There were three cars ahead of them at the visitor’s gate to the subdivision. Grace’s pulse skipped wildly as they pulled beneath the security shack’s portico. “Here goes,” Camryn said, under her breath. Grace pulled on a pair of oversized sunglasses.
The Jaguar’s driver’s-side window rolled down, and the uniformed security guard stepped forward. Grace sucked in her breath and looked away. It was Sheldon, the same guard who’d turned her away the last time she’d attempted to breach the gate at Gulf Vista.
“Morning, ma’am,” Sheldon said, leaning in to look at the Jaguar’s occupants.
“Good morning,” Camryn said. “We’re guests of Marissa and LaDarion Banks?”
Sheldon scanned a sheet of paper on his clipboard, running his finger down the lines of type.
“Ms. Nobles?” he asked, peering into the car’s interior. Grace held her breath.
“That’s correct,” Camryn said.
The guard handed her a guest pass. “Leave that on your dashboard, if you would please, ma’am,” he said, and waved her through.
* * *
“Nice digs,” Camryn said admiringly, as they rolled slowly past the house on Sand Dollar Lane. “What did this place set you back, a million, million and a half?”
“I’m not sure,” Grace admitted. “Ben handled all that. This was one of the model homes. He cut a deal with the developer, and then cut more deals with the contractors who put in the landscaping and the pool and the media room. A lot of the extras, we got at cost, or less, in return for advertising and editorial mention on Gracenotes.”
“And you walked away from all that.”
“‘Ran away’ would be a more accurate way to describe my departure,” Grace said.
“And now you’re living above a bar on Cortez,” Camryn said. “Girlfriend, that is a big change, and I’m not just talking about zip codes.”
“Want to know something?” Grace gestured out the window, at the velvety green lawns and lush beds of blooming tropical flowers and palm trees, behind which loomed glimpses of red barrel-tile roofs and white stucco homes. “None of this seems real to me. I lived in this neighborhood for two years. I went to parties, gave parties here, but I haven’t heard from a single person since the night I put Ben’s car in the pool.”
“Mm-hmm,” Camryn said. “You broke the rules. Acted ugly, made a mess. Got the law involved.” She flipped up her own sunglasses, and grinned. “Welcome to the real world, Grace Davenport.”
She turned the corner and pulled into the driveway of a house that dwarfed all the other houses in the subdivision. A wrought-iron gate with curlicued flourishes identified the mansion as Villa Marissa. Camryn opened her window, leaned out, and looked up at the small security camera mounted on the stucco gatepost. “Marissa? It’s Camryn. Open sesame!”
The gates swung open noiselessly, and they followed the driveway around to the front of the mansion, an enormous, vaguely Tuscan villa, where a petite woman with long jet-black hair and a complexion the shade of caffe latte waited in a gleaming black golf cart.
“Ladies!” Marissa Banks beamed. She was dressed in a sleeveless hot-pink Nike tank top and matching pink golf shorts, along with pink and white golf cleats. She clapped her hands excitedly. “Welcome to my house.”
“Marissa, this is my friend Grace, but I think you’ve probably already met, right?”
Grace reached out and shook the other woman’s hand. “Thanks so much for doing this. You’re really sure you want to get involved in my drama?”
“Of course,” Marissa said. “You can only get your nails and hair done so many times in one week. I’m dying of boredom. This is going to be fun. Like old times, right, Cammie? Remember that time we snuck onto the grounds at Doral so you could try to interview Tiger Woods?”
“And you distracted the security guards with a phony wardrobe malfunction? How could I ever forget that?” Camryn asked, shaking her head at the memory. “Does LeDarion know you’ve flashed boob to half the men in South Florida, just to get exclusive interviews?”
“How do you think we met in the first place?” Marissa laughed. “Of course, he thinks he’s the only one who ever got a sneak peek. And we’re gonna keep it that way, right?”
“Just between us girls,” Camryn said. She glanced at Grace. “Are you ready?”
Grace let out a long, shaky breath. “As ready as I’m gonna be. I want this over with. Marissa, are you sure the coast is clear? Ben has a standing golf game at the club Saturday mornings, but you just never know…”
“I’ve been watching the place since eight. He left about eight thirty, and his little girlfriend left maybe fifteen minutes after that.” Marissa rolled her eyes. “What a skank! You know she sunbathes nude most of the time, right? Every pool guy and maintenance man in the neighborhood has had a look at her goodies.”
“Let’s do it,” Camryn said.
* * *
After Marissa dropped them off in the golf cart, promising to return as soon as they texted her, Grace and Camryn walked briskly to the rear of the house, where Grace unlocked the kitchen door.
“Wowsers,” Camryn said, eyeing the gleaming expanse of black granite countertops, the stainless steel commercial stove, and the glass-front refrigerator. “This kitchen is immaculate. She’s a pretty good housekeeper.”
Grace glared.
“For a skank, that is,” Camryn added.
“Oh, please. J’Aimee doesn’t know how to cook,” Grace said. “They probably eat at the club every night—or order out for pizza or Chinese.”
She went into the dining room and pulled open the top drawer of the mahogany Empire buffet, pausing to run an appreciative finger over her sterling flatware. “Looks like it’s all here,” she said, after doing a quick count. Grace trotted out to the laundry room and came back with a king-sized pillowcase, into which she unceremoniously dumped all the silver.
“Let’s stack everything by the back door,” Camryn said, holding up a heavily decorated silver teapot. “That’s what professional burglars do. So they can make a quick getaway.”
“We’re not burglars,” Grace said sharply. She took the teapot from Camryn’s hand and set it back on the top of the buffet. “I’m not taking anything that isn’t mine. The tea service was Ben’s grandmother’s. The flatware is mine.”
When she’d loaded in all the silver, Camryn placed it in the kitchen, near the door.
Grace walked quickly up the back staircase with Camryn following close behind. “How many bedrooms?” Camryn asked.
“Um, six, but we only had furniture in three of them,” Grace said. She breezed down the second floor hallway toward the master wing, while Camryn opened every door they passed to gaze inside.
“Enough with the sightseeing,” Grace urged. “I don’t want to stick around here any longer than absolutely necessary. Let’s just get the rest of my stuff and go, okay?”
She pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The king-sized bed was unmade, and clothes and shoes and towels littered nearly every flat surface.
“Uh-huh.” Camryn nodded, taking in the disarray. “Now we see the girl’s true colors.”
“Ironic,” Grace said. “Ben is a total neat nut. He even colorizes his sock drawer.”
“You could put my whole downstairs in this bedroom,” Camryn said, slowly doing a 360-degree turn to take it all in. She sat on the bed and fingered the rumpled top sheet. “Are these Pratesi?”
“Yup,” Grace said. “We did a giveaway with them.”
“Think the skank would notice if I borrowed a set of ’em?”
“In here.” Grace jerked her head in the direction of her home office. She opened one of the custom cabinets and began loading her photographic equipment into a black duffel bag she’d brought along for that purpose. Her Nikon camera bodies, her lenses—all of it went into the bag. She scanned the bookshelves holding the hundreds of design books she’d lovingly collected and cataloged over the years, pulling out her favorites and adding them to the duffel bag.
She dragged the duffel bag into the bedroom and dumped it before heading into her dressing room, where Camryn stood, looking bug-eyed at the clothing. She held out the sleeve of a gaudy tie-dyed dress. “This doesn’t look like your style.”
Grace wrinkled her nose. “None of this stuff is mine. It’s all hers.” She opened one of the drawers in the built-in center cupboard and, with her pinkie, held up a hot-pink scrap of lace. “Totally not mine.”
She continued rifling through the clothing in the closet. “Damn! This is all J’Aimee’s crap. If she threw my clothes out…”
“Hey!” Camryn stood in the doorway. “I think I found your stuff. It’s in the room next door.”
* * *
Nearly every item of clothing Grace owned had been dumped on the bedroom floor. Dresses and blouses still on hangers, folding clothes, shoes, handbags—all of it tossed in the corner. Grace stood with her hands on her hips, looking around the room, a lump rising in her throat.
“What a pretty room,” Camryn said, looking around.
Grace had spent weeks choosing just the right shade of pale seafoam green for the walls of the bedroom. She’d chosen a natural linen fabric for drapes with a narrow turquoise ribbon trim. The dresser was an old one she’d found at an estate sale in Bradenton, a battered oak chest of drawers that she’d painted a soft white, distressed, then waxed. The only other furniture in the room was an antique wicker rocking chair. She’d reupholstered it herself with a turquoise gingham cushion.
“Where’s the bed?” Camryn asked.
“Never got around to buying one,” Grace said. Her smile was tight. “This was going to be the nursery.”
“Oh.” Camryn put an arm around Grace’s shoulder. “You wanted kids?”
“Yeah. I had started taking fertility meds, but then…” She shrugged. “So it’s just as well. I see the crap Wyatt is going through with his ex, and, well, a divorce is tough enough for grown-ups without putting a little kid through all that.”
Grace picked out a few items of clothing, a couple pair of jeans, her favorite little black dress, and a battered leather bomber jacket she’d owned since high school days. “Let’s go,” she said, turning toward the door.
“That’s all you’re taking?” Camryn gestured at the mound of clothes and accessories. “You’re just going to leave all this stuff here?” She picked up a hot-pink linen dress. “Girl, this is Tory Burch.” She added a black-and-white striped patent leather purse. “And this is Kate Spade. You don’t walk away from Kate and Tory.”
“Take them if you want,” Grace said. She looked around the room, searching for an empty suitcase, but found only a lumpy black plastic trash bag. She dumped the contents of the bag onto the floor.
But this clothing wasn’t hers. There was a pair of denim shorts, two sizes smaller than Grace wore, a sleeveless black T-shirt, and a pair of new-looking tennis shoes. Everything in the bag was spattered with paint. Bright orange paint. The same memorable hue that had been splashed across the walls at Mandevilla Manor.
“I knew it,” Grace said softly, picking up the T-shirt and holding it out for Camryn to see. “I knew it was her.”
She heard footsteps on the stairs and froze. A moment later, Ben walked into the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
* * *
The two women stared at him. Ben’s face was already tanned, but now it was flushed red with anger.
Camryn looked at her in a state of panic. Grace swallowed hard, and then she recalled her mission, and her motive.
“I came to pick up some of my belongings,” she said.
“You’re burglarizing my home,” Ben said. He held up his cell phone. “Sheldon spotted you when you came through the gate, and he called me to ask if I knew you were in the neighborhood. I’ve got to remember to tip him better at Christmas this year.”
“It’s still my home, too,” Grace said, glaring at him. “And I’m not taking anything that doesn’t belong to me.”
He pointed at the duffel bag at her feet. “What’s in there?”
“My cameras, some of my design books. Nothing of yours.”
“I should call the cops on you,” Ben said. He picked up the duffel bag and withdrew her macro lens. “This doesn’t belong to you.”
She snatched it out of his hands. “My dad gave me this for my birthday the last year he was alive. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let the two of you have it.”
“Take it and get out then,” Ben said. He glanced at Camryn. “I know you. Camryn Nobles, News Four You. Does your station manager know you’re in the habit of breaking and entering?”
Grace shook the paint-spattered T-shirt at Ben. “Do your blog advertisers know you and the slut are in the habit of breaking and entering and vandalizing private property?”
Ben looked at the T-shirt with disinterest. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“Your girlfriend was wearing this the other night when she trashed the house I’ve been working on over on Mandevilla. And don’t even try to deny it. This is the same orange paint she splashed all over the kitchen walls. She read my blog posts on TrueGrace, saw that I had a new project, and decided to ruin it for me.”
“Ridiculous,” Ben said. But he suddenly looked uncomfortable.
“Were you there, too?” Grace asked, her voice rising. “Did you help her break in? I bet you did.”
“You’re crazy,” Ben said. “J’Aimee doesn’t even know where that house is.”
“Sure she does. Anybody who reads my blog would know it’s on Mandevilla. J’Aimee showed up there just last week. To warn me that if I contacted any more of your advertisers, she’d get even with me. And that’s just what she did.”
“I’m telling you you’re wrong. J’Aimee wouldn’t do anything like that,” Ben insisted.
Grace shoved the T-shirt in his face. “She did it, Ben! And here’s the proof. Orange paint. She got it all over her clothes.”
He pushed her hand away.
“You really didn’t know what she was up to, Ben, did you? She was hiding this stuff from you.”
“Take your crap and get out,” Ben said, sounding weary.
They heard a door slam from downstairs, and then footsteps.
“Ben?” J’Aimee’s voice was shrill, panicky. “Where are you? Call the police! We’ve been robbed.” She was practically running up the stairs.
“I’m in here,” Ben called. “And it’s not burglars. It’s Grace.”
59
“What’s she doing here?” J’Aimee looked from Ben to Grace, eyes narrowed with suspicion.