First thing Friday, I contacted a rental car company. By nine, I was driving a new-smelling Prius with twenty-eight miles on it. By nine thirty, I was dining on a Starbucks double-shot latte and gouda-bacon egg bites.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I spotted a dark green Honda Civic parked between two SUVs. It looked eerily similar to the car that had followed Nick and me down Valparaiso and the car that had passed by the rental house last night. Being slightly paranoid, I memorized the license plate and called my aunt. I asked her to run the plate.
Tamping down the worry—after all, the Honda hadn’t torn after me as if we were in a car chase in a movie—I hurried to my appointment with Tammie. As luck would have it, her client was located nearby, on Elena Avenue, not far from the Menlo Circus Club. Started in the 1920s, the Circus Club had a history steeped in charity work, polo events, and gala parties. Much of the area around the club had been rebuilt in the past fifteen years. Many of the homes cost well over ten million dollars, so I had expected to be impressed when I drove onto the street. However, upon seeing the modernized two-story wood-and-stone home that belonged to Tammie’s client, my mouth dropped open. I might even have gasped.
Tammie climbed out of a gray Jaguar SUV that was parked in the circular driveway and beckoned me. “This way.”
Over the years, my mother had chided Tammie for being too thin. Whenever we would all go out for ice cream at Town and Country Shopping Center or to pizza at the historic Round Table, Tammie would beg off. Admittedly, I hadn’t realized how thin she was then, but now, I had to agree with my mother. In a black pencil skirt, feathery flounce jacket, and stiletto heels, Tammie reminded me of an aging ballerina.
I strode up the cobblestone driveway, happy that I’d worn flats, arms outstretched. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you.” Tammie hugged me and then held me at arms’ length. “You look fabulous. Love the hair. It suits you. And the skinny jeans? You’ve been working out.”
“Always.” I’d thrown on a nubby sweater and a leather jacket over the jeans to look professional without screaming private investigator.
“You’ve certainly been in the news the past year.” Tammie ran her fingers through her spiky platinum hair. “Ever since joining your aunt’s detective agency.”
“Those stories have been published here?”
“No. I read my news online. I’ve kept tabs on you.” She petted my shoulder. “Your parents . . .” She inhaled. “They would be so proud.”
I blinked away tears. “Speaking of proud, my mother would be in awe of your progress.”
Mom had taught Tammie everything she knew, even helped her get her certification. Tammie had minored in interior design in college, but her parents had talked her out of it as a career. Working in finance, they said, would be a more lucrative choice and one that would help Tammie find a husband. And even though Tammie’s selfish parents had subsequently checked out of her life after she’d completed her freshman year, and Tammie had had to scrimp and save to make ends meet, she had followed their advice.
I eyed the house. “This place is something else.”
“Isn’t it? I get to redecorate the guest room, and if the owner, Viola Isles”—she said the name using an upper-crust accent—“likes what I do, she’ll hire me to do everything.”
“Isles? That’s the last name of the woman who bought my parents’ house. Do you think she’s related to your client?”
“Doubtful. Viola’s husband is an only child.”
“Small world. Nick and I were driving by yesterday, so we stopped, and Ilona . . .” I halted, recalling the moment. “She was very nice. She’s an interior designer, too. Isles Styles.”
“I’ve met Ilona. I didn’t realize Isles was her last name.”
“She gave us a tour. It was . . .” I paused again.
“Difficult.” Tammie dipped her head in understanding. “I’m sorry about Nick having to leave, by the way.”
“Thanks. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Nick had texted me earlier that Natalie was communicative. “Go on. Tell me about your Mrs. Isles.”
“Viola is very rich.”
“No kidding,” I whispered conspiratorially. “How big is this house?”
“Twelve thousand square feet.” Tammie gripped my arm and gave a squeeze. “Wouldn’t it be something if I could do it all? I could sure use the influx of cash, although I do have another design I’m doing. The Youth Science Institute at Vasona Lake County Park. You know where that is, don’t you?”
“Of course. In Los Gatos.” During the summer, the park featured weekly concerts. People hiked and played Frisbee or soccer, and there were paddle boats and row boats for rent during the season, although not this late into autumn. My father had enjoyed fishing at the percolation ponds along the nearby multiuse trail that the city had stocked with trout.
“It’s a simple assignment, a little one-story place, but if I do well, it could open up all sorts of big-ticket jobs for other cities’ parks and recreation departments.” Tammie hooked a finger. “Follow me to the guest room. Viola isn’t home, so we can talk openly. Unless the housekeeper is around.” She sniggered. “Viola swears the woman doesn’t speak English, but you and I know she understands every word.”
Tammie curled her hand around the crook of my elbow and guided me into the house and up a gorgeous oak-railed staircase.
I glanced left and right. “It doesn’t look like anything needs to be redone.” Everything was white or tan and decidedly unlived in. Over two dozen white tiger lilies filled an elegant vase in the living room. The pungent scent was perfuming the entire house. “In fact, the place looks staged.”
“It does, doesn’t it? That’s because Viola and her hubby bought the house lock, stock, and barrel. They didn’t change a thing. Now, a year later? She wants to put her own touches on it. She came to me on the recommendation of her neighbor, whose guest house I redid.” Tammie steered me into a room at the top of the stairs, released me, and spread her arms. “This is it. Seeing as the room has a balcony facing the garden, I’m thinking big bold florals. Viola loves flowers. She spends most of her time in the—” She glanced at me and frowned. “Oh, my, I’m horrible. Today isn’t about me. It’s about you and your goal.” She pulled me into a hug. “Let’s get out of here.”
With the propulsion of a steam engine, Tammie guided me out of the house, bid the housekeeper adios, and said, “Follow me to the storage unit site.” She rattled off the address in Redwood City, although I’d already refreshed my memory. “When we’re there, we’ll get caught up. You’ll tell me everything.”
As I followed Tammie, the landscape changed. Atherton was an area of great wealth; Redwood City, less so. Especially close to the freeway. Buildings were run-down. Some of the nearby stores were ramshackle, which was surprising given the cost of living in the Bay Area.
After introducing ourselves to the storage company’s manager, a squat man with the thighs of a weight lifter, and after verifying my identity and proprietorship of the storage unit, he invited Tammie and me to climb into a golf cart with him, and he drove us to a ten-by-thirty-foot unit, large enough for the contents of a four-bedroom house. He opened the lock and shoved up the corrugated metal door. The unit was dark and stank of dust and disuse. I steeled myself.
“If you need anything,” the manager said, his voice husky from smoking, “you’ve got to return to the front office. Or call me on your cell phone. There aren’t any telephones in the units.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He handed me the storage unit key and drove off in his golf cart.
The first thing that grabbed my attention after turning on the single fluorescent overhead light was the oil painting of Rosie and me, the one that Ilona Isles had mentioned, propped on an easel by the far wall. The two of us, dressed in short shorts and midriff tops, our hair in ponytails, were walking hand in hand toward the ocean at Half Moon Bay. Rosie had been a good four inches taller than me at the time. The sun had almost set. We had gone in early March. It hadn’t been warm enough to go swimming. Instead, we’d spent hours digging for sand crabs and chasing each other through the foamy edge of the surf. We’d come home with sand clinging to every part of us. Rosie and I had enjoyed a few happy moments together growing up. Not as many as we should have.
“It’s a beautiful painting,” Tammie said, catching me staring. “Your grandmother had such a wonderful talent.”
“And yet she never sold anything. I always wondered about that.”
“Yes, she did. Well, she didn’t sell sell them, but she donated her work to charities and they sold them at auction. It filled her heart to do that. She loved her causes.”
That was probably the reason my mother had chided my father about being a bleeding heart. Her mother had been one, even though she and Grandpa Gray could have used every penny her art would have earned.
“I have four of her small paintings,” I said. After college, I hadn’t rented a place large enough to take something as big as the painting on the easel. When I’d married Damian, he’d wanted everything sleek and uncluttered. Now, I would make space.
Spinning in a circle, I said, “Where to start? Which—” I stopped short and stared at the mahogany dining room hutch, simple in design, with two glass shelves and three narrow glass doors. It was empty now. All of the curios were stored in one of the boxes. Or were they? I recalled Evers’s comment. Had the killer taken something other than the silver?
Tammie brushed my arm. “Don’t start thinking about it. It’ll—”
“Where is it?” I whirled on her, my breath trapped in my chest. “The box?”
“Which box?”
“The box holding all the things from the hutch. It should be marked Dining Room.”
“Calm down. Breathe. I’ll find it.”
Tammie consulted a list generated by the estate’s executor. I hadn’t thought to print out a copy. It was on my computer, cached with many of the other documents relating to my parents’ deaths. I’d never wanted to review it. Why bother? I’d told myself that I would reread it when the trust needed to be activated for Candace’s college fund or something of that magnitude.
“Here it is,” Tammie said. “Box seventy. They’re all numbered, though I doubt they’re in any order. Are you looking for something specific?”
My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. What else might be missing? “No. I simply want to see everything.”
“You said on your voice message to me that you want to divest.”
“Not everything. There are a few curios I’d like to keep,” I said, sounding more composed than I felt.
For over an hour, Tammie and I sorted boxes by number, trying to establish some semblance of order so they would match the executor’s list. One to ten, here. Fifty to sixty, over there. A jigsaw puzzle would have been easier to assemble. It irritated me that my father’s and mother’s office items were not all located in the same place. We had marked the boxes Dad’s Office, Mom’s Office, Kitchen, Bedroom #1, and so on. But the movers had tagged each with a number, regardless of the box’s origin. How hard would it have been for them to have stacked them according to our system?
Tammie tried to talk me down from the ledge every time I grumbled. “We’ll get through this. Promise. I’m not leaving until you’re satisfied. So, tell me. You arrived yesterday?”
“The night before. Yesterday we met with Detective Sergeant Evers.”
“I remember him. Tall and foreboding.”
“He’s smaller now. He has cancer. Not much longer to live.”
“That’s a shame.” Tammie inspected the number on a box. “Did he have any—” She hooted. “Found number seventy.”
Using a Swiss Army knife that my father had encouraged me to carry at all times, I cut through the tape used to seal the box. Tammie popped off the lid and pulled out something oblong, wrapped in plain paper. Another item came out with it, affixed with packing tape. It separated and fell to the ground. I lifted it.
Together Tammie and I unwrapped the items. I was able to reveal mine first—a photo album with the name Lake Tahoe on the cover as well as the year, when I’d turned five. I opened to the first page and saw a picture of Rosie and me sitting on a stand of rocks. Both smiling. Both slathered in sunblock. Happier times. I closed the cover. I couldn’t browse through it right now. I didn’t have the emotional strength.
“Are you okay?” Tammie asked.
“Pictures. Memories. For another time. What’s that?”
“My serving dish.” She held it up. Bone china with a delicate red floral trim. “I’d brought it to your mother’s for book club night. Two weeks before they . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’d forgotten all about it until now.”
“That wasn’t in the hutch. Neither was this album.” I set it aside. “Are you sure the carton is number seventy?”
Tammie reviewed the label. “Bad me. This is seventy-eight. I need a new prescription for my contacts. Let’s keep looking.” She set the platter to one side, replaced the lid on the box, and resumed her search. “Did Detective Evers have any new insights? Has anything jogged his memory after all this time?”
“No. We went through his notes.” I smiled. “He took copious notes.”
Tammie heaved a sigh. “Boy, do I remember how the police grilled me. The questions were endless. What was my relationship like with your mother? How was our business doing? Where was I at the time of the murder? It was harrowing.”
“You weren’t a suspect.”
“No, of course not, but everyone close to them was interrogated. Their clients. Their friends. Even their travel agent. Do you remember her? Lynda Sue Harris.”
I’d met her a number of times when she’d dropped off tickets and itineraries for my parents. An image of the Sugar Plum Fairy came to mind. Lynda Sue radiated goodness.
“Sweetest woman in the world.” Tammie regarded me thoughtfully. “The police left no stone unturned. So, tell me, why do you want to dredge up the memory?”
“Rosie is having a hard time,” I said. “Her daughter—”
“Candace.”
“Is living with me. She was struggling with bulimia until I took custody.”
“I’m so sorry. Your sister is . . . was . . .” Tammie clicked her tongue. “Your mother tried hard to keep Rosie grounded.”
“Not hard enough.” The words slipped out of my mouth.
Tammie shot a finger at me. “Do not blame your mother. Ever. Rosie was always troubled. She wasn’t diagnosed, but your mother was pretty certain she was bipolar.”
“She’s not.” Over the course of my career as a therapist, I’d done extensive studies. “Rosie got hooked on drugs as a teen and stayed hooked. It didn’t matter how many times she got clean. Rosie’s problem is that she likes to live on the edge. End of story. No medical imbalance.”
“Listen, kiddo”—Tammie clutched my shoulder—“I know how much the two of you would like closure, but it might not be possible.”
“Nick said the same thing, but I’ve got to try. If I can dig up the truth, then maybe Rosie can . . .”
“Maybe Rosie can what? Go straight?”
I broke free from her grasp. “She hopes that if I can find the real killer, it will help her get rid of the guilt of not being there for Mom and Dad, and if she can lose the guilt—”
“My sweet girl,” Tammie cooed. “You’re as much of an enabler as your mother.”
“I am not an enabler if Rosie gets clean. Only if she stays hooked.”
Tammie threw me the stink eye. “Pollyanna couldn’t paint a sunnier picture.”