The Bad Daughter(41)
Robin rested her head against the pillow, studying the paintings and imagining her cheek pressed tightly against her mother’s skin. “You’ve always been my favorite,” she heard her mother whisper, and she felt her heart swell with pride.
In the end, her mother had barely known who she was.
Robin stood up and crossed the hall into the dining room, with its gold-flecked, ivory-colored wallpaper that dated back to her childhood. She stood for several minutes at the head of the long oak table, which was surrounded by high-backed, orange leather chairs. Everything was exactly as it had been when her mother was alive.
Had Tara tried to change things?
Robin could imagine her friend wanting to be respectful of her mother’s memory, at least in the beginning. But surely after a year or two, she would have wanted to “put her own stamp on things,” as Melanie had suggested.
Yet there was nothing of Tara’s anywhere.
Just as there’d been nothing of her in that oversize mausoleum next door. It was almost as if the free spirit Robin had known and loved all those years had disappeared completely once she’d married Greg Davis.
Had the search for the self she’d lost propelled her into an affair? And was that what had ultimately gotten her killed?
Robin pulled her cell phone from the side pocket of her robe and pressed 4-1-1.
“Information. For what city?” the recording asked.
“San Francisco.”
“Do you want a residential number?”
“Yes.”
“For what name?”
“Tom Richards.”
A phone rang.
It took Robin a moment to realize that it was the phone in the kitchen and not the one in her hand. The hospital, she thought, calling to say that her father had passed away during the night. She quickly disconnected her cell and raced into the kitchen, grabbing the phone from the counter. “Hello?”
“Hello?” a woman said, her voice soft and quizzical. “Who’s this?”
“Who’s this?” Robin countered.
“Of course. Sorry. It’s Sherry Loftus.”
“Who?”
“Sherry Loftus?” the woman repeated, turning her name into a question. “From McMillan and Loftus Designs in San Francisco.”
“McMillan and Loftus Designs,” Robin repeated. The decorators of her father’s new house.
In San Francisco.
Of course. That explained everything. Cassidy had said they’d run into Tom Richards when they were in San Francisco seeing the decorator. He obviously worked for McMillan and Loftus. “By any chance,” Robin began hopefully, “does a Tom Richards work there?”
“Tom Richards? No. There’s no one here by that name.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite. We’re not a large company.”
“Shit.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I have to go…”
“Please don’t hang up,” the woman said as Robin was about to disconnect. “It’s important.”
“What’s important?”
“This is horribly awkward,” Sherry Loftus said. “It’s just that…are you related to Mr. Davis?”
“I’m his daughter. Robin. What can I do for you, Ms. Loftus?”
“Yes, well, as I said, this is very awkward under the circumstances.”
“Then perhaps it could wait for a less awkward time,” Robin suggested.
“Unfortunately, it can’t,” Sherry Loftus said. “It’s about the pool table Mr. Davis ordered.”
Oh, God.
“First, allow me to offer my sincere condolences. We heard about what happened…We’re all so shocked. Is Mr. Davis going to be all right?”
“We don’t know.”
“Such a tragedy. Who could have done such a thing?”
“We don’t know that either.”
“And the little girl?”
“It looks like she’ll be okay.”
“Well, thank God for that. Such a sweet little thing, absolutely adored her father.”
“You said something about a pool table…”
“Yes. Yes. It’s here.”
“It’s here…where?”
“In San Francisco. It arrived this morning, three weeks ahead of schedule, which almost never happens. But your father had asked them to put a rush on things, and as I’m sure you know, he was…is…I’m so sorry…a very persuasive man. And, well, we were just wondering when we could have it delivered.”
“Excuse me?”
“Believe me, I understand that this is hardly the best time to be having this conversation…”
“Then you understand correctly.”
“…but I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of options.”
“Just send the damn thing back.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It was custom-ordered, and all sales are final. Your father was aware of that when he placed the order.”
“My father is in the hospital with a bullet in his brain.”
“Yes, and I’m so sorry. Such a lovely man. We spent many hours together, going over every aspect of the design on the new house, picking out the furniture. They were so excited. He and the little girl…”