To Catch the Moon (17 page)

She’d made sure she was turned out as
carefully as her surroundings. She fingered her floor-length black
crepe Gaultier, which could safely be described as a cross between
lingerie and evening wear. It swirled dreamily around her naked
legs and was cut low on her small breasts. In an effort to banish
Daniel from memory—both hers and Milo’s— she’d stashed her wedding
and engagement rings in the safe. And remembering that Milo
disliked a heavy hand when it came to makeup, she wore only mascara
and lip gloss. What with the fire’s glow and her own excitement,
she hardly needed more.

She gazed at her reflection in the French
doors that overlooked the surging black sea. The shining glass
mirrored the tiny pinpricks of candlelight behind her that flashed
like fireflies. They reminded her of summer, summer on the East
Coast, where the air was hotter and heavier than it ever was in
California. It was in that swollen atmosphere that she’d known Milo
the first time.

The suite’s buzzer sounded.
Remember
,
she told herself,
you’re soft and sweet and vulnerable
. She
strode to the door, then pulled it open and stepped back to allow
Milo to enter. Seeing him in the flesh she felt such a jolt she
nearly forgot her game plan. In many ways he was just as he had
ever been: a tall, commanding figure with intense dark eyes, hair
curling lightly over the back of his collar, five o’clock shadow
darkening his jaw like a cocky show of testosterone. Yet so much
time had passed, he was also new to her, just the tiniest bit
mysterious. He shed his overcoat and tossed it over the back of the
sofa, as she’d seen him do in other rooms a dozen times before. Yet
he was a different man than he had been all those other times, and
she was a different woman.

“Thank you for coming,” she told him.

He turned to face her. Six feet separated
them, the air between dancing with an electric charge she was
almost surprised she couldn’t see. “I’m sorry about Daniel,” he
said.

She cocked her head.
I’m not
. “May I
ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I’d rather not talk about Daniel. It’s so
horrible, so...”

His brow furrowed. “I understand.”

“It’s just that I’m so wrapped up in it all
the time. If it’s not on the news I’m getting calls from the
campaign. Or from Daniel’s family. Or from Headwaters. Or from the
lawyers or the D.A. It’s ...” She shook heir head. He stepped
closer and she raised her eyes to his, feeling his breath on her
face, taking in the manly scent of him. She had always reveled in
the difference in their height, that he could make her feel so
small, so feminine. Daniel was tall, too, but not so powerfully
built.

The room was hushed except for the crackle of
the fire in the grate, where one log broke and tumbled into
another. “I understand,” he said. “You don’t need to say more,
Joan.”

She looked up into his dark eyes. “You always
did understand me, didn’t you, Milo?”

She watched him frown and step away.
Mistake. Too much, too soon
. His voice took on a
businesslike tone. “I should warn you, I’ll have to make it an
early night. I have a plane in the morning—”

“Of course.”

“—down to San Diego, and I still need to prep
for the interview I’m conducting and—”

“Of course,” she repeated, then put what he
had said out of her mind. She led him to the small table that had
been laid for two and lifted the bottle of California Syrah that
had been breathing for the last hour. “Will you have some
wine?”

He looked hesitant but then said, “I’ll have
a glass.”

She bent her head to hide a smile, then
poured the wine and handed him a glass. They toasted wordlessly.
“Remember the trip we made out to the wine country?” she asked.

He chuckled. “How you wanted to get massages,
even though it was past six on a Saturday night ...”

“Of course, it was too late for Auberge to
arrange anything.”

“I must’ve called a dozen spas before I
finally found one that would take us.” He grinned. “I tipped them
like you wouldn’t believe. Where was it? St. Helena?”

“Calistoga, wasn’t it?”

He crinkled his eyes, then shook his head. “I
don’t remember. It was fun, though. That dinner was wonderful,
too.”

“At Tra Vigne. Yes, it was.” She sipped her
wine, which wound a pleasantly warm path down her throat. “But lots
of times were wonderful with you, Milo.”

Again he frowned. “Well, that’s all in the
past, Joan.” Then he walked away from her, toward the French doors
that faced the sea.

She stared at his strong, sure back, forcing
herself not to cross the room to lay her head against its
comforting breadth.
Slowly, slowly
. “I want to tell you
something, but I probably shouldn’t, tonight of all nights.”

He turned his head slightly, so she could see
his profile. “Tell me what?”

“I have regrets, Milo.”

Silence. Then, “About what?”

“I regret that I left you,” she told him, and
watched his brows arch with surprise. And pleasure, too, didn’t she
see pleasure there? “My marriage wasn’t happy.” He began to protest
but she quieted him. “I know I shouldn’t say it, especially
tonight, but I can’t stop myself. Can’t I be honest with anyone?”
She began to cry. “I’m putting up a front with everybody. Can’t I
tell anybody the truth? Can’t I tell you?”

He turned to face her, and through her false
tears she saw what looked like genuine concern on his face. “Don’t
you have anyone to talk to, Joan?”

“No, I don’t,” she lied, and threw in a sob
for good measure. “There’s no one I can really trust.”

He set down his wineglass and came toward
her. He didn’t quite bundle her into his arms like she hoped he
would, but he did stand very close and make little consoling
noises. “You can talk to me, Joan,” he said, and she wanted just to
collapse against his chest.

Why had she left him? The truth was, she
didn’t think he’d give her what she wanted. Much as the demands
grated sometimes, she knew she liked a big, public life. She liked
what came with celebrity: the envy, the surreptitious glances, the
being in the center of things. She knew from the beginning that
Daniel wanted to run for governor, and she knew that with her
father’s backing he would win. Just as she had been a governor’s
daughter, she would be a governor’s wife. That was a life she
understood, and could have thrived in, if Daniel had given her her
due, as her father had given her mother.

But Milo? Back when they were dating he was a
low-level TV newsman. He wasn’t a public figure in the same way.
Who would know who his wife was? Who would care?

“Daniel’s dying reminds me of losing my
father,” she told Milo. “You know how much I loved Daddy.”

This time she felt Milo’s arms come around
her.
Finally
. She sank against him, sobbing softly, losing
herself in the constant
beat, beat, beat
of his sure heart.
Only after a long time did she pull away, and when she did Milo
held out a handkerchief so she could mop her face. “Feel better?”
he asked.

She sniffled, the handkerchief wadded around
her nose, and nodded her head.

“Better enough to eat?”

She laughed, then had to cough, choked by her
own sobs. “But it’s probably cold by now.”

“I’ll call down and have them send up
something hot. And meanwhile ...”

He found their wineglasses and refreshed
them, then raised his in a second toast. “To happier times,” he
said, and she clinked her glass to his.

“Happier times,” she repeated, and added
silently,
I’m happier already
.

*

On the narrow curving street called Scenic
that bordered the bluff above Carmel Beach, Alicia stood in the
shadows of the Gaineses’ sleek, contemporary home, its perimeter
ringed by fraying yellow crime tape. Her parka provided slim
comfort against the sea wind that slapped her face and whipped her
long dark hair.

She’d been there about an hour. Watching.
Waiting. Wondering. And seeing absolutely nothing.

She decided to do one more pass along Scenic,
north toward Ocean Avenue, then back again. That would be it. If
she saw nothing, she would hightail it back to Salinas. Ocean
Avenue was seven blocks away and usually a gorgeous stroll, but at
ten o’clock on a Friday night, when she knew a murderer had
recently lurked in these very shadows, it was far from
pleasurable.

Alicia raised her hood over her wind-tossed
hair and set off at a rapid pace, fists balled in her parka
pockets, running shoes crunching on the small stones that littered
the asphalt. None of the residential streets in Carmel-by-the-Sea
had sidewalks or streetlights, in an attempt to maintain the
quaintness both the tourists and the locals loved. Most of the
homes that lined Scenic were dark, though in a few she saw the odd
purple-blue flicker cast by a television set. Some people still
hadn’t turned off their Christmas lights, strings of pretty white
bulbs coiled around trees or dripping from shrubbery. To the left,
Carmel Beach was deserted, and the ocean a heaving mass of silver,
heavy as lead. Occasionally a car whizzed past, always in the
middle of the road, as if the driver was a local and knew he
wouldn’t encounter another vehicle at this late hour. An older man
in blue sweats who smelled of cigars walked past with his dog, a
frisky white terrier that seemed to think every bush and tree
needed his own particular brand of watering.

Ten minutes later Alicia arrived at Ocean
Avenue, Carmel-by-the-Sea’s cute-as-can-be main commercial strip.
Boutiques and bistros lined both sides of the avenue, bisected by
an island densely planted with shrubs and flowers. The avenue
climbed steadily as it traveled inland away from the bay, forcing
eastbound pedestrians into a breathless uphill hike. Save for the
wind, which clawed at Alicia’s face, all was quiet and still.
Carmel rolled up its sidewalks early even on a Friday night.

Alicia shivered, feeling conspicuously alone,
then turned around to retrace her steps. Over, finished, done. As
Louella had proved, it was pointless.

About a third of the way along Scenic back to
her car, she again ran into the older man and his dog. “You still
out here, young lady?” He clucked disapprovingly.

“You’re out.” She pointed at the terrier,
energetically lifting a leg over some ice plant. “And excuse me for
saying so, but that doesn’t exactly look like a guard dog.”

“Different thing,” he announced. The terrier
strained at his leash in Alicia’s direction and the man walked
closer. “And don’t you know we had a murder here just last week?”
Another disapproving shake of the head, a
What in the world have
we come to?
scowl.

“Oh, that’s right.” Alicia tried to sound
encouraging. “I did hear something about that.”

“Mrs. Gaines was out walking that night,
too,” he went on. “Didn’t listen to my advice, either, and look
what happened to her. Or to her husband, I should say.”

What?
“Mrs. Gaines? You saw her that
night?”

“Sure did. Saw her when I was out taking
McDuff here on his evening constitutional. She was out on the
street, just like you. Though”—he motioned back over his shoulder,
toward the Gaines residence—“she was back there, closer to her
house.”

I can’t believe this
. “Are you
completely sure it was Mrs. Gaines? And that it was last Friday
night? Exactly one week ago?”

“Of course I’m sure it was Joan Gaines! We
all know who she is,” he snapped. Then he stepped back and his eyes
narrowed. “Who are you?”

“My name is Alicia Maldonado,” she told him,
and held out her hand. “I live sort of around here. And you
are?”

“Harry McEvoy. Live over on Twelfth.” He
shook her hand, his suspicion of her seeming to fall away as
quickly as it had risen. “It’s a tragedy,” he added.

“Yes, yes, it is.” She was almost breathless.
Harry McEvoy. An eyewitness. This’ll be enough to get me a
search warrant.
“It’s ironic that you saw Mrs. Gaines that
particular night and that she was just walking around.”

“Yup. Seemed to be waiting for something.
Couldn’t believe when I heard on the radio the next day what’d
happened.”

“I can imagine.”

The terrier pulled furiously at his leash and
Harry McEvoy followed. “You go straight home now, young lady,” he
called back over his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, I will.” She was trying to process
this new information when her cell phone rang. She pulled it from
her parka pocket and flipped it open. “Maldonado.”

“Sorry to call so late, Alicia. It’s
Jerome.”

“Jerome! This is a surprise.” Jerome Brown
was a thirty-something star in the public defender’s office. Somber
and well-spoken and earnest, he was like a black James Stewart in
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
. He single-handedly put paid to
the notion of public defenders as lousy attorneys. Alicia had long
thought that all their trial experience, plus the fact that they
had to take on every case that walked through the door, made many
public defenders very good lawyers indeed. “So what’s up?”

“I’ve been assigned to Treebeard.”

“Are you kidding?” This was not good news for
Penrose. It hadn’t even started yet and it was already crystal
clear who the bright light in this courtroom drama was going to be.
“Have you told Penrose yet?”

“Come on, Alicia.” Jerome laughed in a way
that said,
Why would I bother telling Penrose anything?
“Anyway, I spent the last few hours with Treebeard and he finally
started talking.”

“That’s good news, right?”

“Turns out it’s very good news.” He paused.
“That’s why I’m calling, Alicia.”

She frowned. “What are you telling me,
Jerome?”

“I’m telling you that you have got to hear
what Treebeard has to say.”