“I didn’t know this at the time, but she supposedly stole money and jewelry from another actress in the showcase and I guess she didn’t want me to connect the dots. I’m worried about what this means for Nick. For all of us, frankly.”
“You’ve mentioned this to Gabe, I assume?”
“Yes, but he’s got so much else on his mind, even before Claire died, and he hasn’t taken it seriously.”
She shifts a little in the chair, crossing her long, slim arms over her chest. “I’m not sure what recourse either of us has. Let’s say you or I took Nick aside and confided in him. He’s hardly going to send Hannah packing because she told a little white lie about dressage, or that you heard a rumor she stole something. And he’d probably resent us for interfering.”
“What if it were more serious than that?”
“Serious how?”
On and off since Saturday night, I’ve replayed my conversation with Claire, and one phrase keeps echoing in my head: Our little USC graduate.
“It’s possible Hannah lied about where she went to college.”
“That’s pretty shady.”
“I know. It’s not the kind of lie that could cause any real damage, but it says something about her character . . . . You spend a fair amount of time in Florida, don’t you?”
She looks surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I just mean you do business there, right? Do you think there’s a way to find out anything about Hannah’s background—if her parents are both really dead, if she’s even from there?”
Wendy looks off, seeming to mull over my request. “I can do a little digging. My gallery runs a background check on anyone we’re considering doing a major transaction with—it’s called KYC for ‘Know Your Client.’ I can ask my guy about Hannah and see what turns up.”
“That would be great. I know it might seem like an extreme step, but I don’t want Nick to find himself in a terrible situation one day.”
“I don’t, either.”
“And would you mind not saying anything to Blake for the moment, since I haven’t totally looped Gabe in?”
She nods. “Of course, understood. And speaking of Blake, I promised I’d watch him and Gabe play.” She rolls her eyes. “He barely lets me out of his sight these days.”
“I don’t blame him. And thanks again, Wendy.”
She propels herself off the lounge chair and no sooner is she gone, descending the small hill to the tennis court, than I’m gripped by second thoughts. Did I make a mistake by involving Wendy? What if she talks to Blake and it gets back to Gabe, or worse, Nick?
No, it was the right thing to do, I tell myself. If Wendy finds out that Hannah’s who she says she is, fair enough. And if she turns up incriminating information, it will help me make my case to Gabe.
Plus, Wendy is incredibly discreet. I know from the family grapevine that she’s had her share of famous clients over the years and hasn’t breathed a word about them. She’s always struck me as someone for whom the pleasure is in having the secret all to herself and savoring it.
I drift back to my original lounge chair, and it’s not long before Henry stirs. When a freshly showered Gabe joins us, we spend the next half hour or so playing gin. Blake appears at one point, dressed in swim trunks, and dives into the deep end of the pool and begins slicing through the water with perfectly synchronized stokes. From where I’m sitting, I have a view of the patio and I can see Keira, sunglasses perched on top of her head, perusing folders that are probably work-related.
In so many ways, everything appears absolutely normal. If Claire hadn’t died, this might be exactly what we’d all be doing anyway—swimming, lounging, playing cards, reading at the table. But there’s a pall over everything, like a smog thick enough to make it hard to breathe.
Eventually needing to pee, I decide to use the powder room in the main house, rather than walk all the way to the cottage. The door’s locked, so I hang for a minute in the side corridor, leaning into the folds of slickers hanging from pegs. When the door opens, Keira emerges, having changed from her earlier shorts and top outfit into navy cotton pants and a crisp button-down. Her hair’s a little wavier than usual, probably from the heat, and she’s pulled it into a low ponytail.
“You headed someplace?” I ask.
“Marcus and I are driving into Doylestown in a few minutes,” she replies, and I shudder inwardly hearing the name of the town where Claire died. “We’re just going to walk around a little, get an ice cream cone.”
Of course, there’s a freezer in the house with about twenty-seven tubs of ice cream, all in different flavors, but my guess is that she needs a break from all of us.
“Sounds like a good diversion. Will you be able to stick around past Tuesday?”
“Yes, I’m staying all week now. Work was totally understanding about the situation, of course.”
“I’m glad. It’ll be good to have you here.”
“Thanks, Summer, I appreciate that.” She glances one way down the hall and then the other, as if making sure we won’t be overheard. “You and I haven’t actually gotten a chance to talk in the last day, and I was worried you might be upset with me.”
That came out of left field. “Upset? Why?”
“Because of Marcus not telling Gabe right away about the mess at work. I know he was only trying to spare him unnecessary worry.”
“Keira, I don’t fault you for any of that. It’s between the two of them, and they’ll sort it out. I just hope they can find a way to get it under control in the midst of everything else they’re coping with.”
She bites her lip, as if there’s more she wants to say but doesn’t know how to broach it.
“What?” I ask.
“Maybe there’ll be less to sort out now.”
“I’m not following.”
Before she can respond, our attention’s diverted by the crunch of car tires on gravel coming from outside.
“Is Ash expecting someone else?”
“I think that’s Jillian leaving. I saw her a few minutes ago and she said she was staying at that B&B along the river so she won’t have to drive all the way back from the city tomorrow for the service. You know what, I should get going myself. I told Marcus I’d be right back.”
She smiles wanly and pivots, hurrying down the corridor. Her remark lingers in the air. Maybe there’ll be less to sort out.
Is she suggesting that with Claire dead, Marcus and Gabe can convince Ash to give them the money they need? It seems like a crude point for her to make now, though, and really unlike her to think that way.
By the time I return to the pool, Blake’s gone, but Ash has taken over one of the lounge chairs. He’s not in a swimsuit today, instead wearing a business casual green polo shirt and khakis—and a face taut from distress. He’s staring down at his phone and appears to be writing an email, practically stabbing at the screen. Without a word to any of us, he struggles up out of his chair, strides across the deck, and heads over to the house.
Seeing Ash this way, when he’s usually so comfortable in his own skin, is jarring, but I’m sure he’s handling his grief as best as he can.