Gambling that Mary Pat was an early riser, Joanna called at nine o’clock. Thanks to Gene, she was long dressed, fed, and ready for the day. Too bad they didn’t have chickens to feed and cows to milk. There’d have been plenty of time that morning.
No one answered and no voice mail picked up. She might have dialed the wrong number. Reading the digits carefully from the back of the Tallulah’s Closet business card where she’d jotted them a week earlier, she dialed again. Again, no answer.
Worry sparked in her chest. Maybe Mary Pat had been right, and her life had been in danger. Thousands of people in cars clogged the boulevard below her on their way to work, but she was all alone in the big house. It would be far too easy for someone to break in and attack her.
Gene stood in the doorway, watching. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” Thoughtfully, she returned the phone to its cradle. “I’m leaving right now.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.” Joanna was already at the door. “I’ll go alone. If I have to call the police, it’s better if you’re not there.”
Minutes later, Joanna was at the Stroden mansion, feeling as if she were stuck on repeat in a horror movie. She ran up the long stairway to the house’s front door, and, gasping for breath, pounded on its carved oak surface. No one answered. She bit off a curse and hurried around a narrow stone path cut into the lawn around the side of the house.
Lilac branches brushed her shoulders as she circled toward the back of the house. Surely she’d find a kitchen door.
She arrived at what should have been the far side of the morning room, just off of the kitchen, and hit a fence. Joanna had worn sensible 1940s wedge-soled sandals and a cotton circle skirt, but this fence was taller than she and built of vertical planks. Nowhere to get a foothold.
She pounded on the gate, constructed flush with the fence, with no visible handle to open it.
“Mary Pat, are you there?” she yelled. The house was so vast that, underlaid with the constant hum of traffic, she wasn’t sure she’d be heard even if Mary Pat were a dozen feet away.
She searched the side yard for something to stand on and found a redwood box with a garden hose rolled up in it. She dumped out the hose and dragged the box to the gate. She placed one foot on the box and tested her weight. The box wiggled on the uneven turf. Quickly, she stepped up with her other foot and, thrusting herself forward, grabbed the top of the gate. She couldn’t see over, but she could hook the inside of her elbow over the gate’s splintery ridge and feel for the latch.
“What are you doing?” said an elderly woman brandishing a poker.
Joanna whirled around to face the voice. She leapt down from the crate. “I’m here to see Mary Pat.”
The woman’s white hair looked familiar to Joanna. Yes. It was the neighbor who’d spied on her when she first visited, then again on her next visit to Luke. The neighbor wore jeans and a fleece pullover so new they might have just had the tags cut off. It wasn’t often you saw pressed jeans. In contrast with her catalog-fresh clothing, a coffee-brown mole by her left eye gave the neighbor the look of a senior Cleopatra.
“What’s wrong with the front door?” the neighbor asked.
“I rang the bell, but no one answered.”
At last, the woman lowered the poker. “I know you. You’ve been here before. The day what’s-his-name died.”
Joanna nodded.
“And the other one. You were here when the other one died, too. Yesterday.”
“A terrible coincidence,” Joanna said. She willed herself to relax. “Which is why I’m so desperate to see Mary Pat right now. I tried to call, and she didn’t answer. I want to make sure she’s okay. I’m Joanna, by the way.”
“Carol,” the neighbor said. She looked right, then left, then at her feet. “Okay,” she said finally. “The sister’s in the backyard. I saw her from my kitchen.” She filled her lungs and tilted her head back and bellowed. “That should do it. Yep. There she is now.” The neighbor disappeared through the bushes just as Mary Pat pushed open the garden gate.
Mary Pat must have been gardening—she held a pair of green gloves in one hand and a trowel in the other. “Joanna. Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
Joanna followed her through to the backyard. “That’s all right. I just met your neighbor, Carol. She saw me at the side gate and wanted to know what I was up to.”
“I catch her spying on us all the time, the old busybody, but I haven’t actually met her yet.”
“She knew you were in the garden. Told me she could see you from her house.”
“She just moved in last month. I suppose at some point we should properly introduce ourselves, but Bradley was so busy, and then he was working on his memoir, and we were thinking about visiting L.A., and...” Mary Pat sighed. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you.”
In contrast to the front yard’s conventional treatment of shrubs and rose bushes, the back garden was a tropical jungle. Banana trees and orange canna lilies spread in drifts with a garden shed against the back fence. It was quieter here, too.
“How gorgeous,” Joanna said. “I saw it from your bedroom yesterday, but it’s even nicer down here.”
A smile brightened Mary Pat’s face. “Thank you. Bradley let me take over the garden once Mother died. It’s the one place I really feel peaceful. It took years to tear out the rhododendrons and azaleas and make something more—” she seemed to search for the right word.
“Exotic?” Joanna offered.
“Yes. If I can’t go to the Caribbean, at least I can recreate a bit of it here.” She set the gloves and trowel on a glass-topped table next to a bamboo chair. “Would you like coffee? Maybe some iced tea? I’ve been up for hours, but not everyone is an early bird.”
Joanna helped herself to the other bamboo chair. “No, thanks.”
Mary Pat stared into the yard, seemingly uncurious about Joanna’s arrival. Joanna’s mood softened. Stroden’s sister had been through a lot and might even still be in shock.
“Listen, Mary Pat, I’m here because I have an idea that should keep you safe. As long as we’re right and the murderer’s interest is in your brother’s memoir, it will work.”
Mary Pat turned, and her plaintive, Pickford-like qualities returned. “I hoped you’d think of something. What is it?”
“It sounds a little crazy, but if you consider it, I think you’ll find it’s a quick and easy way to solve your problem.”
“Yes, honey?”
“You’ll call reporters and ask them to come to the house this afternoon, that you’ll give a public interview.”
“What? Today?”
“The sooner the better. For one, the news is still fresh. Plus, the sooner you’re out of risk, the better, right?”
She returned her gaze to the garden. “What do I say?”
“You’ll start with a statement. Say that you want your brother’s memory to be peaceful, and that he had a colorful life, but that you will not be publishing his memoir.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
Joanna lifted a palm. “I know, but listen. They’ll want to talk to you one-on-one, but you’ll need to tell them that you only have the strength for one interview, and you only have one message. Then you’ll invite them to the house.” She leaned forward. “They won’t be able to resist the story.” She waited for a response, but none came. “Then, right in front of them, you’ll burn the memoir.”
Mary Pat’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“I saw a fireplace in the library. You could burn the memoir on the spot. Photographers will be there, and photos of the burning memoir will be on TV and in the newspapers. If the murderer is paying attention at all, he’ll get it. He’ll understand you don’t plan on telling any stories that your brother might have collected.”
Mary Pat’s expression calmed again. Joanna waited. Finally, Mary Pat said, “All right. The police took a copy of the memoir from Luke’s computer, though, after Bradley died.”
“The murderer doesn’t know that. Besides, it’s not like the police will publish the memoir.”
“I guess.” She turned again to Joanna, with a pleading voice. “But do I have to? I mean, couldn’t you do it instead?”
“No.” Joanna drew back. “No, it has to be you. You need to send the message. Plus, it’s you the press want to talk to.”
“What if they ask personal questions?”
“They will. I guarantee it, but it doesn’t mean you have to answer. Just tell them you’re overwrought, and go upstairs. The press conference will be over.” She clutched her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. I know it’s awful. But if we do this, by tonight you’ll be free again.”
“Okay.”
Joanna took a breath. “There’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You promised me the Edith Head wardrobe if I helped you, but there’s something else I’d like, instead.” The words came out with difficulty, but it was the right thing to do. For Paul, she had to clear his uncle. Even if it meant giving up a once-in-a-lifetime vintage haul, the Edith Head costumes.
Mary Pat tilted her head. “What? Not the Limoges, I hope. We’re broke, and I need to sell a lot of Bradley’s things.”
“No, it’s not a thing. It’s something I’d like you to do. At the press conference.”
The lines in Mary Pat’s face had deepened even over the past day. She probably hadn’t had much sleep. Over the next few minutes, she listened to Joanna’s request solemnly.
“What a strange thing life is,” Mary Pat said. With both hands on the chair’s armrests, she boosted herself to standing. She looked more purposeful now, livelier. “Will you bring in the coffee? We need to plan this press conference. And, if you have a few minutes, I’ll show you Bradley’s things from Edith. You may not be taking them home, but you’d like a peek, wouldn’t you?”
Joanna gathered Mary Pat’s coffee mug and saucer and stood. “I have all the time in the world.”