To Catch the Moon (12 page)

“What about you, Louella?” she asked. “What
are you doing for Christmas?” They were back to hugging the coast
now, a sodden and deserted Seacliff State Beach to their left. It
was a dreary afternoon, intermittently drizzling and dumping
serious rain.

“Same old, same old.” Louella sounded bored
and a little depressed. “My folks are here visiting. We’ll exchange
gifts tomorrow, and my mom and I’ll cook. Maybe a movie
tonight.”

Louella was an only child and stated loud and
often that she wanted to get married and have a pack of kids. The
pack got smaller every year she couldn’t pull off the first half of
the equation. It made Alicia feel especially ungrateful about
Jorge.

Louella had confided once that men were put
off by her being a D.A. investigator. It wasn’t feminine,
apparently, to chase down bad guys and put them behind bars. But
Louella stuck to her guns. She loved her work, period. Alicia
admired that.

She looked away from the road at Louella.
“Thanks for coming with me, by the way.”

“Ah, no problem.” Louella made a dismissive
wave of the hand. “It’s nice to be needed.”

“Well, you are.” No question about it. Alicia
couldn’t risk doing investigative work without a D.A. investigator.
If this jaunt did turn up evidence, Alicia would need someone other
than herself to testify. She couldn’t be both a prosecuting
attorney and a witness in the same case.

“You know,” Louella said, “a woman like Joan
Gaines wouldn’t kill her husband anyway. She’d divorce him. Or at
worst she’d get somebody else to kill him.”

“But if she got somebody else to kill him,
that somebody else would know. It’s too risky.” Alicia shook her
head. “Louella, I’m not saying she killed him, necessarily. I’m
just saying her behavior is odd. Supposedly finding the body hours
after she got home, the lack of emotion, the shopping—it just
doesn’t add up.”

“So you want to check out her alibi.”

“Right.”

“You want to figure out if she really was in
Santa Cruz, like she told Bucky.”

“Oh, I believe she was. I can’t imagine she
would have lied about that. It’s too easy to check out.” Alicia
maneuvered past a slow-moving crimson-colored SUV that was hogging
the fast lane for no apparent reason. “No, I want to find out if
she could have gone back and forth to Carmel while she was
supposedly overnight in Santa Cruz.”

Louella said nothing for a while, twisting
her body to face Alicia by leaning back against the passenger door.
She just watched. Alicia found it unsettling. Then, finally,
Louella broke the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want to piss you off.”

“You’re not going to piss me off.”

Louella didn’t seem convinced. She took a
deep breath, as if she were gearing up. “I have never known you to
be illogical, Alicia. It’s a big part of what makes you such a good
prosecutor. But in this case...”

“You think I’m being illogical?”

“Aren’t you clutching at straws? I mean ...”
She paused. “Isn’t it possible you just hate women like Joan
Gaines? Because they have everything handed to them on a silver
platter? Could that be the reason we’re doing this?”

Alicia was a little pissed off. Again the
chip-on-her-shoulder accusation? “Why would I hate her just because
she’s rich? Why?”

“Hell,
I
kind of hate her just because
she’s rich. And she didn’t try to make me clean up her dirty dishes
after her.”

Alicia had told Louella about that. Now she
regretted it. “That would make me pretty small-minded, wouldn’t
it?”

“I don’t think so. It’s understandable.”

Alicia said nothing. She had had enough of
being a case study in how the have-nots vented their frustration
toward the haves. She exited Highway 1 and turned right on a
cloverleaf that eventually dropped them on Santa Cruz city
streets.

Santa Cruz was an attractive beach town but
not nearly as wealthy as Carmel. It had real working people and
children and everything. Alicia stopped at a red light. Two corners
were taken up with off-brand gasoline stations. The others had
competing shops selling wet suits and surfing gear.

“All I’m saying,” Louella said, “is that she
can be a royal bitch and still not have killed her husband.”

“I understand that.”

The light changed. Alicia drove forward.
But she can be a royal bitch and could have killed her husband,
too.

“We’re here,” she announced a few turns
later, slowing to a halt on a wide tree-lined street in front of
the gorgeously restored Victorian owned by Courtney Holt, Stanford
Class of ‘94 and apparently one of Joan Hudson Gaines’ best gal
pals. Both women remained in the VW, staring at the house through
the raindrops gathering on the windshield.

“I half expect Anne of Green Gables to come
waltzing out of there,” Louella said.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s amazing. I guess that’s what they mean
by gingerbread.”

The house stood on the corner, and unlike
every other property on the block appeared to take up several lots.
Its facade sported an incredible amount of Victorian-style
ornamentation. It was painted yellow, but the trim was white with
both light and dark green accents, and shiny gold designs
everywhere. It even had a stained-glass window, and an actual
turret.

Louella got out of the VW and opened her red
plaid umbrella over her head. “They don’t build ‘em like this
anymore, not even in the South.”

Alicia, who’d forgotten an umbrella, raced up
the narrow flagged walk, then hopped the stairs to a small porch.
On the door hung a huge eucalyptus wreath with a red velvet bow.
She paused to look at Louella before ringing the doorbell. “Ready?”
Her own heart was thumping, and not just from the exercise.

Louella sighed. “Let’s get it over with.”

*

Joan paced the drawing room of her mother’s
17 Mile Drive estate, rain cascading down the large, paned windows.
Every so often she’d sip from her white wine, trying not to down it
before her mother finished dressing and came downstairs for lunch.
This was about the last place in the world she wanted to be, but it
was Christmas Eve and duty called. She would much rather have been
in her suite watching the news to see what kind of play her
statement to the press was getting. But midday TV watching was one
of the many things upon which Libby Storrow Hudson frowned.

Joan knew all about her mother’s disapproval.
She threw back the last of her wine. It was damn hard for anybody
to come up to Libby Hudson’s highly placed snuff. Born into Boston
North Shore money, she was a puritan of the old style, the sort of
woman who swam every day in frigid ocean water because she believed
it was good for her. She rose at dawn, got a million things done,
went to bed early, and repeated the process the next day. Now that
she was no longer campaigning for her husband, she spent all her
time raising money for charity, and invariably was elected
president of this and chairwoman of that. If Web Hudson had won
elective office because he could connect with the common man, Libby
Hudson ruled in philanthropic circles because of the very opposite
trait: her pure elitism. She made unrepentant blue bloods
completely comfortable.

Joan suspected that was why her mother had
never liked Daniel. As far as Libby Hudson was concerned, he was a
social-climbing upstart unworthy of Joan’s hand. That attitude
hadn’t done much to improve mother-daughter relations.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting, dear.”
Libby Hudson swept into the room. She might be lunching alone with
her daughter but she was dressed to dine at the White House. She
wore a severely elegant black Armani suit and enormous pearls at
her ears and throat. Her short white hair was set in the soft curls
she’d long favored. She was impeccably made up, though her skin was
still flushed from her recent exertions. She’d kept her daughter
waiting because she was late finishing her daily two-mile run.

At age sixty-five. On a cold, drenched
Christmas Eve.

Joan flushed at her own self-indulgent
morning. She tried to set down her empty wineglass without being
obvious but saw her mother’s mouth pucker with disapproval. It was
hopeless. Even though she was going through a nightmare her mother
would still find a way to condemn her. She sank onto the yellow
cushion of a satinwood Louis XVI chair. “So tell me about your trip
to Santa Barbara.”

“There’s very little to tell.” Her mother
settled on a white damask sofa, crossing her thin legs at the
ankles. “I saw some old friends. It’s a beautiful part of the
state.”

“Do you ever think of moving back to
Massachusetts now that Father’s gone?” Joan wondered what had
possessed her to ask that question, though now that it had occurred
to her it didn’t seem a half-bad idea.

“I considered it, but never seriously. After
all these years, California is my home.”

Web and Libby Hudson hadn’t debated long
where to retire. They’d lived almost all their adult lives in
Northern California, with the exception of the six years her father
served in the U.S. Senate. The obvious choices were San Francisco;
Woodside, the most exclusive community in Silicon Valley; and
Pebble Beach. The ocean, the golf, the natural beauty, not to
mention the guard gates, decided them on Pebble Beach. And, of
course, 17 Mile Drive.

Joan remembered her mother telling her that
this particular estate was inspired by the Chateau de Clavary,
built in the south of France in the early nineteenth century. As
chateaux went, it wasn’t large, but it was very beautiful. The
landscaping was superb, formal on the side that faced 17 Mile Drive
but running more to nature where it fronted the Pacific. One of her
father’s favorite features was the duplication in the entrance hall
of the Picasso mosaic laid in the original French chateau.

“Thank you for arranging Daniel’s service,
Mother,” Joan said a few seconds later into the silence.

It was to be held Friday, a public memorial
service followed by a private burial. She and her mother both
wanted to get it over with before the New Year. And when her mother
offered to make the arrangements, Joan agreed instantly. She had
zero interest in handling it.

“When will Daniel’s family arrive?” her
mother asked.

“Thursday.”

“Shall I host them here?”

Joan was surprised. Daniel’s parents were not
exactly her mother’s kind of people. She always referred to Jack
Gaines, who owned car dealerships in the Philadelphia area, as a
“merchant,” and didn’t bother to describe Diane, a society wife so
lowly placed she didn’t even register on Libby Hudson’s social
ladder.

“There’s no need, though that’s very kind of
you,” Joan said. “I’ve arranged for them to stay at the Lodge.”

Her mother nodded. Then, “You know, my
dear...” She stopped, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I am
sorry about Daniel.”

Joan looked down at her lap, saying nothing.
She didn’t think her mother was sorry at all.

“I hope you’re not terribly aggrieved,” her
mother went on.

“I’ll survive,” she said.

Her mother frowned. “I hope you’ll do more
than that. Have you made any plans?”

“Well...” Joan arched her brows, surprised
that her mother of all people was the first to recognize that she
had more going on in her life than widowhood. “I’ve done some
thinking,” she offered.

“Good. And what have you concluded?”

“Well...” There was one thing she could tell
her mother at this point. “That as soon as possible I want to take
over as CEO of Headwaters.”

“What?” Her mother narrowed her eyes in the
disapproving squint Joan knew so well. “Why in the world would you
want to do that?”

This wasn’t what Joan had expected to hear.
“Excuse me?”

“Why would you want to have anything to do
with that awful business?” Her mother waved a dismissive hand.
“There are people already there who can run it. I speak to them
every day. You—”

“You speak to them?” Joan was indignant.
“You’re not even a shareholder since Daniel bought out Father’s
stake! Isn’t it my role to deal with Headwaters?”

“I hardly think so, no.” Her mother laughed,
that imperious, North Shore laugh that said,
I understand things
far better than you ever will. Accept it.
“You shouldn’t be
thinking about Headwaters, Joan. You should be thinking about
traveling, renewing your soul, perhaps getting involved in charity
work. In time, meeting a new—”

“You think that’s all I’m good for? Wasting
my time doing charity work and getting married again?” Joan was on
her feet, she realized, and her voice was raised. Her mother’s
thin, parchmenty skin was flushed, and this time not from her run.
“You don’t think I can run Headwaters. You don’t think I can run
the trust, either. You’re thrilled Father made you trustee.”

“I spent my entire adult life being a good
wife to your father and doing charity work.” Her mother’s tone was
glacial. “I hardly consider either pursuit a waste. Now sit
down.”

“I am not going to—”

“Sit ... down.”

Silence fell. Rain battered the windows and
made the fire in the grate hiss. Joan retreated to her chair,
though she felt like a fractious child being sentenced to a
time-out.

Finally her mother spoke. “There is no need
for you to involve yourself in the trust, Joan. It is my
concern.”

“I guess so, since you’re now trustee.” She
knew she sounded snippy.

“It’s not a job I relish, I assure you.”

What a lie!
“I still think Father
should have made me trustee. I’m the one with the master’s in
business.”

Her mother stared at her. Then, “You studied
toward
a master’s in business. As I recall you did not
actually earn it.”