"I did not bring her up. But she was mentioned in some documents I read. "
George shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, then switching them. I keep my gaze fixed on him like a missile locked on a target. Before I leave here today, I’ll have answers. Even if I have to cash in a chip I've held since the fire.
George sips his bloody Mary and sets it down again, sliding his fingers over the condensation on the glass. Finally, he looks back at me. "What was this document?"
Now he's fishing. Trying to get me to admit Sanchez gave me his case notes. Which I won't do. George obviously has spies on the island and Sanchez was generous enough to share his files with me. I refuse to put the man in someone's crosshairs because the police department has failed to do their job.
"It doesn't matter," I say. "What I'm interested in is Jeremy and Simon being questioned by the Secret Service."
A second of hesitation is all I need before I hold my hand up. "And, George, for God's sake don't lie to me. I feel as if my world has been turned upside down. If nothing else, I deserve the truth."
"Ah, Rose. It was a long time ago."
He knew. Without him even admitting it, he has most definitely confirmed it. I'm not sure what hurts more, my husband's friend having this knowledge or me feeling like a blind fool. "Why didn't Simon tell me?"
"I don't know any details."
As sure as I'm sitting here, I know he's lying. I sense it in the way he stares off over the vast gardens beyond the pool. And I refuse to put up with it. I have suddenly become the foolish wife and I'm already damned tired of it. I sit forward and move my glass aside before folding my hands and resting them on the cool marble.
"You don't know any details? Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe. You were a co-owner of the Grande and I know for a fact you were involved—intimately—with the day-to-day running of the property."
He gives me a look as if I’m insane. "I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."
I draw a deep breath, allowing myself a precious few seconds to measure my patience. I’m not out of it yet, but we’re getting close. “I want the truth, George. I've been a loyal friend to you. When the gossip mongers were having a field day with you, I defended you.”
"And I appreciate that. You know how this town is. Someone starts a rumor and then all the sudden the tabloids have it and it becomes gospel."
"Like your affair with Loretta?"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, George. Puh-lease. I knew about you and Loretta. It was no coincidence your wife and children failed to accompany you to the Grande on the weekends Loretta was in-house. You did a good job of hiding it, I'll give you that. But Simon wasn't an idiot and neither am I. So, yes, I think I deserve the truth solely because I've held on to your secret all these years. Not only have I held on to it, I defended you when I could have easily fed you to the wolves. Start talking or you won't like where this conversation goes."
"Are you threatening me?"
Without a doubt. I tilt my head, offering a pleasant smile. “You know as well as I do, I carry weight in this town. A few well-placed tidbits will get Loretta and her lovers back in the press,” I snap my fingers, “like that. And considering her death is still unsolved, are you ready for that kind of negative attention?"
His perfectly tanned face floods with a reddish hue. “You would wreck my marriage."
I’d wreck a whole lot more than his marriage. "You should have thought about that before you had trouble keeping your pants on.”
He gasps. One of Hollywood’s elite can no longer hide behind his acting skills. “Good God, Rose. What has gotten into you?"
Shaking off the question, George sighs, then rests his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples, and a bout of guilt smothers me.
After this, I'll need a shower or maybe a good long soak in the tub because the layer of filth on me, the depths I've gone to, has left a stink. I can't stand myself right now, much less George.
He lifts his head and stares out over the property again. "Whatever you think, Rose, I loved her. It wasn't some sleazy affair. She was beautiful and funny, and she had a way of looking at me that reached right into my soul. She was fire and ice and everything in between."
He loved her. Oh, the tangled web… “And you couldn't get that from your wife?"
"You probably won't understand this, but no, I couldn't get that at home. Home came with kids fighting, schoolwork, managing a household. The pressure was relentless."
"That's what happens when you have children, George."
"I know. But I wanted it all."
Actors. So spoiled. “If you were so in love with Loretta, why didn't you leave Gloria?"
"Leave Gloria? The woman is a saint. And Loretta had her demons. As good as the relationship could be, it was equally destructive. I ended it six months before the fire."
"How did that go over?"
"Actually, she was fine with it. She'd grown tired of playing second fiddle."
"So that was it? Everyone moved on?"
He shrugs. “As far as I knew. You know how these things go. Relationships end. She started seeing someone else. And before you ask, I don't know who."
"All right. Let’s move on. The weekend of the fire, why didn't Simon tell me about the interview with the Secret Service?"
He looks away, focusing his gaze behind me. The waterfall no doubt, with its annoying, yet calming sounds.
“Rose,” he says, his gaze still on the pool. “It was a long time ago. Your relationship with Jeremy was in a good place. He thought, if you knew, it would jeopardize that."
So, instead, I was made to feel like a fool when I questioned Jeremy’s behavior. I became the sacrificial lamb so Simon could protect his son. I ponder that a moment, thinking about Phillip and how far I would go for him.
I'd go very far.
But I cannot imagine excluding Simon.
I take a long sip of my cocktail. Good stuff, that. “All right. Moving on. I imagine you knew the Secret Service was investigating at the hotel."
“Yes. Myles and I were both questioned along with several staff members. One of the gamblers who'd won tried to spend some of the money in one of the shops in town. The bill turned out to be counterfeit and the shop owner called the police. Since it was American currency, the Secret Service was called in."
“Just from that one incident?"
"No. There had been other instances of counterfeit money showing up on the island. Since the gambler got the cash from the Grande, we were included in the investigation."
"Did you know what Myles was doing?"
His head snaps back. Once again, I've managed to surprise him. Good.
"How do you–"
"Save it. I confronted Jeremy. He told me Myles had him transporting money around the casino. Were you involved?"
He swings his head back and forth. “Absolutely not. And that's the damned truth. I was mad as hell when I found out what he was doing and I told him so. I had a career at stake.” He jabs his finger into the table. “I told him to stop or buy me out of the hotel."
"What was he doing? Running a counterfeiting ring?"
“No, but he allowed it to happen. I never did find out who was running it. Myles was approached by someone. They'd switch out the fake bills with real ones and the counterfeiter would get a cut."
Foolish, foolish men. "How long was this going on?"
"I'm not sure, but I knew three weeks before the fire."
"Do you think Myles set the fire? Perhaps with the investigation, he decided a diversion was necessary."
This time he gawks at me. Perhaps I’ve offended him?
Perhaps I don’t care.
“Rose, for God’s sake. No. You knew him. The man was a crook, but he wasn't a murderer."
I’m not swayed. I thought I knew my husband, too. I lean in and set my glass aside. "There's something else I need to ask you about."
“There’s more?”
"I had a
roll of film from that final weekend at the Grande. All these years, I hadn't developed it. Before I went to La Paradisio, I did so."
He looks over at me as if he knows, on some primal level, there was something extraordinary in those photos. He lifts one shoulder. “And?"
"There were pictures taken in Myles's suite. It looked like one of his parties." As soon as George’s mouth opens, I hold up a hand. “He had parties all the time. I’m aware. But typically, Simon took me with him. I wasn't at this particular party. Why?"
“With all due respect, how the hell would I know?"
For this, I have no response. Nothing. I could press on, pummel George with questions, but what's the point? For whatever reason, I believe him. "Was Simon cheating on me?"
“My God, Rose. What is going on with you? Of course not. You were the love of his life. And, believe me, he had plenty of opportunities. He was rich and knew enough studio executives to make a woman a star. He was total catnip. But he loved you."
He loved me. I’ve always known it. Felt it every day in the way he’d mix me a drink or rub my feet after events when high heels nearly paralyzed me. The time he attempted to make me breakfast on Mother’s Day and I had to beg him to never try again. We laughed over that one.
All those gestures meant more to me than he ever knew and yet, somehow, these recent discoveries had rocked me. Led me to find out things I’d rather not know. Does a desire to turn back the clock and never know about Simon’s deception make me a fool?
Yes.
But this torment? This not being able to confront my husband? It’s brutal torture. And George has just eased my mind. Simon loved me.
“Thank you, George."
"For what?"
"After what I've thrown at you today, you could've been spiteful and told me any number of nasty things."
“Simon was my friend, but whatever went on in your marriage was your business. From what I saw, he’d never step out on you."
I push out of my chair and lift my chin. "I give you my word, this conversation will stay between us."
"Thank you. And Rose? I really did love her. Loretta."
"Then, I guess we both lost people we loved in that fire."
35
Rae
* * *
I'm sitting under a giant palm tree at Rose's outdoor table reviewing Detective Sanchez’s notes when the landline from inside the house rings. I look up at the closed French doors. I have no idea if the house is unlocked and wouldn't dare check. Rose left me here alone. She's trusted me and I intend to make sure it stays that way. This table, which is midway between the guest cottage and the house, is the closest I've come to Rose’s personal space.
I know the house is empty. She left a note at the cottage door this morning along with a tray with bagels, muffins, and fresh fruit. The carafes of decaf and regular vanilla coffee were one of those amazeballs bonuses that made Rose the hostess with the mostest.
If Rose keeps this up, I may never leave.
The thought slams into me and I sit back for a second, staring at the crystal-clear water in the pool. Sunshine gleams off the surface and all I can think about is the slushy snow I left in North Dakota. Bel-Air isn't exactly my style—way too high-end—but maybe another part of Los Angeles. Somewhere with artsy people my age and coffee shops and museums.
But could I leave North Dakota? My parents are only an hour away from my apartment and I enjoy that. They’re close enough to get and give a hug, but far enough that I have my privacy in case, you know, I actually manage to get a boyfriend and want to do the nasty without my father showing up.
Moving to California would distance me, but life isn't exactly pleasant in North Dakota.
The house phone stops ringing, the silence tearing me from my mind travel. I go back to Sanchez's chicken scratch handwriting. It’s something about a flashpoint origin. Which would be interesting if I could make out whatever the heck he actually wrote.
Beside me, my cell rattles against the teak table. The ID states it’s a Bel-Air number and it’s my generic ringtone. I don’t recognize the number, but I tap the speaker button. Why not? It could be something relevant to the story. Or maybe it’s Jeremy or the almighty Phillip with more warnings to safeguard his mom.
"Hello? This is RaeLynn."
“Hi. This is Drew. From Harbinger’s Photo."
It’s the photo store that developed the film for us. "Yes?"
"You dropped off a roll of film the other day. You left your number and another one. I just tried the other one, but nobody answered."
"Yes. Mrs. Trudeau is not at home. Is there a problem with the photos?"
"No. There was a mix-up, though, and the negatives didn't make it into the envelope. Sorry about the inconvenience."
I pause for a second and think back to the night before. The envelope contained only prints. Nothing else. Not a big deal, but Rose would probably want the negatives. “No prob. I can grab them."
I returned my rental the other day before we left for La Paradisio, but I can take a break from my reading and Uber it.
“Thanks,” Drew says. “And again, sorry."
I disconnect the call and check for the nearest Uber. Six minutes away. It’ll cost me probably twenty bucks, but since I’m not paying for a hotel, I won’t freak over it. I gather my notes, shoving them back into my messenger bag and head back to the cottage to grab my purse. With any luck, Rose will be home by the time I get back and she'll have new info from George that might give us some direction.
36
Rose
* * *
I arrive home, unlock my front door, and head straight to the kitchen. The house, as usual, is quiet and as I make my way down the hall, my flat heels click against the marble. The sound—click, click, click—cuts into the silence and bounces off the walls, scraping against a nerve I suddenly realize I have. The last months taught me to tolerate my empty house. Now, the lack of Rae’s energy leaves my lovely mansion like a mausoleum.
Cold and dead.
Lord, how did I not realize?
The house needs life and once Rae leaves, I’ll have to figure out how to make that happen. I envision lunches with my friends to reconnect. Fundraisers and charity functions. All things Simon and I used to host. Things that I enjoy, yet have denied myself since his death.
I enter the kitchen and my gaze lands on the refrigerator. Simon’s refrigerator. As much as I love this house, the memories might be keeping me mired in grief. Between the trip to La Paradisio and now this, I’m full of self-awareness I don’t necessarily appreciate. Compartmentalizing is so much easier. As unhealthy as that is.
Since I’ve already had a bloody Mary, analysis of my mental state is best saved for later when I can justify a martini. Right now, I need to find Rae and update her on my meeting.
I set my purse on one of the chairs before heading out the French doors to the cottage. The tray I left on the doorstep is gone. Good. She found it. Obviously, Rae is up and about. On such a beautiful morning, I'm shocked to find her indoors. I’d think she’d want to enjoy the sun before she has to return to the frozen tundra she calls home.
I knock lightly against the oak door and wait. When’s the last time I had this door stained? Years. And the trim? It still looks pleasant enough, but it’s lacking the glossy glow it once had. I’ll add that to my list of potential renovations.
"Rae?” I call. "I'm back, dear."
I put my ear to the door; nothing. Where on earth could she have gone without a car?
Not wanting to violate her privacy, I resist checking the door and head back to the house in search of my cell phone. I'll call first, but if she doesn’t respond, I'm going into the cottage. This girl has had death threats and although I tend to forgo fatalist thinking, there's a tingling on the back of my neck that has my thoughts spinning.
I retrace my steps to the main house and dig my cell phone from my purse. Lord, please let her answer. If I find another body on this property, I’m se
lling it and becoming a Buddhist.
"Hi, Rose."
A rush of relief floods me and I wrap my free hand around the back of my neck, smothering the tingling that came with my worry. "Good morning. Where are you?"
“A block away. I got a call from the photo store. There was a mix-up and the negatives weren't included in the envelope. I took an Uber to go pick them up. I had to climb over the gate to get out. Sorry. I figured I’d wait outside until you got back and could let me in."
The negatives? I’d been so tired last night I hadn’t noticed they were missing. “Oh, my dear. You didn’t need to climb over the gate. I’ll show you how to open it from inside. Besides, I could have picked up the negatives on my way home."
"It wasn't a problem. I needed a break from my notes anyway. We're about to pull up."
"I'll open the gate for you. I'm in the kitchen. Come right in."
I disconnect, then retrieve the pitcher of fresh lemon water I prepared prior to leaving this morning. Just as I finish pouring two glasses, the chime of the front door opening sounds. "In here, dear."
I return the pitcher to the refrigerator, checking the temperature to make sure it's holding after the latest round of repairs. So far, so good.
"Hi, Rose."
RaeLynn bounces in, her ponytail swinging. She’s in frayed jeans, a Leonard Skynyrd—whomever he is—T-shirt, and sneakers, and has the fresh look of a recently scrubbed face. Part of me wants to advise her to enjoy the smoothness of youthful skin. I miss the days when the routine was so easy and a coat of moisturizer was the only product I needed.
"Hello. You are looking rested."
"I feel rested. The bed in your cottage is awesome."
"Well, good. I replaced it a few months back, but you're the first to test it."
Rae holds up a small paper bag. "Negatives," she says. "The guy at the store asked me to check them against the photos to make sure we have all of them. I think he’s paranoid that they lost some.”
Into the Fire Page 16