Caro didn’t. Every day while I got ready for work, she would nag at me about my chosen profession until I hurried out of the house only half-dressed in my zoo khakis. To get away from the constant nagging, I’d moved onto the
Merilee,
where I fell in love with harbor life.
But the devil demanded her due. To make Caro leave me alone, I’d agreed to show up at her Let’s-Find-Teddy-a-Suitable-Husband parties as long as said parties didn’t happen more than twice a year.
With fingers tightened around the steering wheel of my old Nissan pickup, I wound my way up the hill to Old Town, where the family home sat at the end of a eucalyptus-lined lane. A cupola-sprouting Greek revival built in an era when full-time household help was cheap, it consisted of eighteen rooms, only six of which Caro actually used. The other rooms served as storage areas for the furniture that had been accumulated down through the centuries by various Bentleys and Pipers: a Queen Anne armoire here, a Romanov settee there. The living room was three times as long as the entirety of the
Merilee
but considerably stuffier, cluttered as it was with Victorian sofas and armchairs. At least it offered plenty of seating for my mother’s well-heeled guests.
After greeting me warmly, Caro had the valet hide my truck in the back, then led me upstairs to my old room, where she, her hairdresser, and her cosmetician proceeded to turn me into a different person. My frizzy red hair disappeared underneath smooth waves, and my rabbity eyelashes were darkened with mascara. The freckles Joe so loved were paved over by Mme. Cherie’s
Masque de Bisque
. I resembled a gargoyle trying to look like Barbie.
Once encased in the revealing gauze-over-silk Basso & Brooke dress Caro had bought me, I steeled mself and walked downstairs to find guests already milling about and a string quartet from San Sebastian Community College playing bastardized Vivaldi. Judging from the leers proffered by my wanna-be-date, the dress was a success.
“That’s so hot,” Jason Jackman McIlhenny Forbes IV slurred, as he downed another martini he didn’t need. His bleary eyes didn’t once leave my chest, and it was all I could do not to toss my glass of Gunn Vineyard’s prize-winning ’03 Merlot in his face.
“How nice that you like my dress,” I muttered between clenched teeth. Boy, Caro sure could pick ’em.
“I wasn’t talking about your dress, sweet stuff, just what’s peeking out from under there. Say, why don’t we sneak out of this snooze fest and take a drive along the coast in my new Alpha Romeo? Not only will I show you what it can do, but I’ll show you what
I
can do, too. You’ll like it. All the girls do.”
“Oh, look! There’s Aster Edwina Gunn! I must talk to her!” Leaving the inebriated dolt behind, I jostled my way through the crowd.
At the far end the room, Aster Edwina held court on a red velvet chair designed to look like a lesser royal’s throne. The eighty-something head of the powerful Gunn family was deep in discussion with my mother and Ford Bronson, the billionaire who owned KTSS-TV, as well as other media outlets across the country. Before I could veer off in another direction, Aster Edwina waved me over. “Ah, the girl of the hour.”
“Hello, Aster Edwina,” I said. Then, at Caro’s prompting, I added, “Thank you for that promotion at the zoo, not that I wanted it.”
If Aster Edwina’s smile had been any thinner, it would have cut off her tongue. “The television program will be good for you, dear, definitely more in keeping with your talents.”
Caro nudged me. “See, Teddy? She only wants the best for you.”
Like the lion knows what’s best for the gazelle. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I was just passing by on my way to the food table.”
That thin smile again. “The food table is in the opposite direction, Theodora, right behind that awful Forbes boy your mother hopes will be your next husband.”
She made it sound like I’d been married as many times as Caro, but I always tried to be polite to Aster Edwina, because as the power behind the mighty Gunn Trust she was, in effect, my boss. “Okay, you caught me in a fib. Now if you’ll just excuse…”
“I was telling dear Ford here that you acquitted yourself quite well on
Good Morning, San Sebastian
the other day, and that he should not only keep you on, but give you your own show. A half hour, at least.”
“We’ll appoint her Chief Wallaby Wrangler,” he quipped, winking at me.
Despite myself, I winked back.
Only a few months ago Ford Bronson, the founder of SoftSol, a computer software company, had made national news while testifying before Congress about pirated software and intellectual property theft. He was best known for his many philanthropic efforts, which had brought him to the attention of
Central Coast Style
, where he’d been the subject of a six-page full-color spread. The first photo showed him playing golf with the President of the United States. In the second, he was standing among his collection of Cubists, which included a Braque and a Picasso. Another photo showed him in his Old Town library holding a first edition of Oscar Wilde’s
The Picture of Dorian Gray
, in which Wilde had drawn a very naughty cartoon. Another showed him at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, completing the grueling twenty-six-point-two miles in an admirable three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Several other photographs revealed the sumptuousness of
Lady B Good
, his yacht moored in Gunn Landing Harbor; it was the size of a small country. But even more impressive was the photo of him piloting his company jet, an elegant Gulfstream G550.
As if all that wealth and talent wasn’t enough, the fortyish Bronson was also devastatingly handsome, with male model features, gently graying black hair, and eyes so blue they almost looked fake. At his birth, the angels must have burst forth in a chorus of hosannas.
I swallowed my own hosannas when he followed up his Wallaby Wrangler quip by saying, “A full half-hour for Teddy, eh? To tell you the truth, after watching the tape of her with those animals, I started kicking around that very same idea. She has a lot of personality and animal shows are getting strong Nielsens this season.”
“There’s no way I can handle anything like that,” I protested. “My dance card at the zoo is full.”
All traces of warmth left Aster Edwina’s gray eyes. “You’ll do whatever’s good for the zoo, Theodora. As you know, I’ve ordered Zorah to have you take over all of Kate’s other PR work, too. You can use a computer, can’t you?”
Whoever had said you can’t go home again didn’t know what he was talking about. You can go home, you just may not like it once you get there. History has a tendency to repeat itself; only the players change. Desperate to escape my interfering mother, I’d married Michael and moved away. Now I was back, only to find myself under Aster Edwina’s thumb.
Preferring a change of subject, however grim, I said, “Of course I can use a computer. I was a teacher, remember? By the way, isn’t it horrible what happened to Kate Nido?”
Aster Edwina narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
Bronson shook his head sadly. “Horrible is the word, all right. So young. So full of promise.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Not really. I don’t get down to the station all that often these days, and when I do, it’s for some dull executive meeting, not to hobnob with the talent. But Kate and I did chat briefly, once, when we met in the hallway. I found her to be a genial person.”
I nodded. “Me, too. That’s why it’s strange that such a genial person would get herself murdered.”
“I hope you’re not getting any ideas, Theodora,” Aster Edwina said, her voice stern.
Startled, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Sticking your nose into other people’s business. There’s been an arrest in the case, and sadly, it was one of Gunn Zoo’s own. However unfortunate that may be, that’s the end of it. Your mother doesn’t need any more scares.” Her eyes rested on Caro, who was trying to wrest a martini from Jason Jackman McIlhenny Forbes IV’s sweaty paw.
Considering what had happened in another Gunn Landing murder case, Aster Edwina’s apprehension on behalf of my mother was understandable. The last time I’d stuck my nose into other people’s business, I’d wound up in the hospital. Caro hadn’t taken it well.
“As you say, Aster Edwina, there’s already been an arrest. Sheriff Rejas doesn’t need my help.”
“He didn’t need it last time, either!” she snapped. “Furthermore…”
Discomfited, Bronson interjected, “Does anyone know what’s happening with the funeral arrangements? I, and others from the station, plan to attend.”
There was a brief silence, and then Aster Edwina said, “Zorah Vega, our zoo director, has been trying to reach Kate’s next of kin, but so far she’s been unsuccessful. Seems the phone number Kate gave for her parents in Sausalito is out of service, and the address is that of a construction company.”
Bronson raised his eyebrows. “How odd.”
I wasn’t so sure. “We live in a mobile society. Not everyone stays in the same town where they were brought up.”
Aster Edwina sniffed. “They would if they knew what was good for them.”
“Some people want to better themselves.” I flicked a quick look at Caro. “And some feel the need to get away from dysfunctional families.”
Caro’s eyes shot daggers. I just smiled.
Aster Edwina
humphed
. “The
Koala Kate’s Kuddly Kritters
segment. There’s another thing I’d like to discuss with you, Ford. Whatever it turns out to be, it’s going to require a new title. I suggest
The Gunn Zoo’s Animal Kingdom
to highlight the Gunn Trust’s involvement, of which the family is very proud.”
Bronson looked amused at Aster Edwina’s intrusion into his own territory, but was too polite to rebuke her. Instead, he put forth an idea of his own,
Tiger Teddy’s Amazing Animals
. Using the old lady’s subsequent argument as cover, I headed for the hors d’oeuvre table. Caro sidled up to me as I popped a jumbo shrimp into my mouth. Even at the age of fifty-five, she looked stunning in her aqua, six-inches-above-the-knee Pilotto dress and white diamond choker. Former beauty queens age more gently than the rest of us, especially when cosmetic surgery is involved.
“All right, Theodora, I’m prepared to admit that Jason Jackman McIlhenny Forbes IV might have been a mistake,” she said, forestalling any criticism. “But he has an older brother, Howard Jackman McIlhenny Forbes, and the timing couldn’t be better. You can catch Howard between divorces.”
I swallowed the shrimp. “He sounds like quite the catch. What’s this sauce, by the way? It’s delicious.”
“Ask the caterers.”
“Where’s Mr. Trifle?”
“Upstairs, having a Time Out.”
“What’s the poor dog being punished for? Trembling too much?”
“For piddling in my Balenciaga tote.”
“Dogs piddle, Caro. That’s why they shouldn’t be carried around in handbags.”
“Tote. Not to change the subject, dear, but I saw you talking to Aster Edwina just now.”
“I was surprised to see her here. Did you two sign a peace treaty or something?” Caro and Aster Edwina had both fallen in love with the same man—my father—and the ensuing range war had continued down through the decades, even though the man in question had long since fled with the Feds hot on his larcenous heels. To smuggle him out of the country, the two had made up briefly, but as soon as he was safe in Costa Rica, their old animosity returned.
“Aster Edwina is my dearest, dearest friend, Theodora.”
“Then I’m happy for you both.”
“You know, I was just thinking.”
“Really?” With Caro, “thinking” is always a bad sign.
“Ford Bronson is single.”
“Forget it.”
“I don’t know anything about his people, but Aster Edwina could help me there. She has more contacts than I do.”
To Mother, marriage isn’t as much about money as it is about animal husbandry. Bloodlines counted.
“Caro, Ford Bronson has expressed absolutely no interest in me. Besides,
Central Coast Style
wrote that he’s been seeing Izzy Van Stoeller since he and Uma Thurman broke up.”
“Oh. Well. It’s hopeless then.”
Isabel “Izzy” Marian Jacqueline Van Stoeller, of the Montecito Van Stoellers, was almost as pretty as Bronson. She was a tall, slim, natural blonde with a flawless complexion that could wear any color, something the fashion photographers had long since noticed. You couldn’t open up a copy of
Central Coast Style
without finding at least one photo of her wearing something ridiculously expensive. Whatever Bronson’s bloodlines turned out to be—Nobel Prize-winners, New Jersey telemarketers, New Guinea headhunters—in my mind the two were a perfect match.
Grateful for my frizzy red hair and freckles, I grinned. “Hopeless is right. Here, have a shrimp.”
***
After so many forced smiles at Caro’s party the muscles around my mouth had begun to hurt, so it was a relief to relax on the
Merilee
’s deck two hours later. It being almost midnight on a Friday, the harbor was lively. From the music and laughter floating my way, the
Tipsy Teepee, Cruisin 4 A Bruisin
, the
Mickey
and
Tumbling Dice
all hosted parties. At the north end of the harbor, Delta Force, the local blues band, rocked out at Fred’s Fish Market.
As difficult as liveaboard life could be—cold, damp mornings and ever-present mildew were just some of the drawbacks—the rewards were considerable. These included being part of a community of like-minded people, a constant supply of fresh sea air, and the gentle rocking of the tide lulling you to sleep at night.
And then there was the sky, the ever-changing sky.
I sipped my chamomile tea and gazed up at the stars. Due to a freshening wind, the night was clear and the new moon glowed like a silver cat’s whisker. Constellations blazed. Ursa Minor spangled the sky. Eons of light years closer to Earth, a satellite tracked its way across the dark.
Paradise, anyone?
My mood lifted further when my cell phone chimed out the chorus of “Born Free.” When I flipped it open, caller ID flashed Joe’s home number. He’d made it home before three, a rarity on a weekend.