Crown's Law (27 page)

Do I tell her that I gave
it up myself after the senior prom? Not wise! What would I have
told my own daughter? I don’t know. I’ll have to weasel word
it
.

“Well, Becky, each girl has to make her own
decisions about such a private thing.”

“Typical adult response,” groaned Becky.
“Even my shrink uses nondefinitive responses. Well, I’d better go
change this suit or Sam’ll kill me! Meet you downstairs. We’ll be
on the deck.”

Bo took off her jacket and removed her
shoulder rig. She stored the gun in a nightstand next to the bed.
She undressed and donned her bathing suit. She hung up her
clothing, then she looked at her reflection in the full mirror on
the closet door. She adjusted her bikini bottom and ran her hands
over her breasts, making sure the bra top was fitted properly. She
put on her coverup and descended the stairs. She joined Sam and
Becky on the large redwood deck and breathed in the wonderful sea
air.

Coming here may have been a
mistake, but this view and the air make it worth it!
thought Bo.
And that Becky is a
jewel!

“Just marvelous!” she exclaimed.

Sam had donned his red trunks and had rubber
flip flops on his feet. Bo noticed that he sported no flab—just a
well-tanned, muscular body that would turn most women to mush.
There were some scars. ’Nam? Bo liked what she saw. Becky had
changed out of her thong into a more modest light blue bikini. Her
supple, well-tanned, teenaged body was curved in all the right
places. Bo felt jealous!

She must drive the boys
wild!
thought Bo.
Too bad she
is so emotionally damaged! I’d like to get my hands on her damned
stepfather!

Sam pointed to several pairs of rubber
flip-flops by the door and said, “There should be a pair there that
fits you if the deck is too hot for your tender tootsies. Help
yourself.”

On the deck, there were several redwood
lounges with blue canvas lounge pads on them. Several folded beach
towels were stacked on one of the round redwood tables. She spotted
a large barbecue on the south side of the deck, and a wet bar with
a small counter. Several blue-and-white umbrellas provided shade,
not only for the bar, but also for the tables on the large deck. At
the bar, four bar stools were available for guests. Bo eased onto
one of them and watched Sam operate a blender on the counter behind
the bar.

“Quite a layout, Sam.”

“There’s a pool on the north side if you
don’t like salt and sand,” he answered, his back to her. “I’m
making strawberry daiquiris. As soon as I pour one for Becky, I’ll
add the rum for ours. Unless you’d prefer something else. The bar
here is quite complete!”

“A daiquiri sounds great!” she answered as
she removed her cover-up and hung it over the back of the bar stool
next to hers.

Sam turned and saw her in her bathing suit
for the first time. He examined her lithe, runway model’s body, the
curve of her hips, her half-covered breasts. He couldn’t see her
long legs from where he was standing.

He gasped, “Oooh, my!” He took a deep breath,
then continued, “I’m sorry, Bo! I know I promised to behave, but
your luscious beauty overwhelmed me!”

“Well, Sam, I’ll accept the
compliment—instead of making an issue of it,” smiled Bo, actually
enjoying the effect she had on Sam.

“Thanks! Hey, Beck! Here’s your drink. What
should I do for dinner? Fish? Steak? Lobster?” queried Sam.

Before Bo could say anything, Becky chimed
in, “How about burgers and corn? Your hamburgers are the greatest!
Oops! I’m sorry, Bo! You’re the guest. You choose.”

“Hamburgers sound fine to me,” laughed Bo.
“They seem perfect, in fact! What could be better at the beach than
the smell of burgers on the barby!”

“Why don’t you call Billy and invite him
over, Beck?” asked Sam. “Give you a chance to talk about
tomorrow.”

Becky jumped up off her lounge and said,
“Really? You’ve got company and all.”

“Sure. Go ahead. You’ve been alone here all
week. Time for some company. Give him a call.”

Sam poured some expensive Jamaican rum into
the blender and turned it on again to mix up their daiquiris as
Becky ran inside to call Billy, who lived five houses away.

“That was nice of you. From what she told me
upstairs, she’s really nervous about tomorrow.”

“I know. I don’t know how to help her. She
needs a mother for this kind of crap,” he replied as he poured two
large, round, stemmed glasses full of slushy strawberry daiquiris.
He put two straws in each glass and pushed one across the counter
to Bo.

Bo offered, “Maybe I could help her with her
hair tomorrow . . . or something?”

“That would be great! I know she’ll
appreciate that. I know I will.”

Then he lifted his glass and said,
“Cheers!”

They both took a sip and she purred with a
smile, “Mmm! Good! My compliments to the bartender. But no
umbrella?”

He turned and grabbed one out of a glass
filled with paper umbrellas, opened it, and plunked it in her
glass. “How’s that?”

“Perfect! I was kidding, you know.”

“I aim to please.” He pushed a bowl of
Macadamia nuts toward her and said, “I’m glad you chose to come
here, Bo. I was serious about us collaborating on solving the
mystery of Winston’s death, but I want Becky in on our discussion.
With her schedule this weekend, that confab can’t take place until
Sunday afternoon at the earliest; so, relax and enjoy
yourself.”

“Becky? What does Becky have to do with this
case?” she queried.

“She helps me from time to time. Her logical
skills are unsurpassed,” he smiled. “As you would expect. You’ll
see.”

“Do you mind if I have a cigarette? I’m
having a nicotine fit. I’ve only had the one at
Sparky’s
since I got off the plane!”

“No problem. Here’s an ashtray. Made out of a
real abalone shell.”

She retrieved a flat box of Benson &
Hedges from the pocket of her cover-up along with a gold lighter,
then extracted a long, filtered cigarette from the box. Sam reached
for her lighter, lingering a moment as their fingers touched, then
he lit her cigarette.

She offered the box to Sam. He shook his
head.

“Bullet to the lung ended my smoking days
years ago. At least, when I did smoke, I smoked a real cigarette.
What in hell are these things?” he laughed as he studied the
box.

“The flat box fits better in my purse,” she
chuckled.

“Hell of a way to choose a cigarette.”

When their drinks were finished, Sam said,
“How about a quick dip in the Pacific before I start dinner?”

“What’s the water temp out here?”

Becky came out of the house with Billy in tow
and answered Bo’s question. “It’s 69 degrees. It’s perfect! Bo,
meet Billy. We’re going in now, aren’t we, Billy?”

“You bet! Glad to meet you, Bo! Grab a board,
Becky!”

With that, the two teenagers went to one of
the lounges and Billy stripped down to his surfer trunks; then,
surf boards under their arms, they ran down the beach to the water.
Bo observed that Billy’s body indicated that he stayed in good
shape—surfing, football? They made a cute couple running down the
beach. Becky was behaving like any ordinary teenager. King and
Queen of the Prom? Probably not. That was usually a popularity
contest, and from what Bo had heard from Becky, she would not win
such a political event. After all, since she did not really attend
the school, not many kids there even knew her.

When Bo crushed out her cigarette, Sam said,
“Ready to hit the surf?” He very much wanted to see her gorgeous
body wet! Maybe a wave would knock the top of her suit off!

***

Bo had enjoyed her swim with Sam, Becky, and
Billy more than she had enjoyed anything in a long time. They had
watched the sunset as they bodysurfed the waves. Afterwards, she
had showered and dressed in black denim shorts and a cotton blouse
that matched her blue-green eyes.

Sam had changed into white shorts and a
colorful, flowery Aloha shirt with ukuleles on it. He had fired up
the barbeque and cooked fat hamburger patties—cheese on three, none
on Bo’s. Billy went home after dinner, and Becky went to her room
to her computer to work on the appendix to her doctoral thesis for
particle physics. That left Sam alone with Bo on the deck watching
the stars and the nearly full moon.

“More wine, Bo?” asked Sam. They were
drinking a very expensive, extremely smooth burgundy that Sam’s
father had discovered in Spain during his CIA working days. His
father always kept a case on hand.

“A splash maybe. It’s so good!” she replied
with a small, crooked smile. As she crossed her long, slim legs,
Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

Soft music floated in the air from the
built-in speakers on the wall. Sam had put on one of his mother’s
CDs which contained golden oldies love songs. At the moment,
Sinatra was singing Fly Me to the Moon. Sam poured more wine into
their glasses, a lot more than a “splash.”

Bo said, “Those scars you have on your body.
’Nam?”

Sam sipped his wine and replied, “Some of
them. Two from when I was a cop. I noticed the one on your left
hip. Gunshot?”

“Yeah. Two years ago. Just a nick though.
Nothing like yours,” she murmured. “So, you were a cop, too?”

“For awhile. Orange County Sheriff’s
Department. This was part of my beat.”

“Interesting.”

They were both silent for awhile, listening
to the surf roll in, then recede. Over and over.

Bo broke the silence. “Such a pleasant,
romantic night, and we’re talking about scars. I would think we
could do better than that.”

Sam looked at her—long legs, perky breasts,
luscious lips—wanting her badly. “Much better! I have several
ideas, but you made the rules. It’s up to you to change them.”

She locked eyes with him and said, “I’ve only
known you a few hours, Sam. You are a complex man, and I really
admire what you’ve done for Becky. But . . .”

“You have a boyfriend, eh?” he interrupted.
“The guy you called? Or someone in Washington?”

She hesitated, wondering if her personal life
was any of his business, then replied, “No, not at present. I broke
off a relationship six months ago. It was very painful—nasty! Since
then, I’ve been a pigeon in search of a statue. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not a statue, but I understand. Maybe
you’ll feel differently tomorrow—or the next day. The music is
nice. Maybe we could dance.”

Bo glanced at him and imagined her breasts
crushed against his chest, his arms around her.

“I don’t think so. That might create a
problem,” she smiled.

“Well, what with the time change, you must be
exhausted.”

“Yes, I am. That east to west trip is a
killer.”

She stood. He stood.

“Well, goodnight, Sam. It has been an
extraordinary evening,” she whispered, letting him take her
hand.

“Yes, it has. Goodnight, Bo. Sleep as late as
you like. I’ll fix you breakfast whenever you get up.”

She thought,
Breakfast! Even without the ‘bed’ part. He is patient! I was
sure he was going to make a pass at me! What would I have done if
he had? Hmm. What are you thinking, Bo?

Saturday, June 2, 2001

Capistrano Beach, CA

Sam loved the mornings at the beach the best.
That’s not to say the sunsets were not awe-inspiring. But the
morning was his quiet time—time to think, time for introspection.
He arose at 7:00 A.M. on Saturday, donned his favorite red swimming
trunks, and started his morning swim down to the San Clemente Pier.
He swam down there and back almost every morning that he was at the
beach. Becky was up also, clad in a one-piece black swim suit under
her flowery cover-up.

“I’ll catch you on the way back, Sam,” she
had said as he headed for the water.

“Thanks, Beck. I’ll watch for you south of
Poche.”

She liked swimming with Sam, even though they
seldom spoke while swimming. It was some sort of silent bonding.
When they were in the water, she wasn’t a child genius, and he
wasn’t an insecure father. She was quite able to swim to the pier
and back, but her shorter stroke slowed Sam down, so she just swam
part of his return leg. She slipped out of her cover-up, grabbed
her short surf board, and paddled out to join a half dozen early
morning surfers who were sitting out beyond the reef north of Poche
waiting for a wave. The sea was fairly calm, and the chances for a
good wave were slim, but that seldom kept the surfers from bobbing
around on their boards, waiting in silence—enjoying a peace that
only surfers understood.

Becky kept an eye on her waterproof watch,
and after awhile, grabbed an ankle-slapper wave to the beach and
put her board away. Then she started her swim to meet up with Sam.
She was feeling great—this was a great way to start an important
day in her life: the day of her senior prom.

***

Bo awoke and stretched at 8:56 A.M. She was
surprised that she had slept so well in a strange bed—and so late.
The gentle roar of the surf must have worked its magic. A freight
train had rumbled by behind the house about 3:00 A.M., but she had
turned over and gone back to sleep at once.

She stretched out on her back and looked up
at the ceiling and took stock of her situation. She was in a
stranger’s house—a stranger with a 16-year-old niece/daughter/ward.
Her own daughter would have been Becky’s age had she survived. When
Bo was 20 years old—in college—she got pregnant, but had a
miscarriage when the female fetus was 4 months along. It was a bad
medical experience—it left her barren—and a worse psychological
experience. The event had been a major influence in shaping her
later life. Yesterday’s encounter with Becky had stirred
long-buried maternal feelings. This could have been her daughter
getting ready for her senior prom.