Swimsuit Body (18 page)

“So you don't like Lexie?”

“Not that way. She's nice, but she's not really my type.”

I smile at this. I'm glad my brother feels he's in a position to be choosy. The truth is that Arthur has a lot to offer. He's smart, handsome, funny, and has a big heart. If half the guys I dated in my younger years had had that much to offer, I'd probably be married to one of them by now. “Well, she has Roberto, so it's just as well.” I pat his arm. “You'll find someone of your own someday.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He doesn't seem too eager. “But I'll be pretty busy with my job, and Ray and I are working on this new computer game, so I won't have much time for dating.”

“Please tell me this game doesn't have Phantasmagora in it.”

“No. It's about space invaders from another galaxy battling zombies from a zombie apocalypse.” He speaks excitedly as he sketches it out for me. But Arthur's shifts in mood are like the weather. A minute later, he sounds worried as he asks, “Do you really think I would have gone to prison?”

It would freak him out if he knew how real a possibility it had been, so I only say, “Dude, what juror would ever think a guy who can't keep his shoelaces tied could shoot straight?” I look pointedly down at his feet.

My brother bends down to retie the shoelaces on one of his sneakers. When he straightens, he still looks worried. “You're not going to make me go back to the puff, are you?”

“When have I ever made you do anything?”

“You're not an easy person to say no to.”

“You're probably right about that,” I admit. “But no, I don't think you need to go to the puff. Not unless you do something stupid again. You know, like decide to take up cattle ranching.”

This gets a smile out of him. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“You can thank Detective Breedlove.” I glance over at Spence, who seems to fill most of the row across the aisle with his tall, muscular frame. I watch him leaf through the magazine he's reading, thinking of ways in which I'd like to show my own gratitude, none of them G-rated like the in-flight movie that's playing on the screen overhead. I ought to have my own head examined.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

There are two new voicemail messages on my phone when we land, one from McGee saying that he has information on “the bunny boiler”(a.k.a. Olivia Harding), and the other from Greta Nyland wanting to know when would be a good time for her to collect Delilah's belongings. I call Greta from Spence's car on the way back to Cypress Bay and arrange for her to meet me at Casa Linda Estates tomorrow morning at nine. I decide to hold off on returning McGee's call. I don't want Spence to know what I'm up to until I have actual dirt on Olivia Harding.

I phone Ivy next, and she's relieved to hear that Arthur is no longer a suspect. “Tell him I DVRed the episode of
Game of Thrones
that was on while he was away,” she says.

“He'll be thrilled.” Arthur lives for
GoT
. “Did you and Rajeev …?”

“No.” She sighs. I'd urged her to make it clear to her boyfriend that she doesn't see marriage in her future before he pops the question. “He was supposed to come over last night, but he ended up having to work late. He's taking me to dinner tomorrow night, to make up for it. I'll talk to him then.”

“How's it going with Brianna? Or should I ask.” I'm not sure I'll recognize my house after she stayed the night.

A pause at the other end. “I have two words for you: scented candles.”

“Why would I need scented candles?”

“They mask the smell of Pine-Sol.”

We drop Arthur off at his place, then head over to mine. The sun is shining as we turn onto Seabright Avenue. My elderly neighbor, Mrs. Caswell, is pruning the rosebushes in front of her house, while next door, seventeen-year-old Jeremy Nuyen hoses down his Jeep Cherokee. A surfer, clad in a wetsuit and toting his surfboard, ambles in the direction of the beach. Another ordinary day of people going about their business while my own world has been rocked. In the past twenty-four hours alone, I visited a film set where I encountered a possible murderer, my brother narrowly escaped arrest, and I tangled with the law in a way that has me blushing as I think of it now.

“You're awfully quiet,” Spence observes. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't it be?”

“Just making sure we're good.”

“We're good,” I say, though I'm not sure what “good” is anymore. Forgiving each other our transgressions doesn't make us friends. Nor are we lovers. When we arrive at my house, we don't kiss good-bye or even shake hands, though I'm sincere when I tell him, “Thanks. I owe you.” I know it's better this way, but I'm left with a hollow feeling inside as I trudge up my front walk.

The air is redolent of Pine-Sol when I walk in the door. Brianna emerges from the laundry room as I enter the kitchen. The house is spotless and she's carrying my laundry basket, filled with folded clothes, only she doesn't look like I do after I've been cleaning. She looks like an actress playing a housewife in a Tide commercial, dressed in pleated fawn slacks and a white knit top, not a hair out of place or a chip in her nail polish. “I see you've been busy while I was away,” I note. Every surface gleams. The appliances sparkle. A bowl on the counter is filled with fresh fruit.

“I tidied up a bit.” Brianna sets the laundry basket down, then brushes an invisible crumb from the table. “I also took care of everything on the list. Nothing new to report except a gutter at the Coughlins' house that needs fixing. Did your brother get home okay?” I'd texted her with an update while en route.

“He's enjoying a tearful reunion with his hamster as we speak.” Before I can ask about my own pets, I hear the skittering of claws on floorboards from the next room. As I step into the living room, Prince comes streaking from the hallway, chased by my cat. Except that Hercules doesn't appear to be terrorizing him. On the contrary, it seems—I can hardly believe my eyes—
they're playing
. I watch in amazement as the Yorkie runs in excited circles around the living room while my cat takes a playful swipe at him from under the sofa whenever he comes within striking range. “What on Earth …?” I turn to Brianna. “You didn't tell me you were a cat whisperer.”

She laughs. “I'm not, but I know a few tricks.”

“Such as?”

“Fish sticks.”

“I'll have to remember that.”

“Oh, before I forget, my uncle wants you to call him,” she informs me. “Apparently, he couldn't get through to you when he tried your number. He said he left a message on your voicemail.”

“I know. I'll get back to him.” Bartosz called while I was in Montana, but I'd been too busy to return his call. I wonder what he wants—he didn't say in his message. “First, I need to speak with McGee. He said he had some dirt on Olivia Harding.” I feel my pulse quicken as I head for my office to place the call, leaving my cat and the dog to frolic and Brianna to stare after me, wide-eyed.

“She's a piece of work, that one.” McGee sounds almost cheerful as he reports on Olivia Harding. He's back in the groove, doing what he loves best. “Maiden name, Godowsky. She grew up in Milwaukee. Dad's a bricklayer. Mom died when she was eight. No criminal record, but when she was sixteen, she was expelled from school for threatening another student. Girl's parents got a restraining order.”

“What did she do to make Olivia so angry?”

“Stole her boyfriend apparently.” A chill trickles down my spine. “Olivia ran away from home after that, then turned up at a hospital with her wrists slashed a few months later. That got her transferred to the psych ward for ninety days before she was deemed no longer a threat to herself.”

“Or to society,” I mutter. “What about homicidal tendencies?” If the incident that got her expelled from school was part of a pattern of behavior, that would make her a likely suspect for Delilah's murder.

“If it's in her medical records, you'll need a court order to get access. But if this was my case? I'd take a closer look at her alibi and also pull her phone and bank records, find out if she's been in touch with any unsavory characters, or if she made any large cash withdrawals in recent weeks.”

“You think she hired a professional?”

“Sure looks that way, based on your description of the crime scene. You should also talk with your client, Russo. See if he knows Mrs. Harding and if there's any connection between them.”

“Don't start with that again,” I warn. “What is it with you? It's like you're obsessed with the man.”

“Where there's smoke, there's fire,” says McGee in an ominous tone while I take in the newly uncluttered surface of my desk and the lush philodendron on the windowsill that's replaced the old, scraggly one. I'm afraid to look in my drawers or file cabinet. I can only hope I'll still be able to find my way around my own office now that Brianna's organized it.

“Do you have anything on Olivia that's more recent?” I ask, eager to get off the subject of Russo.

“She sees a shrink.”

“A lot of people see shrinks.” My brother for one.

“Sure, but not twice a week.”

“Well, clearly she has some issues.” If she thought marrying Brent Harding would solve her problems, it would explain why she was still messed up. “Let me know if you find out anything else.”

“Keep your doors locked in the meantime,” McGee says with a rasp before he hangs up.

My next call is to Bartosz, who wants to know if I'm free for dinner tomorrow evening. “I booked a table at the Shady Brook Inn, and I was hoping you could join me. I could use your input on the menu for my dinner party,” he explains. In scoring him a booking at the Shady Brook Inn through my connection with the owner, Steve Hanson, a former classmate of mine, I seem to have become Bartosz's party planner. Either that, or he's using it as an excuse to get in my pants.

Whatever. I see it as an opportunity to pick his brain about Delilah. “As it so happens, I'm free then,” I tell him. “I'd love to have dinner with you. Anything I can do to help,” I hasten to add.

“Excellent. I look forward to it. The reservation is for eight, so I'll pick you up at seven forty.”

I give him my address, then it occurs to me Bartosz might already have known where I live and I feel a light chill of apprehension. He isn't high on my list of suspects, but I can't rule him out. If he's the one who drugged me at his party, a table for two could become a table for one at the morgue.

The following morning, Brianna drives me to Casa Linda Estates for my meeting with Greta Nyland. Greta is waiting when we pull up to the gates at nine o'clock. She stands at the fence by the entrance, gazing at the offerings from Delilah's fans. They seem to have doubled in number since the last time I was here. I climb out and walk over to her while Brianna waits in the car.

Greta gestures toward the pile of candles and bouquets and stuffed animals. “I saw it on the news, but I … I wasn't prepared.” She bows her head as if overcome, her auburn hair gleaming in the sun that peeks through the clouds overhead.

“It must be some consolation to know she was loved by so many.” I don't mention the complaint from the president of the homeowners association who'd called the makeshift memorial an “eyesore.”

“When I lost Eric, I didn't think I would ever know such grief again, but this is worse because now they're both gone.” Greta bends to pick up a teddy bear with a photo of Delilah in a cheap plastic frame on a ribbon around its neck. She hugs it to her chest before placing it back on the pile.

“Take your time,” I whisper, but when I turn to head back to my SUV, she falls into step with me.

Brianna drives me to the house, while Greta follows in her rental car, a blue Nissan compact. When we arrive, I send Brianna on her way with a list of items to buy at Costco, instructing her to pick me up in an hour. Esmeralda's older-model red Toyota Camry is parked in the driveway, and I hear the distant droning of the vacuum cleaner as Greta and I enter the house. “Why don't you make yourself at home? I'll go see if Esmeralda's done packing up her things,” I say. Greta nods and wanders into the great room, drawn by the ocean view from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I find Esmeralda in the master suite, pushing the vacuum over the carpet. She doesn't see me when I walk in, nor can she hear me with the vacuum running, and she straightens with a startled yelp when I step into her line of sight. She thumbs the off switch. “
Dios mio!
I thought you were a—”

“Ghost?” I finish, and she produces a wan smile. She looks as if she'd stepped from the pages of a Land's End catalog, wearing a striped Breton jersey and cropped jeans, a pair of hot pink, lace-up espadrilles on her feet. You'd never guess she gets up before dawn every morning to clean other people's houses after getting her kids off to school. My gaze travels to the set of Louis Vuitton luggage that stands by the walk-in closet. “Thanks for taking care of that.”

“Such beautiful clothes,” Esmeralda says mournfully. “It's sad to think she will never wear them again.”

“It is. Though some of us will never be a size four or be able to afford such things, so at least she got to enjoy that.” I walk over to the closet, where an item of clothing covered in dry-cleaner's plastic hangs from the door. A mink-lined raincoat, I see when I lift the plastic. “Nice. Must've cost a fortune.”

“
Sí.
The man, he charge extra.”

“What man?” I turn to look at Esmeralda.

She explains that Delilah had given her the money to have the coat professionally cleaned. Esmeralda had dropped it off at the dry cleaner's the day Delilah was killed, then forgot about it in the aftermath of the murder until she happened to come across the ticket in her purse this morning.

I notice a piece of paper folded inside a Ziploc bag that's pinned to the hanger as I'm smoothing the plastic over the garment. It must have been in one of the pockets. I pull it out and see that it's a note handwritten on hotel stationery, embossed with the letterhead for the Peninsula Hotel in New York City. I recall Brianna's mentioning that Delilah had flown to New York on business the week before she arrived in Cypress Bay. The opening line jumps out at me.

Dearest Greta,

If you're reading this, it means I'm already dead.