Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(24)

“How much?” Her mother, Gail, sounded like she was doing her nightly Pilates. Lots of grunting.

“For as long as Fite needs him, I guess—”

“No, Bev. How much money did you give him?”

“Oh, he didn’t ask for any money. He just wanted me to promise to stay out of his way.”

“Promise? That’s it?”

“I refused to sign anything. That’s my one management technique so far. Don’t sign anything. So far it’s working.”

Gail sighed. “You’re over your head, honey. If he’s survived this long, he’s a snake. Don’t trust him.”

“It can’t be good business for everyone to be so hateful and miserable and mean to one another.”

“Daddy made his fortune at it,” Gail said. “And Ellen, of course. If business is bad, it’s probably because he got soft in his old age. That Liam character and the other ladder-climbers probably took advantage of that.”

That didn’t sound right to Bev, but she needed more time to be sure. “I actually feel guilty about Ellen resigning. I hope she cools off and can come to some kind of compromise.” She propped her elbow on the steering wheel, rubbed the bridge of her nose, tried to massage away the tension.

“Don’t be fooled. She always gets what she wants in the end.”

“She’s your sister. You can’t live the rest of your life hating each other.”

“Why not?”

Bev tried to think of a new tactic. “It’s bad for your health.”

“Oh, health advice from you. That’s priceless.”

“I like health!”

“You will some day, when it’s too late,” Gail said. “How’s the house look? I paid a fortune to get it cleaned out. I suppose it’s good one of us is up there to do some quality control.”

Bev sighed. “I haven’t been inside yet, but it looks fine. Quite a view. It must be worth a fortune.”

“At least my mother had a heart, though I’m amazed my father didn’t find a way around her will and leave it to Ellen or the Raiders or something. Hateful man.”

Still waiting for the death to trigger a mellowing of the bitterness her mother had been drowning in for years, Bev popped open the car door. “I’m going in now.”

“At least you thought to call me. The lawyer said that key I gave you is only for the side entrance, down the hill. The rest of the keys should be on the counter. Think you can handle it?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“If the place is a mess, call the number I gave you and raise a stink. Don’t be a wimp.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Talk to you soon. It’s been a long day.” Her head pounded and her contacts were dry on her eyeballs.

“Watch out for Ellen. She’ll probably show up for work tomorrow like nothing happened.”

“I wish she would.”

Her mom paused and made deep breathing noises. “Why he didn’t leave it to Kate or Andy, I’ll never understand. It’s like he wanted Fite to go under.”

“Good night, Mom,” Bev said, hanging up. What tiny nurturing bone Gail had in her body was only exercised on her older brother and younger half-sister. She should have been used to it, but it still made her want to scream.

She had screamed once, as a teenager. Her mother brought her to the pediatrician. But it wasn’t like in the old days when people had a family doctor she might have known since she was a baby. Her mother took her to some random young guy who had a dozen patients—most of them in diapers—crying in the waiting room. The nurse took her blood pressure, weighed her on the scale decorated with cartoon stickers, and the harried doctor handed her mother a psych referral on a scrap of paper.

Bev decided it was easier to move out, go to college, and live her own life as she pleased. Which she had, and would continue to do. You couldn’t change people. You had to learn how to work around them.

She made her way down a path of flagstones around the left, past the large front entryway and a manicured Japanese maple to the side door. The key was taped to an index card with the lawyer’s note—“Alondra,” the name of the street. She peeled it off, worked it into the top lock and tried to turn it.

Maybe it was the doorknob key. She jerked it out of the deadbolt and pushed it into the doorknob. No luck. She tried jiggling and twisting, then attempted the other lock again, all with no success.

Her mother must have had it wrong. Or Bev heard it wrong.

She found a second path, this one winding down the right side of the house. The sun had dipped out of sight and the long shadows were fading to a uniform dark gray. The cold wind cut through the gaps in her jacket. This side of the house was less trafficked and didn’t have any flagstones to smooth the sloping dirt. Her dress shoes had no tread, and at a sudden dip in the hard earth, she lost her footing and slid down, whap, onto her butt.

She cried out, pushed her palm into dust, struggling back to her feet. A thorny stick came up with her and caught on her black pants. Though she worked it free as gently as she could the thorn made a hole in the rayon. She tossed the stick aside and slid down another few feet.

This doesn’t feel right.

The only door she could find on this side of the house was behind a hedge of squat, sprawling lemon trees that had overgrown the original landscaping. She’d gone to the emergency room in third grade with a two inch citrus thorn imbedded in her heel—still had the scar and no interest in getting punctured again.