What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  I don’t yet have the manuscript written, but if you are as excited as I am about my project, I’m sure I can complete the novel in eight to ten weeks. Your website mentions it takes up to twelve weeks to respond to an inquiry, but I would greatly appreciate a response within a week to ten days. Please note that I am willing to accept an advance in the $10,000 range as long as I receive it in a timely manner. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

  Yours kindly,

  Kathi Wright, a.k.a. Crystal Love

  I sit back and review my note written on expensive linen stationary. Mailing a nicely written letter rather than sending an email will make all the difference in the world. They’ll know I’m serious about the business of writing and not just some blogger looking for a quick buck.

  I address the envelope and place it next to the stack of unopened bills. Then I pour myself a goblet of wine and relax in front of the wide-screen TV. Housewives or news? Housewives. I’d rather not hear what’s going on in the world. I watch for a while, and then my cell phone chirps, and I just about fall off the couch.

  “Jack?”

  “Mom?”

  I’m so happy I repeat his name with a giggle. “Jack. I knew you would call.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Jack, I—”

  “First off, you need to stop calling and texting me day and night.”

  “I thought my calls were blocked.”

  “I don’t want you calling me. And no more texts.”

  “All right . . . it’s so good to hear from you.”

  “I don’t have much time. Just explain what’s going on with my account.”

  “Your account?”

  “The one at Dad’s bank.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Was Dad giving you money, sweetie?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Don’t call me sweetie. And you know that he was.”

  “You never opened your own account?”

  “That was my account.”

  “Yours and your dad’s, right? Your dad was on it too?”

  “What if he was?”

  “Well, I’m afraid all your father’s accounts have been frozen.”

  “But it’s my account.”

  “And your dad’s. They must have frozen that one too.”

  There’s a hissing on the phone, like steam coming from a kettle. “Frozen?”

  “Yes.” I start to cry. “That’s why I’ve been calling you, Jack. They’re saying some terrible things about your father.”

  “Who is?”

  “The bank and the FBI.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Don’t swear, Jack.”

  “I’ll fucking swear if I want to.”

  “Now, Jack—”

  “What the hell were you guys up to?”

  “It wasn’t me. It was your father.”

  “Bullshit. You’re as much of a liar as he was.”

  “That’s not true . . .”

  He’s silent a moment. “So there’s no money?”

  “Not right now.”

  “You’re broke too?”

  “They let me keep a little, not much.”

  “This is great. Just great.”

  “I could sell something if you need cash right away.”

  “I’m going now, Mom.”

  “I could sell some jewelry.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I’ll split the advance on my book.”

  “Your book?”

  “Yes, I’m writing a romance novel—”

  “Stop!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to hear about your bullshit dreams anymore.”

  I take a gulp of wine and nearly choke.

  “Mom?”

  “Please, Jack. I need you. It’s terrible here. It seems your dad’s been keeping secrets.”

  “You both were keeping secrets.”

  “That’s not true.”

  The phone goes dead after that.

  I cry for a while until my tears run dry. Then I wipe my eyes and get up and check the time. It’s nearly eight. I’m feeling dizzy from another day of little food, so I pop a frozen dinner into the microwave and pour another goblet of wine. I throw open the glass pocket doors that front the living room and kitchen and wander out onto the terrace. No sign of the gardeners again today. The cactus garden is disintegrating before my very eyes—is it from too much water or too little? I make a half-hearted attempt to pick up a few stray leaves before I sink into my favorite lounge chair. The cushions haven’t been turned in over a month, and they feel rough and sticky with dust. I finish off my wine and watch as the clouds spread their golden glow across the ocean while the mountains take on their evening shade of pink. It’s warm out, and the strains of a string quartet waft through the air. Somebody’s having a party. No invitation for me.

  The microwave dings, but I only sink deeper in my chair. Maybe I’ll do some shopping this week, just enough to cheer me up. One new outfit won’t bust my budget. Then again, maybe it will. I should probably pay a bill or two, but which ones? There’s my therapist, of course. She keeps sending nagging texts. I thought we were friends but apparently not. I set down my glass, close my eyes, and force myself to think. But aside from saving a few pennies, there’s no upside to losing Jack.

  October 13, 1981

  It doesn’t matter that Alberto and I don’t speak the same language. He gets me. I can see it in his beautiful eyes, brown and round and dreamy with really long black eyelashes. You’d think he wears mascara, but of course he would never do something like that. I can’t stop dreaming of his kisses. His lips are as soft as silk. I hope he can meet me on the porch again tonight. It’s only been a week since he told me he LOVED me and I told him I LOVED him too.

  Aunt Genny doesn’t know about Alberto, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She worries that I haven’t made any close friends. That I’ve never been out on a date. Never been to a single school dance. I want to tell her about Alberto, but he says we must keep our love a secret. His mom and dad would kill him if they ever found out because they don’t want him dating white girls. They want him to work hard and stay with his own. We’re just like Romeo and Juliet, except we’re going to have a happy ending. I know that 100 percent!

  I borrowed an English-Spanish dictionary from the library so we can practice lots of different words. Alberto doesn’t read very well, but it’s ABSOLUTELY not his fault. His family follows the harvests, so he has never spent much time in school. I don’t think that’s fair, so I’m going to ask Aunt Genny to let the Garcias live with us year-round in the apartment above the barn. She’s always saying she could use some extra help. Then Alberto could go to my high school and learn to love books as much as I do. We could go to all of the dances together. Maybe we’ll even get married one day!!!!!

  Crystal

  June 6, 2015

  As I drive by the house for the third time this month, I try to put two and two together, but I don’t get four. Math is my safety blanket. It calms me. Makes sense of the chaos. It tells me what’s ahead and archives what’s behind. So when the numbers don’t add up, it more than tilts my world.

  The flat and gray house, built in a drab modern style, doesn’t fit with the charm of its Moorish neighbors. The lawn’s been replaced by the peach-colored gravel that’s shown up all over town. Cacti and succulents line the driveway, all measured and exact, their perfect symmetry giving them the appearance of plastic. I crunched a couple with my foot one moonless night, and sure enough, they were real. I bet the gardeners dig up the outliers and toss them in the trash. Not that I think it’s wrong. I understand the need for proportion. That’s the part of this I get.

  The piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit sits squarely with the wife. Not that I pictured arm candy in a marriage of thirty years. But I expected her to mimic him—tall and lean, hard and cold. Instead, she’s soft and frumpy and cowers like a puppy that�
��s been broken by its master. It’s clear she tries—designer clothes, expensive makeup, the auburn hair streaked with gold. I’m guessing her face has been “done” at least once, if not twice. She’s still pretty but fading fast in a land that worships youth.

  She isn’t the woman I imagined. What has he done to her? Or what has she done to herself? Does she carry the secret for both of them? Is it eating her up inside? I want to take her by the shoulders and shake her hard. I start to play a round of my favorite game. What is the very worst thing that could happen? With the husband, it’s easy. With the wife, I draw a blank.

  A car drives up. I recognize the emblem emblazoned on its side as belonging to one of the private security services the local 1 percenters use. A man in a uniform steps out.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  The security guard is tall and broad with the beginnings of a drinker’s belly. A thirtysomething piece of work with a man bun to announce he’s cool and arm tattoos to say he’s tough. A gun? No. They don’t carry. Nice cheekbones, though.

  I pick up the book I keep handy for such encounters: The Grand Architecture of Santa Barbara. “I’m a student of architecture,” I say. “This neighborhood is mentioned on page sixty-six. What a view, don’t you think?”

  Not a trace of a smile, just a lift of an eyebrow. “A neighbor called in. Said they’ve seen your car parked here before.”

  “Impossible. It’s my first visit.”

  “They have footage.”

  I want to knock myself on the side of the head. Security cameras. Of course.

  “Can I see your college ID?”

  Is he dumb as a doorknob or slick as a snake? “I’m not in school. I’m just an amateur. I study beautiful buildings.”

  “Well, you can’t do that here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s private.”

  “This is a public street.”

  “Want me to call you in?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “No. Stay where you are. I’ll call you in.”

  Stupid girl. I turn the key and zoom off. He hops in his car and tails me to the Lower Village. I’m nervous. Sweating. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I pull onto the freeway, heart pounding. He doesn’t follow me, thank god. I take a few deep breaths and wipe my forehead. It worries me when I make a mistake. There’s no room to be wrong.

  Kathi

  June 5, 2016

  I’ve met Jane for brunch at the Fairmont, and I’m feeling tipsy from my first glass of champagne.

  “Oh my god,” Jane says, “how thin you are. You look stunning. I’ll trade my Jimmy Choos for your secret.”

  It’s so nice to hear Jane say those words. She has a Parisian look about her—always chic and thin. She’s never said a word about my weight, but I’ve glimpsed some smugness in her eyes.

  We are seated in the Fairmont’s partially enclosed terrace with the ocean a stone’s throw away. Around us sit the best of Montecito, the women primped and beautiful, the men tan and distinguished. The buffet spreads out against one wall, colorful and lavish and full of lobster, quiche, and crab. I probably can’t afford it. But Jane’s a busy woman and Sunday brunch her only opening for weeks.

  It’s a warm day, and she wears a white linen frock and red sling backs that go well with her tan. The dark hair framing her ageless face is pulled back in a ballet bun. In my new Versace pantsuit, for once I feel close to her equal.

  Jane dabs her napkin against her plumped-up lips. “I know you’ve been going through a horrible time. I just can’t believe what happened to Rich. I’m so sorry we didn’t make it to the funeral. With Franklin’s plane on the fritz, it’s such a hassle to get back to the States from Cabo. I hate flying public these days, don’t you?”

  We both know it’s not that the plane is in the shop. It’s Franklin. He’s nearing ninety, and a quick-moving dementia has set in. Jane’s only fifty. She’s wife number three and younger than the youngest of his four children.

  “So tell me,” she says, taking hold of my hand. “Tell me how you are doing. I really want to know.”

  “I’m . . .” I must choose my words carefully. We’ve been friends for years, but anything juicy will spread around town like wildfire. “I’m doing fine, considering.”

  Jane glances at my plate, piled high with delicious food. “What’s your secret?” she whispers. “A new pill? A shot? Whatever it is, I want it.”

  I tell her my secret, and she seems disappointed. She may inject herself with fillers, but she draws the line at snipping taste buds.

  “I maintain my weight the old-fashioned way,” she says, giggling and slipping the tip of a finger into her mouth. “You get the taste but not the calories.”

  I love Jane. She’s funny and has always been kind to me, unlike some of the other women in town. She’s had an unusual life. “Poor little rich girl,” she calls herself. When she turned sixteen, her father joined a commune, and her mother kicked her out of their Montecito mansion. Next thing Jane knew, her high school boyfriend had moved into her old bedroom. Her mother’s affair with the underage boy had lasted for many years. Nowadays, the mom would’ve been arrested, but those were different times. When Jane told me that story, I’d been shocked. She just shrugged and said, “Welcome to Montecito. Turn over any rock, and you’ll find something worse.”

  By my second glass of champagne, I’m ready to spill the beans. I lean across the table, secrets slithering off my tongue. But then Jane’s best friend, Eileen, steps through the doors with her handsome husband, Arthur. Dressed in a stunning black frock, Eileen whips her blonde hair this way and that, scanning the tables to see who is worthy of her notice. Her gaze settles on Jane, and she offers up a fake smile and a beauty pageant wave. Then she whispers in her husband’s ear, and they head for the opposite side of the room.

  “Bitch,” Jane mutters.

  “Did something happen between you two?”

  Jane picks up her cell and flips through a thousand pictures until she settles on the one she wants.

  “See this?” She points to a lavender tablecloth and matching napkins. “I’m so furious I can’t see straight.”

  “You don’t like the color?”

  “Color? Are you kidding me? It’s so much more than that. You know Eileen is this year’s chair of the Diamond Ball. Well, it’s gone straight to her head. I’m in charge of the decorating committee, and last week, after months of consideration, we chose the color of our linens. Then Eileen stepped in and overruled us. Said our color choice was too dull. Can you believe that? It’s outrageous. It’s never happened in the history of the ball. Let me show you her dreadful choice.”

  Jane flicks through a few more photos and flashes another lavender setting. I honestly can’t tell the difference between the two, but I nod anyway.

  “That’s awful,” I say.

  “Revolting.”

  “Will she change her mind?”

  “It doesn’t matter because I’ve quit the committee. I refuse to be treated with such disrespect.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “And you know what? I’ve heard rumors that the Van Meters are in financial trouble. Arthur’s latest spec project has bombed. Eileen must be throwing a fit. I’ll bet their marriage is on the rocks. How sad is that?”

  “That is sad.”

  “I suppose so. But I’m sick of her superior attitude.” Jane thrusts her cell into her purse. “But enough of that. I’m not going to let that woman ruin our brunch. So tell me. How is poor Jack? He must be devastated by the loss of his father.”

  I nod and take a bite of the lobster. It tastes like a bland bit of rubber. My hands start to shake, so I set down my fork. “He’s taking it hard, but he’ll recover.”

  “It must be a blessing to have him by your side.”

  “It is.” I gulp down my champagne.

  “I probably missed out by not having children. I mean, what’s going to happen to me after poor Franklin passes away? I’ll be all alone in that big, rambling
house. And if I get sick? Who’s going to take care of me?”

  “You have the stepchildren.”

  “They’ve never liked me. And to be perfectly honest, I’ve never liked them. Right now, they’re circling like vultures. Won’t they be surprised when they see the will?” She finishes off her champagne and signals to the waiter to refill our glasses. “Did you ever wish you had more?”

  “More champagne?”

  “More children.”

  “I guess I always wanted a big family. I was an only child myself. And Jack begged us for a brother or sister. He was a little lonely growing up.”

  “So why didn’t you have another little one?”

  I hesitate before diving in. “There were complications when Jack was born. And then Rich came across some studies that said single children have higher IQs. And of course, there’s the money issue. It costs a lot to raise a child.”

  Jane taps her nails against her champagne glass. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Rich was rather controlling . . .”

  There’s no way I’m going there, friend or not. “Truth is I couldn’t,” I say firmly. “I came down with an infection a few weeks after Jack’s delivery. I couldn’t have any more after that.”

  “Oh, Kathi. I’m so sorry. That was horribly inconsiderate of me.”

  “No. Please don’t worry. It’s all right.” She waits for me to say more, but I nibble on a slice of rye toast instead.