Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(99)

“Nice line, thanks, I’ll use it.” She continued to type. “What was that other thing you mentioned you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Oh, yes. Well, considering I’m giving you this truly enormous story, I was wondering if you could stifle another one.”

Now she did look up from the screen, her violet eyes playful. “Susannah Simon, are you trying to impede the freedom of the press?”

“Absolutely. Since you write the local police beat, could I ask you not to report in it that Jesse got arrested last night for assaulting Paul Slater?”

The look in the violet eyes went from playful to gleeful.

“He did? How delish! Were you there? Did you see it? Tell me everything. Was the carnage extensive? What did Paul say to get him so angry? What in God’s name were you even doing with Paul in the first place? And why didn’t you invite me?”

“If I promise to tell you everything,” I said, “in excruciating detail, will you promise to do everything you can to make sure the whole thing stays off the Internet and out of the paper? I think it would mortify Jesse if his colleagues at the hospital found out.”

“Cross my heart.” She made a slash with her finger across the faded gray Mission Academy sweatshirt she wore. “And hope to die. Are you going to eat your tofu bacon?”

“No. It’s disgusting. Why can’t they serve turkey bacon here, at least?”

“Aunt Pru won’t allow animal by-products in her establishment. That’s soy milk you’re putting in your coffee.”

I uttered a four-letter word, nearly dropping the metal pitcher.

“Sorry. Now tell me everything. Where did it—”

“Hello, girls.” Aunt Pru swooped down on our table, her many bangles jingling. “Did I hear my name?”

CeeCee slammed down the cover to Jimmy Delgado’s computer. “Good morning, Aunt Pru.”

“Busy working, I see.” She kissed the top of her niece’s head, which was turning pink beneath CeeCee’s snow-colored hair. “She’s so industrious, isn’t she, Susannah?”

“Like a busy little bee,” I said, standing up and gathering my messenger bag. “Which reminds me that I, too, have work to do, and must run.”

“Oh, how sad.” Pru looked regretful while CeeCee scowled, angry that I was escaping without having shared the tale of Jesse’s arrest. “But it all turned out the way I said it would, didn’t it?”

“What did, Prudence?” I was busy digging through my wallet for cash. I figured treating CeeCee to breakfast was the least I could do.

“With the little girl. She never meant to hurt anyone. She was only frightened, and in pain. But you helped her, didn’t you?”

I froze, staring at her, then finally managed a smile. So “the lost child” had been Lucia all along. I ought to have known. Paul Slater had never been lost a day in his life. He’d always known the exact path he was taking.

Too bad it was the wrong one.

“I think so, Pru,” I said. “Thank you. But I didn’t do it alone. I had a lot of help from my friends.”





treinta y tres


I don’t know what I was expecting when I pulled up in front of the house where Becca Walters lived. I knew the Walterses were wealthy, of course.

But I didn’t think the Walterses’s domicile would be one of the $20 million mansions on 17-Mile Drive that Jesse and I had made fun of on our way to Sacred Trinity the day before, joking that it was the kind of place Dr. and Mrs. Baracus would live in.

With the Pacific as its “private” beach, stunning oceanfront swimming pool and spa, ten bedrooms and baths, and multiple “guest cottages,” Becca’s house looked more like nearby Pebble Beach Resort than a private home.

But that illusion was shattered when I had to speak into an intercom in front of a private gate in order to enter. Even then I was worried—because for once I’d used my real name—that I wouldn’t be granted access, particularly since it was Kelly who answered.

“Suze Simon?” she echoed. It was hard to tell if she was more surprised or annoyed.

“Yes, hi, Kelly, it’s me.” I had to lean very far out the side of the car to reach the intercom, which was built into one of the colossal columns that flanked either side of the long driveway leading to the house.

Of course the Walterses had named their abode. All the really chic properties along 17-Mile Drive had names. A plaque on one of the columns outside Becca’s house said it was called CASA DI WALTERS.

It could have been worse, I guess, although I couldn’t think how.

“I’ll only take up a few minutes of your time,” I assured Kelly. “I want to talk to you and your husband about Becca.”

After a long pause, a buzzer finally sounded, and the massive wrought-iron gates swung open electronically. I’d been granted access to Casa di Walters. I felt like a commoner being allowed a visitation with the queen. Queen Kelly.

I had to wander around the vast property for a while before I found them. There was no maid or even a housekeeper to greet me at the door (surprisingly), though I tried knocking and ringing the bell. I would have expected Kelly to have a maid, and also to have forced the maid to dress in one of those uniforms with a frilly white apron.