Swimsuit Body (26 page)

EPILOGUE

Nine months later

“Now this is what I call riding in style.” McGee grins as he settles back in his leather seat on the Gulfstream Five that's flying us to L.A. for the red-carpet premiere of the long-awaited
Devil's Slide
.

When I first laid eyes on the private jet sitting on the tarmac at San Francisco International, I couldn't believe it was for us. It's more suitable for an Arab sheik traveling with his entourage and multiple wives than our party of eight, which includes McGee, Brianna, Ivy and Rajeev, Arthur and Gladys, and Spence and me. It's huge, and the cabin is grander and more luxurious than any I'd ever seen. Detailed in burled wood veneer, it has cushy, butter-colored leather seats set two to a row with tables in between, and a commodious service area in back, where a uniformed steward named Derek is preparing refreshments for us. I haven't checked out the bathroom yet, but I'm told it has a shower. The movie studio didn't stint.

“No going back to coach after this,” Ivy agrees as she plops into a window seat. She's dressed in a stretchy black top paired with a peasant skirt and her pink Tony Lama cowboy boots.

“Marry a billionaire and you won't have to,” I tease her.

“Can it wait until after the wedding?” Rajeev reaches for Ivy's hand after he takes the seat next to her. Six months ago, Rajeev left his previous job to take one at a Silicon Valley start-up that includes stock options that will potentially be worth a fortune when the company goes public in a few months. Ivy has mixed feelings about the prospect of being a rich man's wife. Her acceptance of Rajeev's marriage proposal was on the condition that she would never have to move out of her white elephant into a McMansion or trade her VW Beetle for a luxury vehicle. No bling, either—just the emerald-cut diamond that sparkles on her left hand. Knowing Rajeev, he won't let success go to his head. He wants the same things that Ivy does, and he loves her for who she is.

“This
is
nice.” Gladys Sedgwick sighs contentedly as she stretches out in her seat next to Arthur—she'd have miles of legroom even in coach, she's so petite—looking younger than the last time I saw her, if that's possible. I attribute it to the fact that she now has a boyfriend, named Dave, a retired marketing firm CEO whom she'd met online. The romance seems to have given her a new lease on life. She ditched her Palm Beach matron duds in favor of more youthful attire like the white capris and a cropped, navy-checked jacket she has on, got a new hairstyle, and started dyeing her hair a more subtle shade of red. Her boyfriend is ten years her junior, but I imagine she'll wear him out. She has him taking tango lessons with her and they're booked for an African safari in the fall. Meanwhile, she and Arthur still go on their morning power walks together.

Arthur looks handsome in a Calvin Klein blazer, dark gray with muted stripes, paired with a navy-blue open-collared shirt, an outfit Gladys picked out for him when they went shopping last week. She's his new personal shopper, having assumed the role that was once mine. I used to have to drag Arthur to the mall, and getting him to part with so much as his not so tighty-whiteys required a combination of cajoling, bribes, and threats on my part. I see it as a positive sign in terms of his mental health that he's taking more of an interest in his appearance. He seems happier these days and stands taller, having grown in confidence with his job at the senior center.

“You can thank Uncle Karol for getting the studio to pony up,” Brianna pipes up. She's standing in the aft of the cabin, where she's briefing Derek the steward on our individual dietary restrictions.

“I still don't get what we did to deserve it.” I slide into the seat next to Spence, who sits opposite Ivy and Rajeev. He shoots me a wry glance. He's not used to my being so modest.

“We saved them a ton of money. The picture would've gone over budget if the investigation had dragged on any longer,” Brianna reminds me.

Spence doesn't appear offended by Brianna's failure to credit him. He's too busy luxuriating in the legroom his seat affords him. But in fairness I point out, “If the investigation was dragging out, they had only themselves to blame. People who have people”—I use the Hollywood construction, not like in the song—“make it tough for the police to get anything done.”

Brianna shrugs. She looks as crisp as the invitation to tonight's premiere—which arrived in the mail six weeks ago, engraved in black on heavy cream stock—in pressed charcoal jeans and an ecru linen top accented by the beaded ebony necklace that Ivy brought back from her most recent trip to Malawi. “No one in Hollywood cares about what really happened. They only care about the bottom line. Also, let's face it, our daring escape makes a way better story than boring police work.”

McGee gives a derisive snort. “Next, you'll be selling movie rights.”

McGee has an even dimmer view of Hollywood since he started moonlighting as a celebrity bodyguard, courtesy of his new friend Jimmy who's been throwing extra work his way. It didn't prevent him from accompanying us on this trip, however. I observe that he's again rocking the
Miami Vice
look in his tropical-weight off-white blazer and Hawaiian shirt. Wraparound shades and a Panama hat, tilted at a rakish angle on his ponytailed head, complete the ensemble.

“Did you know the Gulfstream G550 has a Rolls-Royce engine?” Arthur says to no one in particular. My brother, the king of the non sequitur. He goes on in greater detail about the G550 while we sip mimosas—virgin for me and McGee, who's ninety days sober and who now regularly attends AA meetings when he's not fending off paparazzi or busting chops (along with the odd camera) for his celebrity clients—from champagne flutes with the studio's logo of a gilded griffin.

Finally, Gladys interrupts him to exclaim, “My goodness, Art, the things you know!”

“Too much?” He eyes her anxiously.

“Not a bit. It's all very interesting.” Gladys is more diplomatic than I am. My brother takes the hint and stops talking about stuff you'd need a degree in engineering to understand.

We taxi down the runway to a smooth takeoff. As we climb toward cruising altitude, Spence gives us the latest from the DA's office. “The judge denied the motion for a change of venue,” he reports, referring to Greta Nyland's attorney's latest stall tactic. “Jury selection starts Monday of next week.” Greta's trial date is slated for the end of March. Eric will be tried in April.

“You'd have to go to an Amish community or an FDLS compound to find jurors who haven't been exposed to the press coverage,” I remark. The murder of Delilah Ward and the subsequent arrest of her husband and his sister sparked a media frenzy the likes of which hasn't been seen since the O. J. Simpson trial. It was made even more sensational by Eric Nyland's “return from the dead” and the fact that Greta Nyland was the director of the charitable organization in his name.

“If there's any justice, those two will spend the rest of their lives behind bars!” Gladys declares heatedly.

“In India, you can spend years in jail before your case even goes to trial,” Rajeev comments. Ivy shoots me a meaningful look. She and Rajeev are getting married in December, and the wedding is to take place in Mumbai, where Rajeev's family lives. I know she's thinking that trouble has a way of finding me wherever I go. Good thing I'll have Spence to steer us clear of any dead bodies.

Spence puts our minds at rest. “Greta's attorney was angling to cut a deal since hers was the lesser charge, but the DA didn't bite.” The charge was conspiracy to commit murder. Greta will be tried at a later date on the charges of kidnapping and attempted murder. “No plea bargain means the prosecution's case is airtight. I spoke with the DA myself. He's confident of a guilty verdict.”

“Do they still have chain gangs?” Ivy asks hopefully.

“These days they're called work crews,” McGee says with a rasp.

“As long as they're locked up where they can't hurt anyone else, I don't care if they're breaking rocks or making license plates,” I say. A chill goes through me at the memory of my near death at their hands. I hope Greta and Eric think of me whenever they see their scarred faces in the mirror.

“Count on it.” Spence puts his arm around my shoulders. These past months haven't been smooth sailing, between his divorce and the fact that his kids are still getting used to the idea of their dad having a girlfriend, but for the most part we're like any new couple. We hold hands a lot, have pet names for each other, and fight over who gets to use the TV remote. I try not to project too far into the future. When Spence returned from the final meeting with his wife and their respective attorneys, he declared in a grim voice, “I never want to go through
that
again.” I didn't know whether he meant marriage or divorce, and I was afraid to ask. For the most part, I'm content. He sleeps over at my place on the nights his kids are with their mom, and I'm always welcome to join them when Katie and Ryan are with him. We go out for pizza or burgers, or eat in and watch a movie. On weekends, we go to the beach or to the playground in San Lorenzo Park. I'm crazy about his kids, but I don't know if Spence and I will ever have a child of our own.

Derek comes around to pour more champagne and orange juice. I propose a toast. “We won't know till we've seen it how good this movie is, but I know one thing: It would have been better with Delilah in it.” Taylor Ramsey is talented, but not as talented as Delilah was. “Hell, the
world
would be better with her in it.” I raise my glass. “Here's to Delilah.”

Brianna ducks her head, but not before I notice the overbrightness of her eyes.

Lunch is sliced papaya, crab salad with avocado, and sushi so fresh it's practically swimming, served on china plates with real forks and knives. Commercial air travel will never be the same after this. How will I go back to sporks and pretzels? Brianna and I talk shop while we enjoy our meal. Revenues for Rest Easy Property Management have doubled since I made Brianna a partner. Turns out she's a marketing whiz. She redesigned our Web site and posted a clever video she made on YouTube that has gotten over a hundred thousand views so far (it shows us doing
Mission Impossible–
style stunts such as spider-crawling across ceilings in getting to those hard-to-reach spots). We now have a dedicated office space—the attic floor we're renting at Ivy's—a company van, and an employee, a high school girl by the name of Natalie who works part-time.

“I read online there was a fourteen percent increase in the number of vacation rentals over the past year.” Brianna uses her chopsticks to convey a piece of salmon dipped in soy sauce to her mouth without so much as a drop landing on her ecru linen top or the cloth napkin that covers her lap. “If we had another van, we could take on even more clients. So here's what I'm thinking …”

I suppress a sigh as she sketches out the latest plan for expansion. I owe her my life, but she'll be the death of me yet.

When we're done eating, I go over to McGee and slip into the empty seat next to his. “So what did you decide?”

“About what?” he replies, feigning ignorance.

“You know.”

He grunts in response.

“It's a good offer,” I point out.

The night of the shooting at the Shady Brook Inn, he became acquainted with my client Mr. Russo, and formed an unlikely friendship with him. Recently, Russo offered McGee a job at his casino working directly under his nephew, Dom, the chief of security. Between retirement pay and a salary he'd be sitting pretty, though McGee doesn't see it that way.

“I like being my own boss,” he says.

“Which means way too much time on your hands, and you know what that leads to.”

“Yeah, you nagging me.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “I'll miss you when you're gone.”

“I ain't gone yet.” McGee isn't one for expressing sentiment, but I detect a faint smile hovering over his lips. He lowers his shades to peer at me over the tops. “You trying to get rid of me or something?”

I grin. “As if.”

The subdivisions of greater Los Angeles appear below in miniature, dotted with swimming pools that stare up at the sky like unblinking blue eyes. I feel a flutter of anticipation thinking about tonight's event. I'm eager to see
Devil's Slide,
which was named after the very spot where I nearly lost my life and which now serves to remind me that, even though bad things happen to good people, good things can happen, too. I'm also looking forward to reconnecting with Liam Brady at the premiere. He flew in from Prague, where he's filming next summer's blockbuster in which he stars as a mortal for a change. We've kept in touch through Facebook messages. Liam is still sober, still kicking butt at the box office, and still straight, as far as I know. His current girlfriend is a Brazilian supermodel. As for the other cast members, I only know what's reported by the press.

The big story is that Brent Harding and his wife got back together. He had a change of heart when Olivia gave birth to their twins while awaiting trial on the charge of assault with a deadly weapon. He subsequently moved back into their Bel Air mansion and testified in her defense at her trial, admitting to his own misconduct and pleading for clemency. The judge sentenced Olivia to community service in lieu of jail time. They plan to renew their vows once she's served her sentence. I wish them all the happiness in the world. They deserve each other, if you ask me.

I return to my seat to find Ivy and Rajeev peering at his laptop, shaking their heads over the latest “suggestion” emailed by his mother. Rupa Jaswinder might have modern views on her son's choice of a bride, but she's determined to see Rajeev wed in a traditional Indian ceremony, complete with a guest list that numbers in the hundreds, a wedding feast fit for a king, and more than one form of hired entertainment. “You don't think professional dancers­ are a bit over the top?” Ivy asks apprehensively. The Bollywood-style extravaganza envisioned by her future mother-in-law has given her a new appreciation for her own mother's hands-off approach. Dr. Ladeaux bestowed her blessing on the union but has taken a backseat in regards to the wedding itself. Her sole contribution was to pay the air fare to Malta, where the newlyweds will honeymoon.