by Nancy Bush
But then the next school year it was Yvette who was pregnant, not Genevieve. Yvette who declared she and Lucas Moore were in love! The lying slut. Lucas wasn’t with her that night, unless he left Genevieve on the sand and went straight into her arms, which he didn’t, because Gen talked him into having a second go after he’d gone back to the camp and scored them each a couple more vodka and Sprites. The second time took longer and wasn’t quite as good, but Genevieve didn’t care. Then Lucas told her to go back and get in her sleeping bag and he would be back in a few minutes, but no one could know.
So she did. And Jarrod Lockwood was asleep in a bag next to hers, which she thought was totally terrific. Great cover. He’d moved from being near Coby Rendell to being near Genevieve and she was all about it. She hadn’t known at the time that Coby had already picked up her bag and hightailed it back to the beach house.
So she lay on her back and stared up at the stars, shivering with the cold that had seeped in, but she was smiling.
Lucas is mine! she thought before falling into a hard sleep that was really more like a half-drunken coma.
Then the next morning when she woke up there was no Lucas. And no Yvette. And no Coby. And Theo and Ellen had moved outside their circle because they’d obviously been doing it all night, which kinda half pissed Genevieve off. She was the one who’d fucked her brains out. She was the one who’d been with Lucas Moore! She was the one who’d finally figured out what the big deal was about sex, sex, sex! She didn’t want Ellen to have that crown. The slut. Hadn’t she learned anything from her abortion?
But then Lucas was dead.
Even now Genevieve felt an internal quiver of dread and disbelief, remembering how she’d felt when she’d learned. What had happened? How could he possibly be dead?
And now Annette.
And Rhiannon, in between.
Rhee, Gen thought guiltily. She’d tried to become Rhee’s friend, for a while. Rhiannon was Lucas’s accepted girlfriend and though it was kind of a lie, Gen gravitated to her. Wanted to be near her. Like it made Lucas seem still a little bit more alive. ’Cause Rhiannon didn’t want to give up his memory one little bit. Uh-uh. Anytime you saw her, she relived the whole Lucas Moore part of her life, like it was the absolute epitome, and maybe it was. Her alcoholic mom just got worse and worse and even Rhee’s brothers gave up on her. Rhiannon stayed with her, always trying to find a cure, but it never happened. She died shortly after Rhee’s accident and it seemed to Gen like everybody left in the family, Mr. Gallworth and his three sons, breathed a collective sigh of relief.
But without Rhiannon, Lucas faded away. Genevieve had married Jarrod by that time and she bullishly focused on developing a new life with him. She tried. She really, really did, especially in the beginning, but God help her, Lucas’s image kept intruding. It wasn’t that she constantly wanted to remember him; far from it. But she did wish Jarrod would indulge her fantasies just a teensy little bit and try to be more like him. Why couldn’t he grow his hair out again? Was it really too much to ask? And couldn’t he act just a little less willing to screw his wife, like he was having second thoughts? A little role-playing when she ran her fingers through his hair and dragged his mouth to her hungry one, instead of the gentle lovemaking he thought she liked?
What she wanted was to wrap her legs around him, tangle her fingers in his hair, and throw back her head and grunt with desire.
Except his hair was short. Fucking short.
And he was sweet and self-deprecating and a tender lover, which should have made everything better but didn’t. Didn’t!
But a baby—that would make her feel better. She could forget Lucas, forget everything if she just had a baby. Annette had felt the same way, but she probably didn’t have the same female problems as Gen. She just couldn’t get Daddy Dave to go for it.
Gen looked out at the embattled rhododendrons and scowled.
It just wasn’t fair.
Chapter 12
Lovejoy’s was an apartment building that rambled over half a block of prime real estate, erected at the turn of the last century when the Victorian style was all the rage. It had been converted to a hotel in the early 1980s with the original house rearranged into an office, reception desk, and small tearoom during the day, wine bar at night, and there were several rooms in the back reconfigured as hotel rooms with handicap access. There were no elevators. Guests found their way to the adjoining apartments via covered outdoor stairways and walkways. The room decor was straight out of the Victorian era with ornate filigree, heavy maroon velvet curtains held back by gold ropes, lots of delicate china tchotchkes and crystal chandeliers. The plumbing and electricity had been completely overhauled throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties, and by the time Lawrence Knapp brought the property to the attention of Jean-Claude Deneuve and Dave Rendell, all that really remained to do was find financing, easy enough during the time the sale was made.
Lovejoy’s was also one of the only hotels available in the coveted Alphabet District of Portland; the more modern chain hotels were north, toward Thurman, where you could find your Hiltons and Holiday Inns.
When her father was buying into Lovejoy’s, Coby was finishing college and trying to get over the fact he was marrying Annette Deneuve. She paid little attention to the negotiations. Faith, too, had practically clapped her hands over her ears and run screaming from the idea of anything their father was doing. He’d always been involved in finance, at some level, and as far as Coby knew, had been nothing less than brilliant in his job. When the bottom fell out of the real estate market in late 2007, he and Jean-Claude were already well-established in Lovejoy’s and Dave had long moved from the financial sector. Jean-Claude had been in the hotel business all his life, working for some of the large chains. Lovejoy’s was the first foray on his own, but he brought valuable experience to the partnership. With Dave’s money and financial acumen and Jean-Claude’s on-the-job experience, they formed an enterprising partnership. Annette as general manager was a no-brainer.
The hotel had a deal with a small parking structure across the street; they were all small in Portland’s Nob Hill. For an exorbitant fee you could park your car there, exorbitant being the going rate in the area. Coby pulled in, checked the hourly fee, and shuddered. But it was either the lot or driving around forever trying to secure a parking spot, like San Francisco’s Nob Hill in more ways than one.
From the street, Lovejoy’s presented a large three-story home complete with two flanking Victorian turrets and a huge, double front door thick with beveled glass windows that ran from another beveled-glass transom above to a brass kick plate below. Coby climbed the five-step stoop, looked through those windows, and was rewarded with a watery view of a hotel lobby complete with mahogany desk and paneling and a dark red carpet with a gold fleur-de-lis pattern.
Inside, a young man stood at the reception desk. He wore a black jacket and slacks and a white shirt with a maroon tie. His near-black hair was slicked down and wet-looking, on purpose, Coby felt. The look made his pale skin seem downright ashen. He had large gray eyes, a mouth with pressed lips, and a harried expression on his face.
“May I help you?” he asked in a tone that suggested he really didn’t have the time. Coby read the dull brass tag on his jacket lapel that read “William Johnson, Assistant Manager,” the one whose name Nicholette could not remember.
“I’m Coby Rendell. My father is expecting me?”
He blinked several times, processing. “Oh. Oh, okay. Yes, yes. Mr. Rendell is in the back office. I’ll go get him.”
He left the front desk and hurried through a carved door that led to a back room. Coby leaned an arm on the counter and gazed around with new eyes. She didn’t know what Lovejoy’s was worth, but she could hazard a guess. And it must be doing a healthy business, as her father had bought his wife a sapphire pendant necklace that looked, and undoubtedly was, expensive.
His wife—whose death had been ruled a homicide.
And whe
re was that necklace now?
Dave came out from the back room and met his daughter with another bear hug. “Bug,” he said brokenly.
“Dad, I—” She cut herself off when she recognized the woman who’d followed him, a few steps behind, from the inner sanctum. “Mom?” she questioned, not hiding her surprise.
“Hi, honey.” Leta Rendell smiled at her daughter. She was fifty-four, newly trim, as if working out was a daily routine—Barry’s influence?—and her hair, always short, was now shoulder length and tucked in at her chin. She looked ten years younger than the last time Coby had seen her, which was . . . well, a few months ago now.
“What are you doing here?” Coby asked her.
“Well, your dad needed someone,” she said, as if Coby were truly dense.
“I know, but . . . how did you learn . . .” She turned to her father. “Did you tell her?”
He spread his hands. “I’m a wreck. I can’t believe any of this! Leta came by and I told her when she got here.”
“It’s shocking,” Leta responded, pulling in her shoulders and shivering. “Murder. Really? It feels so . . . melodramatic.”
Coby was just staring at her mother. As far as she knew, they didn’t have anything to do with each other, but here they were, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to “be there” for him.
“She comes by a lot,” Dave added, seeing Coby’s face.
“Really?” Coby questioned.
“She heard about what happened to Annette from Faith,” Dave said.
“Not from you,” Leta chided Coby gently.
Coby had never had the close relationship with her mother that Faith had; she’d been more of a daddy’s girl, though that had certainly suffered since his marriage to someone of her own generation.
“When Faith told me I called your father immediately,” Leta said. “Not that she was murdered, of course, but that she died on her birthday. I’m speechless. I mean, it’s just shocking.”
Coby said to her father, “How are you, really? This is shocking. Mom’s right about that. I’m not sure I even believe it all. Who called you? Someone from the sheriff’s department?”
“Actually, the TCSD sent that same detective, the one that came to the house after your friend Lucas’s death. Clausen. He came to the hotel after he found I wasn’t home. You always hear about that, you know? The police coming to your door with bad news. Only this time I already knew she was dead, I just didn’t know someone had purposely killed her.”
He looked about to break down, so Coby quickly asked, “What did Detective Clausen say, exactly?”
Jean-Claude joined them from the back room, his face gray. He almost looked worse than Dave, but then Annette was his daughter.
“He said that her fingernails were broken on her right hand,” Dave said in a quiet voice, as if he could barely get the words out. “They think she was underwater and trying to grab hold of the side of the tub, but that someone held her down. There are marks on her neck, bruises from someone’s fingers. They believe she was purposely drowned.”
Coby felt a chill at her father’s careful recitation. She glanced at Leta, who was nodding and had reached out to place a hand on his arm. “Was Mom here when Clausen came by?” Coby asked.
Leta answered, “He was just leaving when I got here. I saw him getting into his squad car. Is that what you call it? A squad car? With the sheriff’s department?”
“Did he ask you any questions?” Coby asked, turning to her father.
“He asked a lot of questions,” Jean-Claude put in. “Where we were when her body was discovered. What happened just before. Why didn’t anyone see anything. It was rude.”
“They just want to know what happened,” Dave said on a sigh. “So do I.”
“We all do,” Leta agreed swiftly.
“It was rude,” Jean-Claude reiterated. He closed his eyes, shook his head, then walked like an old, old man back through the door into the inner office.
Coby’s cell phone rang. She almost didn’t glance at it; work knew where she was, so it wouldn’t be them, and she didn’t care about anyone else. But she did look, wondering. It was a number she didn’t recognize.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said, taking a few steps away. “Coby Rendell.”
“It’s Danner.” His familiar voice reached across to her. “You got a minute?”
“I’m with my dad at Lovejoy’s. I know Annette’s death has been ruled a homicide.”
“Ahh . . . can I see you?”
“Like, today?”
“Like now,” he admitted. “I’m driving to Tillamook to meet with the sheriff about Annette’s death. I was going to call you tonight, but I thought maybe we could squeeze in some time before I leave.”
“Well . . . can you meet me at my office?” Coby asked. “I’m heading back to work. JJ&R’s in the Clatsop building.”
“I know it. I’ll meet you there.”
“There’s a coffee shop in the lobby. Cuppa Joe.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Coby clicked off her phone, then returned to where her father and mother were still standing in the lobby. At one time she’d wanted them to get back together more than anything, but under the circumstances it was a little unsettling to see them so comfortable with each other. When had that happened?
“Was that Joe?” Leta asked, which stopped Coby cold for a moment.
“I’ll tell her,” Dave said.
Coby shot him a quick smile. “Thanks, Dad.” And then she headed out.
Cuppa Joe was a coffee spot with a couple of satellite shops, seeking to find a niche in Portland’s saturated high-end coffee market. Someone once said you could throw a quarter from anyplace on a downtown street and hit a Starbucks, which had been true once, though the company’s expansion had slowed during the recession, like everything else.
In the downtown building that housed Jacoby, Jacoby, and Rosenthal, Cuppa Joe had scarlet pendent lights hanging over an L-shaped blond wood counter where two baristas worked a steady stream of customers. Postage stamp–sized tables were scattered across the floor on the north side of the lobby. The south side was a bank of elevators that led to the upper floors.
Danner beat Coby to Cuppa Joe, and he walked to the “ordering” barista and asked for a plain black coffee. He grabbed one of the chairs at an empty table near the revolving front door and sprawled into it. He clearly remembered meeting Coby at a coffee shop soon after they’d started dating and watching the tip of her tongue try to reach a bit of foam on her upper lip. He’d itched to reach over and wipe it off, but at the time he and Coby had been too new into their relationship, so he’d kept his hands to himself.
Now she burst through the revolving doors, checking her watch. Seeing him, she asked, “Do you mind waiting? I need to just check in upstairs and see if there’s anything waiting for me.”
“I’m okay.” He just needed to be in Tillamook before five o’clock. It took two hours to get to the coast, although they were still cleaning up damage from Saturday night’s storm and the drive could take longer. In any event, he was good till two, and as it was just coming up on 1 P.M. he had some time.
Coby was back in ten minutes. She beelined to the counter and Danner got up to pay, which she absolutely refused. “This isn’t a date,” she told him a bit crisply. “I’ve got it.”
He wanted to pay. That was all. He sat back down and watched as she ordered a black coffee and a croissant. “Lunch,” she said as she sat across from him.
“That isn’t even breakfast.”
“It’s kind of both today,” she admitted.
“No latte?” he said, a little disappointed.
“Gave ’em up,” she said. “Kind of indulgent.”
“Indulgent?” he repeated, now really disappointed. “What happened to you?”
That seemed to stop her. “What do you mean?”
“The Coby Rendell I remember still had roo
m for fun. Even if it was just foam from a latte.”
He saw a bit of color climb up her neck. “I still have room for fun,” she said, sounding offended. Danner kept his expression neutral and Coby flicked him a skeptical look. “You called me to talk about my stepmother’s murder,” she reminded him carefully.
Danner nodded, wondering dryly when he’d discovered that murder was often a safer topic than personal issues. What did that say about him? “I take it the TCSD contacted your father?”
“Detective Clausen came to Lovejoy’s to deliver the news. Fred Clausen,” she said. “I remember him from the last time we had the sheriff’s department at our beach house, when Lucas Moore died. Jarrod was there, too.”
“I remember.”
“But Lucas’s death was an accident. He fell from the cliff to the rocks below Bancroft Bluff.”
“It was ruled an accident.”
“Yes,” she said, definitely.
“And there’s no reason to think the two deaths are connected.”
“Other than proximity? And some of the same cast of characters?”
He shrugged. “I have a lot of trouble with coincidence.”
Coby took a swift sip of her coffee and nibbled on the croissant. “I don’t know what I think,” she admitted, and Danner felt that was the first unedited thing she’d said since they sat down.
“Tell me about Annette’s party. From start to finish.”
“Like I already did at the beach house?”
“You’ve had time to think about it since we talked. I bet you’ve thought of a few more things. That’s kind of the way these things go. And now we know it’s homicide. We’re no longer trying to make it something it’s not.”