To Catch the Moon

by Dempsey, Diana

  “So maybe she didn’t love him,” Louella said. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe she didn’t feel so bad he got offed. So she still wanted to go shopping, kind of show him up by looking fabulous at his funeral.”

  Alicia chuckled. “It’s not like he’ll be there to appreciate it, Louella.”

  “No, but she can still get the satisfaction.” Louella toyed with her bleached-blond hair, again staring out the passenger window. “How’s Jorge, by the way?”

  “Oh, he’s great.” Alicia didn’t bother with the smile, since Louella wasn’t looking.

  “What are you guys doing tomorrow? Or do you do Christmas tonight?”

  “We’ll go to midnight Mass tonight but get together at my mom’s tomorrow. Then at Jorge’s mom’s later.”

  Yet even as Alicia talked about Jorge, she knew the man most on her mind was Milo Pappas. What was it about that guy? First she broke her “Keep reporters at arm’s length” rule by agreeing to meet him. Then she laughed in the rule’s face by kissing him. And why? He’d dazzled her. It was so humiliating. Despite the fact that he was full of himself, and had pissed her off by saying she had a chip on her shoulder, he’d dazzled her. He was gorgeous and exciting and moved in a big, wide, important world she was dying to know more about. And dying to enter, though she’d have an easier time catching the moon.

  That morning over cereal she did what she never did. She watched TV. She’d turned on her rinky-dink set in the kitchen, set it to the WBS station, and watched its morning show for almost an hour. She didn’t even flip to other channels during commercials for fear she’d miss him. She’d seen him twice, though only on taped stories. The fact that he wasn’t doing live reports like before upset her. Maybe he’d already gone? Though he’d be back, right?

  Then again, what did it matter? As her mother would say, he wanted her for one thing and one thing only. Well, two things in this case, but that was no less an insult. She raised her chin in defiance, though Milo Pappas was nowhere in the vicinity to witness her resolve. She would refuse to provide either inside info or a roll in the hay, despite how tempting the latter prospect might be. She had her pride. She would not be some jet-setting newsman’s Salinas squeeze, then be tossed away like yesterday’s newspaper when he was done with her.

  “What about you, Louella?” she asked. “What are you doing for Christmas?” They were back to hugging the coast now, a sodden and deserted Seacliff State Beach to their left. It was a dreary afternoon, intermittently drizzling and dumping serious rain.

  “Same old, same old.” Louella sounded bored and a little depressed. “My folks are here visiting. We’ll exchange gifts tomorrow, and my mom and I’ll cook. Maybe a movie tonight.”

  Louella was an only child and stated loud and often that she wanted to get married and have a pack of kids. The pack got smaller every year she couldn’t pull off the first half of the equation. It made Alicia feel especially ungrateful about Jorge.

  Louella had confided once that men were put off by her being a D.A. investigator. It wasn’t feminine, apparently, to chase down bad guys and put them behind bars. But Louella stuck to her guns. She loved her work, period. Alicia admired that.

  She looked away from the road at Louella. “Thanks for coming with me, by the way.”

  “Ah, no problem.” Louella made a dismissive wave of the hand. “It’s nice to be needed.”

  “Well, you are.” No question about it. Alicia couldn’t risk doing investigative work without a D.A. investigator. If this jaunt did turn up evidence, Alicia would need someone other than herself to testify. She couldn’t be both a prosecuting attorney and a witness in the same case.

  “You know,” Louella said, “a woman like Joan Gaines wouldn’t kill her husband anyway. She’d divorce him. Or at worst she’d get somebody else to kill him.”

  “But if she got somebody else to kill him, that somebody else would know. It’s too risky.” Alicia shook her head. “Louella, I’m not saying she killed him, necessarily. I’m just saying her behavior is odd. Supposedly finding the body hours after she got home, the lack of emotion, the shopping—it just doesn’t add up.”

  “So you want to check out her alibi.”

  “Right.”

  “You want to figure out if she really was in Santa Cruz, like she told Bucky.”

  “Oh, I believe she was. I can’t imagine she would have lied about that. It’s too easy to check out.” Alicia maneuvered past a slow-moving crimson-colored SUV that was hogging the fast lane for no apparent reason. “No, I want to find out if she could have gone back and forth to Carmel while she was supposedly overnight in Santa Cruz.”

  Louella said nothing for a while, twisting her body to face Alicia by leaning back against the passenger door. She just watched. Alicia found it unsettling. Then, finally, Louella broke the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t want to piss you off.”

  “You’re not going to piss me off.”

  Louella didn’t seem convinced. She took a deep breath, as if she were gearing up. “I have never known you to be illogical, Alicia. It’s a big part of what makes you such a good prosecutor. But in this case...”

  “You think I’m being illogical?”

  “Aren’t you clutching at straws? I mean ...” She paused. “Isn’t it possible you just hate women like Joan Gaines? Because they have everything handed to them on a silver platter? Could that be the reason we’re doing this?”

  Alicia was a little pissed off. Again the chip-on-her-shoulder accusation? “Why would I hate her just because she’s rich? Why?”

  “Hell, I kind of hate her just because she’s rich. And she didn’t try to make me clean up her dirty dishes after her.”

  Alicia had told Louella about that. Now she regretted it. “That would make me pretty small-minded, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s understandable.”

  Alicia said nothing. She had had enough of being a case study in how the have-nots vented their frustration toward the haves. She exited Highway 1 and turned right on a cloverleaf that eventually dropped them on Santa Cruz city streets.

  Santa Cruz was an attractive beach town but not nearly as wealthy as Carmel. It had real working people and children and everything. Alicia stopped at a red light. Two corners were taken up with off-brand gasoline stations. The others had competing shops selling wet suits and surfing gear.

  “All I’m saying,” Louella said, “is that she can be a royal bitch and still not have killed her husband.”

  “I understand that.”

  The light changed. Alicia drove forward. But she can be a royal bitch and could have killed her husband, too.

  “We’re here,” she announced a few turns later, slowing to a halt on a wide tree-lined street in front of the gorgeously restored Victorian owned by Courtney Holt, Stanford Class of ‘94 and apparently one of Joan Hudson Gaines’ best gal pals. Both women remained in the VW, staring at the house through the raindrops gathering on the windshield.

  “I half expect Anne of Green Gables to come waltzing out of there,” Louella said.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s amazing. I guess that’s what they mean by gingerbread.”

  The house stood on the corner, and unlike every other property on the block appeared to take up several lots. Its facade sported an incredible amount of Victorian-style ornamentation. It was painted yellow, but the trim was white with both light and dark green accents, and shiny gold designs everywhere. It even had a stained-glass window, and an actual turret.

  Louella got out of the VW and opened her red plaid umbrella over her head. “They don’t build ‘em like this anymore, not even in the South.”

  Alicia, who’d forgotten an umbrella, raced up the narrow flagged walk, then hopped the stairs to a small porch. On the door hung a huge eucalyptus wreath with a red velvet bow. She paused to look at Louella before ringing the doorbell. “Ready?” Her ow
n heart was thumping, and not just from the exercise.

  Louella sighed. “Let’s get it over with.”

  *

  Joan paced the drawing room of her mother’s 17 Mile Drive estate, rain cascading down the large, paned windows. Every so often she’d sip from her white wine, trying not to down it before her mother finished dressing and came downstairs for lunch. This was about the last place in the world she wanted to be, but it was Christmas Eve and duty called. She would much rather have been in her suite watching the news to see what kind of play her statement to the press was getting. But midday TV watching was one of the many things upon which Libby Storrow Hudson frowned.

  Joan knew all about her mother’s disapproval. She threw back the last of her wine. It was damn hard for anybody to come up to Libby Hudson’s highly placed snuff. Born into Boston North Shore money, she was a puritan of the old style, the sort of woman who swam every day in frigid ocean water because she believed it was good for her. She rose at dawn, got a million things done, went to bed early, and repeated the process the next day. Now that she was no longer campaigning for her husband, she spent all her time raising money for charity, and invariably was elected president of this and chairwoman of that. If Web Hudson had won elective office because he could connect with the common man, Libby Hudson ruled in philanthropic circles because of the very opposite trait: her pure elitism. She made unrepentant blue bloods completely comfortable.

  Joan suspected that was why her mother had never liked Daniel. As far as Libby Hudson was concerned, he was a social-climbing upstart unworthy of Joan’s hand. That attitude hadn’t done much to improve mother-daughter relations.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting, dear.” Libby Hudson swept into the room. She might be lunching alone with her daughter but she was dressed to dine at the White House. She wore a severely elegant black Armani suit and enormous pearls at her ears and throat. Her short white hair was set in the soft curls she’d long favored. She was impeccably made up, though her skin was still flushed from her recent exertions. She’d kept her daughter waiting because she was late finishing her daily two-mile run.

  At age sixty-five. On a cold, drenched Christmas Eve.

  Joan flushed at her own self-indulgent morning. She tried to set down her empty wineglass without being obvious but saw her mother’s mouth pucker with disapproval. It was hopeless. Even though she was going through a nightmare her mother would still find a way to condemn her. She sank onto the yellow cushion of a satinwood Louis XVI chair. “So tell me about your trip to Santa Barbara.”

  “There’s very little to tell.” Her mother settled on a white damask sofa, crossing her thin legs at the ankles. “I saw some old friends. It’s a beautiful part of the state.”

  “Do you ever think of moving back to Massachusetts now that Father’s gone?” Joan wondered what had possessed her to ask that question, though now that it had occurred to her it didn’t seem a half-bad idea.

  “I considered it, but never seriously. After all these years, California is my home.”

  Web and Libby Hudson hadn’t debated long where to retire. They’d lived almost all their adult lives in Northern California, with the exception of the six years her father served in the U.S. Senate. The obvious choices were San Francisco; Woodside, the most exclusive community in Silicon Valley; and Pebble Beach. The ocean, the golf, the natural beauty, not to mention the guard gates, decided them on Pebble Beach. And, of course, 17 Mile Drive.

  Joan remembered her mother telling her that this particular estate was inspired by the Chateau de Clavary, built in the south of France in the early nineteenth century. As chateaux went, it wasn’t large, but it was very beautiful. The landscaping was superb, formal on the side that faced 17 Mile Drive but running more to nature where it fronted the Pacific. One of her father’s favorite features was the duplication in the entrance hall of the Picasso mosaic laid in the original French chateau.

  “Thank you for arranging Daniel’s service, Mother,” Joan said a few seconds later into the silence.

  It was to be held Friday, a public memorial service followed by a private burial. She and her mother both wanted to get it over with before the New Year. And when her mother offered to make the arrangements, Joan agreed instantly. She had zero interest in handling it.

  “When will Daniel’s family arrive?” her mother asked.

  “Thursday.”

  “Shall I host them here?”

  Joan was surprised. Daniel’s parents were not exactly her mother’s kind of people. She always referred to Jack Gaines, who owned car dealerships in the Philadelphia area, as a “merchant,” and didn’t bother to describe Diane, a society wife so lowly placed she didn’t even register on Libby Hudson’s social ladder.

  “There’s no need, though that’s very kind of you,” Joan said. “I’ve arranged for them to stay at the Lodge.”

  Her mother nodded. Then, “You know, my dear...” She stopped, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I am sorry about Daniel.”

  Joan looked down at her lap, saying nothing. She didn’t think her mother was sorry at all.

  “I hope you’re not terribly aggrieved,” her mother went on.

  “I’ll survive,” she said.

  Her mother frowned. “I hope you’ll do more than that. Have you made any plans?”

  “Well...” Joan arched her brows, surprised that her mother of all people was the first to recognize that she had more going on in her life than widowhood. “I’ve done some thinking,” she offered.

  “Good. And what have you concluded?”

  “Well...” There was one thing she could tell her mother at this point. “That as soon as possible I want to take over as CEO of Headwaters.”

  “What?” Her mother narrowed her eyes in the disapproving squint Joan knew so well. “Why in the world would you want to do that?”

  This wasn’t what Joan had expected to hear. “Excuse me?”

  “Why would you want to have anything to do with that awful business?” Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “There are people already there who can run it. I speak to them every day. You—”

  “You speak to them?” Joan was indignant. “You’re not even a shareholder since Daniel bought out Father’s stake! Isn’t it my role to deal with Headwaters?”

  “I hardly think so, no.” Her mother laughed, that imperious, North Shore laugh that said, I understand things far better than you ever will. Accept it. “You shouldn’t be thinking about Headwaters, Joan. You should be thinking about traveling, renewing your soul, perhaps getting involved in charity work. In time, meeting a new—”

  “You think that’s all I’m good for? Wasting my time doing charity work and getting married again?” Joan was on her feet, she realized, and her voice was raised. Her mother’s thin, parchmenty skin was flushed, and this time not from her run. “You don’t think I can run Headwaters. You don’t think I can run the trust, either. You’re thrilled Father made you trustee.”

  “I spent my entire adult life being a good wife to your father and doing charity work.” Her mother’s tone was glacial. “I hardly consider either pursuit a waste. Now sit down.”

  “I am not going to—”

  “Sit ... down.”

  Silence fell. Rain battered the windows and made the fire in the grate hiss. Joan retreated to her chair, though she felt like a fractious child being sentenced to a time-out.

  Finally her mother spoke. “There is no need for you to involve yourself in the trust, Joan. It is my concern.”

  “I guess so, since you’re now trustee.” She knew she sounded snippy.

  “It’s not a job I relish, I assure you.”

  What a lie! “I still think Father should have made me trustee. I’m the one with the master’s in business.”

  Her mother stared at her. Then, “You studied toward a master’s in business. As I recall you did not actually earn it.”

  Joan clenched her jaw. “We’re back to that again?”

&nb
sp; “There is very little you’ve begun that you’ve finished, Joan.”

  “For example, business school. And of course you would consider my investment banking job a failure, too.”

  “I would hardly consider it a success. My recollection is that you lasted only six months.”

  Joan bit back the impulse to correct her mother. Eight months! she wanted to scream, but there was no point. No one understood that when she was finished with a project, she was simply finished with it. Why stay at Stanford Business School just to get the degree? Why stay with Humphrey Stanton when she’d lost her interest in I-banking? No one gave her credit for knowing when to move on. Well, she knew it right now.

  She rose from her chair. “I have realized that I cannot stay for lunch,” she declared stiffly. “Good-bye, Mother.”

  Joan walked out, holding her head high. She told herself she’d won that argument, though she wasn’t entirely sure she had. She felt her mother’s eyes on her back the entire time she exited the enormous drawing room of the 17 Mile Drive estate.

  She pulled open the chateau’s front door and walked out into the rain. She was alone. Her father was gone. Her husband was gone. And her mother might as well be.

  *

  Christmas Eve found Milo seated at his older brother Andreas’s Park Avenue dining table, participating in one of the few family events in which he engaged per year. He’d flown cross-country for the dinner gathering, but Milo flew halfway around the world to shoot a few stand-ups. Newspeople flew like commuters rode the bus.

  At the table’s head, Andreas carved a massive turkey, bestowing on it the same intense concentration he gave the documents that crossed his desk as a managing partner of the Wall Street law firm Fenwick, Reid & Patcher. Directly opposite Milo sat Ari, Andreas’s twin in every way but two: he had chosen investment banking over law and London over Manhattan. At the moment the wives were doing mysterious things in the kitchen, and the five offspring were raising a ruckus kicking each other under the table. Milo’s parents were absent, because neither Mana nor Baba would undertake international travel over the holiday season. They preferred the gorgeous serenity of their retirement home in Thessaloniki, and Milo could hardly blame them.