my men stop by later on.”

“There's no ne—” I start to say before I note the expression on his face. Clearly it's not optional.

“You're certain of what he wrote?”

“Yeah. Just those three words. ‘Sorry for everything.'”

“You have no idea what he was sorry for?”

“At the time I assumed it was because he felt guilty for robbing me and my brother of our mom. Now I'm wondering if it was a confession. I mean, isn't it obvious he killed her?”

Spence shrugs. “That remains to be seen.”

“Who else could it have been?”

“Where's the motive? They'd planned to run off together. Presumably they loved each other.”

“Maybe she got cold feet. They fought over it and he lashed out in a moment of anger. She fell and hit her head, or he hit her harder than he'd meant to. Then he disposed of the body so he could make it like they'd run off together.”

“It's one theory.”

“What I can't figure out is why he contacted me. Or why he'd arrange for me to find her, if it was him. Unless it was eating at his conscience. You know, like in that Edgar Allen Poe story.”

“
The Telltale Heart
. We studied it in English sophomore year,” he reminds me. “Miss Whitson's class?”

I ignore the comment. The less I dwell on memories from our high school years the better. “Are you going to bring him in for questioning?”

“As soon as we can locate his whereabouts. But keep in mind he's only a person of interest at this point. I'd need to see enough evidence to charge him. And that's going to be tough. I won't lie to you. We don't know yet if it was foul play, and even if we can prove it, we're looking at a murder that took place decades ago, for which there are no witnesses, no timeline, and forensic evidence so degraded it probably can't be used in court. Also, we can't rule out other suspects.”

“Everyone loved my mom.”

“Your dad couldn't have been too happy with her.”

His words send a jolt through me, causing my hand to tremble as I'm sipping my coffee. I wince as some of the hot liquid sloshes over the rim to splash my knuckles. I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you saying my
dad
is a suspect?”

“Usually it's the husband. And he had a motive. She'd left him for another man.”

I suck on my scalded knuckles where they're throbbing. “No way. He wasn't like that. He was …” I rethink what I was about to say.
Ball-less
was the word I was going to use. “Mom used to complain she could never get a rise out of him. She'd accuse him of being unfeeling. But I don't think he was. He was just a really private guy.” My father had his faults, God knows, but he wasn't mean or vindictive. “He never said a bad word about her even after she left us. He was a gentle soul.”

“Or a bomb waiting to go off.”

I bristle at his words. “Oh well, in that case, you can add me to the list of suspects while you're at it.”

He studies me for a moment. “You're not a suspect. Not at this point in time. Although,” he adds thoughtfully, “you've been known to be violent.”

I push my coffee aside. Otherwise, I'd be sorely tempted to throw it in his face, which would only prove his point. “Are we done here or is there some other personal failing of mine you'd like to dissect?” We've covered my short fuse and weakness for alcohol. What's next, my rumored promiscuousness? I use my hands, flat against the table, to push myself into a standing position.

“You're free to go,” he says as though it were up to him.

“Thank you,” I snap.

My head is throbbing, the sunlight like needles stabbing my eyeballs, when I finally climb in behind the wheel of my Explorer. I phone Ivy to let her know I'm all right and not under arrest for assaulting a police officer, which I came close to doing with Spence. Had I been in my right mind I'd have driven straight home. Instead I take a different route. I have one last item on my to-do list.

Twenty minutes later I'm turning onto the private drive to the Trousdale estate, fifteen miles south of town in the village of La Mar. I think about the less-than-cozy family reunion in store for Bradley Trousdale, which in turn leads to thoughts of my brother. I dread breaking the news to him about our mom. Arthur's brain isn't wired like other people's; it has no shock absorber—in stressful situations he tends to shut down. There's no telling what this could do to him.

The drive meanders for a half mile through landscaped grounds maintained by my boyfriend, Daniel. The setting sun casts a sparkly net over the ocean visible in the distance. Minutes later I'm pulling up in front of the house, a sprawling cedar and glass structure. Inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright's designs, it's built to blend with the landscape rather than dominate it; from a distance, partially hidden by the surrounding greenery, it's barely distinguishable from the bluff on which it sits. The wraparound deck and floor-to-ceiling picture windows offer unobstructed ocean views from every angle. It's so quiet out here that when I pull to a stop and cut the engine, there's only the sound of the wind blowing off the ocean, whistling amid the rock formations.

Daniel occupies the smaller of the two guest cottages. Small being a relative term: each one boasts a fireplace, galley kitchen, and bedroom. I don't see his Jeep in the driveway, so he must still be at work. He has a part-time job, as research assistant to Professor Gruen, the head of the marine biology department, in addition to his teaching position, which means he often works until late in the evenings. I don't know much about the research, except that it has to do with the nervous system of lobsters; I only know I'm the happy beneficiary of the by-product. Daniel makes a mean lobster bisque.

I let myself in the front door of the main house with my key, but when I go to punch in the passcode, I notice the system is disarmed. The housekeeper must've forgotten to set it when she was leaving earlier today. I make a mental note to speak to Lupe about it. Luckily no harm was done. I see no evidence of a forced entry. The house is silent, the only sound the squeaking of my rubber soles against the tiled floor as I make my way down the hall.

I pause on the threshold of the great room, but I don't notice its majestic proportions or open-beamed cathedral ceiling, Mission-style furnishings, and museum-quality artwork. It's the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows that draws my eye. It's like I'm standing on a ship's deck with the ocean all around me. The sun is setting, the sky along the horizon painted with brushstrokes of gold and coral. Breakers roll in toward the cliff below the house. It's a shame the Trousdales don't get to enjoy it more often, but I can't say I mind having it all to myself. Especially feeling as I do now, like my head is about to split open and I've been stripped of my skin.

In the kitchen, with its acres of granite countertop and center island ringed with hanging copper pots, I grab a vase from the walk-in pantry. I fill it with water and arrange the remaining flowers from Trader Joe's, then head for the largest of the two guest suites. Bradley Trousdale isn't due to arrive until tomorrow, which is why I'm startled by the sound of the shower running in the en suite bathroom as I enter the room. I see no evidence of a newly arrived houseguest. No clothes in the closet, no luggage even, just the frayed and filthy backpack on the floor by the king-sized bed. In that moment all I can think of is the recent break-in at one of my other properties, where I arrived after having been alerted by a neighbor to find the intruder, a homeless man, in the kitchen making himself a sandwich. My heart starts to pound. My shot nerves are humming like a jarful of bees. I react unthinkingly when the door to the bathroom swings opens and a male figure emerges amid a cloud of steam, naked except for the towel around his waist.

I hurl the vase at him.

CHAPTER THREE

The sound of glass shattering is accompanied by a sharp cry. I'm not certain which one of us cried out; I'm as stunned as he is. Then I realize to my horror that the man at whom I hurled the vase, who fortunately ducked in time to keep from getting nailed, is none other than Bradley Trousdale.

He's staring at me like I'm a crazy person. And believe me, from being around my brother, I'm well acquainted with the looks crazy people get. I glance down at the shards of glass and gladioli strewn across the floor at his feet, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I thought you were—” I break off. No need to add insult to injury. “You … you must be Bradley.”

“You were expecting someone else?” he replies in a deadpan voice.

“No. Um. It's just …” I motion toward the frayed backpack at the foot of the bed as if it's somehow to blame for my rash act. “I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I caught an earlier flight.” He states the obvious. “You must be Tish.”

“That would be me.” I grimace.

“My mom told me you'd be stopping by. She didn't say you were armed and dangerous.”

At his expression of wry amusement I feel myself go weak with relief. At least he's not picking up the phone to let his mother know she has a lunatic working for her. “Really, I'm so sorry,” I apologize again. “I know it's no excuse, but it's been one of those days.” To put it mildly.

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, looking down at the wreckage.

I watch as he bends to collect the shards. I'm thinking I should fetch a broom and mop before the puddle on the hardwood floor leaves a stain, but I can only stand rooted to the spot, staring at him. In his early thirties, he's good-looking with a face that, if you were to examine each feature individually—the hawk nose, the wide mouth with its crooked eyetooth, the prominent brow—you might not think handsome but which somehow works as a whole. His cobalt eyes, the color of a twilight desert sky, stand out against a swarthy complexion deepened by long exposure to the Middle Eastern sun. His curly dark-brown hair gives him a vaguely Dionysian look. He's average height, but that's the only thing about him that's average. The nomadic life he leads is evident in his lean, muscled frame, marred only by the wicked scar on his left shoulder.

He dumps the shards in the wastebasket and straightens. I must have looked unsteady on my feet because the next thing I know he has me by the arm and he's leading me down the hallway. Depositing me on the leather sofa in the great room opposite the fireplace, he murmurs, “Be right back.”

He reappears shortly, dressed in worn denim jeans and a blue chambray shirt equally faded from many washings. He's carrying a bottle of red wine and pair of wine goblets. “Thanks, but I don't drink,” I inform him, not without regret, as he places them on the coffee table. I could use a glass of wine right now, or five. “I used to, but …”
Too much information
. “Anyway, I should really go clean up that mess …” I start to get up, and he gently pushes me back down into the little nest I've made for myself amid the sofa's kilim throw pillows. I'm in no shape to protest.

“All taken care of. Sit tight,” he orders in a firm voice. He leaves the room again and returns minutes later with a steaming mug of tea. “Chamomile,” he says, handing it to me. “It's supposed to have a calming effect.” He pours himself a glass of wine—a Chateau Lafleur Burgundy, I note with approval—before sinking down on the sofa. A remote control device sits on the glass-and-wrought-iron coffee table; he picks it up and, with the push of a button, we have a nice fire flickering in the gas fireplace. “Feeling any better?” he inquires after I've taken a few sips of my tea.

“Why are you being so nice?” I blurt.

“Something tells me walking in on a strange man getting out of the shower wasn't the worst thing that happened to you today.”

“You got that right,” I reply with a grimace.

“If you feel like talking about it, I'm a good listener.”

I'm sure he's only being polite, so I demur. “Trust me, you don't want to know. Let's just say I'm not in the habit of walking in on strange men getting out of the shower. You caught me by surprise.”

“Next time you could try knocking,” he says lightly.

“I thought you were an intruder!”

“I see. So you were expecting monogrammed luggage and an entourage?” He chuckles at the notion. “Well, no harm done.”

“To you. But your mom will kill me when she finds out I broke her vase.” It was one of the expensive crystal ones, too.

“No, she won't.”

“Easy for you to say.” At the sharpness of my tone, I wince inwardly. God, what's
wrong
with me?

“If she notices it's missing, I'll tell her I broke it,” he replies calmly.

“You would do that?” I stare at him in astonishment.

He shrugs. “Accidents happen.”

“I owe you big time, in that case.”

“You don't owe me a thing. Just promise to go easy on me next time.” His wry gaze drops to my throwing arm.

“I used to get hit on a lot in bars,” I explain, hinting at why I don't drink—one reason, anyway. “Some guys won't take no for an answer. You have to be more forceful in getting the message across.”

He breaks into a grin. “I pity the poor slobs.”

“Luckily you have quicker reflexes than they did.”

“Where I just came from, if you don't duck when you see something coming, you're likely to go home in a coffin.” I feel the blood drain from my face at the gruesome image that surfaces in my mind of my mom's remains. Bradley peers at me with concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

I have no choice then but to tell him. About my mother turning up dead after all these years and my subsequent questioning by the cops. “All this time we thought she was off living her life in some other place. You know, the life she would've had if she hadn't gotten married or had kids.” I choke up and wipe my tear-filled eyes, apologizing, “I'm sorry I'm such a mess.”

His expression is a mixture of shock and sympathy. “Who wouldn't be? Jesus. What are you even doing here? You should be home taking it easy.”

“Good question. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly. But you're absolutely right, and I've imposed on you long enough.” I start to get up, and he seizes my arm, pulling me back down. His grip on my elbow suffuses my whole body with warmth. I feel like I'm sinking into a warm bath.

“You're not going anywhere. You're in no shape to drive.”

“Been a while since I've heard that one. Never mind,” I say at the questioning look he gives me. He doesn't need to know about all the times I had my car keys confiscated by conscientious bartenders.

“I'd give you a ride,” he says, “but I probably shouldn't risk it, either.” He indicates his empty wineglass. “Why don't you stay for supper? I'm sure we can rustle up something to eat.” He adds, with a smile, when I don't answer right away, “I promise you're safe with me. I'm not one of those guys.”

I rouse from my stupor, remembering my place. I'm the property manager, not an old friend who'd dropped by unexpectedly. “Thanks, I appreciate the offer, but really, there's no need. I'll be fine in a minute. This stuff seems to be working.” I lift my tea mug. “I feel calmer already.”

I can't bear to talk about my mom, so we talk about his job as a combat cameraman. “It's dangerous at times, and not always fun,” he says, “but I can't imagine doing anything else. I'd rather take a bullet doing what I love than be miserable trying to make my parents happy. Though right now I'm the least of their worries.” His expression clouds over at the reference to their divorce.

It's not my place to comment, so I only say, “I'm sure they're glad to have you back. How long are you staying?”

“Two, three weeks, maybe longer. I never know when or where my next assignment will be.”

“Where's home?”

“You mean as in permanent address? Nowhere, really. I used to keep an apartment in the city, but when it came time to renew my lease, I realized there was no point. I was almost never there.”

“It helps to have parents with vacation homes.” Besides this one, there's the condo in Aspen.

“True. Though I usually stay with my girlfriend in New York whenever I'm between assignments.”

So he has a girlfriend. That explains why we haven't met before now. It doesn't surprise me, though I feel strangely let down. Which is ridiculous. I have a boyfriend. Whose consoling arms will soon be around me. At that precise moment I hear Daniel's voice call my name as if I'd conjured him up.

“There you are!” he cries, his gaze falling on me as he comes striding into the room. “I've been looking all over for you.” He comes to an abrupt halt when he notices I'm not alone, his gaze flicking from me to Bradley and then back to me. I can imagine what's going through his head.

“Daniel, I was just …” I trail off, not sure what I wanted to say.

“You weren't answering your phone. I've only left about a million messages on your voicemail,” he goes on as if I hadn't spoken, closing the distance between me and him. I've never seen him so agitated; normally he's the calm voice of reason. “Ivy told me what happened. I was worried when I didn't hear from you. Thank God you're all right.” What he means is, I'm not drowning my sorrows in some seedy bar. Daniel's never seen me drunk, but he knows my history.

“I'm sorry. I had my phone off when I was at the police station. I forgot to check my messages. Daniel, this is—”

He remembers his manners then and turns to our host before I can make the introductions. “Oh, hey. You must be Bradley. I'm Daniel. Resident groundskeeper and boyfriend.” Bradley rises and the two men shake hands. “Sorry for barging in like this, but when I saw Tish's Explorer in the driveway …” His gaze drops to the bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses sitting on the coffee table, and I feel another flutter of apprehension, imagining what it must look like to him. Another man would demand an explanation or stomp off in a fit of jealousy, but Daniel merely inquires pleasantly, with a nod toward the wine, “Mind if I join you?”

I don't know whether to be relieved or annoyed.

I'd been sober a little over a year when I first met Daniel. One sunny fall day I was taking a stroll out at Paradise Point when I spied a stocky, sandy-haired guy around my age, dressed in olive cargo shorts and a Greenpeace T-shirt, chasing after a seagull that wasn't flying away for some reason. They made such a comical sight—the seagull hopping along on one leg, flapping its wings, pursued by the guy waving a butterfly net at it—I stopped to watch. He didn't see me until he almost ran into me.

“Oh, hey,” he said as we stood facing each other after the seagull had hop-flapped down the path. He explained that the bird had a plastic ring from a six-pack holder caught on one of its feet. “Happens all the time. I rescue the ones I can catch so they won't die of starvation.” Seagulls feed mainly on fish and mollusks, he explained.

I helped him catch the gull and we wrapped it in my windbreaker before removing the plastic ring and setting it free. After we'd watched it fly off, we sat on of the benches alongside the path and talked. I learned his name was Daniel Gunderson. He'd moved here from Racine, Wisconsin, after he was accepted into the graduate program at the university. The minute he'd set foot on this rugged and largely unspoiled stretch of coastline, he knew he was here to stay. “This is my spiritual home,” he said, and coming from him it didn't sound like trite New Age blather.

I warmed to him right away. I mean, how can you not like a guy who goes around rescuing birds that are generally referred to in these parts as flying rats? (If you've ever been pooped on by a seagull, you'd know why.) I also found him attractive, with his broad Scandinavian face, lively blue-green eyes, and sandy hair that flopped over his forehead. Romantic relationships are generally frowned on in the first year of sobriety, besides which, pretty much the only guys with whom I came into contact in those days were the ones at AA meetings. Before that, my romantic life had been a distant second to my drinking. Suffice it to say I didn't need to have my arm twisted when he phoned the next day to invite me over for a lobster dinner.

One week later we were lovers and a month after that he was living in one of the guest cottages at the Trousdales.' Their previous groundskeeper had been deported to Mexico. (This was before I learned to be scrupulous in checking green cards) and Daniel had experience, having worked summers for a landscaper throughout high school, so it was the ideal arrangement for all concerned.

This evening as we stroll hand-in-hand down the path to the guest cottages after saying our good-byes, I feel something settle inside me. Where I'd once taken solace in drinking, he's hot cocoa with marshmallows on top. I know what Ivy would say about that: there's nothing sexy about hot cocoa with marshmallows. Which is fine, because right now I'm not feeling very sexy. I'm content just to have him at my side.

Daniel's cottage is the farthest from the house and closest to the swimming pool and tennis court. The exterior is shingled in cedar shakes silvered by exposure to the sea air. Inside it's decorated with light-colored wood furnishings and fabrics from the Ralph Lauren California Romantic collection, and there are touches of whimsy such as the fireplace mantle fashioned from a piece of driftwood and re-purposed factory skid that serves as a coffee table. I release a breath as I step through the doorway, and Daniel puts his arms around me, pulling me close. “I'm sorry about your mom,” he murmurs into my hair. “I know you never lost hope that she'd turn up one day.”

“And guess what? She did.” I choke out a laugh.