Chapter 7

“I’m asking if you’re sure,” Fox said. We were in their van—an ancient Toyota that made ominous creaking noises every time we drove over an uneven patch of road—driving toward the Gauthier-Meadowses’ beach house. The van was full of cardboard boxes, tissue paper, plastic tubs of shells and sea glass, an enormous silk sunflower, and so many bolts of tulle that it looked like a bride (or maybe several brides) had exploded. It also smelled strongly of...something. The air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror said DRAGON MUSK. “We could wait for them to leave.”

“That might be too late,” I said. We went over a steel plate, and I swear to God, the van shivered. “Someone killed Mason, and we need to figure out who—and why. And the best way to do that is to begin our victimology.”

“That does sound better than saying ‘snoop around in a house full of people.’”

I chose to ignore that, but when the van gave another shudder, I had to say, “Fox, how old is this thing?”

“Instead of giving the sheriff a wonderful reason to arrest you, why don’t you talk to Penny? I mean, she attacked him. Shouldn’t that make her the number one suspect?”

“It’s got a cassette player.” I pushed the eject button. “It’s got an original Olivia Newton-John Totally Hot cassette in the cassette player.”

“Don’t touch that,” Fox said. “If this were an episode of Law Order—”

“I know: Penny attacked him. And I’m sure the sheriff has talked to her. But we need to learn whatever we can about Mason. And, side note, Penny was the maid of honor. No matter how angry she was, Sharian has to be angrier. I mean, she’s the jilted bride. Think about it: in the space of a few hours, Sharian went from thinking she was going to marry a rich man, to learning that he planned to give all his money away, to discovering that—when push came to shove—he’d rather call off the wedding than keep the money, to having her ex-fiancé go hook up with a random guy.”

“But Sharian wasn’t at the bar.”

“She didn’t come inside the bar,” I said. “Maybe she’d been following him. Maybe she saw him with Hugo and decided to go after him, and then she sat in the parking lot, working herself up until he came outside.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

Ahead of us, an unmarked drive led up a wooded hill. A deputy’s cruiser was pulled across the entrance, and a stoop-shouldered older man in uniform was reading what appeared to be a copy of TV Guide.

“Remember,” I said as I squirmed between the seats and under a cloud of tulle. “Keep it simple.”

“Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”

“What?”

Instead of answering, Fox hissed and waved for me to get down, and a moment later, I heard the window groan as Fox lowered it. I did a final wiggle to get as deeply under the tulle as I could, and then I heard a man say, “What’ve we got here?”

For a single, panicked moment, I thought he’d spotted me—I had that unshakeable feeling that some part of me was sticking out somewhere, perfectly visible.

But Fox’s reply was unruffled. “Hello, Bruce.”

“Can’t go in there.”

“Sorry, but I have to. I’ve got all these centerpieces for the wedding, and they’re due today.”

“There’s not going to be a wedding. You can turn around and head home.”

“What do you mean there’s no wedding? I made a hundred and seventy-five centerpieces. There’s going to be a wedding if I have to drag you to the altar and get hitched myself.”

That, I thought, definitely didn’t fall under the heading of keep it simple.

“The groom’s dead. Somebody broke his head open—killed him right outside the Otter Slide. Bashed him good on the dumpster. Brains everywhere.”

And that, I thought, fell under the heading of majorly fibbing.

“Blood?” Fox asked.

“Gallons of it. Course, it didn’t bother me. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. In this job, you see things like that, you do.”

“Give me a break,” I said under my breath.

“What was that?” the deputy asked.

“I said give me a break,” Fox said a little too loudly. “I mean, you’ve got to let me up there, Bruce. Even if the wedding is off, they’ve still got to pay me, right? And they’re not going to do that unless I show up and deliver the centerpieces.”

“Well,” the deputy said. And then he whistled. “I don’t know.”

“Move your car, you old goose,” Fox said, “and I’ll buy you a drink sometime.”

“I shouldn’t. But I’m gonna hold you to that drink.”

A moment later, an engine grumbled to life, and then the van started forward again.

“Ta,” Fox called through the window, and the deputy called a goodbye after us. We started up the hill, and the van turned twice before Fox said, “You can come out now.”

I emerged from under the sea of tulle, wiping my face. “How in the world can it be so hot down there?”

“Imagine being a bride.”

“Did you flirt with a man who tried to brag about gallons of blood?”

“Yes,” Fox said, “and you’re welcome.”

“Uh, thank you.” And then, because I couldn’t resist: “So, like, are you two...”

In answer to the trailing-off question, Fox said primly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I tried to let it go. But somehow, I got a picture of Bruce and Fox, hot and heavy in the back of the van, with DRAGON MUSK air freshener and Olivia Newton-John to set the mood. Will Gower (the fictional detective who lived in my head) would have taken that as his cue to drink himself into oblivion. All I could do was try to think about baseball—that was what straight guys did, I was told—but since I didn’t know anything about baseball, I thought about Dungeons and Dragons. I tried to remember all the stats for a mind flayer. Yes, as a matter of fact, I am that nerdy.

Fortunately, we crested the hill and came to the Gauthier-Meadowses’ home. Vacation home, I guess. It was perched on the back of the hill, with a breathtaking view of forested slopes stretching down to the sun-stitched waters of the Pacific. The house itself belonged to the coastal modern style: a swooping semicircle of concrete and glass. Windows opened every wall, and the effect was one of a fishbowl. Or a hothouse. Two identical dark Mercedes sedans were parked in the circular drive.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Fox asked.

“Well,” I said.

“Oh my God. Forget I asked.”

“Just help me get inside.”

Fox made a face, but they slid out of their seat and headed toward the front door. I grabbed my burgling gear (a pair of disposable gloves from home) and tried not to have a heart attack. Or a panic attack. Really, zero attacks of any kind was the idea.

The front door opened, and Penny the ex-maid-of-honor stepped out. She was wearing a hoodie monogrammed with a P (the top of the letter was shaped like a heart), and she had her long hair pulled over one shoulder, and the makeup was in full force. Fox said something, and Penny glanced at the van. Then she said something and went back inside. A moment later, the garage door began to rattle up.

When Fox returned to the van, they said, “That poor girl had no idea what to say. She told us to put everything in the garage for now.”

Fox and I each grabbed a box, and we carried them into the garage. No cars, I noticed—I guessed everybody had parked outside while the weather was clear. I deposited my box next to Fox’s along one wall. There were no tools hanging on the wall. There was no junk stashed in the corners. The concrete slab didn’t even have any oil stains. I knew this was a vacation home, and so maybe it didn’t get used much, but it still gave the place an empty, unreal quality, the way rental properties sometimes had.

“Hurry,” Fox said. “I’ll drag this out as long as I can.”

“Thank you for doing this.”

Fox waved me toward the house. I tried the door that led in from the garage, and it opened. On the other side was a laundry room. A few cleaning supplies sat on a shelf above a high-end washer and dryer, and the air smelled like Tide. Grains of sand speckled the floor. Another door stood open, connecting with what appeared to be a mudroom—slickers and jackets hung from hooks on the wall, with sneakers and flip-flops on trays on the floor. Built-in cabinets suggested storage for more outdoor gear.

I stopped at the next door, which was closed, and listened. I thought maybe I could hear a TV in the distance, but it was hard to tell if that was real or my imagination. My heart was beating faster, and I clutched the disposable gloves in one sweaty hand. I’d put those on later—if I wore them now and someone caught me, it would be a lot harder to explain that I’d knocked and I was sorry and I desperately needed to use the bathroom.

After a five-count, I opened the door and stepped into a short hallway. To my right, it doglegged toward what I thought must be a bedroom. To my left, I glimpsed a kitchen and then a living area. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for other than, well, anything that might help me understand who had killed Mason and why. My primary target would be Mason’s bedroom; victimology was a key part of any homicide investigation, as Detective Will Gower of the, uh, LAPD (maybe?) would tell you. Of course, I had to find his room first.

I turned right and started down the dogleg hall. Then something crunched underfoot.

I froze. The crunching sound had seemed enormous, and I waited for the inevitable shouts of alarm. But seconds passed, and then a minute, and the shouts never came. I eased my weight back and saw that I’d stepped on gravel someone had tracked in from the driveway. As I was about to pick a path around the loose stones, a voice floated out to me through a doorway down the hall.

It took me a moment to recognize Gary’s voice. Mason’s father sounded more annoyed than grief stricken as he said, “Yes, I need to change an order. The last name is Meadows. Yes, what did she tell you? Right. Right. Okay, well, I think there was a miscommunication. Could you change the delivery time for half an hour later? Perfect. Thanks.” Silence came, and then the sound of an e-cig. When he spoke again, it sounded like he was talking to himself, and his voice held an adolescent’s impotent rage. “Tell me what to do, you cow.”

I headed back the way I’d come as quietly as I could. When I reached the opening to the kitchen, I listened again. I still didn’t hear anything. I risked a look. It was a long, open space that flowed into what was probably called the great room. The countertops looked like marble. The cabinets were clearly custom. Lots of brushed nickel and white tile and vivid pops of blue. One wall was clad in a driftwood veneer that had, undoubtedly, cost a fortune.

The coast was clear, so I hurried down the length of the kitchen. Ahead of me, French doors led out onto a lanai, and beyond that, I could make out a pool. (Of course they had a pool.) A hallway cut off to the right, and an open door revealed a powder room.

From the other side of the great room came the sound of a door opening, and then a woman saying, “Because it’s my money.” The voice belonged to Jodi, the grandmother. “And I’ll do whatever I want with it.”

Another woman—Becky—responded. “Of course you will.” Mason’s mom sounded like a woman holding on to the last threads of her temper. “When have you not?”

The voices were coming towards me, so I darted into the powder room and nudged the door shut.

“Who’s worked day and night for you?” Becky asked. “Who’s earned that money? Who, Mother?”

“I’ve made my decision,” Jodi said. “It’s final.”

The voices were still coming toward me. I glanced around the darkened powder room. Behind me, a second door had a strip of light under it. I crept over to it and tried the handle, and it opened silently. On the other side was the lanai, with its wicker furniture and brightly colored pillows and potted plants.

“You’re acting like a petulant child,” Becky said. “Mason hasn’t even been dead a day. Show a modicum of respect.”

The unmistakable sound of a slap rang out, and Becky let out a wordless cry that sounded like it came from the kitchen. I slipped out onto the lanai and shut the door behind me.

Adrenaline hammered through me. My head was swimmy. My skin felt greasy. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. This was, a far-off, clinical part of me noted, a terrible idea, and I made a solemn vow never, ever, ever again to write a sneaking-around scene for Will Gower, private investigator. Not ever. And then, because my other option was to throw up out of sheer nerves, I started moving again.

To my right, another pair of French doors connected with what had to be a bedroom jutting off from the main building. These doors had curtains drawn, but imperfectly—a gap remained where they didn’t quite meet, and movement on the other side caught my eye. There was something about the movement, something about how hurried it appeared, a hint of furtiveness, that reminded me of, well, me. So, I moved closer, because I wanted to know who else was sneaking around inside the Gauthier-Meadowses’ vacation home.

When I peered through the opening in the curtains, I saw a bedroom. The usual bedroom furniture. An oil painting of the sea cliffs. Clothing—a man’s and a woman’s—piled on the floor. And that meant this had to be Mason and Sharian’s room—the only other couple was Gary and Becky, and I’d already found their room. As I watched, Penny stepped out of the en suite bathroom. She was rummaging through what appeared to be, of all things, a dopp kit. Her face was snarled with frustration, and she pawed at the contents of the dopp kit with what looked like despair.

“Penny?”

The voice was so close and so loud that I startled and almost bumped the glass. I braced myself with one hand on the wall and tried to swallow my heart. On the other side of the French doors, Penny was frantically returning the dopp kit to the bathroom. A moment later, she called, “Do you need something?” and slipped out of the bedroom.

Why, I wanted to know, was Penny creeping around in Mason and Sharian’s room? And what had she been looking for?

I tried the handle on the French door, and it opened. Apparently, when you were as wealthy as the Gauthier-Meadows clan, you never had to lock anything. Or maybe they trusted that the lanai would be secure, and they didn’t need to bother with the doors that led into the house proper. Or maybe Mason had been more like Cole than it seemed—a man-child who’d never had to take care of himself.

Whatever the reason, it was my good luck. I moved into the bedroom and pulled on my gloves.

I started in the bathroom and found the dopp kit that Penny had been searching. It was olive-colored canvas, and it held men’s deodorant (an all-natural brand that I’d never heard of), a toothbrush that looked like it was based on alien technology, floss (Oral-B), a lotion for men with sensitive skin (why it was specifically for men was unclear to me—presumably, some women also had sensitive skin), and a tin of hair wax that I’d once considered buying Hugo for his birthday. In the end, I hadn’t bought it for him because a) I’m the master of indecision, and b) it cost approximately the same, ounce per ounce, as gold.

I didn’t see any pills. I didn’t find cash hidden inside a trick can of shaving cream (yes, that featured in one of the Will Gower sleuthing episodes, and I’m not accepting feedback at this time). I didn’t see anything, in other words, that would explain what Penny had been looking for, or why she’d been snooping in here.

Finally, I had to give up, and I returned the dopp kit to the counter. Sharian had a toiletry bag here as well, and I checked that, but aside from her penchant for outrageously expensive cosmetics, I didn’t discover anything there either. I checked the time on my phone. Unbelievably, I’d been inside the Gauthier-Meadowses’ home for less than five minutes. It felt longer. It felt like I was that guy at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and I was nothing but desiccated flesh over ancient bones and surprisingly beautiful hair (for a corpse). I figured Fox could stall for another five minutes. Maybe, at the outside, ten.

I started my search. It might seem like being a writer (I was, technically, a writer, even if I hadn’t written anything this week—okay, this month) wouldn’t lend itself to, well, skullduggery and general poking and prowling and ferreting about. But I wasn’t an ordinary writer. I was a mystery writer. (Okay, if I was being honest, it had been at least six weeks.) And I’d grown up with parents who were mystery writers. And everything we’d talked about, day and night and at meals and before bed, had been about hot shots and throwaway pieces and how to murder somebody by causing an embolism. Mystery writers learned all sorts of weird stuff that wasn’t great conversation material at most parties but could be, under the right conditions, surprisingly useful. For example, in one story, Will Gower, amateur sleuth, had learned all about secret hiding places because he ran a death cleaning company. He was always turning up valuable clues that the police had missed because he was such a thorough cleaner. (As you might imagine, this story is still in a preliminary draft form.) But because of that story, I’d done a lot of research about hiding places inside homes.

Not that it was any help. Because I didn’t find anything.

As far as I could tell, there wasn’t anything to find. I started with their luggage, and I found nothing but clothes and shoes. I tried the dresser. More clothes. Mason’s wallet was gone. Sharian’s purse held the usual assortment of tissues and lip gloss and a wallet with no cash but enough credit cards to play blackjack. I did a Will Gower-style search (I had an idea for a story where he was a dorm RA, and he had to do cleaning checks). There was nothing hidden inside the toilet tank, or in the hollow-core door, or behind a baseboard. I didn’t find any drugs. I didn’t find any incriminating photos. I didn’t find any blackmail demands. I found nothing. Not a single thing to help me understand who might have killed Mason. I definitely didn’t find anything to clear Hugo’s name.

My time was almost up. I put everything back as best I could, stripped off the gloves, and—after checking that it was clear—let myself out onto the lanai. Since my time for searching was up, I decided the best thing to do would be to exit through the back and go around the side of the house. Less chance that way of being, you know, spotted and arrested.

As I crossed the patio and made my way around the pool, I fought a wave of disappointment. Apparently, being a mystery writer didn’t actually prepare you for saving your ex-boyfriend from a murder charge. I’d been sure that I would learn something about Mason that would put me on the right track, and instead, I’d taken a huge risk for no reason—I’d hit a dead end.

I was still feeling sorry for myself as I came around the corner of the house and crashed into someone. We both stumbled back. It took me a moment to reorient myself. I stared in shock at Sharian, and the ex-bride-to-be stared back at me. And then, her voice rising in outrage, she said, “Hey, what are you doing back here?”