I gathered my papers and my files. I decided to take them with me just in case Sunny asked me to find a new real estate office to work in. As I got up from my chair, I heard the front door slam, followed by piercing screams.
Kassandra came around the corner and pulled me close, so we could both watch Celine run sobbing down the corridor, racing to her mother's private office.
“Mother, mother, how could you? Is this true?”
We saw her in tears, and waving around a newspaper. It had to be the gossip tabloid with the J.S. Smith story about Celine and Tristan’s kinship.
I whispered to Kassandra, “I’m leaving. Will call you. Dump Tommy.”
She barely acknowledged my departure, and I sighed in relief once I made it to my car and started the engine.
IT WAS A little after two by the time I parked in the Dumont’s motor court. Lois must have seen me coming, because she was standing by the front door.
“Hi, Lois. Tristan has my phone and ––”
She nodded and stepped aside.
“How is he?” I asked.
She shook her head in disapproval. “If you ask me I think he should be in the hospital. But he’s a grown man, he can do what he wants.”
I followed close behind her, had no idea where we were headed.
“He’s heavily medicated,” she whispered. Then she pointed to double doors that opened onto a sunny room. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I nodded. She turned around and quickly disappeared the way we had come. I couldn’t help but wonder where Mrs. Dumont was.
“Fiat, is that you?” Tristan’s voice came from somewhere inside.
Could this be their bedroom? So awkward. I stepped across the threshold. It wasn’t anyone’s bedroom. It was more like a sitting room, and very different from the rest of the house. The walls were decorated in pale gray, and sheer curtains let a soft, subtle light filter through. There was a definite feminine feel to the room. Perhaps Angelique Dumont, the mysterious consort, had decorated it. It connected to another room with doors wide open and a large impressive bed of dark wood and white linens.
But no wife.
I forced myself to glance at Tristan resting on a lounge chair, or maybe it was a fancy recliner, I didn’t know which. It all looked like a scene from an old movie: the handsome man in a silk robe and matching pajama bottoms. But he had on a white t-shirt. How odd. And his black hair made his pale face look even paler. He didn’t seem in pain, then again he didn’t look too at ease, either. He gestured for me to sit on a large ottoman that must have come with the chaise, since it was covered in the same fabric. It was much larger than the ottomans I was familiar with.
“I’d almost given up on you.” He smiled.
Now that I sat so close, I could see bandages wrapping part of his torso outlined under the t-shirt. He did have fractured ribs. The soft cast on the left foot looked like a sock minus the toes. His foot rested on a large pillow covered by a white towel.
“So that’s what a soft cast looks like.” I kept my hands folded on my lap, afraid I might impulsively reach out and touch him, to comfort him, as he'd comforted me in the car. “Too bad.”
“Too bad? Why?” He shook his head a little and a lock of hair slipped down. He pushed it back.
“Oh, you know, I’ve been thinking all the way here about what to write on your cast.”
He laughed softly, then pressed his hand against the bandages on his chest. “Sorry, it hurts when I laugh.”
Lois was right. His speech came at a slower speed and his expression wasn’t as animated as usual. Medicated.
“Fiat, what are you thinking about? You’re so quiet.”
“I’m thinking that you're all wrapped up in bandages and possibly heavily drugged, so this would be the perfect time for me to take advantage of you.”
I said all that with a straight face, without breaking a smile and then stopped to breathe because I wanted to die for saying it. There was an odd nanosecond of silence. And then he laughed, and laughed, while holding his lower torso with both hands.
“Fiat, stop it, you’re killing me.” The laugh faded into a brief cough.
“Sorry,” I said, “couldn’t resist. Can I get you some water?”
He shook his head.
“If I promise to be good, can I get my phone?” I joked.
He pointed to a side table. I walked over and sure enough, there was my purse, phone, my lipstick and god knows what else of mine, all in a large plastic bag. The ranch file was under it, next to a picture in a silver frame showing a smiling dark haired woman holding a cute chubby baby.
“Tristan, is that you?” I pointed to the picture.
He nodded yes. “With my mother.”
I recognized that same degree of raw emotion I'd felt in his voice in the darkness of the car the evening before.
“All the furniture in this room belonged to her. She loved to sit and read in this chair. When I was little, she would read to me. Later on, in her last days, father and I would take turns reading to her. I would sit there.” He pointed at the ottoman. “I would read and watch her life slip away.”
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the softness of the chaise. Like his mother before him? His hand pressed his chest. I walked back to him, fighting the surge of tenderness erupting inside me, and lost. I set the bag and the papers on the floor and pushed the ottoman closer to the lounge chair, then put my hand on his hand resting on his chest. I thought he would probably forget about it later, because of his drugged state. I watched him breathe, our hands lifting and lowering with each breath. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, my touch could take away some of his sorrow, just as his touch had taken away much of my panic when we were trapped in the car. Somewhere in the house a phone rang. Tristan opened his eyes. I removed my hand and sat back.
I cleared my throat. “Tristan, you never did answer my question.” I could tell by his expression that he had no clue. “Remember? That article about Celine and your dad?” Talk about bad timing. He’s grieving over his mother and I bring up his father’s infidelity?
“Oh. Glad you reminded me. Need to stop the madness. I don’t care when Silly Jes takes pokes at me, but you don’t throw mud at my loved ones. Never. My lawyer will take care of it.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Yes. He’s coming over to discuss the accident and our strategy. I suggested we include you in the legal demands. After all, just because you were lucky not to be strapped into the seat at the time of impact, doesn't make your experience any less traumatic. Correct?”
“Huh? What demands? Are you saying I wasn’t hurt like you because I wasn’t in my seat?”
He nodded. “That was the general opinion of the rescuers. I’ll have my lawyer explain your legal rights in the case. Hey, cheer up, we can go car shopping together with the settlement. You may have to drive me, but not with your car.” He shook his finger at me as a warning.
“Tristan, just before I left the office Celine stormed in and she was crying, no, screaming at Sunny and sobbing, demanding to know the truth about J.S. Smith’s story.”
“Yeah, Celine feeds on drama.” He shrugged. “But no, we are not related. That, I know for sure.”
“You know for sure that she isn’t Philippe Dumont’s daughter?”
He paused. “Knowing my father’s dedication and loyalty to my mother, plus the fact that we didn’t meet Sunny Novak until fifteen years ago, I’m leaning on a big no. Regardless, it’s time to put Silly Jes in her place. My lawyer will sue her and the so called paper that printed the story.”
“You’re not the least concerned about — you know — you're one hundred percent sure?”
He looked me square in the face and I watched his expression. “Celine and I are not related. That would be impossible.”
With my face on fire and a shaky voice I asked, “Why?”
“Because Philippe Dumont was not my biological father.” Then softly, very softly, “Fiat, swee
tie, you can close your mouth now. It’s all good. I did not sleep with my sister.”
TWENTY-THREE
SOMEONE SHOULD WRITE a book about Tristan Dumont’s personality, and market the book to stupid women like me. I bet it would be an instant best seller. Or not. I was so angry with myself I could scream. I couldn’t figure him out, no matter how hard I tried.
I couldn’t even put the blame on him because I doubted he knew how much time and energy I invested in my effort to read his mind. Like friends do, we try to understand each other. We try even harder with the men who fascinate us with their mysterious ways. That was my excuse, anyway.
Being focused on beating myself up for the power this puzzling married man, who possibly cheated on his poor wife, held over me, I missed my right turn and ended up on the 51 ramp. Great. Might as well keep on going and stop by the office to see what I'd missed. With my cellphone dead and still inside the plastic bag, I had no idea if someone had called, and frankly I couldn’t care less. It felt liberating. But I had responsibilities.
I saw only cars belonging to Kassandra and Sunny still parked outside the office. Kassandra I didn’t mind. But I wasn't sure how it would go with Sunny. Might as well bite the bullet, as Americans say. Strangely enough, the front door was locked. Well, it was five-thirty; that would explain it. I wasn’t going to start knocking. Two steps back to my Fiat, I heard someone unlocking the door. It wasn’t Kassandra’s voice calling my name. It was Sunny’s.
“Monica, sorry about the door. I keep it locked when I’m here alone after hours.”
Here alone? I turned to talk to her without walking back. “Where's Kassandra?”
“Kassandra?” A pause. “Oh, her car wouldn’t start. Your hus… I mean, your ex, Tommy, gave her a ride home. Aren’t you coming in? We need to talk and I can’t think of a better time.”
She had a point. I hesitated a moment then walked back to the building with all the enthusiasm of a child going to the principal’s office. Bite the bullet, bite the bullet. What would we be talking about? I felt ready to move on with my life if Sunny came up with more false accusations. Enough already. I smiled and crossed the threshold. Most of the lights were off. A dim desk lamp shone on the front desk and Sunny’s office was lit as usual.
“Before I forget,” she said, “Brenda was trying to reach you. She’ll be late and hoped you could take Dior out. I assume you’re still without your cell?” Sunny asked.
I nodded and followed her to her office. How did we get to this? It was hard to imagine the damage Bill O’Neill had caused in his brief time among us.
“Monica, I owe you an explanation about O’Neill and the Belle incident. I've already called the detective on the case and I'll make sure they know you had nothing to do with the phone call.”
She sat at her desk and the artificial light cast odd shadows on her face.
“It started years ago in California. In 1990 if I remember correctly, the year Beauty and The Beast was released by Walt Disney. Loved the movie, loved it even more when Celine Dion released the song as a single. She sang it in a duet with Peabo Bryson and I was hooked, went around humming the song to the point that my friends called me Belle. One of the friends was O’Neill.” Her voice broke and she avoided my eyes.
I didn’t know what to do with myself, this was down right weird. It felt like some sort of confession.
Sunny cleared her throat. “Anyway, at around that time I found myself pregnant, so I left California and came back to Phoenix. My parents were very supportive. Years went by and all was good until recently. Somehow O’Neill found out about Celine and tried to contact me. His last annoying attempt was that day at the office. I told him Celine was not his daughter and to leave us alone. Then as fate would have it, I bumped into him at the party and it got ugly.” She fidgeted.
I could feel her embarrassment but I just had to say it. “Seems like suddenly Celine finds herself surrounded by prospective fathers.”
Sunny sat back, her face in the shadow and I couldn’t see her eyes. “My daughter knows who her father is. She’s only upset by what people would think. She isn’t Philippe Dumont’s daughter and certainly not that troublemaker O’Neill’s either. Apparently he’s still causing trouble from wherever his soul is. I heard his estranged wife is suing Brenda and you also.” She stopped to give me a sad eye.“Poor Monica. And then that terrible crash. I should have been in the Land Rover with Tristan. I didn't see the news until late this morning, so I owe you more apologies for not mentioning it earlier, and saying how grateful I am that you aren’t hurt. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. By the way, you'll be listed as the co-broker when the Tucson deal closes. Speaking of closing, do you need help with the couple you met at the open house?”
This sounded more like the Sunny I knew, “Thanks, I’m good. We're looking at properties on Monday, and as soon as we locate their dream home, they intend to list their present condo for sale with—moi.”
“All right. So proud of you. That’s good. You know that old real estate saying, if you don’t list, you don’t last.”
It felt like we were done, so I got up to leave, planning on heading straight home. I could charge my cell there. As I headed out, I shivered. Frankly, the office felt sort of spooky, so quiet and sort of dead. No wonder Sunny kept the front door locked. If it were me, I would add a security system.
She must have forgotten to lock up after I came in because I clearly heard the door slam and a flurry of clippity-clops coming my way. Damn. Celine? What now? I scrambled around a corner to avoid her, then tiptoed toward the exit. Just before I went out the front door, I overheard Celine’s egregious wailing litany to her mother.
“She wouldn’t let me see him.”
“Calm down honey. Who wouldn’t let you see him?” Sunny’s voice was a masterpiece of self-imposed restraint. How did she bring up such a drama queen?
“Her, that awful woman. Tristan’s maid. She said he was sleeping and couldn’t be disturbed. It’s not true, I just know it.”
The sobbing went up an octave as I quietly closed the front door behind me and sprinted for my Fiat.
The humming of the engine on the way home created the perfect background for my erratic thoughts. Tristan’s maid? Could she mean Lois? Why would Lois lie to her? Maybe Tristan was sleeping, or maybe the accident had been his wake up call. No more womanizing? Who was I to judge? And besides, I had many suspicions but few facts. He said “I did not sleep with my sister.” True, but Celine wasn’t his sister, so that meant nothing.
While twirling around Tristan’s possible sexual escapades, alleged spousal infidelity and implied emotional turpitude, I could carefully avoid the real cause of my growing anxiety. I was falling in love with Tristan Dumont. And everything and everyone else was background noise, like the humming of the engine.
I pumped the gas pedal, as if speed could let me outrun the painful truth. It did however get me home faster. I zipped up the driveway and turned to get the car into the garage only to find Tommy’s motorcycle blocking the entrance. Tommy? Wasn’t he taking Kassandra home from the office? This was some detour. How annoying.
My head ached. I picked up my stuff and decided I should mind my own business and go home, that was until I noticed Brenda’s back door was open. Maybe she'd asked Tommy to stop by and take care of Dior when she didn’t hear back from me. Okay then, I would be civilized and make a quick stop just to check all was okay with Dior, for Brenda. No need to knock. I let myself in.
I waited for a hello from Dior, or at least a bark. He always knew when I came through the door. Nothing. Dior’s leash hung in the usual spot. A sense of dread hit me, and grew when I heard the scraping sound of a drawer being open or closed. My feet moved independently from my will, toward the sound.
Tommy suddenly cleared the hall corner, having just exited Brenda's bedroom. He seemed as surprised as I was, but more annoyed.
I spoke first. “What are you doing here?”
“Here? Here, as i
n my aunt’s home?” His tone more aggressive than the words.
“Where's Dior?” Controlling my anger wasn’t a small feat. A faint smell of alcohol hit my nostrils. Was he drunk?
“Dior?’
“Dior.” I turned my head toward the leash.
He slid his hands deeper in his pockets and shrugged. Was he hiding something? Something he took from Brenda’s room? He must have known she wasn’t home. Of course, Kassandra took Brenda’s message for me, and passed it on to Tommy. Damn. I grabbed the leash and headed for the door.
“Don’t just stand there, help me find Dior.”
He didn’t move.
I was glad I'd worn comfy shoes as I ran down the street calling the Dane’s name. I felt like crying. If anything happened to him I’d never be able to face Brenda.
The widow across the street yelled, “Looking for your dog?”
I nodded and kept moving. I didn’t know how long ago he'd run out or what direction he'd taken. The streetlights came on as the sky faded. I had to find him, I just had to. The Phoenix Mountains Preserve to the south abounded with night predators and Dior’s size had nothing on their aggressiveness and deadly skills.
Everybody on our street knew Dior. Certainly they would have called had they seen him out on his own. Called whom? Brenda was god knows where, and my phone wasn’t working. Why? Oh, why? Maybe I should slow down, talk to the neighbors. Someone must have seen him. A Great Dane prancing around alone is hard to miss.
Instead I kept on moving. Between the tears flooding my eyes and the darkness fast approaching, I had trouble seeing across the road. Shadows can be tricky. Shea Boulevard was in sight, with more streetlights and zipping cars. What now? Dior wouldn’t stand a chance trying to cross Shea. His dark gray/blue coat worked against him.
I was so focused on all the negatives, I only noticed the truck when it flickered its lights, yards from me. I raised my hands to shield my eyes and saw the color and the logo. It was Max’s pool cleaning vehicle, and now that I had slowed down to breathe, I couldn’t miss Dior’s head sticking out the partially rolled down passenger window. Brakes screeched as the truck came to an abrupt halt next to me. Still in a state of disbelief I could hear Max talking to Dior.
Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 14