Looks to Die For (7 page)

“That sounds right.”

“Mrs. Fields, he’s not to say anything.
Anything.
Do you understand me? Get him back home. I’ll send a limousine if you want. Tell him to leave through a back door of his office, or a service entrance, or whatever it takes so he’s not seen. Same when he arrives back at your house. No reporters. No pictures. No comments. Is this clear?”

“Clear,” I said. “I’ll page him. Or call his office.”

“After this, rely on your answering machine. Don’t pick up any calls. If I need to reach you, I’ll use the unlisted number. Assume people are listening in on your cell phone and that your listed number is bugged,” Chauncey said.

“Jimmy’s playing with a friend’s child down the block,” I said, trying to account for everyone.

“Tell him to come home,” Chauncey replied, slamming down the phone.

I called our neighbor Jane Snowdon and, giving only the scantest details, asked her to walk Jimmy to our backyard. Pushing aside the plantation shutters, I peeked out the window and saw a lone unmarked van across the street. While I watched, another van, this one bright with the logo
NEWS CHANNEL
4, pulled up. I closed the wooden slats and called Dan.

“What are you doing?” I asked when he picked up the phone.

“Paperwork,” he said coolly. “I have a lot to catch up on.”

“Dan, the kids are hysterical. They need you. And I just spoke to Chauncey Howell. He wants you home. You ended up all over the five o’clock news.”

“Did I? Well, good. I told the reporter I was innocent.”

“You’re apparently not supposed to say anything. Chauncey wants to send a limo to get you home.”

“My car’s parked outside.”

“Can you get to it without being ambushed again by a reporter?”

Dan paused briefly. “You know what the parking lot’s like in this building. Open. Outside. I suppose someone could come up to me when I go to my car.”

“Then take Chauncey’s limo,” I said. “I’ll have him send an extra driver. He’ll come up to your office and get the keys, then drive your car home. Maybe some of the reporters will follow him instead of you.”

Dan snorted. “You and Chauncey are blowing this way out of proportion. You’re picturing a horde of reporters, and there was exactly one. She got her story. I’m sure she’s gone.”

“Dan, for once don’t be stubborn,” I pleaded.

I cracked open the plantation shutters again and saw two more vans pulling up, one with satellite antennae on top for live broadcasts. My husband might be in denial about the situation, but the assignment editors knew a good story.

“One reporter a couple of hours ago, maybe, but they all know about you now,” I said. “Ms. Channel Five had a very brief exclusive. We’ve got TV crews piling up in front of the house.”

I heard Dan walking across his office, probably to look out his own window, and I thought I caught a little gasp. But he composed himself well before he spoke.

“Fine. Tell Chauncey to send his driver and the backup. But give me an hour. I have work to do.” Like Chauncey, he slammed down the phone.

I quickly called Chauncey back and got a “Nice work. Good idea” for my efforts, which was better than I’d got from Dan. But that didn’t matter right now.

After Ashley’s outburst, the hallway outside the children’s bedrooms seemed empty and eerily quiet. Thank God for Grant, who could bring some sanity even to his sister. I went downstairs and found Ashley huddled on a sofa in the family room, just snapping shut her Motorola T721 cell phone. Full color, two-way radio, and custom cover, but she sulkily insisted everyone else at school had the newer model, with quad-band wireless technology that played video clips. No doubt in the middle of math class.

“I’m going to the Devil Diner for dinner,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Everyone will be there. Mandy’s picking me up.”

“Mandy doesn’t drive,” I said, not bothering to ask if this was the same “everyone” that had the fancier phone.

“Mandy’s boyfriend will pick me up,” Ashley amended. “And you’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be. In fact, I’m quite serious, so pay attention. You’re not going to the diner. You’re not going out tonight.”

“What is this, house arrest? I thought Daddy was the criminal, not me.”

“Neither of you are criminals,” I said quietly.

“Oh, Daddy is. Even though I had to learn about it on television. He killed someone, so I can see why he shouldn’t go out. But what did I do wrong?”

The extent of adolescent self-involvement never failed to amaze me, but Ashley seemed to be bringing it to new heights. “Today, nothing. Or nothing that I know about. You’ll stay home on Daddy’s behalf.”

“So we can have one of our fabulous family dinners?”

“I usually like our family dinners, but we’ll skip it tonight. You can eat before Daddy comes home. Eloise cooked chicken with mangoes and rice.”

“That sounds nauseating.”

“I’ll make you some pasta. Or there’s pizza from last weekend in the freezer.”

Ashley snorted, and as usual, I didn’t quite know what I’d done wrong. I tried to live by the mandates of suburban motherhood:

For my daughter, I tried to be cool (I downloaded Coldplay even before Gwyneth Paltrow married the lead singer) — but not too cool (my low-rider jeans never rode too low). I maintained the unreasonable hope that by being thoughtful, sincere, and understanding, I would eventually win over my daughter.

“Here’s an idea,” I said now. “Why don’t you order in from Devil Diner? Tell the delivery guy to come to the side door and I’ll answer.”

“You don’t get it. I want to go
out
. I don’t care what I eat. I just want to get out of here.”

“That’s not going to happen tonight.”

“When’s Daddy getting home?”

“An hour or so.”

“Can I sleep at Mandy’s tonight?”

“Only if you can manage that without leaving the house.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I think you mentioned that.”

“I hate this family!”

“I sympathize. I’m not so thrilled with it either today. But it’s all we’ve got.”

Ashley stormed out. I thought of rushing after her, but how many more futile gestures could I make today? I was pondering that when I heard a double knock and opened the back door for Jimmy.

“I think something’s up in the neighborhood,” said Jane, who’d walked Jimmy home. “There are news trucks outside. Any idea why they’re here?”

I closed my eyes briefly, composing myself. “Listen, Jane, will you forgive me? I can’t talk now.”

She nodded, looking slightly baffled. “Sure, Lacy. I don’t want to intrude. Call me if you need me.”

Jimmy scampered off, and when I went upstairs a few minutes later, he was lying in front of the TV. Normally, I’d tell him to turn it off, but I was grateful to have him distracted. Besides, it was the Discovery Channel. Seeing crocodiles snap at each other was better than watching grown-ups with teeth bared.

I found Grant sitting at his desk. Like Dan, the boy could work through any storm. But for all his emotional strength, he was still a kid who’d just been told that his dad was suspected of murder.

“Want me to tell you what I know about Dad?”

“Uh, yeah.” He sat back, not looking at me, just twisting the lead in his automatic pencil in and out. “I’m not going to get my information from television news.”

“Then here goes. The whole thing. I apologize for not filling you in before.” I ran through the story, just as I’d told it to Chauncey outside the courthouse, and then added some editorial comments about how Daddy certainly didn’t know Tasha Barlow and the only question was how the mix-up had occurred.

Grant nodded and kept his head down, and I was mesmerized watching him grinding the tip of his sneaker deep into the rug.

Finally, he looked up. “I think you’re being brave, Mom.”

“Thanks, honey. But I don’t know what else we can do. Ashley’s upset, but she’ll pull herself together.”

“Yeah. Ashley. But Mom, you’re not questioning Dad at all, and I’m going to do the same thing. No waffling. No wondering what happened.”

I looked at him straight on. “Are you wondering if Daddy’s innocent?”

“Nope, Mom. I’m with you. Dad’s innocent.” He blinked his wide, intelligent eyes, and I swallowed hard.

Of course Dan was innocent. Inn-o-cent. I knew it deep in my bones. No questions, no qualms, no pangs of doubt. Inn-o-cent. That gnawing, hollow feeling in my stomach didn’t mean a thing. Though it might take all the Rocky Road ice cream in the world to make the emptiness go away.

“I wish I could do something for Dad,” Grant said “Help him. I just don’t know how.”

“Honestly, you help just by being yourself,” I said. Predictably, Grant rolled his eyes, but I went over and gave him a hug, anyway. “We’re all feeling pretty helpless,” I admitted.

The phone rang, and I grabbed it from Grant’s desk, heard Dan’s voice, and asked anxiously, “Where are you?”

“In the limousine, on my way home,” he said tersely. “Chauncey is with me.”

“That’s great. I’m glad,” I said. Chauncey had made it to Dan’s office in record time, completely ignoring his request for an extra hour.

“Chauncey wants to talk to you.”

I heard the phone being passed, and then Chauncey said, “I think your ploy worked, Lacy. I only see one news truck following us. Now what’s the best way to get into the house without being seen?”

Marveling that Chauncey had asked me for a plan rather than his client sitting right next to him, I quickly considered some scenarios. “Come to the garage, on the side of the house,” I advised. “I’ll put my car on the street so you can pull the limo all the way in. Once you’re in the garage, I’ll close the door with the remote, and there’s an entrance to the family room.”

“Okay,” Chauncey said. “But if you take your car out to the street now, you’ll be swarmed by photographers.”

“Better me than Dan,” I said. What would the paparazzi do with a shot of me, anyway? Sell it to
Mad
magazine? They definitely wouldn’t get a buck out of
Real Simple
, because my life had become way too complicated.

I finished the conversation with Chauncey, and when I hung up, Grant put down his pencil. While pretending to work, he’d been listening to every word. “Mom, you’re very brave. I mean it. I’m really proud of you.”

I gave him another hug. If every murder charge had a silver lining, then this was mine — sterling praise from my husband and son in one otherwise awful day.

Chapter Three

I
nstead of grabbing the newspaper
off the front lawn as usual in my Natori nightgown the next morning, I threw on jeans and a Fire & Ice Ball sweatshirt to impress the local TV reporters with my humanity. But the street seemed quiet, with no news trucks in view. I didn’t hang outside long enough to check for telephoto lenses peeping out of the beech tree.

Back inside, I took the
Los Angeles Times
out of its plastic bag. The story about Dan had made page 1, just below the fold, with a screaming headline:

RESPECTED L.A. DOC ARRESTED
ON MURDER CHARGE

Underneath was a photo someone had snapped at a charity ball a few months ago, with Dan in his black Armani tuxedo and Harry Winston diamond studs. His blue eyes twinkled and his warm smile showed off his irresistible dimple. He looked heartbreakingly handsome — which explained why the picture filled most of the bottom of the page. So much for keeping Dan out of sight of the paparazzi last night.

Never-made-it-actress Tasha Barlow, whose goal had been to have her face in front of the world, was relegated to a tiny square. In the high school graduation photo, her nose looked obviously bigger and her breasts strikingly smaller than in the head shot Chauncey had showed me. When she moved to the coast, Tasha had paid some plastic surgeon a wad of money to make her into a different person. But that didn’t mean Dan had held the knife.

The type blurred in front of my eyes when I tried to read the article, so I shoved the newspaper under the sofa and flicked on the small Sony TV in the kitchen, flipping past Matt chatting with his new mate, Meredith, on NBC and the genial hosts bantering on CBS, until I caught a mention of Dan on one of the local news reports. The story was mercifully brief, a juicy headline but no sleazy footage to draw it out. But there was plenty of video for the next story, and I watched until Grant came downstairs.

“Who’s Mikita?” I asked, as soon as he came into the kitchen.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at me blankly. “What?”

“Have you ever heard of Mikita? She’s all over the news this morning. Come here.”

Grant joined me at the countertop television, where the slo-mo footage of a gorgeous young woman running naked down Sunset Boulevard was being replayed for at least the third time.

“She’s one of those models–turned–rock singers,” Grant said. “What happened?”

“Apparently she took a little too much Ecstasy and coke last night and washed it all down with a bottle of champagne. She left the Viper Room, pulled off all her clothes, and…” I nodded at the TV. “The rest you’ve seen.”

Grant laughed and went to the refrigerator for orange juice. “Did she push Dad off the news, at least?”

“Mostly.” I cleared my throat. “Come eat.” I put Wheaties with strawberries on the table, but Grant looked around the kitchen.

“Where’s the newspaper?” he asked.

I didn’t answer immediately, and, misinterpreting, Grant said, “Want me to go outside and get it?”

“I already did,” I admitted. I fished out the paper from under the sofa. “Unfortunately, the
L.A. Times
gets printed before two
A.M
., which is when Mikita did her strip act.”