by Ink, India
Oh shit! Elliot! What the hell was he doing here?
“What on earth are you doing here?” I said as I yanked the door open.
The stupid grin on his face grew wider. “Persia, I’ve come to take you home with me! I wrote you a letter but you didn’t call. Didn’t call at all. It’s time for you to come back to Seattle. I haven’t got the penthouse anymore, though. The feds confic—consti—confisticated it so you’ll have to get a job and an apartment for the both of us.”
Joy of joys, he was drunker than a duck in a gin mill, as my Aunt Florence always said. Could he really be so dense as to believe that I’d go back to him? Or was he just on the ego trip of the century? Either way, I had no intention of letting him in the house. I grabbed a sweater off of one of the hooks by the door and slipped into it, then propelled him over to the porch swing. He dropped into it with a queasy look. With luck, he wouldn’t upchuck all over the porch.
I leaned against the railing, facing him. “Elliot, I don’t know what you expected, but you’re not going to find it. I told you not to contact me and I mean it.” I folded my arms across my chest.
He gave me a dreamy smile and leaned against the back of the glider. “Did you know your porch moves? Back and forth and back and . . . what was the question? I’m just so glad to see you!”
As he tried to hoist himself to his feet, I lightly jumped back a step. I knew that look. It was his “I-want-a-hug” look and I wasn’t about to make nice-nice. “Do you even bother to listen to me? Now, I’m going to drive you to a motel because there’s no way you should be behind the wheel tonight, and then tomorrow morning, you’re going to leave town and never bother me again.” I glanced at his car. It looked intact. I just prayed that he hadn’t hit anybody or anything on the way here. “Give me your keys. I’ll catch a taxi home.”
“Persia, my sweet Persian Rose. I missed you, you know. Even though you were a pain in the butt, I missed you while I was in ja . . . ya . . . ja-yul.” He’d reached the point where he was exaggerating syllables in order to remain halfway coherent. Time to get him out of here.
“Stay here!” I pushed him back into the swing—he’d take awhile to get out of it again—and hauled ass into the house where I grabbed my purse and keys, then locked the door behind me. “Come on buster, down the steps.” I tugged on his sleeve and he stumbled to the stairs and promptly tripped and spilled headfirst down to the sidewalk.
“Elliot! Oh my God! Are you hurt?” I raced down behind him, praying that he hadn’t broken his neck. All we’d need would be a lawsuit from my estranged boyfriend. But, as often happens with drunks, Elliot had gone limp and was fine except for what looked like a scraped nose. He’d been so relaxed I doubted if he’d remember how he got it. I got him up and over to his car, where he puked beside the passenger door while I winced and looked away.
“You done there, cowboy?” Why, oh why had he decided to come looking for me? Was he brain-dead?
He mumbled something, having lapsed into the stage preceding blackout, and I shoved him in the seat and buckled his seat belt. He grabbed my hand and tried to force it down to his pants but I smacked him lightly on the face and he let go, so out of it that I had my doubts that he even knew what he was doing.
“Persia, Persia . . . you’re the only one for me. She didn’t mean anything, really . . .”
I froze. “What? Who are you talking about?”
He hiccupped and a thin stream of spittle flew out to land on his jacket. “Leah . . . she didn’t mean anything. I jus’ needed a good lay an you were mad at me—” His voice drifted off and he began to snore.
I stood there a moment, staring at him. Leah? Leah had been our next-door neighbor, a young woman who was short, perky in all the right areas, and who had about as many wits as she did extra pounds. She was as filling as fat-free cookies: all sugar and no substance. Apparently, Elliot had developed a sweet tooth during our time together, and decided I was a little too bitter to satisfy his cravings.
I slammed the passenger door and climbed in the driver’s seat. Elliot snored all the way to the Bay-Berry Hotel, a seedy little dive near the docks. After checking in under his name, and paying the bill with three twenties I found in his wallet, I managed to wake him up long enough to get him inside. I scribbled a note, instructing him to never set foot on our property again and to cease all contact with me in any way, shape, or form, then propped it up on the nightstand along with his wallet and keys. I thought about doing something stupid and childish, like writing “Jerk” all over his face, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth.
On second thought, maybe it would teach him a lesson. I dug through my purse and found a Sharpie permanent marker that I used to write labels at the shop and ripped open his shirt, popping the buttons as I did so. He mumbled, but didn’t wake up. Good.
In bold, bright red letters, I wrote: “HI THERE! I’M ELLIOT AND I’M A JERK! FOR YOUR OWN GOOD, DON’T DATE ME!”
Grinning, I popped the cap back on the marker and headed for the door. I was done with this fish and he could fry for all I cared. I hied myself over to the diner across the street, where I called a taxi and went home.
Chapter Eleven
I warned Auntie about Elliot while we were eating breakfast. “He’s really hitting the bottle now—harder than I’ve ever seen him, and I don’t think jail did him any good. He’s degenerated a lot. If he calls, take a message but don’t encourage him. I just hope I don’t have to get a restraining order.” I wiped my mouth on the napkin.
Auntie let out a long sigh. “I hope not, too. I’ll try to keep him at bay if he starts calling you.”
“I still can’t believe he showed up here. I thought he’d gotten it through that thick skull of his that I don’t want anything to do with him.”
She reached over and patted my hand, then stuck another biscuit in it. “Eat up, you’ve barely touched your food.” As I obediently nibbled on the bread, she added, “Some people just can’t accept rejection. He sounds like he’s not too swift—and if I remember him right from the times we met—he’s not too keen on being pushed aside, either.”
That was certainly true. Elliot was so self-centered that he couldn’t stand it when anybody else was in the spotlight. “Well, whoop-de-do. He’s going to have to get used to the idea that he’s no longer a part of my life. And now, I’d better get on down to the shop. I’ve got an idea.” When I laid out my plan for her, she groaned.
“Just keep me out of it. You know how I feel about that woman,” Auntie said as I swallowed the last bite, grabbed my purse, and hit the door.
As soon as I got to the shop, I braced myself, looked up Heddy’s phone number, and gave her a call. She sounded surprised, but pleased to hear my voice. I had the suspicion that Heddy didn’t have too many fan clubs and maybe had fewer friends than she let on.
“I have a really big favor to ask you,” I said, knowing full well that she’d respond better if I begged. “I know you’re a busy woman, Heddy, but you’re the only one I can think of who might be able to help me.”
A spark of curiosity rippled through her words. “You know I’m always eager to help out, Persia. Is this about young Trevor?” She lowered her voice, shifting into conspiracy mode.
“Yes, actually. We’re helping to pull together his defense, and I was hoping that you might be able to set up a meeting for me with your niece Melinda? And, if possible, her friend—the one you mentioned? I believe her name was Allison?”
That did the trick. Heddy couldn’t resist being part of the inner circle and promised to do what she could. I spent the next hour helping Tawny stock shelves, then went over some inventory forms that Aunt Florence had asked me to look through. At eleven, the phone rang.
“Persia, line three. It’s Mrs. Latherton,” Tawny said.
I picked up the phone. “Persia speaking,” I said, tapping my pencil against the desktop.
Heddy’s breathless voice came on the line. “Persia? Melinda and Allison can see you at noon—they�
�ll meet you at the BookWich. I hope you don’t mind, but I told them you’d buy lunch. That got their attention.”
“Not a problem. Thank you so much—I owe you one.” I shuddered as I replaced the receiver. Owing Heddy Latherton a favor was not at the top of my wish list, but both she and I knew that she’d collect on it, so why not get it out in the open? I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes. I could clear out of a lot of backlogged paperwork in that time and free up my aunt from having to deal with it. Lydia’s death had thrown a glitch into our schedule. We needed to balance the books for last week and Auntie hadn’t had time to go over everything.
On my way to the meeting, I stopped in at the bakery. Barbara was up to her elbows in dough. I peeked into the kitchen and quickly filled her in on everything, including my lovely experience with Elliot.
She rubbed her nose on her shoulder. “You ever thought of a hit man? I’m sure we could find somebody willing to oblige.” With a grin, she added, “If I were you, I’d run him out of town on a rail. That man is trouble, and if his buddies get out—the ones he put away—you know they’re going to come looking for him and anybody he cares about. Don’t you dare get back together with him.”
“I have no intention of getting involved with Elliot again,” I said. “I just wish I knew how he got my address. I’m going to throttle whoever it was that spilled the beans.” I glanced up at their clock. “I’d better get moving. I’m meeting the girls for lunch in five minutes.”
She waved a floury hand at me. “Have fun, and let me know what they say. And what happens with Elliot. I mean it. Call me!”
I blew her a kiss, then headed to the BookWich, wondering what, if anything, I could learn from Lydia’s friends. Maybe I’d luck out and they wouldn’t be as abrasive as she’d been. I wasn’t holding my breath.
When I walked into the café, I immediately zeroed in on the girls, who were waiting near the door. Both young women affected the same haughty look that Lydia had sported, though Allison carried it off a lot better than Melinda. I introduced myself and led them to a table, scoping them out as I slid into my chair. By the time the waitress handed us menus, I had them pegged.
Melinda opened her menu, studying it closely. She took after her aunt, desperately wanting to be a major player in the social strata. She’d never make it, though. While she had enough money to polish the rough edges, she lacked that je ne sais quoi, that cutting-edge persona that often passed for class among Gull Harbor’s nouveau riche.
New money and old money were two different animals. Old-moneyed gentry wore their class quietly. They might have servants but would treat them with aloof dignity. They might have money but would never flaunt it like a matador in a bull ring. They might blackball you from their clubs, but would never be so gauche as to tell you that to your face. They’d charm you out the door, and you’d walk away with dignity.
But among the nouveau riche in Gull Harbor, there were two distinct societies. The first were the techies who were rich because of their jobs, not because they aspired to be rich. They shopped at Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods Market and, since most were liberals, contributed to every Green cause you could name. With environmentally friendly mansions overlooking the ocean, they were primarily focused on their work. Class structure meant little when it came to bank balances. Looks were no help in identifying them. That twenty-two-year-old skateboarder who frequented the neighborhood skate park might be a barista at Starbucks or pulling down six figures at Sand Bar Software.
Then there were the nouveau riche that included Lydia and Allison’s strata. With money from family businesses that managed to grow over fifty to seventy years, they formed cliques to which only the most beautiful trendsetters were allowed access, and woe be to those who let their style slip even once in public. Shame and ridicule were powerful weapons among this wealthy subset, frequently used to keep the members in line. They weren’t invited to mingle with old money, generally, but they had their own country clubs and lounges and they never, ever slummed.
And Melinda and her aunt Heddy desperately wanted to be accepted by the snot-nosed group of upstarts, but neither would ever make it further than the outer court. They simply didn’t have the necessary cachet.
“Is that a Donna Karan?” I pointed to Melinda’s dress. “It’s pretty.”
Allison broke in, with a fractured laugh. “Oh, no, that’s a knock-off. It’s actually a dress my cousin bought me for my birthday, but it’s too big for me and besides, I’m totally loyal to Versace and won’t wear anything else this season. So I gave it to Melly.” She smiled at Melinda, showing just a little too much teeth. Oh yeah, she was keeping Melinda in line. One of those friends that some women kept around to make themselves look better.
Melinda blushed and fiddled with her nails. I had already noticed the scuffed toes on her shoes. That alone was fashion faux pas enough to keep her out of Allison’s little club. But her long straight hair shimmered gold under the light, and when she smiled, she lit up the room. Quite different from her aunt in that respect.
I studied her a little more. Behind that desperate need to please I had the feeling there was a good brain, but little self-esteem. I sighed. Yet another young woman cowed by the unattainable goal of perfection. It occurred to me that perhaps Melinda wasn’t altogether happy with the role she was trying to play. Perhaps her desperation to fit in was borne out of an attempt to pacify family rather than her own desires.
“Well, I think it’s pretty, regardless of whether it’s a knock-off. And that’s really what counts. Something hideous isn’t going to be appealing just because you slap a designer label on it.” I flashed Melinda a wide smile.
Allison broke into a throaty laugh. “True . . . true,” she said. “But the lack of a label doesn’t make for appeal, either. In some quarters, hideous might just be considered gorgeous. Look at the goth kids. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?” With a soft pout, she gave me a quick wink.
I arched one eyebrow. “Touché.” So Allison was smart as well as beautiful. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a planning meeting for a debutante ball. Southern charm with northern reserve.
The waitress hurried over to our table again. The girls ordered plain salads with dry toast on the side, diet Cokes to wash them down. Melinda looked longingly at the menu as she handed it back to the waitress.
I scanned the menu quickly. “I’ll have a cheddar, Swiss, and roast beef on sourdough with all the trimmings, and black tea with lemon, please.”
Melinda gave me a little “o” of surprise, but said nothing. Allison raised one eyebrow. “Skip breakfast?” she asked.
“No, I like food,” I said. “And I’ve got a fast metabolism.”
She murmured something that I didn’t quite catch. Not worth pursuing. What Allison Montgomery thought of my eating habits had absolutely nothing to do with why I’d asked them to lunch. I took a deep breath. Time to wade in and hope for the best.
“As you know, our gardener, Trevor Wilson, has been accused of murdering Lydia. We don’t think he did it.” Before they could say a word, I held my hand. “I know, I know—he had motive. But frankly, I don’t believe he’s capable of killing anybody.”
An undercurrent rippled between them and Allison asked, “What do you want from us?”
I gave her the once-over. “I know Lydia was seeing somebody else, so don’t try to cover it up. A man that may—or may not—be dangerous. I’m thinking that we shouldn’t overlook the possibility that he might be her killer.”
Melinda shrugged. “Well, if she was seeing someone else, and I’m not saying she was, maybe she didn’t want anybody to know about it. Her reputation had to remain spotless in order to win that contest.”
Bingo. Just as I thought—Mystery Man was somebody who could have hurt Lydia’s reputation. Melinda, like her aunt, seemed to have trouble with the art of keeping secrets. In fact, I’d bet that she’d never be able to hide anything from anybody.
; “You’re right,” I said. “And if she was dating somebody who could have tarnished it, maybe he was also capable of murder.”
Allison shifted in her seat, picking at a breadstick. “Lydia wouldn’t want anybody to know—”
Time to wake them up a little. “Listen girls, Lydia’s dead. Dead as in forever. Dead as in stone-cold-on-the-slab, -won’t-ever-see-her-next-birthday dead. She’s not coming back. And a young man is accused of snuffing out her life and I don’t think he did it. You went to school with Trevor. Whether or not you like him is moot. The question I’m asking you is this: Can you honestly sit there, look me in the face, and tell me you believe that Trevor murdered Lydia?”
Allison closed her eyes briefly, and for one moment I saw a distraught young woman instead of a polished mannequin. She snapped the breadstick in half and tossed it on her plate. “No, I guess I can’t.”
She knew something, all right. “Who was Lydia dating, Allison? You were her best friend, from what I hear. She would have told you, of all people.”