Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(16)
Tonight was no different. A dark--haired lady wearing a flowy pantsuit and a lot of heavy gold jewelry came hurrying over to us when we blew through the door—-literally, we were blown through the door by the gusting wind—-and cried, “Why, hello! You made it!”
“Yes, we made it,” I said, shrugging out of my leather jacket and handing it to the person who was hovering nearby in black pants, white shirt, and a black vest and bow tie . . . the ubiquitous uniform in Carmel for hired party waitstaff.
I was relieved to see that, beyond the foyer, the party was in full swing. The aggressively modern home was crowded with well--dressed middle--aged -people all holding wineglasses and chattering as loudly as possible so that they could hear one another over the sound of the pounding rain on the roof, the roar of the surf beyond the sliding glass doors leading to the pool, and the overloud tinkling of the baby grand in the corner, at which a hired professional was crooning how “s’wonderful” and “s’marvelous” it was that we should care for him.
In one swift glance, I recognized Carmel’s mayor, police chief, and chief prosecutor, all schmoozing it up with their spouses.
If a crazed, murderous spirit had burst in and attempted to kill the Farhats’ son any time in the past hour, I doubted any of them would still be there, let alone be in such a party mood—-if they’d even noticed, of course. Non--Compliant Deceased Persons don’t always make their presence known as obviously as Mark had at the cemetery.
Then again, I was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten the sweet revenge he was seeking, or the storm outside would have already abated.
And it seemed as if Zack might be home, since Jesse and I had spotted the “Beamer” and Jeep that Parisa had described, along with an F150 pickup that looked like it might belong to a teenager—-the bed was jacked up away from the enormous wheels, and there was a large sticker of a snorting bull (the mascot of one of area’s high school football teams) in the back windshield—-parked close to the home.
A close examination of the truck (as close as we could make in the dark during a violent rainstorm) revealed nothing to show that it might have been involved in a vehicular manslaughter near Big Sur last month . . . unless the kid was friends with an extremely talented (and quick) auto repair person.
True, he could have called a friend to come pick him up for the night. It was possible he and his “friend group”—-that’s what they called them now, instead of cliques—-had gone to the movies or something.
But would his parents really have let him go out in weather like this?
“It was touch and go there for a while,” I rattled on with the hostess, scanning the high--ceilinged room for any sign of someone who might be Zack’s age. But all I could see were more heart--shaped, helium--filled balloons, along with a banner that said THANK YOU DONORS! with red hearts all over it. I had no idea what that was about, and didn’t care. “Especially on Scenic Road—-you would not believe the waves—-I don’t blame those -people for sandbagging their driveways. But we’re here!”
The lady—-she was older, with such gorgeous highlights that I envied her—-had to be Mrs. Farhat. She radiated prideful home ownership.
“Wonderful!” she said. “The more the merrier. You know, we give this party every year, and every year, we never fail to be pleased with the turnout, despite it being Valentine’s Day. Some -people think it’s a bit morbid, but heart disease, is, after all—-”
“—-the number one cause of death in the world,” Jesse finished for her, handing his own coat and our dripping umbrella to the waitperson. “Actually, I think it’s very clever of you to hold a fund--raiser for coronary disease on Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Farhat. More women die annually of cardiovascular diseases than from all forms of cancer combined. But heart disease is so easily preventable with proper diet and exercise.”
“Why, yes,” Mrs. Farhat said, instantly charmed as Jesse took the hand she’d extended and shook it. “Yes, I know. My mother died of heart disease. By the time we found out how sick she was, it was too late for even my husband to help her. I’ve been trying to raise awareness ever since. Thank you. And who might you be?”
“Hector de Silva,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Dr. Hector de Silva.”
Her expression couldn’t have lit up more if he’d said his name was Bond. James Bond.
“A doctor?” she said, taking his arm. “Why haven’t we met before? Surely you’re not with the hospital here, or I’d know you—-”
“No, not here,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. But I hope to be, someday.”
“Someday!” Mrs. Farhat was already steering him away from me, into the sunken living room. “With hands like yours, young man, you could work anywhere, trust me. I can tell, I know doctors. My husband is a cardiac surgeon. Let me introduce you to him. Rashid. Rashid!”
Jesse was soon sucked up into a crowd of admirers, just as I’d hoped he would be. He was a big boy, and would be able to handle himself. In the meantime, I had some snooping to do.
“Crudité?” a waitperson asked as she passed me while holding a tray of decoratively carved raw vegetables. “They’re heart healthy.”
“Uh,” I said. “Sure.” I lifted a heart--shaped radish and shoved it into my mouth. I’m not the biggest fan of raw vegetables—-except when shredded onto a taco—-but this one was surprisingly good. “Thanks. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”