The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (125 page)

He had a point. Where had playing it safe gotten her? She couldn’t be any worse off, that was for sure. “Any ideas on where to start?” she asked hesitantly.

“You tell me.”

She thought for a moment. “Well, there’s her ex-husband.”

“Which one?”

“Her fourth, and last—Brent Carver.”

“The actor?”

“She talked about him?”

“Not much. Just said he was a real shit.”

“He’s not. Just … kind of flaky. They had a weird relationship.”

“It must have been hard for him, playing second banana.”

“I don’t think it bothered him as much as it did Monica. Except for being a hunk, he wasn’t much fun to show off. Most of the stuff he does is pretty low rent—bit parts on TV, a few commercials here and there. He’s big on the auto show circuit.”

“I take it the divorce was less than amicable.”

“Yes and no. Monica was angry at him, but Brent didn’t put up much of a fight. He knew he had it coming. She’d caught him cheating on her—seems he’d charged the hotel bills on her card.”

Marc let out a low whistle. “The guy has balls, I’ll give him that.”

“He spent like a drunken sailor, too, though she would’ve forgiven that. The funny thing is that once they split up, they got along better than when they’d been married.”

“Can you think of any reason he’d have wanted her dead?”

“No. Except …” She frowned. It came rushing back, the fight she’d overheard that day—the last time he’d been over at the house. “She’d threatened to cut off his alimony.” Anna hadn’t thought too much of it at the time. Brent, perpetually in debt, was always hitting her up for more, but he usually backed down like a little boy with his hand slapped. “She knew he couldn’t afford to take her to court.”

“Does he stand to inherit anything?”

“I doubt it,” she said. She would know more after she’d spoken with Gardener Stevens.

“Have the police talked to him?”

She nodded. “Apparently, he has an alibi.”

“That doesn’t rule out a contract hit.”

She smiled; it was all so … theatrical. Contract killing … hit men … like something out of
The Godfather.
“Knowing Brent, he’d have charged it to Monica’s Visa.”

Marc’s expression remained thoughtful. “Do you have his address?”

“It’s in my Rolodex.” In her mind, she saw her office sealed off with crime-scene tape, and sighed. They were approaching the turnoff to Route 33 when she thought of something else. “His agent would know—a guy named Marty Milnik.”

“The name rings a bell.”

“He used to be on CTN.”

“I’m sure he’s listed. We’ll give him a call when we get to the house.”

He drove in silence, as if pondering various angles. They were nearing the top of the hill with its sweeping view of the valley when he asked, “What can you tell me about this Glenn character?”

Anna tensed. “What do you want to know?”

“Liz told me she didn’t trust him.”

“She’s never liked him.”

He flicked her a glance. “What’s your take on him?”

The memory surfaced once more. With everything else that had been going on, she hadn’t wanted to relive it, but there was no getting around it this time. Besides, if there was even a remote possibility it was in any way connected to Monica’s death …

She smiled grimly. “If you’d asked me a few weeks ago, I’d have told you he was a nice enough guy.”

“Something happen to change your mind?”

Anna felt herself grow warm. She understood now why women who’d been victimized felt it was their fault somehow, though rationally she knew that if anyone should be ashamed it was Glenn. “He came on to me,” she said tersely.

“I’m not surprised.”

“It wasn’t like that. He … well, he was pretty insistent.” She didn’t go into the details; she could tell from the sudden tightening of his expression that he got the picture. “Monica wasn’t too happy about it, believe me.”

“Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged her as the protective big sister type.”

“She wasn’t. It was
me
she was mad at, not Glenn. I’m sure she thought I was encouraging him.”

“She was probably jealous. Were they lovers?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Still, it’s worth looking into.”

“I suppose.” She didn’t relish the idea of confronting Glenn, not after the way he’d looked right through her at the funeral; clearly, he blamed
her
for Monica’s death. Besides, she had a more imminent concern. “Marc, why are you doing this?” She eyed him intently. “I mean, it was only one night. It’s not like you owe me anything.” It pained her to admit it—to her it seemed like so much more—but that was the plain fact of it.

His eyes remained fixed on the road. After a moment he said softly, “Maybe I need to.”

“Superman to the rescue?” she said lightly, wondering if it had less to do with her than with his wife.

“Just don’t ask me to leap any tall buildings in a single bound.” He flashed her a grin. “My days of being a caped crusader ended in the fourth grade when I did a swan dive off the roof of our garage.”

She laughed for the first time in days. It felt good, like the sunshine warming her. “I wanted to be Nancy Drew.”

“It looks as if you got your wish,” he said.

Anna gave a small ironic laugh. “The trouble is that except for Brent and Glenn, I don’t have a clue who to start with. Most of those people at the funeral she hadn’t seen in years.”

“Do you think any of them had it in for her?”

Anna had wondered the same thing herself. The past forty-eight hours she’d had little else to do. But she shook her head. “I can think of a few who would’ve stabbed her in the back the first chance they got, but only in the figurative sense.”

“Sometimes there’s a fine line.”

She yawned, feeling profoundly sleepy all of a sudden. “Can we talk about this later? 1 need to close my eyes.” As her eyelids drifted shut, she felt as though she were plunging down in an elevator. A moment later she was sound asleep.

She woke to find that darkness had fallen and jerked upright. “Where are we?”

“Almost there,” he told her.

“What time is it?”

“Time to eat.” He’d pulled off Highway 1 and they were bumping slowly along a pier lined with tourist shops, bait shacks, and saltwater taffy concessions. “I hope you like seafood.”

“Anything’s fine … as long as it doesn’t come on a tray.” Funny. Her life used to be measured in meals and now food was the furthest thing from her mind.

Minutes later they were seated in a booth at the Rusty Anchor, tucking into seafood platters the size of small skiffs, everything freshly caught and batter-fried to a crisp. Anna, whose appetite had returned with a vengeance, thought she’d never tasted anything so delicious.

“I eat here at least once a week,” Marc told her.

“I can see why.”

“It’s not just the food.”

“I know. Eating alone gets old after a while.” No one knew that better than she.

“That’s the part that never seems to get easier.” His gaze drifted toward the window, where his ghostly reflection shimmered in the darkened glass.

“Does your wife like to cook?”
In for a penny, in for a pound,
she thought.

He brought his gaze back to her, smiling faintly. “See, that’s what I like about you. Anyone else would’ve put it in the past tense.”

“She’s not dead.”

“To most people she is.”

“Well, I guess I’m not most people.”

He put his fork down, pushing his plate away. “You know my favorite? When they try to relate by comparing it to some crazy relative in their own family—like they have a fucking clue what
real
crazy is.” He gave a bitter laugh.

“I’m sure they’re only trying to make you feel better.”

“Or themselves.” He signaled for the check. “To answer your question, yes, my wife likes to cook—when she’s not burning the house down.”

“And I thought it was just my mother.” She caught herself, and grimaced. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I don’t have the market cornered on crazy relatives.” He laughed, and some of the tension went out of his face. “Speaking of your mother, how is she?”

“Better … or maybe that’s just what I want to believe. She seems happy, at least. Tea time at the Sunshine Home is a major deal.”

“I have one of the local beauticians come in once a week to wash Faith’s hair. She looks forward to it.”

Anna knew the feeling. Any contact with the outside world, however small, had meant the world to her when she was in jail. “How often do you visit her?”

“I used to go every day. Then it was once a week. Now …” He shrugged. “I go when I can.”

Anna nodded in understanding. Her visits to the Sunshine Home had tapered off, too, though her mother didn’t seem to notice. “It’s the sameness, isn’t it? The fact that it never gets any better.”

He reached for her hand. “You asked me before why I was doing this. Maybe it’s because I
can
.” When Anna didn’t reply, his fingers tightened about hers. “We’ll find a way out of this,” he said. “Do you believe that?”

“I want to.” She managed a small smile.

Marc reached up to brush her cheek. “You look tired. We should get you to bed.”

“It’s been a long day.”

Anna fell asleep again in the car, waking up when he pulled to a stop in front of his house. She was surprised to see that it wasn’t on the ocean, but surrounded by trees and scrub.

She yawned, and said sleepily, “I thought you lived in Malibu.”

He smiled. “It’s not all beachfront mansions and movie stars.”

Inside, the house was snug with a pitched roof and skylights. Sliding glass doors opened onto a deck that looked out over a floodlit slope carpeted in ice plants. “Water tends to be a luxury in these parts,” he told her. “We planted stuff that’d grow in the desert.”

He led the way through a cozy living room lined with books, down a hallway to the master bedroom in back. She sank onto the bed, covered with a colorful woven spread. Everywhere were touches of a female hand—the hand-blown perfume bottles on the oak dresser, the collection of antique fans on one wall, the cedar chest at the foot of the bed—yet none of it was fussy or overdone.

Marc pulled a blanket from the chest. “Lie down,” he said sternly. “Doctor’s orders.”

Anna kicked off her shoes and stretched out, deliciously aware of the down pillow into which her head sank—it seemed ages since she’d enjoyed even this simplest of pleasures. Marc covered her with the blanket and kissed her lightly on the cheek. An instant later she was once more sound asleep.

When she awoke, there was only the glow from the floodlight out on the deck by which to grope her way to the bathroom, where she found a toothbrush in an unopened box on the sink. Tears filled her eyes. It was the little things, she thought—the small kindnesses that under ordinary circumstances might not have meant so much. She brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face, returning to find Marc seated on the bed.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked.

“A few hours.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” She felt guilty, knowing she’d kept him up. After all that driving, he had to be exhausted.

“You needed to rest.” He drew her onto the bed, putting his arms around her. “Feeling better?”

“Much.” She wriggled down so that her head was resting against his chest.

“I spoke with Marty Milnik.”

“What did he say?”

“It seems he and Brent had a parting of the ways. Marty didn’t go into it, but he gave me the address of a studio in Covina where Brent’s supposedly got a gig. I thought we’d drive out there in the morning.”

Anna wondered what kind of studio it could be. Covina was the boondocks as far as Hollywood was concerned. But she only nodded and said, “Sounds like a plan.”

Marc kissed the top of her head. “Want to sleep some more?”

“I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“In that case, how about some company?” Anna responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with an intensity that surprised them both. He drew back to smile at her. “I didn’t necessarily mean that kind.”

She arched a brow. “Are you withdrawing the offer?”

“Well, no …”

In less than a minute they were under the covers with their clothes off. Snuggled beside him, she tried not to dwell on the fact that this was the same bed he’d shared with his wife. They kissed a little while longer before he pushed aside the covers, his fingers trailing over her skin. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sensations. Most of what she knew about sex came from
Cosmopolitan
; every other article, it seemed, was about ways to make the most of the experience with men who’d be clueless otherwise. But Marc’s touch was expert, each brush of his lips and fingertips awakening parts of her she’d scarcely known existed. Anna thought,
If I’ve died and gone to heaven, I don’t ever want to go back to earth.

Now his mouth was grazing her belly … and … oh, God … below. She began to tremble uncontrollably. She’d read about
this,
too. But no words could convey how it felt.

“Please,” she begged, not knowing if she wanted him to stop … or go on.

He drew his head up, gently kissing her on the mouth, her taste like some strange fruit on his lips, before whispering in her ear, “I want to make you come this way.”

She blushed, feeling self-conscious. But she soon forgot her shyness and there was only his tongue, featherlight. The sensations mounted to a white-hot pitch. Dear God. How could she have gone the rest of her life without knowing this? Without
him
?

When she came it was a feeling like none she’d ever experienced, not even the first time with Marc. She arched back with a cry, the pleasure so exquisite it was almost unbearable, spilling through her like warm liquid. Afterward she collapsed, breathless.

Bit by bit her heart stopped racing. The world crept back in: the sound of a car laboring up the road, its headlights wheeling across the ceiling; moths thumping against the sliding glass door—she could see them in the floodlight’s yellow glare, spiraling away stunned, only to return with renewed vigor to the task of beating themselves to death. Anna wondered if the reason she felt so alive, so conscious of everything around her, was because she was on the verge of losing it all.