Or it could have been Andy. He’d been so … odd … last night when he crashed her dinner. He hadn’t taken well her threat to stir things up.
Someone was speaking for the Ames family. Generally, Max avoided the immediate family during an investigation unless they had invited her in—until she got to the point of needing to talk to them. This time, however, she would make an exception. Though Gerald and Kimberly Ames would never get over Lindy’s death—Max had rarely found a parent who found any true peace after their child was murdered—enough time had passed that Max didn’t feel like she’d be intruding.
She wanted to know if the family told someone to send her out of town. If they simply didn’t want to be reminded of the tragedy, Max could assuage their concern about what she was going to do—which, right now, was nothing but uncovering the truth. She had no intention of writing an article or a book on Lindy Ames’s murder. But if either Gerald or Kimberly Ames was hiding something—information or evidence that pointed to a motive or killer—then Max wanted to make sure they knew she would find out exactly what they didn’t want to get out. She might want to talk to them separately. She’d have better luck with Gerald than Kimberly—Kimberly had never particularly liked Max, but she truly hated her after Kevin’s arrest. In many ways, Max couldn’t blame her for that. If she was a mother, she might have felt the same way.
She left quickly, not wanting to be late to dinner, but needing to make a stop. Since she had decided to review Lindy’s case, and everyone thought that’s why she was here anyway, why be discreet? She’d find out who had left that message before the night was over.
Max did not take well to threats, subtle or otherwise.
She drove into the town of Atherton, nostalgia taking her by surprise.
Her childhood had not been all bad. And honestly, most people who didn’t know her would think she was a fool to even think she had it rough. Certainly, she’d never wanted for necessities, at least from the time she was left with her grandparents. A beautiful home, a high-quality education, never any fear that she wouldn’t be able to go to college for lack of money. She’d been given a car on her sixteenth birthday, and had traveled around the world before she was eighteen.
Sometimes, growing up, she’d felt guilty for wanting more. For wanting to know why her mother left her. Wanting to know who her father was—and why her mother had lied to her about him. Why the birthday cards stopped after she turned sixteen. Why her uncle Brooks hated her so much he could barely look at her. Before she’d exposed his adultery. Before she’d been given one-fifth of her great-grandmother’s estate. He’d hated her from the minute Martha Revere showed up on Thanksgiving and surprised the family with Max.
She drove past the elementary school she’d attended through eighth grade, a small private school that fed into Atherton Prep. ACP was one of the most expensive but rigorous schools on the West Coast. Two decades before Max started, it had been an all-boys school that included boarding, but that had all changed. It had grown in size to more than five hundred students, but still graduated overachievers who went on to study at Stanford, Harvard, USC, MIT, and more. Lawyers, doctors, businesspeople, inventors, investors, authors, professors.
There were subtle differences between East Coast old money and West Coast old money that Max had never appreciated until she moved to New York City. One key difference was household staff—in the west, particularly the old money of Atherton, families didn’t have full-time, live-in help. Max’s great-grandmother Genie was the only person she knew who had two live-in household staff, but her stately mansion—where her uncle Brooks now lived with his much-younger second wife and five-year-old daughter—needed full-time maintenance. Max hadn’t been there since the family, who controlled the Sterling family trust, voted to allow Brooks to live there. She’d been the sole dissenting vote—and Brooks thought it was because she didn’t respect him.
She supposed that was part of it.
Max wouldn’t have had to stay at a hotel if Brooks wasn’t given Genie’s home, even if temporarily. Genie had always wanted the grounds to be for the family—there were twenty-two rooms in the main house, a guesthouse with three bedrooms, an apartment over the garage, and the small two-bedroom caretaker’s house. Now Brooks treated it as if it were his property and Max dreaded seeing what he and his wife had done to it.
She was still trying to find a legal way to remove him from the house.
She couldn’t bear to pass the Sterling property, so she drove the long way around until she reached the Ames spread on the far east side of town. There were no sidewalks in Atherton, but horse trails paralleled many of the streets, the yards of the spacious lots kept trim and tidy.
Marriage. Why get married when you lied and screwed around and manipulated? Max had no desire to get married. There was a blind trust involved that made her nervous. Not to mention she liked her freedom, independence, and opinions. Who was she supposed to marry, anyway? Marco? Certainly, the sex was amazing and she loved their heated arguments, but they drove each other crazy and he hated her career. Was she supposed to give up her career for him? For any man?
Or should she consider Andy, her first love, her first lover, whom she could no longer trust? They both knew it was over thirteen years ago, after Lindy was murdered, even if they pretended when they saw each other that the feelings were still there. Or maybe one of her occasional lovers who never seemed to rise to her expectations? Maybe her expectations were high, but why settle when settling would make her miserable? She wasn’t unhappy being single.
Max pulled down the long, circular driveway to the front entrance of the Ameses’ house. She stopped and got out. The house hadn’t changed over the years. It was a two-story contemporary style that looked smaller on the outside than it was inside. Trees blended in with the home to make it almost appear to be a tree house. It was one of the nicest and largest parcels of land in a town that had primarily one- and two-acre lots. As kids, Max and Lindy had enjoyed exploring the grounds, most of which were landscaped with hidden nooks, pathways, and retreats. Lindy’s three-story playhouse that had its own heat, air and electricity with a minikitchen and reading nook. Once it had been filled with little girl things, but as a teenager it had been Lindy’s refuge.
Max was probably one of the few people who understood Lindy’s need to escape her family, even within the bounds of a nine-thousand-square-foot house.
The Ames family had once owned 10 percent of Atherton. They’d sold some land and gifted other plots, including a hundred acres that made up the grounds for Atherton Prep, which adjoined the Ames property on the east.
Max rang the bell and waited for someone to answer.
Kimberly Ames had aged well, Max noted, when Lindy’s mother opened the door. Immediately, Mrs. Ames recognized Max.
“What are you doing here, Maxine?”
Her voice was as cold as her expression. Max wasn’t surprised.
“I’d like to speak with Gerald, please.”
Thirteen years ago, Max would never have called Mr. Ames “Gerald.” She’d always addressed her elders properly unless she deliberately wanted to get under their skin; it was the way her grandmother had raised her—both tactics, of knowing how to be polite and how to manipulate. Eleanor Revere was the queen of manipulation.
“I’m certain he will not see you.”
“Please tell him I’m here.”
Mrs. Ames hesitated, realizing that she’d already slipped and let on that he was in the house.
“I’ll wait,” Max said.
Mrs. Ames recovered and held her head up, her haughty chin out. It had a sharp enough point to cause serious damage. “No, you will not. Neither of us want you here. You take pleasure in people’s pain and suffering. You nearly ruined my marriage, you turned your back on your best friend, and you defended my daughter’s killer. Leave. Now.”
Max battled her natural inclination to verbally lash out at the woman who twisted the truth. She probably believed every word s
he said.
But Max wasn’t here to rehash ancient history, she needed to know whether Gerald Ames had called her hotel.
“I received a message at my hotel from someone claiming to be speaking for Gerald. I think he should know about that.”
A cloud crossed her face. Had she asked someone to leave the message? Disguised her voice to sound masculine? Maybe Gerald knew nothing about it.
“Just tell him I’m here,” Max said, “if he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll simply make a note that he has no comment. Maybe you do?”
“You have audacity to show up here after everything, Maxine.”
Max couldn’t let Lindy’s mother get to her. She stood still, kept her mouth closed.
Mrs. Ames closed the door without further comment and Max stood, waiting. Was Kimberly talking to Gerald? Trying to decide what to tell her? Whether to talk to her? Trying to figure out what she wanted?
Several minutes passed and Max grew annoyed. She rang the bell again, but no one came to the door. She became even more irritated when an Atherton police department car turned down the drive and parked behind Max’s rental.
Kimberly Ames had called the cops.
Two uniformed officers, one male and one female, exited the patrol car. The male officer started up the stairs. “Ma’am, if you could please come off the porch.”
“I’m waiting for Gerald Ames. Kimberly said she would tell him I was here.” She hadn’t. It was implied.
This comment seemed to surprise the officer, but he still asked her to step off the porch.
Max obliged. This wasn’t the time to pick a battle with the police.
The female officer, D. Sherman per her nameplate, said, “We had a complaint of trespassing and harassment.”
“Officer Sherman, I can assure you that I was neither trespassing nor harassing anyone.”
“You’re on the Ames property even though you were asked to leave,” Sherman said.
The male officer, G. Grant, said, “Identification, please.”
Max pulled her wallet from her purse and flipped it open to show her New York State driver’s license as well as her press credentials. She didn’t say anything.
“Please remove the license from the wallet.”
Max complied, suddenly realizing that the two cops were named Sherman and Grant. She let out a short laugh, but didn’t comment.
Grant took her license and walked back to his vehicle. He got on the radio.
Max stared at Sherman. She didn’t find the need to make small talk or explain herself. They asked, Max told them she wasn’t trespassing, and that should be the end.
Except this was Atherton, and rules were oddly enforced.
Sherman seemed uncomfortable with the silence, and said, “You’re a long way from New York.”
No shit.
“Three thousand miles, take or leave.”
The cop realized that Max was ridiculing her and she reddened. “Why are you here?”
“In California, or here?” She pointed to the ground.
“You know what I mean.”
“You could be more specific.” Max was antagonizing the cop, but she almost couldn’t help herself. This was a ridiculous situation made more humorous by the fact that she was being interrogated but two cops who were younger than her named Grant and Sherman. Sherman obviously watched too many cop shows. Her hand rested on the butt of her gun, which irritated Max even more.
Grant came out of the car and spoke quietly to Sherman. Whatever he said, Sherman didn’t like. She got back in the car.
“Ms. Revere, you’re free to go.”
“I know.”
He frowned. “I need to ask you not to come back to the Ames house. The owners have requested that if you return, we arrest you for trespassing. I’m sure you don’t want to embarrass your family by causing a situation.”
Max stifled a laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, I live to embarrass my family.”
“Ma’am, I think—”
“I understand, Officer Grant. By the way, you might want to help Officer Sherman with her geography.”
Max drove away.
Chapter Nine
Eleanor Revere, Max’s grandmother, lived only a mile from the Ames family, at the end of a long, meandering cul-de-sac. Eleanor had always liked modern, contemporary architecture, but a sign of the times when she and Max’s grandfather designed the house more than forty years ago was the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright—both modern and nostalgic. The smooth, linear style of Wright also appealed to Max. Guests often asked if Wright himself had designed the house, and Eleanor was always pleased. “No,” she’d say, “but we asked the architect to adapt Wright’s style to our unique landscape and the original frame of the house.” She’d also doubled the footprint of the single-story house, though it was impossible tell from the outside how large the home truly was.
Max could practically hear Eleanor lecture: We don’t flaunt our wealth; it’s uncouth.
When Max rang the bell, it was William who answered the door. He looked relieved.
“Did you think I would bail?” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Then don’t look so concerned.”
In a low voice, William said, “The chief of police just got off the phone with my dad. Why were you at Gerald Ames’s house?”
“The rumor mill is working double-time.” Max wasn’t surprised that Chief Clarkson called Brooks; she just thought she’d have more than fifteen minutes to figure out what to say to her family.
The large, tiled foyer flowed seamlessly into a lowered gathering room that, weather permitting, opened onto a rose garden surrounding a fountain and a large koi pond. Max had always loved the fountain, the sound of running water was soothing. She’d spent many hours on the bench behind the fountain, where she couldn’t be seen from the house. Reading, thinking, crying when her mother forgot her birthday. Again.
The Reveres had lived here for more than fifty years. Her mother had been raised in this house. It was a spacious one-story, not a grand mansion with sweeping staircases, but quietly appointed with lots of glass, pinpoint lighting, polished floors, hand-crafted rugs, and every piece of furniture picked and placed for that exact spot.
Max breathed in and her mouth watered at the authentic Sicilian smells. “I’m so glad Regina is still here.”
Regina had been her grandmother’s housekeeper for fifteen years. She worked nine-to-five and often prepared meals, especially when James Revere was still alive and Eleanor was more involved with charity work.
Conflicting feelings of nostalgia, regret, and anger—anger Max thought she’d left behind—flitted to the surface. She’d never hated her family, but the expectations and fundamental disagreements had weighed on Max her entire life. Though her grandparents hadn’t made her feel inadequate for being born out of wedlock or abandoned by her mother (those subtle attacks were reserved for her uncle Brooks), Max sensed she was expected to be faultless, as if required to repent for her mother’s many transgressions.
“Don’t avoid me,” William growled.
“I hadn’t planned on it,” she said. She smiled at him, bemused. “Why do they think I was at Gerald’s house?”
“Maybe this dinner was a bad idea.”
Could William have left the message at the hotel? It wasn’t like him—not threats. He’d come to her personally, using his leverage as her closest friend in the family.
Except she was about to destroy their relationship.
“I have a question for you.”
“Can it wait?”
She glanced down the hall. “What are you so nervous about?”
“I’m not.”
William was most certainly nervous.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were at Lindy’s house the night she was murdered?” Max hadn’t meant to ask the question that way. She’d planned to ask if he’d told the police he’d been there. She’d been questioned, just like all of them—th
e police asked about the last time she’d seen Lindy, who she’d been with, her state of mind, if she was having an argument with anyone, who did Max think might have killed her. Though she wasn’t in the room when William was questioned, he would have been asked similar questions.
“I wasn’t,” he said without hesitation.
“Your car was ticketed down the street from Lindy’s house three hours before she was killed. That never came up in the trial, and it never came up in any of our conversations.”
“Shh! Dammit, Max!”
“Why did you hide that information?”
“I knew you didn’t come just for Kevin’s funeral.” He ran a hand over his gelled hair, a bit long, but not too long, like Max always imagined Jay Gatsby would look.
“I did.” She caught his eye. “But I changed my mind.”
He paled. “Max, please—”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why does it sound like you’re interrogating me?”
“It’s a simple question.”
Caitlin walked down the hall, her heels clicking purposefully on the tile. “I can hear both of you all the way in the library.” She locked arms with William then looked up at Max. Even in her heels, she was several inches shorter. A petite, blond, blue-eyed Kewpie doll with the fangs of a viper. “Hello, Maxine. We’re so glad you’re not in jail, and that you could make time for your family. Perhaps you and William could save your arguments for later.”
If there was a picture next to the definition of “passive-aggressive” in the dictionary, Caitlin Talbot Revere would be it.
One well-placed question at the dinner table and Max would know the truth, but she hadn’t seen William with such a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression in her life, even when they were fourteen and Aunt Joanne caught them sneaking back into the house at dawn after they’d gone to a concert at the Frost Amphitheater, after expressly being told they couldn’t go.
If he wasn’t hiding something, why hadn’t he shared the information with the police?
Maybe he had and they’d dismissed it. But if they had, Kevin’s attorney should have brought it up in court because it would have cast doubt on Kevin’s guilt as well as highlighted the errors in the initial police investigation. Max had never looked at the case files as a reporter because she’d washed her hands of Kevin twelve years ago. She hoped Kevin’s attorney could get her a copy of the files, because it would take much longer for her to pull all the information from the police department and courthouse.
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