by M. G. Reyes
“Ah, that explains it. He met a girl.”
Flatly, Lucy said, “Yeah . . . don’t think that’s it.”
“A guy then? Maybe he’s coming out of the closet?”
Lucy gave a wry laugh. “Highly doubtful. Believe me, I have some inside knowledge.”
“Ah. Then maybe the change isn’t in him,” Ariana suggested. “Maybe it’s in you.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
Stifling a lazy-afternoon yawn, Ariana said, “Your boy there, shedding his Disney Channel. Maybe you like what you see. And it’s taken you by surprise.”
JOHN-MICHAEL
KITCHEN, SUNDAY, MARCH 22
“The first step is to prepare your oven. Ninety degrees, if it goes that low. That’s the optimum temperature for yeast.”
John-Michael watched Candace touch the control panel, discreetly checking that she set it correctly. “Done.”
“Now we wash our hands and get started.” He held up both his hands and grinned.
It had been a few weeks since the party. John-Michael had been fielding pleas to show his housemates how to bake ever since. Finally, John-Michael had caved. He began by weighing out flour and butter and pouring milk into a measuring cup. Meanwhile, Candace cleaned an area on the solid whitewashed pine kitchen table and sprinkled it with flour. John-Michael began to combine the ingredients in the food processor.
“Okay, now we switch to the dough hooks.”
“So, John-Michael, this is your thing?”
He smiled. “No question.”
“Who taught you, your mom?”
John-Michael stared into the food processor for a second. He reached into the bowl with a scraper and scooped up the sticky mixture. He dropped it onto the floured table.
Candace’s question was natural enough. He’d heard it before. But it was never easy to answer.
“She started to. When I was seven or eight. But then she got sick.”
“At least you have happy memories of her. She could have been a total pain, like mine.”
There was an awkward silence. John-Michael took a large pinch of flour and threw it over the dough mixture. “Damn. We forgot to add the proofed yeast.”
“Oh. Is it ruined?”
He tore open a packet of quick-rising yeast and emptied it into a bowl, then added a spoonful of flour and some warm water. He covered the bowl with plastic wrap.
“It’s not ruined. But maybe we shouldn’t talk about our moms. It’s kind of distracting.”
“Suits me.”
He glanced at Candace sideways for a moment. He was itching to say something. Maybe it was wiser to stay quiet. But as he often did, John-Michael launched in anyway. “You know, ‘total pain’ seems kind of strong. Your mom is paying for you to live here. She checked in on us all the time at first.”
But Candace seemed resolute. “The money means nothing to Katelyn. She’s got plenty. And she was checking in on the house. We’re convenient tenants for her. If she really loved me, she’d have let Grace and me live with her and the Dope Fiend on Malibu Beach.”
John-Michael smiled gently. “Then I guess I’m glad she didn’t. I like it here. And I like living with you guys.”
Candace seemed to relax. “Yeah, well. I like it, too. I never had a friend as gay as you. It’s pretty cool.”
“As ‘gay’ as me?”
“You’re what Tina—Grace’s mom—calls ‘literally gay.’ Which means you’re nice and clean and you can cook.”
“Ugh. I sound like a dweeb,” groaned John-Michael. “But Grace’s mom sounds . . . interesting.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am without Tina. She moved in with my dad six years ago, married him five years ago. One big happy family ever since.” When she saw his cynical smile, Candace flicked him with a tea towel.
“It’s the truth! My dad is, like, this very mellow guy. He always wanted a big family, but my mom was obsessed about losing her figure. Tina and her little ready-made almost-soccer team, she made him really happy. Until they started to argue—over me.”
“What happened?”
“Tina really got behind my career. A real stage mom. It kind of took over for a little while.”
“Must have kinda sucked for Grace, to have her mom take such an interest in the new girl.”
The idea didn’t seem to have occurred to Candace, which John-Michael found surprising. Or maybe she just didn’t want to face up to something that might have been a sore point of their childhood.
Candace merely shook her head. “Not really. You know Gracie. She’s really cool.”
John-Michael handed Candace a large ceramic bowl and a small bottle of olive oil. “Could you please oil this bowl?” He picked up a snack bag and a candy bar. “Dried blueberries or Reese’s Nutrageous? For inside the roll.”
“Both.”
He emptied both packages onto a small wooden board and began with a sharp knife to roughly chop the blueberries together with the peanut caramel bar. “How’s the TV show going?”
“The director seems to be happy. I don’t get to do too much but what I do is pretty awesome. My character, Gina, is on the run. She kills a bad guy in the first episode, it’s so cool. So now she’s sixteen, on the run, and she’s totally kick-ass. Half my rehearsal time is spent doing combat training.”
“Real combat?”
“No, silly. Stage combat, of course.”
“You couldn’t actually kick anyone’s ass then?”
“I can’t hit or kick very hard. That takes a lot of training. I know a few moves now that might get me out of trouble . . . so long as the opponent was a wuss.”
John-Michael removed the wrap on the small bowl and showed the contents to Candace.
She stared at it, her finger hovering just above the surface of the dough. “Huh! It’s all puffed up.”
“Don’t prod it—you’ll let the air out. We’ve kick-started the yeast.” He spooned the mixture out and planted it in a hollow he’d made in the dough mixture. Then he folded over the rest of the dough and began to squeeze it through his fingers.
“Ewww,” Candace said. “Icky.”
There was a loud knock at the front door. John-Michael glanced at Candace.
“We expecting anyone?” he asked, a little nervous.
She frowned. “Not that I know of.” She disappeared around the corner to the front door and returned a minute later with an attractive brunette in her midthirties, dressed in a dark blue pantsuit.
At the sight of the visitor, John-Michael felt faintly sick. He dropped the completed dough mix into the oiled ceramic bowl and slowly scraped the dough from his fingers.
“Hi, are you John-Michael Weller? I’m Detective Ellen Winter, Carlsbad police department.” The woman’s eyes twinkled slightly, gazing at his hands. “I won’t offer to shake your hand, if that’s okay.”
He didn’t answer, but took a moment to cover the bowl with foil. Unsteadily, he slid it into the oven and set the timer for forty minutes. He turned to the detective, his heart racing.
“Is there somewhere private that we can talk?” asked the woman. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”
John-Michael felt his fingertips go numb. Candace squeezed his arm, gave him a reassuring look, and then left.
The detective examined the lined-up icing, sugar, milk, eggs, oil, and pastry brush. She seemed impressed by the neat preparations. “She’s teaching you to bake?”
“I’m teaching her.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Did your dad teach you?”
“What do you want to know?” he blurted.
John-Michael regretted the outburst as soon as he’d made it. The tension inside him was almost unbearable. If only he’d had time to prepare. He’d vaguely expected this, the first few weeks after his father’s death. But in the last week or so, he’d let the memory of that awful day slide. It was much less painful that way.
“Well, John-Michael, I’ve read your statement about your father’s suicide. And I j
ust had a few additional questions.”
He leaned back against the kitchen table, steadying himself with both hands. “Okay.”
“You’ve said that your father had made no indication to you that he was planning to end his life.”
“No. He didn’t.”
“We’ve checked Mr. Weller’s phone records. Seems that your dad called you about four hours before his death. You spoke for around ten minutes.”
“That sounds right.”
“Could you tell me what you talked about?”
John-Michael faked a shrug. It was hard to believe that she couldn’t hear the heavy thudding inside his chest. “He whined at me for being a disappointment to him. Said I’d be sorry one day, that I’d regret leaving home. Same old, same old. What does your dad talk about to you?”
“Really—he was bitter to the end? No attempt to reconcile? No warning about what he planned to do?”
“No. Can I ask why you’re asking?”
“It’s just that if you were such a disappointment to him, if he was so desperately unhappy as to end his own life, then it seems a little surprising that he’d still make you his heir.”
“I’m the only child,” John-Michael answered. “Not much he could do about that.”
“There are other ways of disposing an estate.”
John-Michael felt his voice go up a notch. “And leaving your only son without frickin’ anything to live on?”
“I’m not saying it’s what I’d do.” Detective Winter gave him a sympathetic smile.
“I don’t get why you’re asking me this. He took an overdose. I already told the police that I don’t know where he got the heroin. It’s not difficult to find out how to kill yourself.”
“The autopsy shows that your father didn’t die of the overdose, but rather from asphyxiation.”
“Isn’t that one of the ways you die from drugs?”
She nodded. “Unfortunately.”
“I don’t get it then, what’s your problem?”
“John-Michael, I’ve got no problem, I’m just doing my job.”
He swallowed, very nervous. “I know, I didn’t mean that. I just don’t understand why you’re asking these questions. The hospital said he committed suicide. He left a note saying he was going to do it.”
“I agree; it all looks very cut-and-dried. But . . .” She broke off, picking up a teaspoonful of the chopped Reese’s Nutrageous and dried blueberry mix. “Is this what you’re putting inside the pastry? Can I taste?” Before he could reply, she’d popped them into her mouth. “Mmm. That’s a great combination.”
John-Michael took a moment to breathe deeply. There was no way she hadn’t noticed that he was shaken by her questions. He could only hope that it didn’t seem unusual for someone who’d just lost their only parent to suicide.
“Thing is, we’ve got one person saying that until recently she was also a beneficiary of your father’s will.”
“Dad’s ex-girlfriend? I don’t know what he promised her, but they broke up months back.”
Detective Winter shrugged. Delicately, she wiped her fingers on a kitchen towel. John-Michael found himself looking at her shoes. Chocolate-colored suede ankle boots, very shapely, with an elegant heel.
“And then there’s some footage—admittedly grainy— from a security camera of a nearby building. Showing someone crossing the yard behind your father’s house, roughly at the same time as your father died.”
John-Michael stared at her in horror. “Are—are you saying that my dad was killed?”
“I sincerely hope not, John-Michael. Because from what we’ve been able to find, you’re the sole beneficiary of his death. You don’t have an alibi. If we really began to believe that your father didn’t die at his own hand, things might start to look pretty bad for you.”
“But . . . but . . . the suicide note!”
“That’s what’s reassuring me,” conceded the detective. “Still, it would have been helpful if you’d been able to tell me something a bit more enlightening about your last conversation with your father.”
He said nothing, but felt the sensation of numbness creep ever close to his heart. The detective seemed to be satisfied—for now. He saw her out of the house and onto the path toward the boardwalk. When he went back inside, he was trembling. Candace appeared at the doorway to the kitchen.
“John-Michael! What the hell did she say to you?”
PAOLO
BALCONY, MONDAY, MARCH 30
“Look at you, Muscle Beach! What’s next, a tattoo?”
Paolo merely looked amused, continuing with his thirty-five-pound bicep curls. Lucy dragged a chair into position opposite him, dropped herself into it, and peeled the wrapper from an ice-cream sandwich.
He blinked in mild surprise. “You just gonna sit there and watch me while you eat?”
“Mm-hmm, yes I am.”
Closing his eyes, Paolo allowed a dreamy smile to spread across his lips. He imagined Lucy taking the opportunity to get a good look at him wearing nothing but board shorts, his arms and shoulders glistening with sweat. When he opened his eyes though, Lucy was looking straight into them.
“You sure think you’re fine, Paolo King.”
“Not so. I’m working out here because there’s more space than in my room. And I like the sun.”
“You do have a nice body,” she conceded. “Some extra decoration couldn’t hurt.”
“So I’ll get a necklace.”
Lucy nibbled the corner of her ice-cream sandwich. “Seriously though, why did you buzz your hair? Although— I have to say, good call on dying it black, again. The bleached look?” She shook her head doubtfully. “It’s not you. And what’s with all the working out?”
Paolo shrugged and kept pumping the dumbbells. It had been almost a month since his radical “makeover” by Darius. The shock of it had worn off—especially once he’d restored something like his natural hair color. He’d started to adjust.
“I got tired of looking cute.”
Lucy burst out laughing. “And now what—you’re gonna become one scary mofo?”
With great care, Paolo placed both weights on the decking. He took the chair opposite Lucy’s and picked up a small white towel that he used to wipe his upper torso. When he was done, he put both hands on his thighs and gave a tight smile. “You’ve got the wrong idea about me.”
“Really?” She sounded skeptical. Paolo could partly understand why. His first approach had been way too flippant. The country club women had spoiled him for the chase. He was supposed to exert a little energy—use guile and wit; Paolo was beginning to understand that. Lucy was going to be a challenge. The more he accepted that, the more he embraced it.
“What was I supposed to do,” he said very softly. “Ignore that you’re hot? Pretend I don’t find you attractive?”
“We’re living together, so yeah, you could try.”
He shook his head. “The slow-burn thing? No. I’m not up for that.”
“Me either. That’s how I know this isn’t gonna work. But I’d like to be your friend.”
“A female friend. Huh. Could be cool.”
“You say that like you have any other kind.”
“Okay, you got me.”
They shared a smile.
Paolo closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. “How’s the music going? I saw your YouTube stats are wild.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘wild.’”
“You’re getting some good comments. How about those guys who want you to audition?”
“Yeah, I saw that. Seems a little, I dunno . . .”
“Like a discount item at the jerkstore?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Their music sounds okay, though.”
“I didn’t listen.”
“You should. Check out the videos they posted. There are some good songs. One especially that I think you’ll like. ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine.’”
Lucy stared, incredulous.
>
“No good?”
“That’s not punk, it’s Guns N’ Roses. Man, you don’t know anything about music.”
Lucy shook her head, clearly disappointed. Paolo wasn’t sure whether in him or in the song. Maybe she was actually more interested than she seemed?
“You want to be in a band, right?”
“Sure I do.”
“So, try out for these guys. Maybe after school? They’re in Inglewood.”
“I should mosey on down there, all Catholic schoolgirl?” Lucy leaned back in her chair.
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“If they’re a bunch of fools like you, maybe,” Lucy teased. “On the other hand maybe they’re looking for someone who can sing and play the damn guitar.”
Paolo opened one eye, peering at her. “They already know you can do that—they’ve watched your videos. Which are getting better and better, by the way. They flipped for that Rancid song.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “It’s my favorite.”
“If they want to meet you it’s about, you know, the chemistry. Bonding. Look at me; when I wanted to get students at the country club, I went in there all clean-cut, nice hair, pristine tennis whites and sneakers. Looking the part.”
“I should show up there like a black Avril Lavigne, that what you’re saying?” Lucy gave a sardonic chuckle. “Yeah, right. Says it all, Paolo.”
“Quit being so down on this. There’s a time for sitting in your room making videos. And then there’s a time for getting your ass out there.” Paolo leaned forward in his chair. “Play some gigs. Look, every Sunday on the beach, right outside the house. People playing, people watchin’ ’em. That could be you. That should be you. With a great big crowd around you going, Yaaaaaay! Lucy! Lucy Long, I love you, I wanna be your boyfriend!”
Despite herself, Lucy was laughing at Paolo’s high-pitched voice and waving arms.
Paolo stood up and stretched out a hand to her. “Well then, let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Why not? I emailed the guy, said we might drop by this afternoon. The band’s rehearsing.”
“You did that?”
“Someone had to. Get your guitar. You can finish your ice cream in the car.”