“Can you get the money back?” I asked.
“We can. It will take time because we have to follow so many trails. But we will get it back.”
Jim turned back to the computer. I felt it was in my best interests to leave the guy alone and let him do his work.
“Jim’s guys are also working to install a new security system at your house,” Richard said. “You should stay with Jorjana until your house is rewired.”
I was fine with that. I was exhausted, unsettled and now broke. The best news that I’d had all day was that I was not raped.
Nothing sounded better to me than a long nap surrounded by York security. I had enough clothes on hand to stay a month or more. And the York wine cellar was nicely stocked. Maybe I wouldn’t go home at all.
A tap on the door to the library changed my nap plans yet again.
Just outside the door stood two guys in bad suits accessorized with badges.
Cops. Good Lord, would the day never end?
“It’ a good thing I’m here, Alana,” Richard said.
I couldn’t disagree with that.
Chapter Nine
Richard led the cops to the York Dining Hall, an enormous room that seats one hundred. The table is hewn from one long slab of redwood with forty-eight chairs lined up on each side. At one end of the table is Franklin’s chair, which is constructed out of antlers and is as uncomfortable as it sounds. Jorjana’s chair stands at the other end of the table. In its glory days it was the throne for some obscure French princess. Lining the east wall of the Dining Hall are Franklin’s trophies- stuffed heads of antelope, musk oxen, rhinos and a moose that silently watch over the dinner parties Jorjana hosts regularly. But the silent zoo unnerved guests -so Jorjana had each head outfitted with custom-made Serengeti sunglasses. Jorjana is convinced this makes an ironic statement and also makes the zoo tolerable. Malibu society is divided on their opinion.
I knew why Richard chose this room- it is intimidating. I’ve seen Richard interact with cops often enough to know that he likes to put them off balance.
We sat at Franklin’s end of the table. Richard and me on one side, the cops facing the animal heads on the other.
“Your hands were clean, Mrs. Fox,” Cop One said, referring to the swipe of my hands at the scene. “So for the time being we are going to assume you didn’t shoot the gun.”
Richard glared at me. I’d forgotten to tell him that I consented to the hand swipe. In my defense, I was pretty certain I hadn’t killed the guy since my hands didn’t smell of gunpowder. Perhaps not my best decision in retrospect.
“What can you tell us about the victim?” Cop Two.
“I don’t know him,” I said.
“You’d never seen him before?”
I paused. At the crime scene, I was asked if I knew who the guy was but not if I had ever seen him.
I glanced at Richard. He nodded ever so slightly.
I told the cops about running into the guy at Ralph’s and waking up in the house and not knowing where I was. I showed them the tiny bruises around the injection sites on my hip and around my ribs. I told them about the woman with the cheap handbag.
“Do you know why this happened?” Cop One. The same question I’d asked earlier.
Richard nodded and I told them about my money being stolen. Richard agreed to give them a copy of the security video from my house. Two scribbled away. One did that skeptical cop thing of looking at me like he didn’t believe a word I said. Didn’t faze me. It wasn’t the first time a cop hadn’t believed me.
One wasn’t done. He straightened himself in his chair. He leaned forward, hands clasped on the redwood table. And then as nicely as you please, he surprised the hell out of me.
“Who’s Teresa Bennett, Mrs. Fox?”
Given how my day had gone, I would have thought there was nothing left to catch me off guard. I’d been drugged, kidnapped, not raped and my bank account emptied. But that was all current news. I hadn’t heard Teresa Bennett’s name in nearly twenty years. I had no idea how she was relevant to a murder investigation. I said as much.
“But you know who she is, right?” Cop One persisted.
“Who’s Teresa Bennett?” This from Richard.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “And it has nothing to do with this.”
“We have all the time in the world,” Cop One said.
“Alana, should we confer privately?” Richard asked.
“No,” I sighed. “Obviously, they know already.”
I glared at the cops. Why they brought up my childhood was beyond me. It was a complete waste of time.
“Then, please, fill me in,” Richard said.
In spite of the ‘please’, he was not pleased. Not in the least.
So I filled him in.
Two weeks before starting my senior year in high school, I found myself sitting in the Vice Principals office. I was familiar with that particular seat, as I had found myself called to Sister Bridget Mary’s office on a pretty regular basis during my years at Mercy High School. But this time I was the one to request the meeting.
“What brings you in, my dear?”
Sister Bridget swept into the room with an armload of manila folders and a look of suspicion on her face. I suspected that after three years of dealing with my ‘lapses in judgment’ she was preparing herself for the worst.
She stacked the folders on her desk and glanced at the statue of St. Jude on the shelf behind me. Sister was known to have a fondness for the patron saint of lost causes. Considering she was the disciplinarian for three hundred teenaged girls, it wasn’t surprising. She settled into her seat, folded her hands and raised one eyebrow.
I found myself grinning. It was ironic that I asked to see her instead of the other way around. I’d probably spent more time with Sister Bridget than any of the other nuns at the school. I certainly learned the most from her. She taught me how to count to ten before reacting, how to let others have their complete say in debate class before listing all the reasons they were wrong, and she forbid me to ever set foot in the pottery lab again.
Sister was right about every lesson she taught me and every consequence she imposed. Which was why I trusted her with my latest problem.
“I want to go to UCLA next year. Can you help me?”
“Of course I will help you,” Sister said. “Let’s schedule a meeting with you and your mother and we can make a plan.”
“My mom doesn’t know.”
“Why haven’t you told her?”
“We aren’t exactly talking,” I said. It was hard to admit this. Harder than I though it would be.
“Why aren’t you talking?”
“She wants me to follow in her footsteps and enter the Tomato Queen Pageant and I don’t want to.”
“I see. Is that why you cut your hair short?”
“Yeah. But my mom said I could wear a wig.”
“I see. Let’s put the Pageant aside for the moment. Why do you want to go to UCLA?”
“Mom took me to LA to buy a wardrobe for the stupid pageant and we stayed in Westwood. Mom sleeps late in the mornings so I went for walks around the campus. It is so beautiful, Sister! It’s really close to the ocean and everything is so big! I really liked it a lot.”
What I left out was the fact that UCLA was as different from my hometown as a castle was from a hole in the ground. I was born and raised in Clarkstown, which was founded by my great-great-great grandfather. Generations of Clarks still lived there and everyone was related to everyone else. I loved that no one on the college campus knew who I was or had expectations based on who my family was. Or that I was the only kid in town from a broken home.
Sister nodded. She leaned back and opened a desk drawer. She pulled out some papers and slid them across to me.
“This is the application to the UC system. Fill it out and bring it back to me. I know the admissions officer at UCLA so I will put in a word for you.”
“Thank you, Sister.” I reached
for the papers. Sister kept her hand on them.
“Your grades alone will not get you in. You need some extra-curricular activities. The title of Tomato Queen could open a lot of doors for you.”
I felt as if she had slapped me in the face. The doors that the title would open were not doors I was interested in passing through. Being crowned Tomato Queen had made my mother happy but I wanted more out of my life. I told Sister as much.
“Very well then. I will speak with your mother and suggest your cousin Tracy is more likely to enjoy the Pageant process. Your mother can mentor her efforts.”
I could have kissed her. But she wasn’t letting me off the hook. She kept her hand on the papers.
“You still need more than good grades for the application. What else can you do?”
I had to think about that. My talents were limited. I could sing but the choir director had banned me from her classroom. I liked basketball but I was too short to qualify for a scholarship. I knew a lot about irrigating almond orchards but that skill would be valued at UC Davis which was too close to Clarkstown for my liking.
Sister sighed and looked at her watch.
I shrugged.
“The theater group is putting on five plays this year,” Sister said. “Someone must advertise the performances and sell the tickets.”
“Put up posters and sell tickets?” I scoffed. “That sounds boring.”
“Use your imagination. What would you do to bring in a crowd?”
“You mean I can come up with new ideas all on my own?”
“Within reason, yes.”
Sister glanced at St. Jude again.
“I can do that.”
“Then it’s settled. You are the head of advertising for Mercy High School. By the way, your new duties include selling the tickets to the basketball and volley ball seasons.”
Sister took her hand off the application papers.
“No problem.” I stuffed the application in my backpack, pulled a notepad out and started scribbling notes.
Sister stood up and opened a filing cabinet. She rifled through, pulled out another set of papers and handed them to me.
“This is the paperwork for the scholarship process. Your mother needs to fill this out for you to qualify for financial help.”
“Um, there’s something else,” I said quietly.
Sister looked at St. Jude.
“What would that be?”
“I’ll be eighteen before any of this paperwork is due. I won’t need my mother’s signature. I intend to apply for everything on my own. As an adult.”
“I see. That will complicate things a bit.”
“I know but I can do this on my own. But I need your help on something else.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“I want to legally change my name.”
“Why?”
“My father left when I was ten and I haven’t seen him since. I don’t want his mane attached to me.”
“I see. What name will you take then?”
“Clark. I’ll write my admissions essay on growing up in a town started by my great-great-great grandfather.”
“You know your family history well.”
“Yeah, I live in Clarkstown and everyone there is a Clark and I’m related to all of them.”
Sister scribbled something on her own notepad.
“You wish to change your name from Teresa Bennett to Teresa Clark then.”
“I want to change my first name too.”
“Why?”
“Because my mom won’t let anyone call me by a nickname like Terry. I’m tired of her trying to tell me who I should be. I want a whole new name to start college with.”
“What name are you considering?”
“I really like Alana.”
“Teresa Bennett?” Richard looked at me like I had sprouted six legs.
“That’s the name my parents gave me. I left that girl in Clarkstown when I went to college.” I paused. “I got a full-ride scholarship by the way. On my own as Alana Clark.”
I didn’t like feeling that I had to justify my actions.
“You never mentioned it.”
“It wasn’t important,” I said.
And then I asked Cop One, “Is it now?’
Cop Two pulled a photograph out of his notebook and slid it across the table to me. It was driver’s license photo. It was the dead guy.
“This is the victim, Zane Daniels, aged twenty-one. Are you sure that you don’t know him, Ms. Bennett?”
“It’s Mrs. Fox,” I corrected him. “And no, I don’t know him.”
Cop Two had another photo.
“How about this guy?”
Another drivers license photo. This guy was older, late thirties. This guy did look familiar. Very, very familiar. I felt the blood drain from my head. The guy was the spitting image of my father, a man I had assumed was dead.
The name on the license was Bradley Bennett. Sacramento address. His birth date indicated that he was born a year after my parent’s divorce was finalized.
“I’ve never heard of him.” I said truthfully.
“You didn’t know about Bradley Bennett?” Cop One didn’t believe me.
Richard, finally, stepped in.
“Who is Bradley Bennett and what does he have to do with my client?”
Both cops put on their smug faces. They took a moment, enjoying the suspense. The jerks.
“Bradley Bennett is Teresa Bennett’s half-brother,” Cop One said. “Zane Daniels was his son.”
Chapter Ten
I had nothing more to tell the cops. I’d thought I couldn’t feel any worse after finding a dead guy and learning my money was gone. But hearing that I had a half-brother was a new shock. And the news that his kid stole my money was definitely worse.
Of course, they wouldn’t let it drop. They asked the same questions six different ways. My answers were always the same. I had never heard of Bradley Bennett and I had no idea who killed Zane Daniels. The cops were not so interested in my missing money.
“Bradley Bennett is thirty-eight years old,” One said. “How can it be that you never knew of him?”
“The last time I saw my father I was ten years old,” I said. And then I looked again at the driver’s license photo. “Bradley was born when I was twelve.”
“Why haven’t you seen your father since you were ten?” One was skeptical again.
“You’ll have to ask my father that,” I said.
“This interview is done,” Richard said. To emphasize, he stood up. “My client has told you everything that she knows. She is clearly exhausted.”
As if on cue, Jorjana wheeled herself into the dining room.
“I will accompany you to the door,” she said to the cops.
Jorjana has a way about her that gets people to do her bidding. The cops stood up, advised me to inform them if I thought of anything else and then they followed Jorjana out.
Richard waited until they cleared the room before starting in.
“Teresa Bennett? When were you going to tell me about that?”
I was exhausted. I was broke. I was in no mood to defend myself. That was what I paid Richard for. Well, back when I had the money.
“I was never going to tell you,” I said. “I stopped being Teresa Bennett when I turned eighteen and changed my name to Alana Clark. And when I married I became Alana Fox. Teresa Bennett has absolutely nothing to do with Alana Fox. That part of my life is over and done with.”
Richard, as usual, was displeased with me. He made me recount everything anyway and he made me tell it three times.
The rehashing of my childhood did not make me feel better. So, of course, Richard had to make me feel even worse.
“How much money do you have left, Alana? Tell me the truth.”
I was too tired to lie. So I told him.
He said nothing, which is always a bad sign.
“I’m going to talk to Jim about this,” Richard finally said. “
Get some rest.”
And off he went, leaving me alone with a bunch of stuffed animal heads and the fear that things were going to get worse before they got better.
Chapter Eleven
Jorjana’s nurse collected me from the dining room and escorted me upstairs, a burly security guard in tow. He remained outside my door and the nurse followed me into my suite.
The drapes were drawn, the bed turned down and soft music played over the sound system. A fire was lit in the fireplace. On the table next to the fireplace, a carafe of iced water sat on a sterling silver platter next to a bottle of pills.
“Mrs. York feels you need a nap. She instructed me to stay with you,” the nurse said. “Dr Coshow left melatonin to help you sleep. Would you like to take one now?”
I did not. I was exhausted, scared, frustrated and scared again. And now I had a half-sibling and a dead half-nephew. The last thing I needed was a sleeping aid.
I needed a drink. And I needed to drink alone.
I told the nurse to leave. I promised to nap. I locked the door as soon as she left.
Besides a comfy bed, a steam shower and a full walk-in closet, my suite boasts a small bar complete with a wine fridge. I pulled out a cold bottle of my favorite Chardonnay and opened it. I poured a generous pour into a crystal goblet and carried the glass and the bottle to bed. I crawled under the covers and downed the wine in one long gulp. I closed my eyes and willed myself to think things through.
I did not waste time berating myself for my banking habits. The money had been safe enough and easily accessed which had suited me just fine. I admit that I should have been more sophisticated about protecting my money but there was nothing I could do about that now.
Now I had five dollars left in the bank. Property taxes were due soon and the state of California frowns on late payments. Truth be told, my own little enterprise was a bit slow. I had deposited the latest client payments just a few days earlier and I had no new prospects on the horizon. And my ex-husband’s business was in a slump. My last conversation with him had centered around why he was behind on his alimony payments. He had no idea when he could pay what he owed me. That was the bad news.
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