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Former friend,
she amended. So much for the pack of tissues she’d tossed into her shoulder bag in the event she became overcome with grief.

A sage-colored canopy had been erected graveside to protect Lindsey’s mega-clients from the brutal sun. The funeral director escorted some two dozen guests to folding chairs in the shade. The lesser glitterati were left to jockey for whatever prime spots remained, standing room only. “Look, there’s Ivan.”

Claudia followed Kelly’s pointing finger and saw a middle-aged man of small stature in the front row, twisting in his seat to scan the crowd. Ivan Novak, Lindsey’s close friend and business manager, was wedged between a handsome couple that Claudia recognized from television campaign ads. State Senator Bryce Heidt and his wife, Mariel.

Spotting them, Ivan waved at Claudia. He stood up and began to make his way to the back of the crowd, stopping to shake hands with a few of the guests who reached out to him. As he grew nearer, the puffy pink flesh around his eyes told the story. He had shed his share of tears for Lindsey; probably Claudia and Kelly’s share, too.

“Hey, you two, thanks for coming,” Ivan was subdued. “I know it wasn’t easy for either of you. I appreciate it.”

Kelly reached out to give him an impulsive hug. “Ivan, you look like you haven’t slept in days. Are you okay?”

Ivan was almost at eye-height with Kelly, though she was slight and fine-boned and he was thickset, though not overweight. As he spoke, his stocky body seemed taut with the effort of controlling his emotions. “No, Kelly dear, okay is something I am definitely
not
.”

He mopped his damp face with a snowy handkerchief and laid a pudgy hand on Claudia’s arm. “I have to talk to you privately,” he said, effectively shutting Kelly out. “You
are
coming to the reception, aren’t you?”

Claudia hesitated. Joining the jet set for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres was the last thing she had in mind for the rest of the afternoon. She had only recently become acquainted with Ivan through her professional connection to Lindsey, and was certain he had invited her and Kelly because Lindsey had given him the impression that they were still dear old chums. The truth was, Claudia had tolerated her former friend over the past few months, only because it had been a financial necessity.

“Well, actually I wasn’t...”

Ivan’s big black moustache drooped with disappointment. “But you
have
to come! We can’t talk here... the service is about to start. It won’t take long, I promise.” His grasp on her arm tightened. “Don’t disappoint me, Claudia. For Lindsey’s sake.”

She’s dead, but the drama continues.

Claudia watched him hurry back to his seat as the funeral director stepped up to the lectern and asked for their attention. “I wonder what’s going on with Ivan,” she murmured.

Kelly shrugged. “Go to the reception and find out. I’ll be there, and... hey, there’s Zebediah. That seersucker jacket is sooo Zeb.”

Claudia had to smile at their friend’s choice of funeral wear. The summery blue and white stripes made him easy to spot. “I guess being Ivan’s ex-therapist rates him a seat in the shade.”

“Yeah, well, I have a feeling Ivan’s gonna need a whole lot
more
therapy before all this crap is over.”

“Poor Ivan. He really cared about her.”

Kelly’s face soured. “He’s the
only
one.”

Claudia shot her an irritated glance. Considering their shared history, she didn’t blame Kelly for the way she felt about Lindsey. Still, she felt compelled to register a protest. “How about putting a sock in it, Kel? There’s a better time and place for that discussion.”

Kelly stared straight ahead, her chin jutting defiantly. “I don’t give a shit about the time or place.”

A woman standing in the row ahead turned a shocked glare on them. Kelly returned the glare, but lowered her voice a notch. “The only reason I came here is to make sure the bitch really
is
dead.”

Claudia caught the faint whiff of alcohol on Kelly’s breath and it came as no surprise. Since their early teens Kelly had dealt with stress by drinking, Claudia by working more hours. Soon, someone would need to find a way to cram twenty-six hours into a day. “We can talk about it later,” she said a little more firmly, but Kelly wasn’t ready to let go. “It’s a good thing the casket’s closed. I can see her rising up and sinking her fangs into someone’s jugular, can’t you? I’ll
never
forgive her for the things she did to me. She ruined my wedding night, not to mention all the other times she fucked me over. Fucked
you
over, too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Claudia certainly had not forgotten any of the cruel tricks Lindsey had played in the name of fun, nor the easy shifting of blame for her own misdeeds. She and Kelly had debated several times over the past week whether or not to attend the funeral. There had been as many reasons to stay away as there were to come. In the end, it was probably curiosity more than anything else that had brought them here.

As she sought an appropriate response to Kelly’s tirade, the funeral director stepped to the podium and the hum of conversation abruptly died. He introduced Bishop Patrick Flannery, who looked pale and soft in white vestments as he opened his gilt-edged missal and peered over the assembled crowd.

He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t end upwith a nasty sunburn
, Claudia thought, noticing that his bald pate was already an interesting strawberry shade.

“We are gathered here today on this sad occasion to bid a final farewell to Lindsey Alexander, a woman much revered...”

“Good thing he didn’t say ‘much
loved
,’” Kelly stage-whispered.

“Shut
up.
” Claudia gave her friend a sharp poke with an elbow.

“... often seen on the evening news, with the clients to whom she devoted her life, Lindsey came to Hollywood with nothing but raw energy and a unique gift for recognizing talent in others, on which she built an empire...” The bishop’s reedy tenor was no competition for the eggbeater clatter of Channel Seven’s news chopper circling overhead, and Claudia could barely make out the words. The sun beat against her neck like an angry drummer and her right temple began to throb. She needed water. Or better yet, a vodka tonic.

Is this funeral ever going to end? Or is this really hell, and we’re all sharing it with Lindsey?

She gave up trying to listen. The way she saw it, Lindsey had been a self-serving ball-buster. But brutal truths like that didn’t belong in a eulogy. Her thoughts gravitated inevitably to the final act of betrayal that had severed their friendship. Events that had burned deep into her memory and still had the power to mortify.

But that was more than ten years ago, and now, Lindsey was dead.

Lindsey Alexander had lived at one of the most desirable addresses along the Wilshire Corridor. Thanks to its elegant line of high-rise condos and apartments, this stretch of the Boulevard had become known as the “Golden Mile.”

Claudia checked the invitation. Fifteenth floor penthouse. She and Lindsey hadn’t been on visiting terms for a long time, and their last face-to-face had been at the publicist’s Century City office.

Leaving her elderly Jaguar with a valet, she crossed the lobby of the high-rise, heels clicking an irritable staccato on the marble floor. Receptions were for weddings, not funerals. Besides, whatever it was labeled, the scene of Lindsey’s untimely transition from this world to the next seemed like an inappropriate location for this event, whatever you called it. But then,
inappropriate
had always been Lindsey’s middle name.

The maroon-uniformed concierge at the ultramodern black and chrome lobby desk looked up with a professional smile and asked how he could help her. Claudia told him her destination and he requested to see a picture ID.

She flashed him her driver’s license with its nearly decade-old photo. She’d just hit thirty when it was taken. Intelligent emerald eyes gazed frankly back at the camera, framed by attractively winged brows. A slightly pouty mouth. The auburn hair had been perm-frizzed back then, looking as if she’d been plugged into the nearest electrical socket. Now she wore it shoulder-length, straight and glossy.

Giving the license a cursory glance, the concierge thanked her and passed her a pen and clipboard with sign-in sheet attached. Before adding her name, Claudia ran a practiced eye over the signatures already covering the page. Force of habit for a handwriting expert.

The names read like opening night at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, but the who’s who interested her less than what the signatures told her about the personalities behind them—the tall capital letters and strong rhythms of the powerful; the showy styles of the rich and famous who wanted everyone to know it.

As she stepped out of the elevator at the fifteenth floor, Claudia’s ears were assaulted by the din of music and loud conversation from the penthouse. Entering the open doors, she found herself in a circular foyer illuminated by a thousand crystals sparkling in a chandelier that would have done the Governor’s Mansion proud.

The attack on her senses was softened by the glorious bank of floral tributes lining the walls. She stopped to sniff at the rose sprays and mum crosses, the carnation hearts and arrangements of lilies in vases. They might as wellhave been silk, all scent having been bred out of the hothouse blossoms. Like Lindsey, they looked good on the outside, but were lacking that ineffable quality, soul.

A half-dozen steps led to a sunken living room about thirty feet wide. Claudia stood on the top step, feeling as if she’d stumbled into a blizzard. Stunning white-on-white art deco furnishings reminiscent of the movies of the thirties; an Italian leather banquette along one wall; conversational groupings that made the space about as personal as a hotel lobby. The decor made a startling contrast with the guests’ dark funeral apparel—as simultaneously stark and beautiful as an Ansel Adams photograph.

Lindsey gazed down on them all from a life-sized oil portrait in the place of honor above the fireplace. She wore a low-cut, satiny Harlow gown and stood beside the pearl Steinway grand where one of her famed guests now sat, plunking tunelessly. The artist’s brush had captured a wistful expression in her eyes, far from the hard-boiled stare she’d cultivated over the years, and used to intimidate anyone who was bold enough, or stupid enough, to cross her.

What was on her mind to produce that look?

Claudia turned away from the portrait, scanning the room for Ivan. He didn’t seem to be among the rich and famous.

Warm breath touched her neck, startling her. “Darling,” a voice said close to her ear. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Old friend, one-time lover, a bear of a man. These days he had more hair on his chin than his head, but daily workouts on Venice Beach had kept his body tanned and muscular.

Claudia stepped into the arms of Zebediah Gold with a smile. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Zebediah released her with a hard squeeze. “I didn’t see you at the cemetery. Were you there?”

“Kelly and I were sweating it out with the other peons. Unlike you, I might add.”

“Front-row seat, sweetie, where else?”

“Who’d you sleep with for that privilege?” The gleam in her eye took the edge off her words. He looked amused and squeezed her again. “I see you’re in a bitchy mood.”

“Put it down to heatstroke.”

“Poor baby. Where’s the elfin Ms. Brennan?”

“Probably seducing one of the pallbearers. She had her eye on them.” Claudia shifted her gaze to the plain vanilla furnishings, the dearth of ornamentation in the place. “I can’t imagine Lindsey living here. It doesn’t suit her personality.”

Zebediah studied her with clinical interest. He’d given up a lucrative Beverly Hills psychology practice a couple of years back for semi-retirement as a consultant, and her comment clearly intrigued him. “Our Lindsey was a woman of many faces,” he said enigmatically. “Come on sweetie, let’s free ourselves from this iniquitous din.”

He draped an arm across her shoulders and shepherded her through the guests, following a wall plastered with photographs of Lindsey posing with clients clutching various statuettes at prestigious awards ceremonies. They passed through a formal dining room, maneuvered around caterers scurrying from the kitchen bearing trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres, until he brought her to glass doors that led to a sun deck high above Wilshire Boulevard.

Claudia drifted to the railing and looked over the side. The West Side sprawled fifteen stories below—a panorama of old and new L.A., shoulder-to-shoulder like old pals: dwellings and commercial properties, the UCLA campus, the Armand Hammer Gallery. In the distance, a bloody sun lolled just above a Pacific Ocean that glowed sapphire in the late afternoon haze. Muted traffic noise floated up but it seemed as though they were in another world.

She turned back to Zebediah, who sat on the edge of a chaise lounge. “It’s all so unreal. I keep expecting her to pop out of a cake and yell
‘Surprise’.”

He leaned back, his lips thinning into what Claudia called his Clint Eastwood smile.
Wry.
“You think she’d enjoy the shock value?”

“You’re the shrink, you tell me. Personally, I think it gave her a sense of power to shock people. She had to stay up nights, dreaming up some of the stunts she pulled.”

He tipped his head to one side, considering. “Mmm, she had a dark imagination all right.”

“Dark?” Claudia echoed. “That’s a tame word for it. She did some really nasty shit. Kelly’s
still
talking about what happened at her first wedding. She brought it up at the funeral.”

“Her wedding? That would have been before I knew her. Do tell.”

Claudia made an a
re-you-really
-sure
-you-want-to-know
face. “Okay, you asked for it. It was one of those defining moments. The last time they spoke to each other for ages. Nearly twenty years ago.” She leaned back against the balcony railing and looked him in the eye, wanting to gauge his reaction to the story she was about to tell.