Jovanic was deep into a Lakers game. He greeted them absently.
“Why don’t you girls go upstairs and try on your new duds?” Claudia suggested, hoping for a few minutes alone with him. They didn’t wait to be asked twice. Moments later, the stereo was blasting from the spare bedroom.
Dumping her bags on the floor, Claudia selected the one with the Victoria’s Secret stripes. Trying to compete with Kobe Bryant was a nonstarter, so she waited for the break. When the commercials came on she folded back the tissue paper to give Jovanic a glimpse of its contents.
“Tomorrow night . . .” she tempted, moving her body suggestively in front of him.
He glanced in at the froth of black lace and leered at her. “How about tonight?”
She shook her head. “It’d be too weird with the girls in the next room.
Tomorrow,
I promise.” She dropped onto the sofa beside him. “I think we covered every inch of that mall.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Annabelle really started to open up. First time I’ve seen her—”
“I’m supposed to be impressed?” Jovanic interrupted, scowling. “Can’t you see she’s playing you, Claudia?” He returned his gaze to the television. Kwame Brown scored and the crowd was on their feet, chanting. “Kids like her don’t change this late in the game.”
Claudia felt the hot flash of irritation burn up her neck and into her cheeks. “You think I’m so stupid I don’t know if a fourteen-year-old is trying to manipulate me?”
“I didn’t say you were stupid. You’re just not used to dealing with juvenile delinquents.”
She glanced behind them at the stairs. From the second floor the girls were singing along at the top of their voices as Missy Elliott rapped about how hot she was. The volume was high enough to drown out their conversation
.
“She is
not
a juvenile delinquent. She’s a kid who’s been emotionally neglected and doesn’t have anyone to care about her.”
Jovanic got up and stretched. “Yeah, well, now she’s got
you
, hasn’t she, Mother Teresa? I’m going home.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? What about the game?”
He made a sound of disgust and clicked off the television. “How am I supposed to watch the game with all that noise?”
“Joel, this isn’t like you. Why are you so cranky?”
Jovanic shook his head and leveled a look at her. “Sometimes, Claudia, I get tired of playing second fiddle to your clients, your family, and now this—
stray
kid you bring home. You don’t make time for
us.
This is a prime example—Paige asks you to take this girl for the weekend; you say sure, no problem. Same with Monica. You didn’t ask my opinion. Probably never occurred to you that I might have wanted to do something alone with you this weekend.”
“You never said anything about this weekend.
Was
there something you wanted to do?”
“It’s a little late now, but yeah, I got tickets for Eddie Izzard’s show at the Henry Ford Theater. Wanted to surprise you.”
A sick feeling hit the pit of her stomach. Jovanic knew the popular British comedian was a favorite of hers. It couldn’t have been easy to get the tickets.
“I’m sorry Joel. I had no idea.”
“That’s what a
surprise
is, hon—no idea. Don’t worry about it. I gave the tickets to Alex this morning.” He picked up his Windbreaker and slung it over his shoulder. “You know what you do, Claudia? You use other people to keep me from getting too close.”
“That’s so unfair. What about all the times
your
work gets in the way?”
“I’m not talking about work,” he said, closing the front door behind him with a louder snap than he needed to.
Claudia stood there staring at the door.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Upstairs, the music had ended and things were quiet. Claudia went into the kitchen thinking about what Jovanic had said and asking herself whether he was right about her pushing him away. She collected some Cokes from the fridge and a bag of chips from the pantry. As long as she was being criticized for having the girls over, she might as well make the most of it and take them a snack.
When she got to the second floor landing, an unmistakable smell hit her nose.
Marijuana. Dammit!
Paige Sorensen was probably hanging from a chandelier by her toes, having wild, satisfying sex with Cruz or one of her other admirers—maybe several of them— while she, Claudia, was stuck with a bratty pot-smoking adolescent and an irate boyfriend. Next time someone asked for a favor, she promised herself, she wouldn’t cave in so fast.
Gritting her teeth, she rapped on the bathroom door. “Annabelle, you want to get me arrested?”
There was a brief pause, the sound of scuffling, whispering, then innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Open the door.
Now.
”
The toilet flushed and a long moment later the door opened. Annabelle and Monica stood there, looking as guilty as sin.
Chapter 13
Annabelle slunk out of the bathroom, a pall of hemp-scented smoke clinging to her denim jacket like an invisible cloud. The straps of her backpack were looped over her wrist as she dragged it behind her. She slithered past Claudia and into the guest room, head down.
Probably to hide the bloodshot eyes,
Claudia guessed bitterly.
Monica just stood there looking shamefaced. “I’m sorry, Aunty C.,” she whispered.
Claudia glared at her. “I can’t believe this! Your father is going to
kill
me.”
“I didn’t smoke it. I swear I didn’t.” Monica’s voice broke. “
Please
don’t tell him. He’ll never let me leave the house again!”
“You should have thought of that.” Claudia raked her hand through her hair in frustration, afraid that Jovanic had been right. She raised her voice. “Annabelle, come back out here.” And when she had rejoined them, “I can’t have this going on here. Joel is a
cop
, for crying out loud.”
“It was all my fault,” Monica said quickly. “I asked Annabelle if she’d ever smoked pot and . . . she wouldn’t let me try it, though. I wanted to, but she said no.”
“Listen, both of you. I’m happy to have you here, but you’ve got to follow the rules. Understand?”
Monica said, “Yes, Aunty C., I promise. Please, don’t tell on me, okay?”
From Annabelle she got the shrug. “
What
ever.”
“That’s not good enough, Annabelle.”
The girl swung around on her with a scowl. “How come everybody’s always on my case? I didn’t
do
anything wrong.”
Claudia wanted to shake her.
After the pot-smoking episode, Claudia took a long, hard look at where she was going with Annabelle. The odor had lingered long enough for Jovanic to notice and go ballistic. She knew that his reaction would have been less heavy-handed if things had been better between them that weekend, but it was a pitched battle to talk him out of turning the girl over to the juvenile authorities.
In the final analysis, she concluded that what Annabelle needed most was consistency and an adult she could trust. Jovanic’s feelings were important to her, but he would have to find a way to deal with her desire to help the girl. Having settled that in her mind, and figuring she could hold it over the girls in case either of them got out of hand, she decided not to report the incident to Paige or Pete.
For the next couple of weeks Annabelle was subdued and kept to her nose clean at school. She and Claudia spoke over the phone several times and she dutifully faxed her graphotherapy work sheets twice a week.
Arriving at the Sorensen Academy for Annabelle’s in-person graphotherapy session, Claudia found the lobby redolent with the scent of fresh pine from an enormous Douglas fir decorated as a Victorian Christmas tree.
She paused to enjoy the red velvet bows and pearl satin ribbons, the glittering stars and silver garlands draped over the boughs. Natural green branches showed from beneath the ornaments, making her glad the majestic tree hadn’t been flocked with fake snow. Red and white striped candy canes, gingerbread men, and painted glass ornaments sent her back to her childhood at Granny Arlene’s house, before life became complicated.
Gift boxes were stacked around the base of the tree, some imprinted with the names of Beverly Hills department stores. The gift wrap probably cost more than anything she had purchased during the shopping trip with the girls and Kelly, thought Claudia.
“They’re for homeless children,” said Brenda, the receptionist, noticing her looking. “Mrs. Sorensen asked all the students and the staff to pitch in. She’s taking the gifts to a homeless shelter in Santa Monica on Christmas Day with Mr. Falkenberg and Mr. Montenegro.”
Claudia couldn’t help being impressed. She had begun to think that all of Paige’s interests were self-involved. “I’ll run over to the mall after I leave here and drop something off,” she said.
A big smile transformed Brenda’s plain face. “That would be awesome, Ms. Rose. Those poor little kids need all the holiday spirit they can get.” She reached for the ringing phone as she asked, “You’re here to see Annabelle?”
Claudia nodded. “Is she ready for me?”
“Yes, but Mrs. Sorensen wanted to see you first. She’s in her office.”
Claudia hurried upstairs, wondering about the reason for the summons. There had been no contact from Paige since Annabelle’s visit. Maybe she was ready to say thank you.
“They’re at it again,” said Paige as Claudia walked into her office. “The twins.” She pointed to her desk, where a sheet of paper lay atop the blotter.
Claudia dropped into the guest chair. From her vantage point she could see the numbered lines running down the left side of the paper and guessed that it was a legal filing or pleading.
“What this time?”
“They’ve filed a lawsuit for ‘undue influence’! We won the forgery case, but now this! They’re claiming I
forced
Torg to sign the will.” Paige yanked open her desk drawer and withdrew an envelope, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and brandished it at Claudia. “I got this in yesterday’s mail. I want to know what you can tell me about the person who wrote it.”
The handwriting on the heavy cream-colored notepaper had a wild, uncontrolled rhythm. Thick black ink covered the page. Overly embellished loops, tangled lines, large, extravagant capital letters. The writer had left no margins on any side.
Claudia gestured at Paige with the notepaper. “Male or female?”
“Can’t you tell it’s a woman?”
“You can’t conclusively tell gender or age from handwriting. What it does show is whether the writer’s personality traits are more masculine or more feminine, and the emotional maturity level compared to chronological age.”
She waved the paper. “This is not a girly girl. This is more of a masculine energy who takes over absolutely everything in her environment. See how she starts writing on the extreme left edge of the paper and doesn’t stop until she gets to the edge of the right side? She bends the writing down on the right edge to cram in what she wants to say. That means you’re forced to either twist your neck or turn the paper if you want to read it. Then she starts the next line so close to the last one that she writes over the tops of the loops on the line before.”
“So what does it
mean
?” Paige asked, clicking her fingernails on the desk in a jittery way that made Claudia want to grab her hand and stop it.
“She crowds people in an effort to control them. She stands too close when you’re having a conversation. She doesn’t know when it’s time to leave.”
“Diana sent it. That sounds like her all right.” Paige turned her left hand over and stared at her palm, which was still healing from the cut she had suffered in Diana’s attack. “I can’t believe the bitch is threatening me again. Hasn’t she done enough?” She took the letter back from Claudia. “Did you
read
it?”
Claudia shook her head. “I don’t have to read it to understand the personality.”
“Okay, then listen to this.” Paige began reading in a tone that dripped sarcasm. “ ‘Stepmommy Dearest. You killed our father and stole our inheritance. I’m going to prove it and when I do, I promise you’ll pay in spades for what you’ve put us through.’ ”
“She’s accusing you of killing your husband?”
“Wait,” Paige said, looking grim. “You haven’t heard the best part.” She took a deep breath and continued reading. “ ‘We know what you’ve been up to. Don’t think you’re going to get away with it. You made our father’s life a living hell, parading your boy toys in front of his face. Better watch your back—you might find a knife in it.’ ”
Claudia reached out her hand and Paige returned the letter to her. Studying the handwriting again, she tried to assess how much real danger the implied threat might pose. Her eyes rested on
boy toys,
and she wondered whether Diana’s brother Neil was included in the taunt.
She could feel Paige watching her, waiting for some kind of reaction. She asked, “What are you going to do about this?”
“What the hell
can
I do?”
“Get a restraining order against her.”
Paige gave a harsh laugh. “A restraining order? How would
that
help?”
“A written threat is an arrestable offense. You have to show this to the police, Paige.”
“I don’t want to have her
arrested
!”
Claudia recalled the jolt of fear she had felt in the face of Diana’s rage. “Why not? She’s made a threat.”
“I don’t want the police,” Paige said. “I don’t want her going public with these accusations. Jesus, Claudia, would you send your daughter to a school where the headmistress has been accused of having affairs and killing her elderly husband? Just being accused would be enough to destroy me.”
Refolding the letter, Claudia laid it on top of the court papers on Paige’s desk. A knot of schoolgirls passed the office door, chattering loudly. They called out greetings to Paige, who replied in a sunny voice, making it seem that all was right in her world.