To Catch the Moon

by Dempsey, Diana

  “So, Milo,” Andreas asked over the din, “what stories have you been working on lately?”

  Brothers they might be, but intimates they were not. With Mac and Tran, Milo could spend hours dissecting the meaning of life. Or even better, saying nothing at all. But with his brothers, exchanging pleasantries and professional data was the deepest their conversation ever got.

  “Oh, the usual.” Milo straightened the oyster-white napkin on his lap. “New revelations about terrorist-linked overseas bank accounts. Scandal at a nuclear power plant near San Diego. And of course the Daniel Gaines murder.”

  “That is so shocking!” Andreas’s wife Helen swept in, bearing platters of yams and carrots. Blond and snooty and rarely out of Upper East Side air, Helen handled serving dishes only on major holidays, and then only when forced. “When are they going to arrest that Treebeard man?”

  “When they find him.”

  “Poor Joan.” Helen’s face assumed an expression of dismay, but Milo could see the naked curiosity behind the false concern. Clearly she wanted inside dirt to pass along to her fellow society doyennes. “I feel so terrible for her. How is she doing, do you know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But haven’t you—”

  “We need a serving platter here, Helen.” Andreas looked up from the turkey and shot his wife a pointed look that said, Shut up about Joan. Helen scowled but said nothing, flouncing off to the kitchen. For once, Milo was grateful to his brother.

  Joan and Milo’s sordid romantic history was a family non-secret. Everyone knew that Joan had thrown Milo for a loop when she’d cut him loose. Or, as Helen liked to put it, when she’d “dumped him from a dizzy height.” Given that the man Joan eventually married had gained national prominence as a timber executive and followed that up with a promising gubernatorial run, Milo knew his siblings thought Joan had made the smart choice. Even with Daniel Gaines dead, in this crowd Milo suffered by comparison.

  Milo watched Andreas systematically dismantle the twenty-eight-pound turkey and, with no effort at all, slid back into the role of Pappas family black sheep. However high his star rose, however brightly it shone in the network-news firmament, in his family circle he would forever be Milo, the lackadaisical student. Milo, the career hopper. Milo, the incorrigible womanizer, who at age thirty-eight was still unmarried and had sired no sons to carry on the Pappas name. Milo knew his father and brothers secretly believed his TV-news success to be a fluke, one that would eventually be righted.

  Milo never ceased being proud that what he had achieved in broadcast news, he had achieved on his own. In late 1990, while the Gulf War loomed and he dithered over his dissertation, he heard from a Georgetown friend that WBS was looking for people with overseas experience to base in London. He applied, and after several rounds of interviews got hired as an entry-level producer. When he abandoned his Ph.D. for the job, his family howled in protest, warning that Milo would regret the decision for the rest of his days.

  They shut up when Milo parlayed that first job into a much more visible on-air correspondent’s position. They let out not a peep when years later he did such stellar work covering the war on terrorism that he was promoted to a plum correspondent role on Newsline.

  “Children, keep it down!” Marissa, Ari’s wife and a red-haired upper-class Dubliner, bustled in. She put her hands on her hips, which, unlike her sister-in-law’s, were spreading. “Or does all this noise mean none of you wants dessert?”

  Outraged yells answered that question. Order was restored and finally every Pappas was seated. Ari, older than Andreas by three minutes and hence the patriarch when Baba was absent, had the honor of making the toast. After several rambling sentences about the great joy that possessed him whenever his family was gathered, he raised his wineglass. “Kali oreksi!”

  “Kali oreksi,” they all duly repeated, Greek for Bon appetit.

  The white Bordeaux slid down Milo’s throat, chilled and delicious. The feasting began, no simple matter when it required the passing of a dozen serving dishes to five adults and an equal number of rambunctious children.

  It both amused and irritated Milo to see his brothers act like WASPs, reproducing the Pilgrims’ feast on Christmas Eve because they couldn’t get enough of it just once a year. The only concession to their heritage was the arni stofourno, a baked lamb dish that Marissa made and that Helen, with her horror of all things high fat, wouldn’t touch.

  Once they’d dispensed of the latest in every Pappas male’s professional life, Helen turned her eagle eyes in Milo’s direction. “So,” she said, her tone coy, “are you dating anyone interesting?”

  The face of Alicia Maldonado flashed before his eyes. “Not lately,” he replied. He realized, with some surprise, that for once he had no romantic exploits to polish off and display. What a rarity.

  Milo learned soon after his network star began to rise that his fame was a powerful erotic magnet, even to exceedingly attractive females. Moreover, life on the road invited sexual escapades. Tantalizing offers were frequently made. How was a man to resist? More to the point, why should he? Even many of his colleagues with wives in the home port routinely indulged. Why shouldn’t the unencumbered, uncommitted Milo Pappas?

  Yet it was Milo who was tarred by these episodes, in the gossipy mouths of his network brethren; Milo who overindulged, laid waste to young hearts, ran roughshod over vulnerable women. All thanks to his reputation as Pretty-boy Pappas, O’Malley’s favorite moniker for the newsman he would forever dismiss as a jet-setting playboy.

  As his brothers and their families chattered on around him, Milo let his mind drift to Alicia. She was different, toughened by life in a way he didn’t usually encounter. True, network newswomen were a hard-nosed bunch, but they enjoyed big-time money and big-time attention. They envied no one, except perhaps their counterparts who occupied higher rungs on the network-news ladder than they did.

  The fact of it was, Alicia intrigued him, and not just as a source. She was proud. She was scrappy. A little touchy, but that was understandable given where she came from. And while for whatever reason most women kowtowed to him, this one didn’t. He actually felt one down to her, which oddly enough was invigorating. And that kiss of hers ... There was a lot of juice in that woman, a lot of life. He didn’t know quite what to expect from her and discovered he was eager to see her again just to find out what she’d do next.

  Milo’s cell phone rang, jolting him back to the reality of his brother’s dining table. He excused himself and repaired to the hallway to take the call.

  It was O’Malley, unfortunately. “We’re going to need you in San Diego Saturday,” O’Malley told him. “Turns out our deep throat will give us an interview.”

  The nuclear power plant story. “Let me guess,” Milo said. “He’s agreed to go on camera so long as we hide his face, alter his voice, and don’t use his name.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  It would still be powerful. Former operator disclosing details of close calls, pressure to hit targets, and safety lines crossed. Milo had an unrelated thought. “What are you doing working, O’Malley? Aren’t you in Florida with your son’s family?”

  He sounded impatient. “Yes, I’m in Florida.”

  Typical. Christmas Eve, on holiday with his family, and O’Malley was working the phones. That was why he was a network producer star. He painted his personal life into as small a corner as possible, then stepped on it when he needed to and figured somebody else would repaint.

  “How’s the lovely widow?” O’Malley’s tone was snide. “Crying on her old friend’s shoulder?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” Milo replied. “Sorry, gotta go.” Then he jabbed the end button on his cell.

  Damn O’Malley. Milo snapped the phone shut, then returned it to his trouser pocket. From down the hall he could hear his brothers and their wives engaged in a lively debate about the relative merits of vacation homes in the Caribbean versus the Mediterranean.

/>   So San Diego Saturday. After the Monterey Peninsula Friday to cover Daniel Gaines’ funeral, at which no doubt he’d see Joan. Milo began to walk toward his family’s voices. The woman he’d much rather run into was Alicia Maldonado.

  *

  Alicia listened as the doorbell at Courtney Holt’s Victorian home set off an impressive resounding chime. A moment later an older Latina answered the door.

  Alicia flashed her ID. “Yo soy Alicia Maldonado, de la Oficina del Fiscal de Distrito.”

  “Si,” the woman said, and waved them into an elegant foyer, then a high-ceilinged front parlor. They claimed two armchairs by a fireplace, its ornate carved mantel covered with Christmas cards. Deep in the recesses of the house they could hear children battling over a toy, and the scolding voices of a few women younger than the housekeeper, also speaking Spanish.

  “I guess the nannies don’t get Christmas Eve off,” Louella muttered under her breath.

  “It sounds like there’s one nanny per kid. Have you ever heard of that?”

  “I think that’s standard for this crowd.” Louella made a face like Who knows? and Alicia continued her inspection of the Holt front parlor.

  It was a beautiful room with elaborate white molding. The furniture was dark and traditional, and the hardwood floor was partially covered by a thick Oriental carpet in rust, green, and gold. Above a white-on-white striped sofa was a stunning oil painting of a young girl. The room was dominated by an enormous Christmas tree, as tall as the ceiling, its white lights twinkling. Beneath it was quite a collection of presents waiting to be unwrapped.

  “Not too shabby,” Alicia heard Louella murmur, and she had to agree. Joan Gaines’ friend might not be as rich as Joan but she was doing just fine.

  Then Courtney Holt appeared in the flesh to reinforce that opinion. She was thin and good-looking with short blond hair, and was decked out in cream-colored trousers and a matching cashmere sweater. Alicia doubted she’d dressed up for them; more likely this was a typical weekday getup. She had the look of somebody who might show up on the cover of Town and Country.

  “Would you like coffee? Or tea?” she asked. Her offer sounded halfhearted and her green eyes were cold. That didn’t surprise Alicia. Most people weren’t thrilled to find a prosecutor and her sidekick investigator in their front room.

  Alicia declined. “I appreciate your taking the time to see us on Christmas Eve.”

  “I must say, I find it odd.” Courtney Holt perched on the sofa and crossed her legs at the ankles. Her tone was accusing. “I already had a lengthy discussion with several officers from the Carmel Police Department. Don’t you think the district attorney’s office should be focusing on finding that Treebeard man?”

  “Many resources are being deployed in that direction.”

  “Then what do you need with me?”

  “We’d just like to go over some things again. Louella?” Alicia looked pointedly at Louella, who they’d agreed on the drive up would do most of the questioning.

  Louella picked up the ball. “I understand that Joan Gaines stayed overnight here at your home last Friday?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “It’s a tradition. The Friday before Christmas our group of Suitemates gets together for dinner and .. . well, we call it a sleepover, even though that’s rather a girlish term.” Courtney Holt smoothed a nonexistent crease on her trousers. “Sometimes it’s the only night all year we see each other.”

  “Your ‘Suitemates’?”

  “We lived together in the Suites at Stanford.”

  “Do you always meet in Santa Cruz?” Alicia asked.

  “No, it varies. Last year we stayed at Joan’s, actually. The year before we did the Ventana Inn, down in Big Sur.”

  “Where did you have dinner this time?” Louella asked.

  “At Pasatiempo. The restaurant at the golf club.”

  “At what time?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  Louella paused, then laughed, which seemed to surprise Courtney Holt. “You ate dinner at five o’clock? For me it has to be seven at least, even in winter when it gets dark so early.”

  Alicia watched their hostess carefully. For the first time since they arrived, she seemed ill at ease. Abruptly she rose from the sofa and walked to the fireplace. Alicia could see her furrowed brow in the huge gold-edged mirror above the mantel.

  Finally she spoke. “Joan was very tired.” Her tone was defiant. She spun around. “Campaigning is exhausting. She was exhausted and wanted to eat early.”

  “So it was Mrs. Gaines who wanted the early reservation.” Louella looked down at the spiral notebook open on her lap. “And what time did you get back?”

  “As I told the officers, I’m not quite sure. Probably a little after six.”

  “That was a quick meal.”

  “We wanted to have dessert and coffee here.”

  “And did you?” Louella asked.

  She hesitated, then, “Yes.”

  Silence. Louella glanced first at Alicia, then back at Courtney Holt. “May we see the guest room where Mrs. Gaines stayed?” Her face creased in a smile. “We’d appreciate it.”

  For a second Courtney Holt didn’t say a thing. Then, “If you must. Joan stayed in the guesthouse. It’s this way ...” and she led them down the narrow corridor that split the first floor in two, then pushed open a rear door that opened onto a garden. She halted and they all looked beyond the door frame. A flagged walkway led thirty yards to a white shingled cottage that reminded Alicia of a gingerbread house in a children’s book. She half expected to see a dwarf peeking out from the curtained windows.

  Courtney Holt crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s it.”

  “It’s charming,” Louella said. “Why did Mrs. Gaines stay there rather than in the main house?”

  “It made the most sense since she wanted to get to bed early.” Courtney Holt made it sound painfully obvious. “She was far less likely to be disturbed there than she would have been upstairs in a guest room.”

  “So she asked to stay there?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we see it, please?”

  Courtney Holt heaved a deep put-upon sigh, but preceded them outside into the drizzle, up the path and to the cottage.

  Alicia was not particularly interested in the cottage’s decor. What caught her attention was a second brick path, visible through a window, that curved from the side door to an alley, perhaps thirty feet away. On whose muddy surface, she noted, were unmistakable tire tracks. “Did Joan park there?” she asked Courtney Holt, indicating the alley.

  “Yes.” She could not have been more curt.

  A few minutes later they made their way back to the main house. “Did all of you have an early night?” Louella asked when they’d gotten back to the foyer.

  “Yes.” Without warning Courtney Holt opened her front door and stood in front of it to prop it open, letting raindrops blow in onto her gleaming hardwood floor. She couldn’t have made it more clear that she wanted them to leave if she’d forcibly ejected them. “Are we finished here?”

  “Not quite,” Alicia said. “When you got back to the house from the restaurant, did all four of you have dessert and coffee?”

  Courtney Holt said nothing for a long time. Then, finally, “I don’t remember.”

  Silence. That is very odd, Alicia thought. “You don’t remember if Joan had dessert and coffee with the rest of you?”

  “She may have.” By now Courtney Holt sounded openly hostile. “Or maybe she didn’t. I told you I don’t remember.”

  “What time did everyone go to bed?” Louella asked.

  Alicia watched Courtney Holt’s Stanford-educated mind work through credible answers. Finally she spoke. “Around nine.”

  No one moved. Rain pelted the Holt foyer. “Are we finally finished here?” Courtney Holt repeated.

  “One more question,” Alicia said. “Did you see Mrs. Gaines for
breakfast?”

  Courtney Holt shook her head as if she couldn’t believe Alicia’s audacity. “Yes. Around seven-thirty. And since I’m sure you’ll need to know, she had one soft-boiled egg, one slice of toast, and two cups of coffee. The toast was lightly buttered and she took her coffee black.”

  Alicia had dealt with unfriendly witnesses before. She refused to be fazed. “What time did she leave?”

  “Around ten. When everybody else left.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Louella said.

  They’d barely cleared the threshold when Courtney Holt slammed the front door shut behind them. A whoosh of air hit Alicia’s back, and behind her the eucalyptus wreath nearly launched down the front steps.

  “She’s a charmer,” Louella remarked when they were back in the VW. “Too bad I can’t arrest people for being a pain in the ass.”

  Alicia was silent, strangely exhilarated. She turned the ignition, did a three-point turn, and started them home.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Louella said a moment later.

  “So you agree with me?” Alicia couldn’t keep a note of triumph from creeping into her voice. “That Courtney Holt was very uncomfortable answering a lot of our questions? That they ate dinner weirdly early at Joan’s request? That she claimed not to remember whether Joan was with the rest of them for dessert? That Joan made a point of staying in the guesthouse, the one place where she could come and go with no one seeing her?”

  “So she stayed in the guesthouse. So what? The fact remains that you need a hell of a lot more than that to start thinking the woman offed her husband. Like actual evidence.” Louella’s cell phone rang. “Hold on a sec,” she said, then flipped open her cell. “Louella Wilkes.”

  Alicia made the right turn that got the VW back on Highway 1, heading south. Despite Louella’s skepticism, for the first time Alicia felt she was making real inroads on the widow Gaines.