The sound of a car crunching over gravel drew their attention. “That’ll be one of your friends,” Mrs. Abbott said. “You’re our only guests this weekend.”
She withdrew and Laurel crossed to the window to see who had arrived. She was too late. Whoever it was had already reached the stone portico that shaded the castle’s entrance and Laurel couldn’t see her. Leaving her unpacking for later, she exited the room, not bothering to lock it, and started down the wide hallway. Excitement and apprehension dueled within her. Voices sounded from outside and she reached the foyer at the same moment one of the large oak doors swung inward, letting in a beam of sunlight and a tall woman.
“Geneva!” Laurel hurried forward, chest expanding with happiness at the sight of her friend. She’d last seen Geneva in March when a case took her to Chicago. She’d dined at Geneva and Geonwoo’s house and felt a squirt of envy when they told her they were expecting. They were over the moon, Geneva beaming and Geonwoo treating her like she’d morphed into a Faberge egg the instant his sperm mixed it up with her egg. Laurel celebrated with them, despite the ache of longing lodged like a softball under her breastbone. She wanted a baby, but without a husband—hell, without a date in the last eight months—it didn’t look like she’d be needing onesies and a stroller anytime soon.
“Hey, Laurel.” Geneva’s dark face broke into a wide smile. She dropped her duffel and pulled Laurel into a hug before breaking away. “I’ve got to pee. Be right back.”
She hurried around the corner to the powder room. Laurel shouldered her bag and accepted the key to the “Jonquil” room from Mrs. Abbott. When Geneva returned, protesting that she could carry her own bag, Laurel shook her head. Geneva automatically started up the stairs, but Laurel said, “You’re on this level. The place has been sold and the upper floors are closed off.”
“Damn,” Geneva said. “I was going to count going up and down the stairs as my cardio for the weekend.”
Laurel laughed. “Cut yourself some slack. You’re due in—what? A month?”
“I am so ready.” Geneva patted her belly. “Anyone else here yet?”
“We’re the first.”
“Great.” Geneva squeezed Laurel’s hand. “I’m glad to have the chance to catch up with you. Let’s dump my bag in the room and go for a walk around the lake.”
The lake was a glorified pond behind the castle, three-quarters of a mile in circumference. When they’d last been there, Laurel remembered, a foot-wide trail of beaten-down grass close to the water was the only track around the lake. Now there was a breezy path wide enough for three to walk abreast. Cumulus clouds mounded on the horizon, promising rain later, but for now it was a warm and sunny day. The water glittered on their left, still threaded with cattails and marshy grasses. A redwing blackbird trilled, and Laurel tried to spot him.
“Nothing stays the same, does it?” Geneva said as they stepped onto the trail.
“Nope,” Laurel agreed. “They’re turning the inn into a nursing home.”
“No way!”
“This time next year, there’ll be a wheelchair traffic jam on this path.”
Shade dappled the path and cooled them as they strolled under the trees on the lake’s west end. A bird or rodent skittered in the underbrush. Wind ruffled the leaves.
“Why’d you come?” Geneva asked at the same time Laurel said, “What do you think this weekend is about?”
They laughed and both fell quiet. Finally, Laurel said, “I came to find out who did it.”
Geneva whistled. “Wow. Uh, wow. You just put it right out there.”
“Only to you.”
“I’m not a suspect?”
Laurel hesitated a beat too long.
Geneva’s face and voice went neutral. “Of course I’m a suspect. No alibi—”
“No one had a decent alibi, including me,” Laurel said quickly. Why had she started this conversation? Why hadn’t she told Geneva that of course she didn’t suspect her? She knew why. Because Geneva had motive, means, and opportunity, and because gut instinct didn’t count as evidence. Her stint in criminal defense had taught her that “gut instinct,” while perhaps worthy of consideration, was no more reliable than a witness who saw the crime in the dark, from a quarter mile away, without her glasses.
“And I had a better reason than most for wanting to shove Vangie off a balcony. I didn’t do it, though.” Again, it was a quiet statement, not a plea to be believed.
“Neither did I.”
They paused and stared at the lake, not making eye contact. Laurel felt an unsaid Who do you think did it? hovering in the air. She didn’t verbalize the question; it would be a breach of the friendship they all shared to discuss the others behind their backs. She watched a fish rise and a pair of dragonflies skim the water’s surface, darting with jewel-like flashes of color. The not-unpleasant smell of warm mud filled her nostrils and she breathed deeply. It was so peaceful. Her shoulders eased down a notch.
“I always thought I should have been able to figure it out,” Geneva said. “If not that weekend, then later, after I finished my degree work. What good is a PhD in psychology if you can’t figure out which of your friends threw another one off a balcony?”
“The police couldn’t figure it out, either,” Laurel reminded her.
“Oh, the police.” Geneva dismissed the entire law enforcement community with a wave of her hand. “The police didn’t know us. How could they be expected to figure it out? And I’m sure they didn’t get the whole truth out of anybody.” She slid Laurel a sidelong glance.
Laurel held her hands up in a surrender gesture. “Not from me, at any rate. I told them the truth about where I was when it happened, but I certainly didn’t go out of my way to tell them about any issues we might have had.”
“Like the way Vangie screwed you over with the cheating thing?”
Laurel nodded once, shying away from the uncomfortable memory. “None of us threw the others under the bus—brought up disagreements or things said in the heat of the moment that the police might have interpreted as motive. I was always proud of us for that.”
“You’re lucky your motive wasn’t a matter of public record—police record,” Geneva said with a trace of bitterness.
Laurel squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “You got the worst of it.”
Geneva managed a small smile. “But in the end, they couldn’t pin it on me, even though I was a black woman with a drug arrest. They couldn’t pin it on any of us. We all walked away scot-free.”
“Except Evangeline. She didn’t walk away.”
Acknowledging that truth with a small nod, Geneva started forward again. A cloud blocked the sun, and Laurel couldn’t help thinking that their discussion had bleached the day of color, turning everything a uniform gray. To fight the effect, she put a purposefully cheery note in her voice and said, “Tell me about the baby. Did Geonwoo get the nursery finished? How long will you take off work after the birth?”
Geneva chattered happily about the baby and her plans until they neared the castle and the throaty roar of a sports car interrupted her. A yellow Mustang blasted into sight a moment later, scattering gravel. It slid to a stop mere inches from Laurel’s rental car, and the passenger-side door opened.
The rush of driving the powerful sports car kept Dawn in a daze for a split second after she got out. What a blast. She’d had no idea. What she wouldn’t give to be able to trade in her Civic for something like this. Then, Ellie’s voice penetrated the daze.
“You’re a maniac,” she said, slamming the door. “I’m driving on the way back, Danica Patrick.”
Ellie never sugar-coated anything. Dawn couldn’t tell if she was really mad or exaggerating for effect. “Fine.” She tossed the keys to Ellie over the car’s hood. “Every woman should get to drive a car like this at least once.”
Geneva, beautiful as ever despite
the baby bump, her dark skin glowing, reached them then. Her hair was longer than before, drawn up into a high bun that showed off the sketchable sweep of her cheekbones and prominent line of her nose. She wore a blush-colored knit top and flowy taupe pants. Neutrals with style had always been her vibe. “Give us a hug,” she said, opening her arms wide. Her smile lit up the gray day and Dawn was glad she’d come.
Laurel was exchanging greetings with Ellie, and the four of them ended up at the portico together. “Quite the car,” Laurel said.
Was she being condescending? She was the only one of them who could afford a car like that. Before Dawn could respond, Ellie said, “The rental company upgraded us because they gave the one we reserved away, and it was the only one left. “It’s ‘sick,’ as my boys would say.”
“Lots of fun,” Laurel said. Wearing navy linen slacks and a teal blouse, she looked cool and poised. As always. Dawn decided Laurel wasn’t being bitchy about the car. She just had that aloof way about her—always had, even in college.
Dawn stepped back from the portico to drink in the castle. The yellow stone was as mellow as she remembered, and the turret still looked like a safe place to hole up if invaders besieged them. Only the chimneys, currently hosting two pigeons, soared higher. She’d tried to paint the castle a few times during college, using photos, but could never capture it satisfactorily. Movement behind the window of Evangeline’s old room—Villette’s room—made her brows twitch together. Why would—“What’s with all the scaffolding?” she asked, noticing it for the first time.
“Cygne’s been sold,” Laurel said.
“It’s going to be a nursing home.” The voice came from the foyer, making everyone turn. Mindy Tanger, the longtime staff member, stepped out of the portico’s shadows and took Ellie’s roller bag. She was a weasel-slim woman in her mid-thirties, with large wrists extending past the cuffs of her pink coverall. Soft blond hair hung across her face as she bent for the suitcase, veiling her deep-set blue eyes.
“A nursing home!” Dawn heard the grief in her voice and swallowed. She was astonished by how much the news upset her, but she made herself sound calm. “I mean, why? A nursing home—that doesn’t seem right. This is a grand old place—”
“Full of history,” Geneva agreed.
“—and it deserves better than to be a way station for old people waiting to die.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a long moment.
Then Laurel, of all people, said, “You’re right, Dawn. It’s strange to think of this place smelling like antiseptic and boiled peas. I still see aristocratic women in panniered dresses descending the stairs, hair all powdered and pouffed.” Her smile was sympathetic. Dawn wouldn’t have thought her capable of such whimsy.
“The nursing home people made a good offer, so I heard,” Mindy said prosaically. She hefted Dawn’s duffel. “I’ll show you to your rooms. Everyone’s on the first floor because of the construction.”
Ellie and Dawn followed her around an ugly plywood shaft, which was obviously going to house an elevator for the incoming geriatrics, and down the hall. Mindy opened the “Cherry Blossom” room and took Ellie’s bag inside. Ellie scooted in and closed the door, saying, “Bathroom!”
Mindy led Dawn two doors down and unlocked a door with “Pansy” on it. Nudging it open with her foot, she unslung Dawn’s duffel from her shoulder.
“What will you do when the sale goes through?” Dawn asked, curious. As far as she knew, Cygne was the only place Mindy had ever worked.
Mindy straightened and brushed her hair out of eyes, which had muddy lavender circles under them. She looked more careworn than Dawn remembered. Single motherhood and impending unemployment would do that. “I don’t know.” She sounded defeated. “I just don’t know. I could become a certified nursing assistant and maybe get a job on the nursing home staff, but I don’t know what I’d do with Braden, especially during the summers. His dad won’t help and I can’t afford daycare.”
Dawn was sorry she’d started the conversation. She was sorry for Mindy—being a single mom was a rough row to hoe—but she wasn’t responsible for Mindy or Braden. She wanted Mindy to leave now but couldn’t bring herself to say so. And it was her own fault Mindy was latched onto her. When they’d first met she’d gone out of her way to befriend Mindy, who was only three years younger. She’d felt some kind of social justice guilt, embarrassed that she was enjoying a spring break holiday in the castle while Mindy, about to graduate from high school, was stripping the beds and cleaning the toilets. She’d chatted with her while Mindy was making up the room, talked about life at Grissom University, even aired some complaints about her friends. Stupid. Look where misguided kindness landed you. She felt immediately guilty about the thought and wished Kyra had come with her.
“I’ve got a picture of him,” Mindy said, pulling a cell phone out of a pocket and flicking at it. “Here.”
She showed Dawn a photo of a gap-toothed boy of nine or so with brown hair falling into his eyes and an engaging smile. He wore a sports uniform and had his arms wrapped around a soccer ball.
“He’s a handsome boy,” Dawn said. She plopped her duffel on the bed and unzipped it, hoping Mindy would take the hint.
“He loves soccer,” Mindy said. “He had his heart set on playing on the same team this year, but we just can’t swing it. Not since I had to get new tires on the truck.”
Dawn closed her eyes. Would it never end? “I want you to have this for Braden’s soccer.” She extracted forty dollars from her wallet. “I hope it helps. It’s great for kids to be part of a team.” Not that she would know. Art club had been her thing; she couldn’t throw or catch a ball to save her life, and a PE teacher had once told her she ran like a wounded warthog. That still stung.
Mindy flushed dull red but pocketed the bills with a mumbled “Thanks.” She still made no move to leave. “Remember that first time you all came down here? I’d only been working here for a month, and now here we are, twenty years later. That’s about half my life.” She shook her head wonderingly.
Dawn was groping for a reply that would discourage Mindy’s reminiscent mood when Ellie knocked on the door and called out, “Dawn? I’m ready.”
Dawn fairly sprang for the door and pulled it open. “I’m coming.” Waiting until Mindy sidled past, she shut the door.
Six
Laurel had a moment of surreal detachment, surrounded by the three friends who’d been such a large part of her life from the day she entered college until the last weekend. The four of them were gathered outside the front door of the castle, the sun glittering off dust motes and pollen like sparkles of champagne tossed upward. Geneva’s rich chuckle, the corkscrew zaniness of Dawn’s curls, the broad expanse of Ellie’s forehead—they all seemed too vivid, almost painful to Laurel. Surreal was the only word; she was trapped in a Dali painting. Geneva’s baby, Ellie’s move to Colorado, Dawn and Kyra’s home renovations, an adopted cat, opinions on The Amazing Race, a wrecked car a year ago, diets. The topics were varied, not too personal, and they glanced off them, dragonflies skimming a pond’s surface, careful not to get too deep. Brief silences caused the conversation to stutter occasionally as they tried to find the old balance and rhythm, but one or another of them would swoop in with a comment or question to keep the awkwardness from taking root. Laurel let the conversation swirl around her, smiling at the right places but not contributing. They’d settled on a plan to explore the grounds and locate the new hot tub (Ellie’s idea) when the scrunch of tires on gravel reached them.
The sound cut through the oddness Laurel was experiencing and brought her back to reality, for lack of a better word. She turned. The others fell silent and swiveled to look down the long driveway. The approaching vehicle was still out of sight beyond the curve, but Laurel’s muscles tightened. She took a rib cage-expanding breath, lowered her shoulders, and wiggled her fingers. She couldn’t decide if t
he fluttering in her stomach was anticipation or dread. Both, perhaps. Ellie whispered something to Dawn, but Laurel didn’t catch it.
A van, newish and white with North Carolina plates, trundled around the corner. Drawing up in front of them, it came to a stop. The driver cut the ignition and got out in one motion. He loped around the van’s rear, tall and dark, good-looking in a flashy way with a deep tan, black hair curling below his ears, and rock-hard tattooed biceps displayed by a short-sleeved T-shirt advertising a gym. Late thirties or a little older. Almost before Laurel could wonder who the hell he was, he was coming toward her, hand out.
She automatically extended her hand and he shook it, his palm callused and hard against hers. Definitely not a lawyer’s hand. This man didn’t work in an office. “Laurel, right?” he said with a big smile. Light crow’s feet fanned the corners of his brown eyes.
The look he gave her was disturbingly intimate, as if they’d known each other for years, and she couldn’t even figure out how he knew her name. Before she could answer or ask who he was, he was turning to Dawn, saying, “And I’ll bet you’re Dawn. Your art—wow, it’s amazing.”
“Thank you—” Dawn started, looking as confused as Laurel felt.
He moved on to Geneva and Ellie, identifying each of them and sharing hearty handshakes with them.
“I’m sorry,” Laurel said, “but who are you?”
He looked disconcerted, but then laughed. “I’m Ray. Didn’t she tell you my name?”
That Last Weekend Page 5