When We Believed in Mermaids(68)
And there is Josie, in the foyer of a beautiful house, giving an interview. Tears spring to my eyes and spill over my face without my permission. I turn up the sound, and there is her long-lost voice, a little raspy, edged now with a hint of an accent, not entirely New Zealand but no longer entirely American. The sound of it burns, but I watch every second of the video, captured by my sister as she leads the reporter through the house, showing off the wood and the view and the bedroom where a film star from the thirties was murdered.
She is still beautiful. Her hair is cut much shorter than I’ve ever seen it, to her shoulders, and it swings in that elegance of well-tended perfection. In person, age shows on her face. All those years in the full sun, in the wind and the surf, all the hard drinking, have given her skin a weathered look, a netting of crow’s feet around her eyes.
A man comes up in the frame, the same man from the photos, and slides a comfortable arm around her shoulders. He’s stunningly good-looking, with thick brown hair and the kind of tan only an outdoorsman sports. The look of adoration he rains down upon her makes my stomach ache.
Abruptly, I click it off.
In comparison, my life suddenly looks very thin. Thin and wan and lonely.
Chapter Twenty
Mari
I bring a boxful of the Coalport cups and saucers back to Gweneth, who will go nuts for them. I text her to make sure she’s not overwhelmed with a project and stop by her house before I go home.
She answers the door in an adorable ’30s-inspired romper made of black-and-white-striped linen. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and there isn’t a scrap of makeup on her face. “Have you been hiking Machu Picchu or something?” she asks, holding the door for me. “You look beat.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. You look amazing too.” I park the box on the table and kiss her cheek. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“It was quite a storm,” she agrees. “Laura slept with me.”
Her house is a beautifully restored Victorian with antiques and period-specific artwork on the walls. Today the overhead fan is going full speed, but it’s hot. “Still against air-conditioning? I think I might put it in at Sapphire House.”
“No, no!” She waves her hands like windshield wipers. “You’ll ruin the lines.”
“I’m sure there’s a way to do it without ruining the aesthetics.”
She humphs. “Air-conditioning is a scourge.”
“Or one of the greatest blessings of mankind.”
“Come into the kitchen; I’ll make us some lemonade.”
It’s bright and lovely, and I seat myself at the table overlooking the harbor while Gwen drops ice into glasses. I know the lemonade will be fresh squeezed, and almost too tart, and utterly perfect. It’s one of her specialties. She brings over two frosty tall glasses and sets one in front of me. “So how’s the house? I’m sorry I couldn’t come this weekend, but I figured you’d want some family time anyway.”
“It’s going well. I just brought you a few bits of china to look over. I thought you might like it.”
“I saw you on TV. Great job.”
My stomach flips. “It’s already on? They just filmed it!”
“Well, it’s not like they have to do anything but upload it. It’s a good story. You told it well.”
I nod, taking a big gulp of the, yes, almost painfully tart lemonade. “Maybe someone will come forward with some kind of clue about the murder.”
“Doubtful, really.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been afraid of hurting someone or getting hurt themselves. Something like that.”
She shrugs. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Right. I found some of the sister’s journals, actually.”
“Ooh, can I read them?”
“Not yet.”
“I dug out my old notes and remembered that there had been talk about the carpenter who did all the inlays. Gossip that he and Veronica had a thing.”
“It’s outrageously great work,” I say, reaching into my bag to pull out the notebook I always carry, now with my fountain pen.
“Ooh, is that new?”
I grin, holding it up. “You like?” I almost say, My sister and I had this thing for fountain pens, but clamp my mouth closed just in time.
“What’s wrong?” Gweneth asks. “You look like you swallowed a fly.”
“Just thought of something I forgot at the market.” Unscrewing the top of the pen, I flip to a clean page. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll check it out.”
“You all right?”
“Just tired.” I rub my aching temples. “Maybe I ought to just go home and catch a nap before the family returns.”
The house is blissfully cool and empty when I get back. The dogs and I trot upstairs, where I draw the curtains and stretch out on the bed, my mind full of Gweneth’s speculations. Paris posts herself right beside me, and I reach out to soothe her, running my fingers through the ruff under her chin, which makes her groan ever so softly.
On my laptop, I open the file I’ve been assembling about the murder and the history of the house. In one file is a group of photos I’ve captured from the internet, Veronica in the sizzling gown that launched her career, George with his medals, looking solid and powerful and very hot, like a young Jason Momoa.