by AB Plum
Something in the distance moves, and I see what he hears. A coyote, head back, moonlit like a statue, sits on the far edge of the front lawn.
Gun drawn, Michael edges away from the car. He hunches low. Walks a few baby steps. Stops. Takes aim. Fires. Once. Twice. Three times in succession.
Bile coats my throat. I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. The skinny, four-legged creature leaps to his feet and races across the lawn with the speed of a cheetah. One bullet kicks up dirt inches from his back legs. He keeps running. The second bullet goes over his head. The third one zings past his tail as he plunges down the hill yodeling loud enough I can definitely pick up the note of triumph fading in the distance.
“Yessss,” I whisper, head down, not able to see my feet in the dark, but dancing a little jig with total abandon.
Coyotes don’t fall into my favorite animal category, but this one, I decide is the exception. For that second, I let myself feel happy.
When sanity returns, I peek out the curtain again. Michael is standing, legs apart, gun pointed skyward and firing at the moon. When he runs out of bullets, he turns to the Mercedes, slams the trunk, then kicks a back tire. He jerks open his door and for whatever reason, he stares up at the front windows. I freeze. Stop breathing. Stop thinking.
An eternity passes before he climbs in the car and roars off. My legs shake so hard I can’t walk. Inch by inch, I lower my back down the wall. My butt hits the carpet and I pull my knees up toward my chin. Images flash of the coyote cavorting across the lawn.
Cavorting? I’ve lost my mind. I’m the one cavorting. Sitting here, daydreaming.
Get up. I need to get up. He could return any minute. If he finds our bed empty . . .
My mind refuses to go there. Teeth gritted, I lay my head on my knees and feel my lungs wheeze. I suck in a couple of deep breaths, roll over on my side and get up on all fours. Every nerve screams, but I crawl back to the bedroom. It’s the last place I want to go, but no matter where I slink off, he will find me.
The rest of the night I huddle under the bedcovers and wait.
Lying there, hollow-eyed in the dark, I replay the meeting with Ari. My best—my only—chance to get help and I screwed it up. Surely Ari won’t hold my stupidity against me. Not after I beg for his help. Not after I implore him in Edward’s memory.
Jumping out of bed at dawn, I dress for yoga class—in case Michael is downstairs, ready for breakfast. I’ve got to act normal. Give him no reason to follow me. Or order me to stay home today.
No matter what’s happened the past few days, he’ll never suspect the worm has turned.
Chapter 47
HE
Ready for Moreau’s conference call, I park the Benz in the office garage at six-thirty the next morning. Three other employees’ cars have claimed the prime spaces around my reserved spots. How many of them drooled over the Veneno? How many of them would pop an artery if they knew about this phone call?
Do I give a damn?
I yawn and check the rearview mirror. Less than four hours sleep have taken their toll.
Thank you, Detective Patel.
Thinking about that bastard ratchets up my headache. I slap the UP button on the elevator. Once this phone call ends, I may go back to the penthouse and take a nap. God knows, I deserve one. A roll in the hay with Britanny, my favorite escort, sounds like the perfect sleeping pill. Too bad I wasn’t in the mood for fun with AnnaSophia last night.
And if I missed out on a good time last night, why should she get to have fun this morning? Talking with Moreau precludes dropping in at Le Boulanger. Which just isn’t fair.
It’s too early for the sun yet, but time means nothing at Serenity-by-the Sea. The motion-activated lights come on in my office. I fast-dial the care facility, put the phone on SPEAKER, and go to the fridge for fresh orange juice. As I take out the bottle, memory-frames of Patel’s late-night appearance roll out in my mind.
“Late as it is, I assume you’re still on duty, Detective. How about a glass of orange juice?”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Please don’t let me stop you from relaxing with a drink.”
“Oh, better keep my head clear. With too much alcohol in my system, I might say something that conflicts with my earlier statement.”
“It’s not my intention to catch you out, Mr. Romanov.”
“What a relief. From your intransigence at Scimetrx this afternoon, I thought you considered me your prime suspect.”
“Simply following protocol, Mr. Romanov.”
“Is it protocol to show up at a civic-minded citizen’s workplace at nine in the evening?”
“Civic-minded citizens often provide us with our best leads.”
“Have I done that?”
“Based on information you gave me, we checked with several of Miz Jones’s friends. None of them remembers an Andrew Miller.”
“Is that so? Well, not only did she mention him in our interview, but I’ve corroborated she listed him on her résumé.”
“Which is why you decided to interview her.”
“Exactly. I understand my AA was reluctant to share the résumé. But given the publicity Miz Jones’s death has generated, I want to cooperate in any way possible.”
The sound of a phone being knocked off the hook, then picked up rattles the early morning quiet.
“Good morning, Margaret Anderson here, how may I help you, Mr. Romanov?”
“How’s my father-in-law, Miz Anderson?” I carry my glass of OJ back to my desk and let the snow in the Monet soothe me. As much as I pay this woman, why didn’t she answer the second I called?
“Not much change, I’m afraid. Usually, he’s agitated in the evening. Which we’ve come to expect in cases like his.”
“I’m familiar with Sundowner’s Syndrome, Miz Anderson. How is he this morning?”
“Tired. He slept poorly. He’s asked for your wife several times this past week.”
“Would a visit from my wife have a calming effect in your opinion?”
Like most people, Margaret Anderson, a Ph.D. in Geriatric Nursing, likes having her opinion solicited—a fact I’ve deduced over the past year.
She speaks slowly, as if I am weighing each word. “A short visit would probably be quite therapeutic. If she could come every day this week, that would be ideal.”
“I’ll let her know. Visiting him in the mornings would fit her schedule. She likes to have lunch with our preschooler.”
“I look forward to seeing her, Mr. Romanov. Should I call your wife or will you?”
“I’ll call. I’ll give her these visits as part of her birthday gift.”
“You are a very thoughtful husband.” Admiration rings in her voice.
We say goodbye, and I sit back smiling. Both loose ends to Tracy’s death now tied. When I gave Patel the résumé, he was actually speechless. He could hardly wait to leave my office. Incinerating the picnic basket last night destroyed the last link to Tracy. Now, I’ve made sure AnnaSophia won’t have coffee today with her friend.
The day is definitely improving. Bring it on, Moreau.
Chapter 48
SHE
Fog rarely socks in Belle Haven because of its hilltop location, but this morning, a thick, silver curtain shrouds the grounds and the valley. The fake smiles all three kids wear as they enter the breakfast room disappear as soon as they see Michael’s empty place. Alexandra, especially, morphs into the stereotypical pouty teenager. Michael would never tolerate that display of rudeness—especially since the long face and pointed silence quickly infects Anastaysa and Magnus. Ridiculously, I’m happy the three of them feel comfortable enough around me they can forget pretending.
My euphoria, crackling under my skin, threatens to explode. Realizing I can’t tell them why I’m so damned happy, I struggle to find a way to send them off to school in a more upbeat mood. All three rebuff my attempts with monosyllables, shoulder shrugs, and curled lips as they stare at their oatmeal. Steel-cut, with raisins and
nuts. Clean bowls required, per Michael’s orders, if they want eggs or fruit or one piece of Danish pastry.
I clear my throat. Dammit, my third attempt to engage them is doomed to failure. The mobile phone in the kitchen interrupts. All four of us freeze. God, even when he’s out of the house, he has to exert control. Jennifer, lips pressed in a tight, white line, brings the phone to the table.
When I press the receiver to my ear, my breathing is magnified in ragged puffs.
“Have you been running, Darling?” He doesn’t wait for my reply. “I just got off the phone with Margaret Anderson.”
“Is Daddy okay?” Tears thicken my voice. “He didn’t get out of the building, did he?”
“Calm down, AnnaSophia. Take a deep, cleansing, yogi breath. Then, I’ll tell you.”
“All right.” I swallow. My children watch me, their eyebrows scrunched together, their lips caught between their teeth. The muscles around my mouth refuse to lift, and I fight the urge to scream. My mind is creating catastrophes, churning my insides, and freezing logic.
His silence screams, I am in control.
“Can you listen now without becoming hysterical?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to continue?”
“Yes.” Damn you. I press the phone harder, and the pain takes the edge off my panic. “What did Miz Anderson say?”
“A please would motivate me to be more forthcoming.”
With six pairs of eyes too young to witness their mother crying, I capitulate. “Please, Michael, what did Miz Anderson say?”
“That’s better. More civilized, don’t you agree, Darling?”
“I do.” Not . . . but I pinch the inside of my elbow.
“Good. I think a husband and wife should agree whenever possible. Agreement lays the groundwork for a more harmonious relationship.”
Goddamn, you. I glance at the wall clock. Five minutes until Alexandra, Anastaysa, and Magnus should leave for school. He will undoubtedly want to say Good morning to each of them. Let me stew and teeter on the abyss of panic while he plays the role of Good Father.
Awareness of the game he’s playing calms my stomach. “Perhaps I should call Margret Anderson while you talk with the children.”
“What a good idea.” His tone sends shivers jockeying up and down my arms. “Give the phone to Alexandra.”
Please, you bastard. I pass her the phone, then push away from the table and waste five or ten seconds getting my purse from the hall closet. I auto-call Daddy’s apartment, return to the closet, pull out a coat and tug it on with the phone between my ear and shoulder. The ringing provides a rhythm to my pacing from one end of the foyer to the other.
“Mrs. Romanov? Sorry for the delay. Your father and I were in the bathroom.”
“How is he?”
“A little tired this morning. More agitated than usual. He’s asked for you several times in the past few days.”
“Depending on the fog, I can get to Carmel in a couple of hours.”
“Fifteen minutes or an hour—time’s irrelevant to your father. Pea soup down here, so take your time and drive carefully. If you call from Monterey, I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. I don’t want him worrying about me.” Even as I say these words, I know my wonderful, loving father, brilliant chemist and college prof, will probably forget five minutes after she informs him I’m on my way.
We disconnect, and I take a deep breath, rehearsing what to say to my children who probably have forgotten their grandfather even though I bring them pictures from my weekly visits and show them videos of him and me.
Fighting tears, I use the intercom to have my SUV brought up from the garage. For no reason that is logical, my mind wonders if people with attached garages ever feel grateful they can step out of their house into their car without waiting. Not for the first time, I think about Michael’s claim that attached garages ruin the architecture of a grand house.
I employ five mechanic-drivers to keep fifteen cars in perfect running condition, AnnaSophia. Why wouldn’t you call to have your car delivered ’round to the veranda?
Alexandra appears in the doorway to the foyer and extends the mobile phone. Thoughts about detached garages evaporate.
“Papá wants to speak with you.”
“Tell him I’ve already left.”
Her eyes widen, and she takes a step backward as if I’ve slapped her.
Torn between irritation and regret for asking her to lie, I hold out my hand and speak in a hard, fast cadence. “I’m on my way to Carmel. I’ll call you later.”
“Not possible, AnnaSophia. I have an international conference call beginning in two minutes. With the weather, I think you should have Patrick drive you.”
“Thank you, but I’m not sure when I’ll come home. I’ll drive carefully.”
“I don’t have time to argue. At least let him drive you to the gate.”
“I suppose you’ve already ordered him—”
“Yes. I’d think a rational woman would jump at having a chauffeur.”
“As you know, I’m not rational. I need to say goodbye to the children.”
“I expect you home no later than seven.”
And I expect you to burn in hell. “I’m sure I’ll be here—as always.”
Chapter 49
HE
Maurice Moreau’s secretary calls at seven-thirty-three. Monsieur Moreau has an unexpected family emergency. His agenda allows a reschedule tomorrow, same time.
An unexpected family emergency? Do they schedule emergencies in France?
Pissed by Moreau’s obvious ploy to delay his concession, I say, “Remind Monsieur Moreau we have a timeline to follow if we plan the acquisition announcement in two days.”
“I believe he is very familiar with the schedule, Monsieur Romanov.” Cool, snooty with her barely audible, but distinctive French accent.
“I’ve put the new date and time on my calendar. I hope his emergency is resolved.” I pre-empt more bullshit and hang up.
Dammit, the Carmel trip and the rescheduled conference call ruin two opportunities for catching AnnaSophia with her friend.
Chapter 50
SHE
Patrick insists on driving the SUV to the bottom of the drive. “Visibility’s maybe to the end of your nose. If you run into a deer, it’d be a toss-up who goes over the edge.”
“The deer. Definitely the deer.” Climbing into the passenger seat, I see me behind the wheel flying across the driveway and plunging two-hundred feet to the bottom of the canyon.
Wouldn’t that solve all of Michael’s marital disharmony?
Patrick, another one of those superficially nice young men Michael employs, falls back on chatting about the weather. Genuinely nice . . . but what about loyal? Does all his loyalty lie with Michael? Are he and Enrique clones—reliable and devoted to the man who pays them exorbitantly? Of course, not all of Michael’s minions sold their souls for money . . .
“The TV weather guy predicts the fog will hang around all day,” Patrick says in the same flat, earnest tone TV weathermen use.
Is he concerned for my personal safety or regurgitating Michael’s view? A yoga breath releases a few knots in my shoulders, and I reply just as rationally. “I can spend the night.”
“If you get there.” The dim light from the dash emits a glow that turns his profile golden. “You know Carmel can get socked in for a week—though it’s unusual this time a year.”
Some part of me comes uncoupled from the buoy keeping me afloat. “I do know,” I snap. “I’ve lived here for fifteen years.”
Another part of me screams, No, dammit. No, no, no. How can I persuade Ari of my urgency if I admit I spent two days in Carmel? How can I buffer Alexandra’s fury toward her father if I don’t come home tonight? How can I take care of Anastaysa and Magnus in Carmel? What can I do—really do that matters—for my sweet, wonderful father who probably won’t even know I’m by
his side?
The descent down the hill slows. Patrick’s jaw works. A muscle ticks below his ear. As if he senses me studying him, he speaks without taking his eyes off the driveway. “I know it’s not my place, Mrs. Romanov, but I would strongly advise you let me drive you to Carmel.”
“I appreciate your offer but—”
“Truckers and adrenaline junkies love this kind of weather. They figure they’re kings of the road. Someone will get killed today, you can bet on that.”
His pronouncement turns into a syncopated buzz, and I feel dizzy.
“Sorry.” He opens his palms. “Don’t mean to swamp you with gloom and doom.”
“Really? Trying to scare me is one of my husband’s favorite tactics.”
“Should I point out I’m not your husband? Or should I point out my offer still stands?”
“If the damn fog’s so dangerous, what makes you think you . . .” My snippy tone slams into my brain. I wet my lips and start again. “Do you have experience driving in fog?”
“I grew up in the Delta. My dad taught me to drive blindfolded.”
“You’re joking.” Just when I decide Michael’s an ogre, I learn about someone more controlling.
“My dad learned the same way. Never had an accident. Didn’t want me to end up in pieces they couldn’t put back together.”
His oblique reference to the nursery rhyme I identify with so strongly jangles my train of thought, but I shake my head and snap back, “Some kind of disconnect here. Your father’s words and actions are contradictions.”
“My dad taught me the best he could. He didn’t study psychology or have a Ph.D. in anything but hard work. A dozen kids he knew—or knew their parents—wrapped their cars around trees in Tule fog.” He readjusts the wipers to high. The whump, whump adds an aggressive undertone to his words.
“Whatever.” I shrug, unconvinced.
“My dad trusted me to use what I learned, then he got out of my way.”