THIRTY-TWO

Lauren’s grief over Paulette’s death was very complicated, and its complexity increased tenfold when combined with the anger and feelings of betrayal she also felt toward her cousin for starting her ill-fated relationship with Max. It was topped off by the deeply ingrained feelings of guilt she still harbored for the tough hand her cousin had been dealt all of her life.

Their relationship had always been unbalanced, and Lauren had worked hard to level it, feeling somehow responsible for Paulette’s lot in life, as though she had to make up for the wrongdoings of her mother and grandmother. At the same time Paulette routinely sabotaged their relationship to prove that her cousin was indeed a selfish person, just like her mother, and was therefore deserving of her scorn. It was strangely ironic and symbolic that a man would be the final undoing between them—like mothers, like daughters.

Remembering snatches of the story that drove Mildred and June apart, Lauren wondered whether its final chapter also drove Paulette to take Max from her, to, in some sick, twisted way, avenge her mother. In any case it was all a very tragic affair, for which Max was squarely to blame. She hated him for using Paulette, and couldn’t wait for her divorce to become final. Then she could openly date Gideon, who’d been an incredible support to her during this awful time.

Predictably, the day after Gideon’s SoHo gallery exhibition, her mother’s phone line lit up like the space shuttle, with unrecognizably embellished rumors about Lauren with some photographer whom no one in their set knew. Why would she risk her marriage to handsome and successful Maximillian Neuman III to sneak around seeing some unknown photographer? Even after Paulette’s death, when news of Max’s affair and pending paternity got out, Mildred was still prepared to weather the storm and give her son-in-law clemency; after all, she knew what harm a harlot like Paulette was capable of doing to a guileless and unsuspecting man like Maximillian. As far as she was concerned, the whole sordid mess was Paulette’s fault—again, like mother, like daughter.

Mildred was having breakfast outside in her garden room when Lauren showed up. It was a beautiful early spring day, with just the right amount of crispness in the air.

“Mother,” Lauren said sternly, “I just wanted you to know that I’m divorcing Max.” She picked up a croissant, pulled it apart, and popped it into her mouth. Though she’d been planning this for months now, she hadn’t bothered to tell her mother.

Mildred had never heard such a defiant tone from her daughter before; it was quite alarming. She slammed her coffee cup into the saucer, sloshing the liquid over its edges. “What do you mean, you’re divorcing Max? Have you lost your mind?” It was one thing for Lauren to move out, separating for a time to give him some space, but quite another for a Baines woman to actually get a divorce!

“No, in fact, I’ve finally found it,” she said. “I let you push me into marrying a worthless, egotistical excuse for a man, and see where it got me? Or should I say, where it got us all? Especially Paulette.”

“Paulette got what she asked for. If you swim with sharks, there’s always a chance that you’ll be eaten alive,” Mildred said smugly, without a hint of remorse. She was confident that Paulette’s dealings with those unsavory entertainment-business types were what had led to her demise.

Lauren was shocked. “How could you say that about your own niece? No one deserves that!”

“That’s your problem, Lauren: You are way too naive. While you’ve got your pretty little head stuck in the sand, that slippery bitch was busy fucking your husband. Then she was planning to have a bastard child by him, and what do you do? You give her a baby shower!” She gave Lauren an incredulous look. “Maybe if you’d bothered to fuck him yourself occasionally, you would have been the one having his baby.” Mildred didn’t normally curse, but under the circumstances she felt that she was justified in saying just about anything that she wanted to.

Lauren was livid. “So that’s what this is all about. Everything always has to come back to you, doesn’t it? You’re just pissed off because I didn’t give you a grandchild by the monster you made me marry.”

“Max is an adulterer, but I wouldn’t call him a monster. Men cheat, especially when they’re not getting what they need at home.” She sipped her coffee, with her perfectly chiseled nose wedged firmly in the air.

“Men have also been known to kill their mistresses when a bastard child is involved.”

“There is no way Max had anything to do with that woman’s murder.”

So typical, Lauren thought, that her mother would turn the affair all around and blame it on her or Paulette, rather than leveling it where it belonged—squarely on the shoulders of her no-good, handpicked son-in-law. Then she had the nerve to totally ignore the possibility that he might have been involved with Paulette’s death. “So you want to defend Max? Try this on for size.” She reached into her purse and tossed into her mother’s lap a copy of the papers Gillian had given her.

Mildred picked it up as though it might bite. As she read the damning words the color drained from her face. It was one thing for Max to cheat on her daughter and knock up her niece, but quite another for him to steal her money. Some things were simply not forgivable. “Where did you get this?” Her hands shook with rage.

“That’s not important. What is important is that Max defrauded this family out of millions of dollars, and probably would have done anything to keep Paulette’s mouth shut and himself out of jail.”

“So, what do we have here?” a deep voice asked. They turned to find a tall black man in a blue suit strolling toward the patio, which was located at the side of the house. He halfheartedly gestured toward the front of the house. “No one answered the door, so I thought I’d come on around back.”

“Who are you?” Mildred demanded.

“Mrs. Baines-Dawson?” She nodded. “I’m Detective Harris, LAPD. Do continue,” he said. Obviously he’d heard some of their conversation, and wanted to hear more.

“I did not invite you onto my property, and would ask that you leave,” Mildred said in the snottiest tone she could manage under the circumstances.

“Ma’am, the police don’t typically work by invitation. If we did all murderers would get away, so you can either answer my questions here, on your beautiful property,” he said, looking around at the manicured landscaping appreciatively, “or we can go to a local precinct. After that we can call the media. It’s your choice.” Arrogantly, he sat down right next to Mildred.

She shifted in her seat and fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “So, how can I help you, Detective?” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, not looking the least bit as though she planned to be helpful.

“You can start by telling me what it is that you have there,” he said, nodding toward the letter she still held.

“It’s personal,” she said. Though she had finally moved beyond wanting to protect Max, she did not want her family’s name to continue being dragged through a police investigation, or the press. Since Paulette’s unseemly death, she’d already noticed a dropoff in her own popularity. Of course, people had been calling her, trying to pry the latest information about the murder from her, so they could pass it along with the rest of their gossip, but there had been two intimate, key dinner parties since last week that she had not been invited to. Normally, she and her husband were aggressively sought after for dinner parties—they were the kind of couple who made the hostess look good—but what reputable hostess wanted to deal with the discomfort of an embarrassing scandal over canapés?

“I don’t think you understand. Based on what I heard, that letter contains critical information that could be important in a murder investigation, so you can hand it to me willingly, or I can get a court order—again, your choice.”

Lauren took the paper from her mother and handed it to the detective. “Detective Harris, I’m Lauren—Lauren Neuman.”

“So, you’re Maximillian’s wife?”

Lauren simply nodded.

“My condolences,” he said. After reading the letter and the attached documentation, he shook his head slowly. “So, your husband and his lover, your cousin, conspired to forge your grandmother’s will, and she was blackmailing him with this information?”

“It would appear that way,” Lauren said. Mildred shot a harsh look at her daughter. This was something that should be dealt with privately, not hung alongside the rest of the family’s dirty laundry.

“Mrs. Neuman, when did you learn that your cousin’s child belonged to your husband?”

“Right before the accident.” Lauren lowered her head, desperately wanting to forget that fateful night.

“How did you find out?”

“My friend Reese Nolan had had too much to drink, and she let it slip.”

“Then what happened?”

“Paulette and I had a fight. We both said some pretty ugly things. She got angry and ran out. That was the last time I saw her.” Lauren broke down into tears, unable to stave off the flood of devastating memories—from going to the crash site, to later identifying her cousin’s mangled body at the morgue.

After Lauren composed herself, Detective Harris asked, “How long had Paulette been in the house before she left?” Detective Harris noted that these were the first tears he’d seen shed by anyone for Paulette. For that and other reasons, he believed that Lauren had just found out about the affair, and therefore wouldn’t have had time to arrange a convenient accident.

“I’m not really sure. I was the last to arrive.”

“How long after you arrived did this fight occur?”

Lauren thought for a moment. “I don’t know, about forty-five minutes, maybe.”

“Did you see Paulette’s car when you pulled up?”

“I didn’t pay attention, but I don’t think so.”

“What did you see outside the house?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, though this was my first time there, so I wouldn’t know what was ordinary. Brandon has a lot of staff around, and the grounds are enormous. Why?”

Detective Harris had the impression that Lauren was the only witness so far who was telling him the whole truth. “It seems that Miss Dolliver’s car was tampered with while it was parked on the estate grounds. Did someone park your car?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where it was parked?”

“No, once I handed the keys over, that was the last I saw of it until I left.”

He’d interviewed Brandon’s staff, who confirmed this account. Apparently they’d parked Paulette’s and Gillian’s cars around the back of the house near the garage where Brandon’s cars were also kept, with the doors unlocked and keys in the ignitions. This was the perfect place and opportunity for someone to sneak in unseen and tamper with it.

“Does your husband have friends, family, or contacts in L.A.?”

“Yes, a few distant relatives.”

“When was the last time he was there, to your knowledge?”

“Last month he had a meeting with a potential client.” She remembered, because she was thrilled that he’d be out of town for a few days, giving her precious time to spend with Gideon.

“What if I told you that your husband hasn’t had a business meeting in L.A. in over four months?” He’d had a very successful interview with Max’s secretary that morning, who, like Neuman’s wife, seemed anxious to slip the knife deeper into his back.

“Detective Harris, at this point very little would surprise me.”

“Even the thought of your husband as a murderer?” He raised his brow, awaiting her answer. This Max guy was proving to be a scurrilous son of a bitch, so in that regard he and Paulette seemed to have been perfectly matched.

Lauren didn’t bat an eye. “Yes, even the thought of my soon-to-be ex-husband as a murderer,” she answered.

“Mrs. Neuman, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this document. It could be very important to the investigation.”

“You’re welcome to it,” she said. She’d already made copies, and she didn’t give a damn what happened to Max, as long as he got what he deserved.

She glanced over at her mother, who looked like someone had driven a stake right through her heart. Her head was hung low and her face was drained of color. It wasn’t clear whether her head was hung in shame, remorse, or embarrassment, though Lauren would have bet her money on the latter.