Swimsuit Body (23 page)

“On multiple counts. Assault with a deadly weapon for one.” I give her a quick account of the events that resulted in Olivia's arrest. “She's also facing a murder charge. She confessed to killing Delilah. She actually
bragged
about it, if you can believe it. Which goes to show how crazy she is.”

Ivy's eyes widen. “Oh, my God. You totally had her number.”

“I sensed something off about her from the get-go. Though it seems I was wrong about Brent. He didn't know Olivia was the culprit. You should have seen his reaction when she confessed. He couldn't have been faking it—he's not that good an actor.”

“Then who—?” Before Ivy can pose the question that's nagging at me, a male voice bellows from the kitchen that the food on the pass is getting cold. Ivy growls in frustration. “Gotta run. Later, okay?”

I see drawn faces and people huddled together when I rejoin the party. No one seems to know whether to go or to stay. Brianna rushes over to me. “Tish, are you okay? I was so worried!”

I can't believe that I ever suspected her of being a murderer. She's a kind person for all her annoying traits. “Not sure, to be honest. Ask me again when the shock wears off.”

“My uncle seems pretty shook up, too.”

I follow her gaze to where Bartosz stands alone, looking dazed. When I first met him, he seemed to possess the vigor of a man half his age; now he seems old. “You should go check on him.”

Brianna nods and leaves me to attend to her uncle.

I head for the table to pour myself a glass of water, and I'm joined by Greta. “What a night!” she declares. “I thought this kind of thing only happened in movies. Who would have thought Olivia Harding …” She trails off, eyeing me with concern. “You look pale. Are you all right?”

“I … I think I need to sit down.” The floor is rocking like a pontoon. I plop into the nearest chair.

“Lie down more like it. Why don't you let me take you home?”

I shake my head. “I can't leave until Sp—Detective Breedlove gets here.”

“He can question you at home as easily as he can here.”

“I guess.” I'm too drained to argue. “But you don't have to take me. I have my own car.”

“You're in no condition to drive,” Greta says firmly.

I used to get that a lot back in my drinking days. Bartenders would confiscate my car keys or concerned friends would insist on driving me home. Drunk, I was belligerent; now I nod wearily. “You're probably right. But Brianna can take me. I wouldn't want you to have to go out of your way.”

“I expect she's needed here.” Her gaze travels to where Brianna stands, holding a glass of water at the ready, as her uncle pries the lid from a prescription vial. I watch him pop a pill and wash it down. Then Greta helps me to my feet, guiding me toward the door. “Let's get you home to bed.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

I'm nodding off by the time we reach the freeway exit, lulled by the purring of the car engine. When I wake, groggy and bleary-eyed, I see we've left the freeway. We're driving south along the old coast highway, miles from where I live, in the bedroom community of Seascape. Greta must have taken a wrong turn or gotten mixed up on the directions. “This isn't the way to my house,” I croak.

“You're awake,” Greta replies in a pleasant voice. “Did you have a nice snooze?”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Long enough. We're almost there.”

“But …”

“I thought we'd stop at my place first. There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

“If you don't mind, I'm kind of tired.” I yawn. I need more sleep, not small talk. Frankly, I don't know why Greta would even suggest it. She was the one who'd insisted on getting me home.

“We won't be long,” she assures me.

“Who is this person?” I know from the photos on the Full Bucket Web site that Greta's charity work has her rubbing elbows with ambassadors, heads of state, African royalty—I recall seeing a shot of her posing with Oprah at a fund-raiser—so I imagine the mystery guest is a visiting dignitary.

She smiles. “It's a surprise.”

Seascape is the last freeway exit before the farms and orchards of Pajaro Valley. It's also the least touristy of the coastal communities directly to the north and south of Cypress Bay. A mom-and-pop grocery store, a drugstore, a liquor store, and a gas station, all contained within an unobtrusive and attractively designed mall, compose the business district, such as it is. The nearest supermarket is a twenty-minute drive, but you won't hear a resident complain about the inconvenience. In fact, they rigorously maintain it with draconian zoning regulations. I recall the public outcry when an empty storefront became the proposed site of a Starbucks franchise. The proposal was shot down by the community board like a drone in enemy territory. Bed-and-breakfasts here cater to tourists who prefer bird-watching and nature walks to shopping and dining out.

Greta is staying at one of the more upscale bed-and-breakfasts.­ Located on the tip of a peninsula, Land's End boasts unparalleled ocean views as well as views of the state park that abuts the peninsula. The main building is a beautifully restored Craftsman mansion, and it has three kitchen cottages, each with its own unique character and each named after a different seabird. Greta pulls into the crushed-shell driveway of Pelican's Roost, the most exclusive and private of the cottages. Clad in cedar shakes weathered the silvery tan of driftwood, it looks inviting with the light from inside casting a warm glow over the stone path and flowering shrubs in front.

“Here we are, my home away from home,” Greta announces cheerily.

We climb out. A cold wind is blowing, bringing the briny smell of the ocean. The moon plays hide-and-seek with the clouds that scud overhead. Moonlight gleams on the swells out at sea. Closer to shore, waves boom like thunder as they crash against the cliffs below. More faintly, I hear the strains of classical music from inside. We follow the path to the front door and enter a cozy room paneled in beadboard with hardwood flooring and a stone fireplace. The armchairs and sofa are upholstered in beachy fabrics, the walls hung with Audubon prints and watercolors painted by local artists. A man in jeans and an Irish fisherman's sweater stands facing the picture window, his face a ghostly reflection in the glass. Lean with an athletic build and dark hair that brushes his earlobes, he seems vaguely familiar from behind.

“Lovely evening,” he remarks, his voice deep and pleasant sounding. “I prefer a cooler climate. In the tropics, every day is a sunny day, which can become boring. Like people who smile all the time.”

“You live in the tropics?” I inquire politely. He nods but doesn't reply. I wonder why he still hasn't shown his face or introduced himself. This mystery-guest thing has gone from intriguing to creepy. I forge on, “Are you involved with Full Bucket? Is that how you know Greta?”

“In a way.” The man's ghost reflection smiles, sending a chill through me. But that's nothing compared to the cold shock wave that hits me when he turns around and I find myself face-to-face with a dead man.

Delilah's dead husband to be precise. Who, it seems, isn't dead after all.

“Tish, meet my brother, Eric. Eric, this is Tish.” Greta's voice seems to come from far away. I stand there, stupefied, my hand automatically floating up when he extends his. Eric's grip is cool and dry, and he wears a smile that's all teeth and no warmth. I note in a detached way that he's even better looking in person than in the photos I've seen of him. He and his sister both have the same dark-lashed hazel eyes, pronounced jaw, and prominent nose, features that combine to make Eric's face a strikingly handsome one while merely lending character to Greta's.

“I'm sure you have questions,” he says. “We'll do our best to answer them. Please, have a seat.” He motions toward the sofa and armchairs opposite the fireplace, where a blaze crackles, though it might have been one of those fake fires in the Santa's Village that's staged at the Harborview Plaza each year during the Christmas season for all the warmth it seems to generate. I suddenly feel chilled, as though I had turned down the frozen food aisle of a supermarket. Except I can't just grab the ice cream or the frozen waffles and move on to the next aisle. I take a step backward.

“Love to, but can we make it another time? I'm pretty beat. Don't trouble yourself, I can call a cab,” I say to Greta, wearing a smile that feels carved into my face. She doesn't respond. There's no need. Her brother steps around me to block my passage as I'm making my way to the door.

“Sit,” he orders.

“We don't bite,” Greta says, her voice sweet and lilting.

I trudge across the room, my heart pounding high in my chest, to sink down on the Ralph Lauren Home Collection plaid sofa. “What do you want with me?” I force the words out through numb lips.

“You're a smart girl. Figure it out.” Eric sits in the armchair that's kitty-corner to the sofa.

“You need a third for Scrabble?”

He chuckles. “Good one. You're clever, Tish. Too clever for your own good.”

“May I offer you some hot cocoa?” Greta plays the good hostess. I don't answer, which she seems to take as a yes. She shrugs off her coat, while I shiver in mine, and heads to the kitchen area, which has marine-varnished wooden countertops and an old-fashioned brass ship's porthole for a window. She pours milk into a saucepan and sets it on the stovetop to heat, then spoons cocoa mix from a tin into three mugs. “I always find I sleep better after a nice mug of cocoa.”

“Especially when it's doctored with Valium,” I reply sarcastically. The puzzle pieces are falling into place in my mind. “You were the one who drugged me at Bartosz's party, weren't you?”

She frowns. “That was a mistake.”

“I almost drove over a cliff!”

“That wasn't my intention—I only meant to deter you. I was the one who alerted the highway patrol.” She sighs. “That, too, was a mistake. If you
had
gone over a cliff, it would have saved us all a lot of grief.”

“Let me guess. You were also the one who broke into my house.”

“That would be me,” Eric says.

I glare at him. “Why? So you could murder me in my sleep?” Like they had with Delilah. If I didn't see it before, it was only because Greta had an alibi and I had no clue of Eric's existence.

He confirms my suspicion with his next words.“Too bad you weren't as … compliant as Delilah.”

“Sorry to spoil your fun,” I snap. He glares at me, clearly put out that he didn't succeed in killing me. I derive a glimmer of pleasure thinking of my cat's claws and my dog's teeth leaving their marks.

“We're not enjoying this,” Greta says, sounding irritated, whether at me or her brother, I can't tell. “Any more than we enjoyed killing Delilah. Her death was a necessity. She'd become a liability.”

My terror gives way to anger in that moment. I'm angry about what these two did to Delilah, who'd been tormented by her guilt, believing she was responsible for her husband's death when in fact he was alive, presumably living under an assumed name. I ask Eric, “How did it feel to pull the trigger on your own wife? Hardly sporting, sneaking up on her while she was asleep.”

“Better for her that way.” Eric defends his actions. “She never even saw me coming.”

“Like a ghost.” One of flesh and blood, in his case. “You were as quiet as one, too.”

“I used a silencer so the neighbors wouldn't hear the shot.”

“Why did she have to die? I know it wasn't for the money. Brianna said she left everything to Full Bucket.”

“Of which I'm the director,” Greta reminds me. “And with Delilah out of the picture, I now have full authority. The board won't interfere. I've seen to that. I was careful about who I appointed.”

“I see.” Another puzzle piece falls into place. “You were embezzling, is that it? What, did Delilah catch you?”

“No, but it was only a matter of time. Our bookkeeper noticed some discrepancies in the expense reports, and he brought them to Delilah's attention. She was going to have an independent audit done.” Greta smiles grimly. “I'll tell you something about Delilah that most people don't know. She played the dumb blonde, but she was smart. She didn't go to college, but she was good with numbers, gifted, like people who pick up languages easily or can play a musical instrument without lessons. It's a shame, really. She'd still be alive if she'd been one of those airheaded celebrities content to let their business managers handle their affairs as long as they have unlimited credit on Rodeo Drive.” I see Greta's contempt for those people on her face.

“Too bad she wasn't as good a judge of character as she was at managing her finances, or she'd have seen you and your brother for the snakes in the grass that you are,” I comment in disgust.

Greta's expression clouds over. “I'm sorry to have given you that impression. I genuinely cared for Delilah. She was a mess, but her heart was in the right place. She felt so guilty about Eric.”

“If she could've seen him lounging in a hammock by the seashore, drinking piña coladas, she might have felt differently.” I feel nauseated thinking about it. “I don't get it. Why fake your death?” I ask Eric.

“He was in a terrible bind, and Delilah was threatening to divorce him,” Greta answers for him. “He owed a great deal of money to people who … let's just say they weren't the sort you could repay on the installment plan. They would have had him killed if he and I hadn't arranged for him to ‘die.'” I recall that Eric's body was never recovered, only the wreckage from his plane.

“Wouldn't it have been simpler to get divorced?”

“Yes, but he signed a prenup that would have left him with very little.”

“She said I was the only man she ever loved. She said there would never be anyone else,” Eric recalls bitterly, sounding more like a pouty little boy than a grown man. “So who's the liar?”

I cast him a scathing look. “Blame the victim, why don't you?”

“The charitable organization was my idea,” says Greta. “It was a way to finance my brother's new life abroad. He needed a place where he could hole up, and private estates don't come cheap even in Central America. There was also the matter of creating a new identity for him, which is quite costly as it turns out. The beauty of it was that I was also honoring his memory.”

“The memory of a man who wasn't dead. Nice.”

“Delilah loved the idea,” Greta goes on. “It was a way to ease her conscience. And with her involved, raising money wasn't a problem. If I skimmed, there was more than enough to go around.”

“In other words, you stole from poor people.”

“That's one way to look at it,” she says. “Another is to look at all the lives we've saved. Lives that might otherwise have been lost. I'm not exaggerating when I say this. A clean source of water can mean the difference between life or death in parts of the world where disease, starvation, and crop failure are everyday realities. And our good work will continue even without Delilah.”

“While you go on skimming.”

Greta pours the heated milk into the mugs with the cocoa mix and places them on a tray, which she carries to the coffee table. “Don't be so quick to judge, Tish. Black and white is only in movies. In real life, morality isn't so clear-cut. Eric and I were victims, too. We didn't have it easy growing up.”

“That's your excuse? You had a tough childhood?” I sneer.

Greta settles in the armchair opposite Eric with her cocoa. “The best I can say about it is that we weren't orphans. We had a mother, for what it was worth. Mom's welfare checks went toward booze and cigarettes. There was never enough to eat, and when back rent was owed, we moved—I was never in any one school long enough to make friends. I was more mother than sister to my little brother. Whatever I couldn't beg, borrow, or steal, I sold. … My blood, my body if that's what it took.” There is no shame in her voice as she says this; she speaks with pride. “I made sure Eric never went without, that there was always enough money for food or clothes or class trips. I've always looked after him, and I always will.” They exchange a look that speaks of their devotion to each other. It's chilling because that's how I feel about my own brother.

Except I wouldn't kill for him.

“Touching,” I remark. “I might even feel sorry for you, if you hadn't murdered an innocent woman to get what you want. And how convenient to have a dead man as your accomplice.”

Eric smiles. “Being ‘dead' has its advantages. It gave my sister an alibi. She could be in New York at the time of the murder. Who would ever suspect her? Or a dead man, for that matter?”