Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (20 page)

     She closed her eyes and held her hands over the sparkling orb. Slowed her breathing, relaxed her body. She started to feel something. A tingling. Daisy trying to come through. "Give me a name—a specific detail..."

     
Ring!

     She nearly jumped off the sofa.

     Coco glared at the phone as if it had interrupted her on purpose, debated answering it, considered throwing it outside, then couldn't resist.

     It was Kenny. His voice making her heart skip as he asked her to meet him for cocktails later. Coco frowned. It was only morning. How could she possibly think that far into the future? But he was persistent in a pleasant, polite and, frankly, flattering way—and she was so damned attracted to him—so she agreed, thinking it wouldn't hurt to share a drink or two with him. And the time
would
be limited because she had a date to have dinner with Abby Tyler afterward.

     Returning to the crystal, and forcing Kenny from her mind, but deep down glad he had called and looking forward to seeing him, wishing she weren't—her emotions at odds—she returned herself to a spiritually receptive state and once again invited Daisy into her mind.

     A message came through!

     No words, really, or images, nothing substantial or concrete. More of a
sense
of something. A slight adjustment to what Daisy had said the day before. Not "well traveled" but "worldly."

     Coco opened her eyes and stared at the crystal. Worldly! Not exactly the same as having a heavily stamped passport. A person could circumnavigate the globe and not be aware of worldly things.

     She briefly thought of Kenny but had to eliminate him. He did not strike her as being sophisticated or experienced in global matters.
He writes code and tries not to remember things.

     Full of optimism, she spruced herself up, using her long red acrylic nails to frizz out her hair (the curls and burgundy color were salon-created), a touch of blush, eyebrows penciled, and four layers of lipstick to give her that kissable look. Sandals, gypsy skirt, off-the-shoulder blouse and she was off.

     The jungle paths and paved walkways of The Grove were alive with men. Fresh and jaded, vain and modest, dressed tastefully, plainly, hot, or as if they had dressed in the dark. They smiled at Coco, they nodded, they made eye contact. But nothing jumped out at her. She knew these guys were on the prowl for sex and Coco wasn't looking for sex. Sex was easy. All you had to do was hang around places where the manly men hung out—cops, firefighters, paramedics—and the bed partners were there for the picking.

     The stone path led through a growth of thick banana plants and on the other side she found a man sitting on a verdigris wrought iron bench, his head bent over a newspaper. More publications lay at his side:
Wall Street Journal, New York Times
and the
International Herald.
Coco knew at once that he was experienced, knowing, sophisticated. Knowledgeable in the affairs of the world.
Worldly.

     He was fortyish with thinning hair but his profile was strong, and keen eyes peered from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Tan chinos and a madras shirt with button-down collar. A college-campus man. If the day were chilly he would be wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches.

     He looked up. Nice smile.

     "Hi," Coco said.

     He introduced himself as Dr. Charles—"But everyone calls me Charlie"—Barnhart, and said he was a geologist at Caltech, heading up the earthquake department.

     Coco's radar blipped. Not only did he keep up on world events but he was smart to boot.

     He invited her to sit and they made interesting small talk, with Coco liking his eyes and his voice and wondering if this brainy, worldly Caltech seismologist had plans for lunch when he said, "Want to see something interesting?"

     He led her around the small glade, through dense trees, past a formal garden, taking deserted paths until she thought he was going to walk her back to Palm Springs when he stopped suddenly and said, "There!"

     Coco stared. Beyond the edge of the verdant resort, where the tawny desert stretched away to the horizon, she saw a shimmering lake of sun-golden water.

     "It's beautiful!" she said.

     "It isn't real."

     "What do you mean?"

     "It's a mirage. I hiked out there yesterday and it's just sand. Do you know what causes a mirage? The refraction of light through air layers of different density."

     Brains had always turned her on so when he kissed her suddenly she
kissed him right back. His hands were good, knew exactly where to go and what to do. She found him a little soft around the middle but that could be sexy, too. As he unbuttoned her blouse and his lips traced a moist path to her nipple, she observed the desert from beneath her eyelids. The mirage sparkled and vibrated with such intensity that she felt its heat. She felt Dr. Barnhart's erection as well and it made Coco sparkle and vibrate with intensity. He slipped inside with ease and while he didn't last as long as she had hoped, he felt good and Coco was able to sneak a hand down and give herself an orgasm. In future sessions, Charlie would make an interesting pupil.

     They restored their clothing, smoothed their hair and, belatedly, looked around to see if they had been observed. But they were still isolated at the edge of the resort, with the mirage continuing its miraculous shimmer a few miles distant.

     "I want to know more about you, Charlie," Coco said as she looped her arm through his. "Like, what are your hobbies?"

     "I collect antique scientific equipment. I even own one of the original Richter scales. Early model. Excellent condition. Worth a mint."

     Coco stared at him, blinked, then felt something inside herself go cold with disappointment. She withdrew her arm. "If you don't mind, I'm not in the mood for lunch, after all."

     "What's wrong?"

     She gave him a sad shake of her head. "Are you really a scientist, Charlie?"

     His cheeks pinked. "Why do you ask?"

     "Because you need to work on your act. Charlie, the Richter Scale isn't a machine, it's an
equation!"

A
BBY WATCHED HIM APPROACH
. Z
EB HAD TOLD HER THAT
Jack Burns had gone into the desert to shoot a bow and arrow. It surprised her. And now, seeing him walking toward her— enormous bow slung over his shoulder, quiver of arrows hanging from his belt, the tight T-shirt showing off taught muscles—he looked primitive, powerful. And very sexy.

     She introduced Jack to the man at her side. "This is Elias Salazar, the head of security here at The Grove. I have apprised him of your purpose here and he will be at your service, should you require help."

     "Thanks," Jack said, surprised that she was being so forthcoming with help. He wished he could ask for his sister's file, ask what she knew about Nina and why she had lied about knowing her. But Jack didn't want to tip his hand.

     As he thanked her and Mr. Salazar, he headed back to his room, thinking it puzzling that Tyler should be so helpful on the one hand, yet secretive on the other. He also wished she weren't such an attractive woman. It made being suspicious of her more difficult.

     He went straight into the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face. The crime scene image had followed him from Indian Rocks, where he had relived discovering Nina's body.

     Whoever had killed Nina had raped her first and then rigged it to look like a drug overdose. Nina who wouldn't even take an aspirin! It killed Jack to imagine what her final minutes had been like.

     He had not cried at her funeral. For Nina, he would hold himself together. He would stay focused and find her killer. But more than that: he had taken up her personal cause to find her real birth mother. If it took him the rest of his life, he would track down the woman who had given life to Nina.

     Before leaving his room, he checked the files he had been studying the night before, which Nina had collected. He knew Ophelia Kaplan had finally arrived at the resort because he had overheard buzz about it when he had walked by the main swimming pool. Because of her diet book, Kaplan was a celebrity. He would seek her out and chat her up as he had done Coco McCarthy. While his partner and the other cops at the station were spending an all-out effort to investigate Nina's murder—"Don't worry, Jack, we will leave no stone unturned"—interrogating witnesses, analyzing crime scene evidence, retracing Nina's steps in the days leading to her death, Jack had come to The Grove to follow a different sort of trail: the trail Nina herself had been following.

     The answers were here. He was sure of it. As he slipped into his jacket and picked up his sunglasses, with Sissy Whitboro and Ophelia Kaplan as his goals, he thought again of the file he had found on Abby Tyler's desk. What did Tyler have on his sister? Maybe he should find a way to borrow it without Abby Tyler knowing.

     As he struck out into the noon sun, he thought of Coco McCarthy and their brief conversation the day before. He had found nothing in her manner out of the ordinary or suspicious. She appeared to be exactly what she was supposed to be: a guest at a resort having a good time. Yet he could not shake the hunch that the so-called contest she and the other two women had won was but a ruse to get them here. Why? What did these women, besides having been adopted, have to do with each other and with Abby Tyler? According to Nina's data, Coco and Sissy and Ophelia had been born in the same year, and in the same week as Nina herself. By tracking
their
birth
parents she had hoped to find her own. But Nina's life had ended before she could find the answers.

     He strolled through the village, looking in the shop windows, smiling at passersby, and as luck would have it, spotted Mrs. Whitboro in a small clothing boutique, browsing through the racks

     Tucking his glasses into the pocket of his leather jacket, he slipped into the cozy store and carelessly worked his way to the men's corner where Aloha shirts were on sale.

     He watched Sissy Whitboro in the security mirror. With her pale orange hair tied back, and dressed in white pleated Bermuda shorts and a striped polo shirt, she looked like a typical resort resident. Yet, upon watching her more closely, Jack saw that her manner was distracted and her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying.

     Grabbing two shirts from the rack, he approached Sissy and said, "Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me out. I came here on short notice. I was on standby and they called and said there was a free seat on the plane. Unfortunately I came dressed incorrectly. I notice you have a wedding ring so I assume you help your husband pick out clothes." He held up the two shirts. "What do you think? Which one?"

     She barely looked at them. "The palm trees."

     "My wife usually helps me pick out my clothes. Unfortunately she couldn't come with me."

     Sissy smiled politely. "Home with the kids?"

     "We don't have children. But we're thinking of adopting." He shook his head. "I don't know...They say you love them just the same..."

     If Sissy Whitboro knew she herself had been adopted she gave no indication, but merely smiled absently and moved on.

     Jack contrived to arrive at the cash register at the same time, and while the clerk ran his credit card, he said pleasantly to Sissy, "This is an amazing resort. I would think the owner would be someone famous. Do you know who she is?"

     Sissy shook her head. "All I know is I won a contest prize so I'm making the best of it. Have fun with your new shirt."

     And she was gone.

O
FFICIALLY IT WAS THE WEDDING REHEARSAL DINNER
. F
OR
Michael Fallon, it was another excuse to hold a monster barbecue at his sprawling, multi-million-dollar estate in Henderson— a huge affair with more food than anyone could eat, lively music from a five-piece band, and free-flowing champagne. The late afternoon sun shone down on the happy, well-dressed crowd.