His lips had twitched at her question. "Why the interest?"
She'd told him about her conversation with Candace.
Leonard had tipped his head back and laughed. "You were never a bore, Gumption."
"No," she'd agreed. "That I'm not."
They'd known each other since they were kids, and had met in Covent Garden. Leonard was being bullied by an older boy, and Gumption didn't like it. She'd given birth the year before, but was back to her tawny build.
When she'd told the older boy to leave off the little one, he'd smirked and asked her what she would do about it. She'd smashed his face against the stone walkway and made a friend for life out of Leonard. He'd been enthralled by her and her American accent, an accent that Lady Catherine worked so diligently to erase. Gumption's past was especially impressive to him. They'd stayed friends through the years, through his stint at The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and several years in the army reserve, which led to Leonard becoming a mercenary. He had an uncanny way with accents, and was the most loyal and reliable person Gumption knew.
He'd helped her in the past with other predicaments, and she'd nicknamed him Mr. Fix It.
By the time Samantha Baker, Emma Dawson, Nisha Dubois, and Blue Mars walked into the Santa Monica Police station the following late afternoon, it was already over for the Jenners.
Donovan and Posie were dead, Trisha Jenner had been taken into custody, and the Bellagio invaded by the Las Vegas FBI.
Gumption stood at the entrance to Candace's bedroom. Her things were gone. The window by the bed was left partially open, a card-size envelope propped up on the nightstand. Gumption's heart jumped to her throat. Had Candace done something to herself?
Gumption crossed the small space and picked up the envelope with a trembling hand, opening the unsealed flap and pulling out a card featuring a black and white photo of a man sitting at a piano. He had shiny, crimped, slicked-back hair and wore a tailored pinstripe suit. Gumption's throat constricted, and she opened the card, another photo fluttering out onto the bed. Bending down, she retrieved the picture and stuck it back in the card. The writing was too small to read, and she went in search of eyeglasses. There were a dozen pairs scattered throughout the house. She found some reading glasses on her coffee table in the pink room. Sinking down into a chair, she studied the picture on the card. Tears sprang to her eyes.
It was Daddy.
How in the world?
The last time she'd seen this picture was in the paper, after she'd murdered the men who murdered her father.
Gumption opened the card, her heart stopping as she got a better look at the photograph inside. It was of the man who had raped her all those years ago in the park. But no, that wasn't him. It was someone who looked like him. The picture looked like it was taken in the late ‘90s or early 2000s. He held the hand of a little girl, who smiled mischievously at the camera. There was something familiar about the background, and then Gumption's heart stopped as she took in the hedgerow of tall, skinny Italian cypress.
In neat, perfect handwriting, Candace had written,
I've gone to get clean. Thank you for taking me in.
I came to LA to meet you, lost my nerve, and then my life took a detour.
My father has no memory of you. I only learned of our relation from Grandmother Catherine on her deathbed.
While I was looking into your life, I made a trip to New Orleans and found this card in a souvenir store on Bourbon Street. It was sitting in a rack that featured musicians who played music at the different clubs, going back to the Storyville era.
I thought you'd like to have this picture of my papa, George, your son. It's from 2003, one of the few times I was in England.
Candace
Gumption took a breath, the splash of a warm tear landing on her hand as she turned over the card. On the back, it read, simply, “District Greetings, George Roads, 339-Bourbon-Famous Door.” She closed her eyes for a moment, seeing her daddy's smile behind her lids, superimposed by Candace's. They both had those long eye teeth.
Gumption opened her eyes and stared for a long, long moment at the big, beefy-faced man who glowered back at the camera with the impishly smiling child. Gumption pressed the photo to her heart.
"My dear, dear girl," she muttered.
Chapter 56
They arranged themselves around Cassandra's plaque at her gravesite in the Culver City Holy Cross Cemetery, each taking a seat on the ground. Nisha set a package of Fritos next to the flowers Cat brought, and Emma leaned the box of Mike and Ike candy against the Fritos Cassandra's favorite junk food. It was just the three of them, and they sat silently for some minutes, a cool breeze blowing through the grounds. It felt good, Emma thought, after the heatwave of the last few days.
"I really miss you, Cas," Cat said.
"Your song has been number one on the pop charts for five weeks straight," Emma said.
"Ain't that some shit, girl," Nisha spoke at the plaque. "You made it, and now this is how you get to celebrate, six feet under with a couple of snacks from 7-11." She shook her head, and Cat's lips spluttered. She threw her hand over her mouth and swatted Nisha on the arm, her shoulders shaking.
"Why do you always have to put a funny spin on things," she sobbed and laughed at the same time.
"Bitch, I wasn't trying to be funny," Nisha said. "I was just saying. It ain't fair, you feel me?"
Cat took a breath. "Maybe Cassandra is celebrating at some place better. Better than where we are."
Nisha nodded, but Emma didn't think so, and the thought surprised her. Whatever feelings she had about there being a God were gone.
A week ago, she and Blue had started attending a free therapy group arranged by some of the parents of the kids who had been victims of Donovan's breadcrumbs. Although hundreds of kids had viewed the pornographic site either a few times or regularly, only twenty of them had been willing to participate in group therapy, Jaylene Cosset being one of them.
Jaylene was the first to share that porn had become an obsession for her and that she was still addicted. Her words were met with silence, and she'd blushed deeply, staring miserably down at her hands in her lap. The therapist leading the discussion had opened her mouth to say something, but Emma cut her off.
"I have the same problem," she'd said, and Jaylene had looked up at her gratefully. And then Blue said, "I still look at porn every day, several times a day. It's fucking depressing because I don't feel like I can stop."
A boy held up his hand. "Me, too," he said, his voice cracking. "I've given myself a sore. I've been going at it so hard." There were some titters.
Later, Jaylene had come up to Emma and Blue to say thanks. "And I want to say I'm so sorry about Cassandra and how I acted at that party. I was a dick. But I'm sure she's in a better place, right?"
Emma and Blue had nodded, but that was the first time Emma thought, no, she's not in some mythical afterlife, but in the ground at Holy Cross Cemetery. Her memory lived on, though. That was the part that hadn't died.
"She'll be with us for a long time through her music," Emma said to Cat and Nisha, plucking at some grass by her knee.
"Fuck yeah," Cat said and pulled out her phone, pulling up the song “To Be Young.” They sang along loudly and out of tune, and then collapsed on their backs, staring up at the sky.
"Us uglies have to stick together, always," Nisha said.
Emma smiled because ugly wasn't something shameful anymore. It was a badge of honor, and she was glad to be in the Ugly Girls' Club.
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The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller Page 38