The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (137 page)

Cartwright nodded. “You may proceed.”

Dr. Webb rattled off a number of scientific terms about pattern searching and gene coding and nucleic acid patterns before producing a detailed graph of what he called repeats.

“Could you explain what this means in laymen’s terms?” Showalter pointed at the graph propped on an easel, its rows of densely packed lines as unreadable as bar codes.

“Well, it’s like a blueprint. We try to match tandem patterns of a specific size; in this case, a user specialized size from one to three nucleotides—” He caught himself and cleared his throat and gave a little smile. “Basically, what it means is that there’s a ninety-eight-point-nine percent probability that the DNA from under the victim’s fingernails matches the defendant’s.”

A low hum went through the packed gallery like a power surge, accompanied by the furious scratching of pencils on paper as courtroom artists hastened to capture the scene.

Anna bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

There was more discussion of techniques and probability before Showalter produced his trump card: a blowup of a police photo taken the day of Anna’s arrest. “Doctor,” he asked, “in your opinion could the DNA you refer to have come from
these
?” He jabbed a finger at the barely healed scratches running up the enlarged photo of Anna’s arm.

Rhonda shot to her feet. ‘‘Objection, Your Honor. Pure speculation.”

“Sustained.” Cartwright directed a stern gaze at Showalter, who only smiled smugly. His point had been made.

When it was Rhonda’s turn to cross-examine, she strode confidently to the stand, heels clicking on the scuffed oak floor. “Doctor, is there any way of determining whether this DNA you refer to dates from the time of death or, say, several hours beforehand?”

He hesitated, his gaze shifting to Showalter. “Not with any degree of accuracy, no.”

“So it could have been the result of a separate incident earlier in the day?”

He frowned, stroking his goatee. “Well, given the circumstances, it’s reasonable to assume …”

She didn’t let him finish. “Doctor, this isn’t a game of Clue,” she said with a smile that had all the warmth of an air conditioner turned up full blast. “All I’m asking is whether or not you can definitively state that this DNA is concurrent with the time of death.”

“Well … no,” he conceded grudgingly.

“Thank you, Doctor, that will be all.”

Anna scarcely noticed when he stepped down. The world seemed to be receding in a gray, grainy tide as memory rushed in to engulf her.

“I’m throwing a little party this Friday,” Monica had announced one day out of the blue. “It’s for Rhys, to celebrate his nomination.”

Anna looked up in surprise from the mail she was sorting through. Rhys Folkes, who’d directed several of Monica’s pictures, was up for an Oscar that year, but if the party was this weekend, why was she only just now hearing of it? She studied her sister closely, but saw nothing to arouse suspicion. It had been two weeks since the episode with Glenn, which neither of them had referred to and which Anna had almost, but not quite, succeeded in putting behind her. In fact, surprisingly, Monica had been on her best behavior. Maybe she’d had a change of heart, or maybe it was because Anna was no longer putting up with her bad behavior.

“I’ll call Dean,” she said, thinking it’d be a miracle if she could book the caterer on such short notice.

“All taken care of.” Monica gestured airily. Stretched out on the sofa in her dressing gown, she might have been Cleopatra on her pallet. “It’ll be cocktails and a light buffet supper, informal but elegant.”

This was even more extraordinary, Monica making her own arrangements. “Is there a list of people you’d like me to call?” It was too late for printed invitations.

“I’ve taken care of that, too.” Monica began leafing through the magazine she’d pulled from the stack on the coffee table. “I’d like it if you could come—as a guest, of course.” She flashed her most disarming smile. “Are you free that night?”

In the old days she would have taken it for granted. It was on the tip of Anna’s tongue to accept—Monica was making an effort; shouldn’t she meet her halfway?—but something stopped her, the Charlie Brown who’d had the football snatched from under her one too many times. “I’ll have to check my calendar,” she said.

Monica shrugged. “Fine. You can let me know tomorrow.” Anna braced herself for the usual sarcastic dig, something along the lines of, “If you can possibly spare an evening out of your
busy
schedule …” But it didn’t come. Monica only lifted her head to say nonchalantly, “If you don’t have anything to wear, I could loan you something of mine.”

“I thought you said it was informal.”

“Well, yes … I meant something that
fits.”
She smiled to let Anna know she’d meant it as a compliment. “Besides, it’s a special occasion. You know that crowd.”

Anna’s suspicion deepened. Though Monica was occasionally given to bursts of generosity, it was unimaginable that she’d risk being upstaged, not after what had happened with Glenn. “It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t think—”

Monica didn’t let her finish. “Why don’t we have a look upstairs?”

“Now?” She eyed the mail she’d separated into two stacks: the letters marked personal, which she’d leave for Monica, and the ones from fans, a few bulky with some personal item the sender wished to have autographed.

“Come on, don’t be such a party pooper. Leave that.” She dismissed the letters with a wave. Clearly, she was warming to the prospect of playing fairy godmother.

Upstairs in her sister’s room, Anna felt a ripple of apprehension as she eyed the evening gowns Monica hadn’t worn in years, glimmering in their plastic shrouds—not one larger than a size six. Was this another exercise in humiliation, having her try on dresses that wouldn’t fit?

She sucked in her breath … and her stomach … as she pulled one of the less fitted over her head. Magically, it cascaded down past her hips, bringing a rush of heady delight.

It was tea length, the color of an evening sky with tiny beads that twinkled and changed in hue as she twirled in front of the full-length mirror. Now she knew how Cinderella must have felt.

“It fits you like a glove.” Monica smiled at her from the doorway.

“You don’t think it’s too … much?” Anna recalled the last time her sister had worn it: Swifty’s post-Oscar bash the year Monica had been nominated for
Miami, Oklahoma.
Her last official outing before the accident.

“It looks like it was made for you. Besides, it’s not as if I’ll be wearing it again anytime soon,” Monica added in the tone Anna had mentally labeled The Heroine Bravely Holding Up. Not that she didn’t receive dozens of invitations to gala events, but would any of them be as much fun as the pity party she threw every night at home?

“I don’t know …” She frowned, chewing on her lip. “I’m afraid I might spill something on it.”

“Never mind. It’s yours.”

“You mean—”

“Don’t look so surprised. I would’ve given it to you earlier if …”
You’d been thin,
Anna could almost hear her say. “Well, it suits you perfectly, that’s all that matters.”

Anna was too stunned and delighted to protest. “I … I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful.”

“You deserve it. Look at you—you’re a shadow of your former self.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Anna said with a laugh. She’d have needed a shoehorn to get into most of these gowns. “I just wish …” Her mouth clamped shut. She’d been about to say that she wished Marc could see her, but there was no sense giving Monica ammunition she could use later on in a less munificent mood.

She had a harder time keeping him out of her thoughts. She pictured Marc as she’d last seen him that morning at the lake, the wind ruffling his hair, his eyes the deep blue of the sky overhead, and felt an almost visceral longing. So far she’d resisted the urge to call, and for the most part had refrained from wallowing in self-pity. All it took to toughen her resolve was seeing how miserable Liz’s affair had made her.

Monica eyed her curiously. “You wish what?”

“Nothing.”

Another time she’d have tried to worm it out of Anna, but now she only shrugged and said, “Wear it in good health.”

By the time Friday rolled around, Anna found she was actually looking forward to the party. She’d even splurged on a pair of silver sandal heels and made an appointment at Shear Delight. Arriving at LoreiLinda that evening, she felt like Cinderella stepping from her carriage.

Arcela, taking coats at the door, stepped back to admire her, exclaiming in a hushed tone, “Miss Anna, you look like princess!” At the same time she appeared vaguely troubled. It wasn’t until Anna stepped out onto the patio, twinkling with the fairy lights she and Arcela had spent hours stringing earlier in the day, that she understood: The guests, several dozen in all, stood chatting about the pool, drinks in hand, no one dressed in anything more formal than the flowing silk caftan Sallie Henshaw had on.

Anna stopped cold, feeling suddenly conspicuous. But it was too late to turn back. People were eyeing her, some drifting closer to get a better look.

“Monica, you naughty girl, you told us casual chic. I feel positively underdressed.” Rayne Billings, in a midi blouse and capris, cast Anna a coolly ironic smile.

And now Sallie was wafting over, the hem of her caftan fluttering about her ankles. They’d spoken a few times over the phone, but had never met in person until now. “You must be Anna. I’m Sallie.” As if everyone in America didn’t know who she was; Sallie’s career as an actress might be on the wane, but she’d kept busy in her twilight years hawking everything from paper towels to denture cream. She put out a plump hand on which flashed an emerald ring the size of the olive in her martini. “I must say, you look stunning in that dress. You’re putting us all to shame.” She sounded sincere enough, but Anna could only mumble something inane before escaping to the bar, her face on fire.

What made it so awful was that she’d been set up. And hadn’t she walked right into the trap? She, of all people who should have known. For a brief moment she’d allowed herself to believe there was a real person underneath her sister’s wiles, but now she couldn’t escape the truth: Monica was just a monster in a human suit.

Somehow she made it through the rest of the evening. Several glasses of champagne downed in quick succession helped, as well as the attention she got from some of the men, notably Rick Rasche, the blond hunk from the hit series
Malibu.
But the whole time she felt like a sore thumb. All she wanted was to be home in bed, Boots curled at her side. Tomorrow she would kill Monica. Right then, she was too miserable.

The following morning she arrived at work hung over in addition to being fed up. This time there would be no rehearsed speech, nor was she going to wait until she’d lined up another job. She was giving notice, effective immediately.

She found her sister in the sunroom, her feet propped on an ottoman, her hair ablaze in the sunlight that poured in through the bank of French windows overlooking the rose garden, as she sat with the morning paper sipping espresso. In her silk kimono that matched her scarlet nails, she was no longer a fairy godmother, more like Cruella DeVil.

“Did you have fun last night?” She barely glanced up, which only enraged Anna further. When she didn’t answer, Monica went on blithely, “I should think so—you were the belle of the ball. Rick Rasche couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

“No wonder. I stuck out like a sore thumb.” Anna’s voice was frosty.

“Funny, I always thought he was gay.” She lowered the paper, smiling innocently.

Anna glared at her. “It’s no use, Monica. I’m on to you.”

“Well, look who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she scolded with an airy laugh, setting her doll-sized cup in its saucer with a musical clink. “Just because you had too much to drink last night, don’t take it out on me.”

“You know perfectly well why I’m upset.”

“Do I? Well, let me guess. It must be because I gave you a knockout dress to wear to my party, where men most women can only dream about were all over you like white on rice.” Her voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm. “I’m very sorry if I offended you. Next time I’m feeling generous I’ll give to the Salvation Army.”

“You can drop the act; I’m not buying it.” If her sister thought she could bully or cajole her way out of it this time, it was only because all she saw were the outward changes in Anna. “You set me up on purpose. You wanted me to look like a dumb little hick. I couldn’t have felt more ridiculous if I’d been naked.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Monica scoffed. “No one thought anything of the kind. As a matter of fact, a number of people complimented you, as I recall.”

“This is payback, isn’t it? You can’t stand that I’m finally getting some attention, that you’re not the sole focus of every man within a mile radius. No one looked twice at me before, and that suited you just fine. If anything, I made you shine all the brighter.” Anna trembled with twenty years of suppressed fury. “Well, guess what? I quit, this time for good. Get yourself another whipping girl, though I think the kind you want went out with indentured servitude.”

“You’re quitting? Because of some stupid little misunderstanding?” Monica laughed, but Anna caught a glint of fear in her eyes. She’d gone too far this time, and she knew it.

“The only misunderstanding,” Anna said in a barely controlled voice, “is my thinking there was a real person underneath all your bullshit.” She leaned in close and caught a whiff of Monica’s breath. She’d been drinking something other than espresso.

“You can’t leave. What will I do?” Monica’s eyes filled with tears. She looked small and lost. But Anna had been down this road before; she knew enough not to be sucked in.

“Try the Yellow Pages,” she snapped.

“You’re giving me a headache.” Monica brought a hand to her forehead in a gesture so theatrical Anna almost laughed. When it failed to elicit the desired sympathy, her eyes narrowed. “You’re not going anywhere. You wouldn’t dare.”