by Nora Roberts
It’s a good twist—the son of the cop who took him down writing the book. The press will play on it, and he knows it.
His comments on Jamie Melbourne are interesting. Truth, perception or lie? It’ll be even more interesting to find out.
Most intriguing of all is the fact that he’s yet to ask about Olivia, or to mention her by name.
He wondered if Jamie would.
Noah understood that Jamie Melbourne’s publicity firm, Constellations, was one of the most prestigious in the entertainment business. It had branches in Los Angeles and New York and represented top names.
He also understood that prior to her sister’s death, Jamie had represented only Julie, and had worked primarily out of her own home.
It was an unarguable fact that Jamie’s star had risen after her sister’s murder.
What that meant, Noah mused as he drove through the gates to the elaborate home in Holmby Hills, was yet to be seen.
According to his research, the Melbournes had moved into the estate in 1986, selling their more modest home and relocating here where they were known for their lavish parties.
The main house was three stories in sheer wedding-cake white with a long flowing front porch at the entrance flanked by columns. Rooms speared out from the central structure in two clean lines on opposite sides, with walls of glass winking out on richly blooming gardens and fussy ornamental trees.
Two gorgeous golden retrievers bounded across the lawn to greet him, tails slapping the air and each other in delight.
“Hey there.” He opened the car door and fell instantly in love. He was bending over, happily scratching ears and murmuring nonsense when Jamie walked over carrying a ratty tennis ball.
“They’re Goodness and Mercy,” she said, but didn’t smile as Noah looked up at her.
“Where’s Shirley?”
A faint wisp of humor played around her mouth. “She has a good home.” Jamie held up the ball. As one, both dogs quivered and sat, staring up with desperately eager eyes. Then she threw it, sending it sailing for the dogs to chase.
“Good arm,” Noah murmured.
“I keep in shape. It’s too nice an afternoon to sit inside.” And she’d yet to decide if she wanted him in her home. “We’ll walk.”
She turned, heading away from where the dogs were wrestling deliriously over the ball.
Noah had to agree she kept in shape. She was fifty-two, and could have passed easily for forty—and was all the more attractive as she wasn’t going for twenty.
There were a few lines, but they added strength to her face, and it was her eyes that drew the attention rather than the creases fanning out from them. They were dark, intelligent and unflinching. Her hair was a soft brown, cut in a just-above-chin-length wedge that set off the shape of her face and added to the image of a mature woman of style and no fuss.
She was small framed, slimly built and wore rust-colored slacks and a simple camp shirt with confidence and comfort. She walked like a woman who was used to being on her feet and knew how to get where she wanted to go.
“How is your father?” she asked at length.
“He’s fine, thanks. I guess you know he retired last year.”
She smiled now, briefly. “Yes. Does he miss his work?”
“I think he did, until he got involved with the neighborhood youth center. He loves working with kids.”
“Yes, Frank’s good with children. I admire him very much.” She walked past a glossy bush that smelled delicately of jasmine. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I appreciate that, and your taking the time to see me, Ms. Melbourne.”
She didn’t sigh out loud, but he saw the rise and fall of her shoulders. “Jamie. He’s spoken to me about you often enough that I think of you as Noah.”
“Has he? I didn’t realize the two of you had had that much contact.”
“Frank was an integral part of the most difficult period of my life.”
“Most people tend to separate themselves from people who remind them of difficult periods.”
“I don’t,” she said briefly and walked toward a large fan-shaped swimming pool bordered in white stone and cool pink flowers. “Your father helped me through a tremendous loss, helped see that my family got justice. He’s an exceptional man.”
Your father’s a great man, Olivia had told him once. And later, Beside him, you’re very small.
Noah turned off the ache of that and nodded. “I think so.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
As they skirted the pool, he could see the deep green of tennis courts in the distance. Tucked behind oleanders and roses was a scaled-down version of the main house.
“I don’t like your work,” she said abruptly.
“All right.”
She stopped, turned to him. “I don’t understand it. Or why you do it. Your father dedicated his life to putting people who take the lives of others in prison. And you’re dedicating yours to putting their names in print, to glorifying what they’ve done.”
“Have you read my work?”
“No.”
“If you had, you’d know I don’t glorify the people I write about or what they’ve done.”
“Writing about them is glory enough.”
“Writing about them lays it out,” Noah corrected. “The people, the acts, the history, the motives. The whys. My father was interested in the whys, too. How and when aren’t always enough. Don’t you want to know why your sister died, Jamie?”
“I know why she died. She died because Sam Tanner killed her. Because he was jealous and sick and vicious enough not to want her to live without him.”
“But they’d loved each other once, enough to marry and make a child. Enough, even when they were supposedly having serious marital difficulties, for her to open the door to him.”
“And for that last act of love, he killed her.” This time, Jamie’s voice was hot and bitter. “He used her feelings, her loyalty, her need to keep her family together. He used them against her just as surely as he used the scissors.”
“You could tell me about her the way no one else can. About what she thought, what she felt, about what happened to turn her life into a nightmare.”
“What about her privacy?”
“She’s never had that, has she?” He said it gently. “I can promise to give her the truth.”
She looked away again, wearily. “There are a lot of degrees in the truth.”
“Give me yours.”
“Why is he letting you do this? Why is he talking to you, to anyone after all these years?”
“He’s dying.” He said it straight and watched her face.
Something flickered across it, glinted in her eyes, then was gone. “Good. How long is it going to take him?”
A hard woman, Noah thought, hard and honest. “He has brain cancer. They diagnosed it in January and gave him under a year.”
“Well, justice wins. So he wants his brief time in the sun again before he goes to hell.”
“That may be what he wants,” Noah said evenly. “What he’ll get is a book written my way. Not his.”
“You’ll write it with or without my cooperation.”
“Yes, but I’ll write a better book with it.”
She believed he meant it. He had his father’s clear, assessing eyes. “I don’t want to hate you for it,” she said almost to herself. “I’ve centered all my hate on one place all these years. I don’t want to diffuse it at this point—especially now that his time is nearly up.”
“But you have something to say, haven’t you? Things you haven’t said yet.”
“Maybe I do. I spoke with my husband about this yesterday. He surprised me.”
“How?”
“He thinks we should give you your interviews. To counterbalance what Sam tells you, David thinks, to make sure whatever ugliness he’s formed in his mind doesn’t stand on its own. We were there, part of their lives. We know what happened to it. So,
yes, maybe I do have something to say.”
She ripped at a hibiscus, tore the fragile pink blossom to shreds. “I’ll talk to you, Noah, and so will David. Let’s go inside so I can check my calendar.”
“Got any time now?” He smiled, a quick and charming flash. “You said I could have an hour, and we’ve only used about half that.”
“That part must come from your mother,” Jamie mused. “The fast dazzle. Frank’s more subtle.”
“Whatever works.”
“All right. Come inside.”
“I need to get my things out of the car. Taping interviews protects both of us.”
“Just ring. Rosa will let you in.”
“Rosa? Would that be Rosa Sanchez?”
“Rosa Cruz now, and yes, the same Rosa who worked for Julie at one time. She’s been with David and me for the past twenty years. Go get your tape recorder, Noah, you’re still on the clock.”
He made it fast, though the dogs conned him into throwing the ball for them and made him wonder why he didn’t get himself a dog of his own.
When he rang the bell, he noted that the long glass panes on either side of the grand white door were etched with calla lilies, and the marble urns that flanked them were spilling over with fuchsia in tones of deep reds and purples that were obviously well loved and well tended.
The woman who answered the door was very short and very wide, so that he thought of a barrel in a smartly pressed gray uniform. Her hair was the same color as the cloth and wound tidily, almost ruthlessly back into a nape bun. Her face was round and deep gold, her eyes a nut brown that snapped with disapproval.
All in all, Noah thought, she made a better guard than Goodness and Mercy, who were at that moment happily peeing on the tires of his rental car.
“Mr. Brady.” Her voice was richly Mexican and cold as February. “Ms. Melbourne will see you in the solarium.”
“Thanks.” He stepped into a foyer wide as a ballroom and had to muffle a whistle of interest at the flood of crystal in the chandelier and what seemed like acres of white marble on the floor.
Rosa’s heels clicked over it busily, giving him little time to study the art and furnishings of the living room. But what he did see told him the dogs weren’t allowed to do any romping in that area.
The solarium was a towering glass dome snugged onto the south side of the house, crowded with flowers and plants and their exotic mix of scents. Water glistened its way down a stone wall and into a little pool where white water lilies floated.
Seats and benches were tucked here and there, and a pretty conversation area was arranged beside the tall glass. Jamie was already waiting on a generously sized rattan chair with cushions striped in cheery green and white.
On the rippled glass of a round table was a clear pitcher filled with amber iced tea, two tall glasses and a plate of what Noah thought of as girl cookies—tiny, frosted and shaped like hearts.
“Thank you, Rosa.”
“You have a cocktail party at seven.” Rosa relayed this with her eyebrows beetled into one straight line.
“Yes, I know. It’s all right.”
She only sniffed, then muttered something in Spanish before she left them alone.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“Rosa’s very protective.” As he sat, Jamie leaned forward to pour the tea.
“It’s a great house.” He glanced over her shoulder, through the glass to the flood of flowers beyond. “Your dahlias are terrific, a nice match with the wild indigo and dusty miller.”
Jamie’s brows rose. “You surprise me, Noah. The horticultural limits of most young hunks stop at roses.” The grimace he didn’t quite hide made her laugh and relax. “And you can be embarrassed. Well, that’s a relief. Was it the flower comment or the hunk reference?”
“Flowers are a hobby of mine.”
“Ah, the hunk then. Well, you’re tall, built and have a very handsome face. So there you are.” She continued to smile, and indulged herself in a cookie. “Your parents keep hoping you’ll find the right woman and settle down.”
“What?”
Thoroughly amused now, she lifted the plate, offered it. “Haven’t they mentioned that to you?”
“No. Jesus.” He took a cookie, shaking his head as he set up his tape recorder. “Women aren’t high on my list right now. I just had a narrow escape.”
“Really?” Jamie tucked her legs up under her. “Want to talk about it?”
His gaze shifted, met hers. “Not while I’m on the clock. Tell me about growing up with Julie.”
“Growing up?” He’d broken her rhythm. “Why? I thought you’d want to discuss that last year.”
“Eventually.” The cookies weren’t half bad, so he had another. “But right now I’d like to know what it was like being her sister. More, her twin sister. Tell me about that, about when you were kids.”
“It was a good childhood, for both of us. We were close, and we were happy. We had a great deal of freedom, I suppose, as children often do who grow up outside of the city. My parents believed in giving us responsibilities and freedom in equal measure. It’s a good formula.”
“You grew up in a fairly isolated area. Did you have any other friends?”
“Hmm, a few, certainly. But we were always each other’s best friend. We enjoyed each other’s company, and liked most of the same things.”
“No squabbles, no sibling rivalry?”
“Nothing major. We had spats—I doubt anyone can fight like sisters or aim for the weak spots with more accuracy. Julie wasn’t a pushover, and gave as good as she got.”
“She get a lot?”
Jamie nibbled on her cookie, smiled. “Sure. I wasn’t a pushover either. Noah, we were two strong-minded young girls growing up in each other’s pockets. We had a lot of room, but we were . . . enclosed all the same. We sniped, we fought, we made up. We irritated each other, competed with each other. And we loved each other. Julie would take her licks, and she’d take her swipes. But she could never hold a grudge.”
“Could you?”
“Oh yes.” The smile again, slightly feline now. “That was one thing I was always better at. With Julie, she’d go her round, aim her punches, then she’d forget it. One minute she’d be furious, stomp off with her nose in the air. And the next, she’d be laughing and telling me to hurry up and look at something, or it would be, ‘Oh come on, Jamie, get over it and let’s go for a swim.’And if I didn’t get over it quickly enough, she’d keep poking at me until I did. She was irresistible.”
“You said holding grudges was the one thing you were better at. What was she better at?”
“Almost everything. She was prettier, sharper, quicker, stronger. Certainly more outgoing and ambitious.”
“Didn’t you resent that?”
“Maybe I did.” She looked at him blandly. “Then I got over it. Julie was born to be spectacular. I wasn’t. Do you think I blamed her for that?”
“Did you?”
“Let’s put this on another level,” Jamie said after a moment. “Using an interest we both apparently share. Do you blame one rose for being a deeper color, a bigger bloom than the other? One isn’t less than another, but different. Julie and I were different.”
“Then again, a lot of people overlook the smaller bloom and choose the more spectacular one.”
“But there’s something to be said for slow bloomers, isn’t there? She’s gone.” Jamie picked up her glass and sipped, watching Noah over the rim. “I’m still here.”
“And if she’d lived? What then?”
“She didn’t.” Her gaze shifted away now, toward something he couldn’t see. “I’ll never know what would have been in store for both of us if Sam Tanner hadn’t come into our lives.”
fourteen
“I was madly in love with Sam Tanner. And I spent many delightful hours devising ways in which he would die the most hideous and painful, and hopefully embarrassing, of deaths.”
Lydia Loring sipped her m
ineral water and lime from a tall, slim glass of Baccarat crystal and chuckled. Her eyes, a summery baby blue, flirted expertly with Noah and had him grinning back at her.
“Care to describe one of the methods for the record?”
“Hmmm. Well, let’s see . . .” She trailed off, recrossing her very impressive legs. “There was the one where he was found chained to the bed and wearing women’s underwear. He’d starved to death. It took many horrible days.”
“So I take it the two of you didn’t end your relationship in an amicable fashion.”
“Hell. We didn’t do anything in an amicable fashion. We were animals from the first minute we laid hands on each other. I was crazy about him,” she added, running her finger around the rim of her glass. “Literally. When they convicted him, I opened a bottle of Dom Perignon, seventy-five, and drank every single drop.”
“That was several years after your relationship ended.”
“Yes, and several years before my lovely vacation at Betty Ford’s. I do, occasionally, still miss the marvelous zip of champagne.” She lifted a shoulder. “I had problems, so did Sam. We drank hard, played hard, worked hard. We had outrageous sex, vicious fights. There was no moderation for either of us back then.”
“Drugs.”
“Rehabilitated,” she said, holding up a hand and flashing a killer smile. “My body’s a temple now, and a damn good one.”
“No arguing there,” Noah responded and made her purr. “But there were drugs.”
“Honey, they were passed out like candy. Coke was our favorite party favor. Word was after Sam fell for Julie, she put a stop to that. But me, I just kept on flying. Wrecked my health, toppled my career, screwed up my personal life by marrying two money-grubbing creeps. When the eighties dawned, I was sick, broke, ruined. I got clean and clawed my way back. Sitcom guest shots, bit parts in bad movies. I took whatever I could get, and I was grateful. Then six years ago I got Roxy.”
She smiled over the situation comedy that had boosted her back to the top. “A lot of people talk about reinventing themselves. I did it.”