“Alicia made tonight’s main dish,” her mother informed Jorge.
“Think of it as Mexican lasagna,” Alicia told him. “Instead of mozzarella it has picante sauce and refried beans.”
Jorge grinned. “I can’t wait to try it.”
“It’s not the healthiest thing in the world. Nor are the hongos enchilados Mom insisted on making.”
Jorge chuckled. “Deep-fried mushrooms?”
“Deep-fried in manteca.” She wouldn’t actually use the word lard, though that was the shortening of choice in her mother’s kitchen. Modesta Maldonado could not be torn from her old-world habit of not only using lard in her cooking but making her own by frying flabby chunks of pork in a thick-bottomed pot.
“Esos parecen sabrosos tambien, Dona Modesta,” Jorge told her mother, who beamed so brightly at the compliment to her mushrooms that Alicia half expected her to blow a fuse.
Jorge was such a diplomat, he might have been the ambassador’s son, she thought. He was on his best behavior that night—then again he always was—spruced up in a blue suit, starched white dress shirt, and festive holiday tie, for the benefit both of the Maldonado clan and the local bar the two of them would patronize later to greet midnight. His dark eyes shone with kindness and good humor; he listened intently to every word that dropped from her lips; he showered her family with luxuries they could never afford, like the pearl stud earrings her mother was how sporting.
I should love him. There’s something so wrong with me that I don’t. Why she should be vaguely bored by Jorge Ramon and hanker lustily after Milo Pappas made no sense in the world. Yet she sat next to one man and thought of another. When her mind wasn’t wandering to the Gaines murder.
That reminded her. She rose from the couch. “I’ll go check on the lasagna. It’s been almost an hour in the oven.” She picked her way around the reindeer, furniture, and children—most of whom were sprawled on the floor engrossed in the Game Boys Jorge had given them—toward the kitchen. The lasagna was an excuse for her to take yet another look at the contents of the manila envelope Louella had dropped off at her house just as she and Jorge were leaving for her mother’s.
It was lying next to her purse on the white Formica counter. She opened it and pulled out the two sheets inside.
One was a sheet of Gaines campaign stationery. And sure enough, the logo was exactly as Treebeard had described. It was like the flag, you know? White stars on a blue background, with red and white stripes. And it was like the flag was underneath and the words ‘Gaines for Governor’ were cut out from it ...
Did it prove anything? No. But if Treebeard had gotten the logo wrong, his claim to have received a letter from the campaign inviting him to Gaines’ house would have been seriously undermined.
On to the second document: a typed list of Gaines’ top campaign staff.
Mark Donovan—CEO
Don Monaco—COO
Molly Bracewell—senior strategist
Marty Ziegler—pollster
Molly Bracewell. The name popped off the page. I kind of remember now who signed the letter ... It was a woman. Mary something. Something like Mary Baker. Mary Bakewell maybe.
Did that mean anything? Maybe. Maybe not.
Alicia leaned against the kitchen counter, the Formica hard against the small of her back. Pretty soon Louella would get Joan Gaines’ credit-card and cell-phone records. Both of them might be a bust, revealing nothing. But if so, she could take it further, try another tack.
Alicia stood alone in her mother’s kitchen, in the house where she’d lived the first twenty-five years of her life. Everything around her was familiar: the smell of corn from her mother’s nonstop tortilla making; the chipped, mismatched platters on which soon they would serve dinner; the mix of boisterous Spanish and English bouncing off the walls of the jam-packed living room. She should feel warm and happy, she knew. She should be eager to have Jorge wrap her in his arms at midnight. She should be able to forget the murder that had ended the life of a man too young to die. She should be strong enough to banish from her mind the lurking vision of a man’s dark, intense eyes and warm, demanding lips. Yet not even the most festive night of the year could make those wishes come true.
*
Twenty miles yet a world away, Milo cut across the Lodge’s small, elegant reception area. An overcoat shielded his tuxedo, and in his right arm, cradled like a gilded football, was a bottle of chilled vintage Perrier-Jouet. He veered right and continued down a dimly lit carpeted corridor whose left side was lined with glass cases full of golf trophies from the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am held every January on the hotel’s famed links.
He felt himself on a cloak-and-dagger mission, which was an odd sensation for what should be a purely celebratory evening. Yet after what he’d overheard in the D.A.’s office, how could he not be driven to question Joan about the night her husband met his maker? Penrose’s voice reverberated in his memory. We do not need to second-guess Joan Gaines’ whereabouts the night her husband was murdered. She is not a suspect in this case. Then Alicia’s. Maybe she should be.
Even given how much Alicia resented Joan, Milo couldn’t help but give weight to her prosecutor’s instincts. And obviously an eyewitness placing Joan back in Carmel the night of the murder was highly problematic.
So his mission was clear. Somehow that evening he would get Joan away from the other guests to ask her a question or two. He would elicit what he needed to know. He would warm her up and then go in for the kill.
So to speak.
He had barely knocked on her suite’s door when she threw it open. Despite himself he caught his breath.
“Hello,” she murmured.
She was as far from widow’s weeds as a woman could get, a vision in a glittering silver sheath held up by whisper-thin straps. The dress shimmered when she moved, like the scales on a fish, giving her a bit of the look of a mermaid.
Milo smiled to himself. This New Year’s Eve at least, Joan indeed was a man-killer.
He shed his overcoat. “You look beautiful,” he told her, then glanced around, surprised to find the suite empty. “Am I the first to arrive?”
She relieved him of the champagne and plunged it into a waiting ice bucket. “Actually, you’re the only person coming.”
Immediately he castigated himself. I should have known. It was bait-and-switch, a classic Joan maneuver. Yet he was out of practice where she was concerned and hadn’t seen it coming. “You told me you were having several people over,” he said.
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
Nice dodge, he thought, and considered pressing the issue, before he realized that their solitude gave him the perfect opportunity to question her about the night Daniel was killed.
He walked to the fire in the marble hearth to warm his hands. “There’s something I should warn you about.”
“Oh, no.” She came up beside him. “What is it?”
“I might be called away tonight.”
“Called away?” Her face twisted. “Don’t tell me that! Why?”
“It’s unlikely.” He abandoned the fireside to extract the Perrier-Jouet from the ice bucket and hoist it, dripping, in her direction. “Shall I?” She nodded, her brow still furrowed, and he went to work tearing off the bottle’s metallic casing. “There’s been another terrorist threat, this time against a specific target.”
“What target?”
“The Rose Bowl.”
“You mean the parade and football game down in Pasadena?”
“Right. The annual New Year’s Day festivities.” He twisted off the cork’s protective wire cap. “If anything happens I’m going to have to go down there.”
Her face relaxed. “You had me worried for a second.” She moved away and perched on the love seat, the slit in her gown widening to reveal a devastating view of her shapely legs. “You won’t have to go to L.A., Milo. Nothing will happen. Nothing ever has after any of these warnings.”
True enough. But the
domestic news producer had put him on notice. Milo was the news division’s biggest star who also happened to be on the West Coast this New Year’s Eve and hence would be called upon if a big story broke.
“I hope you’re right. But I’m going to have to keep my cell phone on, just in case.” He wrapped a small towel around the champagne bottle, twisting it slowly while he maintained a death grip on the cork. Seconds later he was rewarded with a soft pop. “Voila.”
He poured and they faced each other, champagne-filled flutes in hand. “What shall we toast to?” she asked.
He thought for a moment. “How about simply to the New Year?”
She smiled. “Perfect.” Then she touched her flute to his.
“Come sit down.” He led her to the love seat. Time to begin the mini-interrogation. “How are you feeling?” He kept his tone soft and concerned. “I’m sure part of you would rather be alone.” He spoke the words though he didn’t believe them. Joan was never a woman to seek solitude.
She bent her head. “I’m just sorry you have to spend your New Year’s Eve cooped up here with me. After all, you could be out and about, having a grand time.”
This wasn’t the moment to remind her she’d gotten him there on false pretenses. “Who says I’m not having a grand time?” he replied mildly, and she flashed him a grateful look. He paused, then, “You must miss Daniel terribly.”
Again she dropped her eyes. It was some time before she responded, as if she were choosing her words carefully. “I miss the good times.”
“I’m sure there were a lot of those.”
“There were. Early on.”
“Tell me about them.”
She shook her head. “Milo, I can’t believe you really want to hear about my marriage.”
“I’m curious. That is, if it’s not too painful to talk about.”
“No. In a way, it feels good.” Her face was thoughtful. “Do you know we went to Italy on our honeymoon?”
That made him wince. “The trip you and I never took.”
“See? This is a bad idea.”
“No, no, really. Tell me. Where did you go?”
“The Amalfi coast. And Florence.”
“Two very romantic spots.”
She nodded, then smiled. “The funny thing is we were both so exhausted from the wedding we barely did any sightseeing at all. We’d sleep till noon, then have lunch and wander around. Then go back to the hotel ...” She hesitated.
“And go back to bed?” He chuckled. “That’s what honeymoons are for, Joan.”
Her smile faded. “It didn’t stay that way, though.”
Something changed in the air, a subtle intimation that truths were about to be revealed. “What happened?” he asked.
She was silent, then, “Daniel got bored. With me.”
Milo was so surprised at the admission that for a moment he couldn’t think what to say. At length he gathered himself. “Do you mean—”
“Yes.” She raised her eyes to his. If Joan manufactured the pain in their blue depths, she did a masterful job. “He was unfaithful. We got married in June and by September ...” Her voice faltered. She looked away.
The wind whipped at the French doors and whistled down the chimney, making the fire in the grate sputter. This might be Joan, he thought, with all her Hudson arrogance and ego, but he couldn’t help but hurt for her. “I’m sorry.”
“Can I tell you something else?” Again she turned her eyes to his. “That night I was in Santa Cruz, the night Daniel was killed—” She stopped.
He held his breath. “What?”
“I feel so guilty about it.” Her gaze skittered away. “The terrible thing is I wanted to be away from Daniel that night. I wanted time to think. Milo, I was actually considering leaving him. For good. Then the next day, when I found him ...” She shook her head, grimacing as if in pain. “You can imagine how I felt.”
He frowned. “No, I honestly can’t.”
“It was horrible. And so painful when that prosecutor woman kept wanting to confirm that I was at Courtney’s! It made me feel guilty all over again for being away from home that night. For wanting to be.” Her eyes teared up. Abruptly she rose from the love seat.
“So you were at Courtney’s the whole night?” He watched her.
She began pacing, quick little steps next to the baby grand. “Of course! But what if I had been home? Maybe I could have kept this whole thing from happening.”
That was almost laughable. Joan staving off a murderer? “It’s a very good thing you weren’t. Who knows what might have happened if you’d gotten in the way?”
She put her hands over her face and began to tremble, so much that it was visible from across the room. “Oh, God.”
Milo rose and approached her, rubbing his hands down her arms. Her skin was ice cold to his touch.
“Just hold me.” She raised her eyes to his, a beautiful, demanding beggar. “Please.”
He complied, and rubbed her naked back as she collapsed onto his chest. What she said was plausible. He could imagine the scenario unfolding as nightmarishly as she described. And that fellow who claimed he’d seen Joan back at her house? Well, eyewitness reports were notoriously unreliable. People had Elvis sightings, for Christ’s sake! Penrose had pointed out as much to Alicia in the conversation Milo had overheard, but of course she’d have none of it. The sad truth was that for whatever mix of reasons, Alicia had it in for Joan.
Who cried for a long time, then finally pushed herself away. “I’m all right now.” Yet her face was streaked with tears, rivulets that cut across the powder on her skin like angel’s tracks on newly fallen snow. “Milo, I’ve made so many mistakes. But I want you to know I’m different than I used to be. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve grown up a lot.”
How to respond to that? “We all make mistakes,” he said.
“No, I want you to understand.” She forced him to meet her gaze, their faces only inches apart. He had the idea this was a prepared speech, yet something in him wanted to hear it delivered. “I made a mistake leaving you. I took you for granted. I know that now. I didn’t appreciate you.”
He shook his head. “We were both much younger then.”
“Yes,” she said instantly, “that’s my point. We’re older now, and wiser. I know what’s important now.”
What she wanted began to dawn on him. He frowned. “Are you saying—”
“I’m saying I want to try again. You and me. Do you think you could give me another chance?” Her eyes were huge blue pools, deep and endless. A man could drown in them. He used to, himself.
Could he again? These nights he dreamed of brown eyes, flashing and dark. But they belonged to a woman who kept pushing him away, time and again.
He was thirty-eight years old, and alone, and in his arms was a woman he’d once cared for deeply. She wasn’t perfect, but then neither was he. She spoke of making mistakes; that was terrain he trod constantly. Didn’t the mere fact that she could make that admission show what a different woman she had become?
“Tell me something, Joan.” He pushed her slightly away. “Did you invite anyone else here tonight?”
“No.” Her reply was instant. “But I knew you wouldn’t come if you thought it would be just you and me.”
Yet more evidence of the new, honest Joan in action. “Why wouldn’t I have come?” he persisted.
“Because you don’t trust me yet. And I can’t say I blame you. But I believe you’ll come to trust me again.” She held his gaze as she stepped closer, so close he could see the fine texture of her skin, smell the sweet, fresh scent of her body. “Remember, there was a lot that was right between us, Milo. Remember that.” And then she brushed the lightest of kisses on his lips before pulling away. “I’ll be right back—I just want to go and freshen up.” On her way out she plucked his overcoat from the sofa, where he’d tossed it.
Milo was still for a moment, then ambled toward the ice bucket and pulled out the champagne, ice-cold drips falling o
nto the creamy white carpet. What a surprising turn this night was taking. Yet, strangely, it was comfortable, like the best of the times he’d ever had with Joan.
*
Joan felt light-headed as she walked out of the suite’s main room, as if the champagne bubbles had floated to her head and taken over her brain waves. She was being brilliant. So very brilliant. An Oscar-winning performance.
Just around the corner from the main room, so that Milo couldn’t see, she pulled open the door of the small closet between the entry foyer and the half bath. She reached into the pocket of his overcoat and smiled, closing her fingers around the very thing she was looking for.
It was a metallic blue Nokia cell phone, so small yet capable of wreaking so much havoc. Though she didn’t really believe Milo would be called away that night—why should a terrorist threat prove real that night?—she didn’t care to take the chance.
She used her nail—painted for New Year’s a light pearly pink—to push the phone’s tiny power switch. It emitted a tinny little beep, then went dark. Pleased, Joan dropped it back into Milo’s pocket, then continued down the hall to the en suite bathroom for the promised freshening of her makeup. But before picking up her powder puff she used the bathroom phone to call down to the hotel operator, requesting that all calls be held. “I’m having an early night,” Joan informed the operator, who clucked with understanding. Of course. So tragic. The new widow must be so heartbroken on this New Year’s Eve ...
Joan gazed at her reflection in the marble bathroom’s mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes glinted. With her blond hair curled, she looked like a feverish china doll.
He’s mine, she told herself—needlessly, because she’d known from the moment she set her trap that he would be. She knew exactly what to say to pull him in. He might be surprised but she wasn’t. She’d always known she was not to be underestimated.
Milo was warming his hands at the hearth when she returned to him. She stopped halfway across the room. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and his lips curled in the lazy half smile she remembered so well. “Shall we call down for dinner?” he asked.
To Catch the Moon Page 20