“As closest relative, I could inherit this place, and there’s nothing illegal about dismantling any alarm system and using lock picks on my own house.” She didn’t add there was plenty wrong with trespassing on a crime scene, but Dad’s secret life would torment her until she had some answers.
“I wonder if he left this place to you in a new will?”
Casey put the brush down. “I’ll call his lawyer later.”
“What about the lock picks? Aren’t you out of practice?”
She smiled. “I still play with them now and then.”
When she was twelve, an uncle gave her a nine-piece set for Christmas. Her parents’ disapproval had sparked a heated argument during dinner that night, but Casey had begged to keep the tools. Dad only agreed when she promised not to use them for anything illegal. By age seventeen, she’d become skilled enough to impress friends at parties. After moving here, she taught Rhonda, who’d become fed up with tenants changing their locks then losing their keys. Learning to pick locks was much cheaper than calling a locksmith.
“We’d better go,” Casey said.
The trek downstairs and along the narrow hallway toward the back felt longer than usual. She didn’t look forward to this excursion to West Vancouver. Much as she wanted to see the house, she worried about what she’d find and how Rhonda would cope. She entered Rhonda’s kitchen and opened the back door.
“I’ll leave some muffins and a note for Summer,” Rhonda said, trailing behind.
“Okay.”
Casey flipped on the porch light, then took her time down the rickety wooden steps. Heading out before daybreak was depressing, but it’d be lighter within the hour. She trudged through the overgrown grass, climbed into her Tercel, and tossed fast food wrappers onto the sleeping bag in back. She hadn’t had to stake out troublesome bus stops for months. One of these days, she should do a little spring cleaning.
“Too bad you don’t drive something nice,” Rhonda said as she clambered inside. “The wealthy folks of West Van are going to sneer at this rust-ravaged garbage can.”
Casey had once thought about buying something newer and then decided to keep her money until she drove this one into the ground. Besides, she rode buses for free. Unfortunately, Mainland Public Transport didn’t have West Vancouver routes.
“Would you like to take your old beater instead?”
“No.” Rhonda removed a muffin from a plastic bag as Casey cruised down the back lane.
“Detective Lalonde asked about Mother yesterday,” Casey said.
“Really?”
“He found her name and number in an address book.” Casey made a right turn onto Commercial Drive. “It makes me wonder if she knows more than she told Lalonde. I mean, she knew about me, and Mother always did attract trouble.”
“Lillian didn’t attract trouble, she sought it out. That’s partly what made her so interesting.”
“She came from a corrupt family, Rhonda. Wasn’t Mother’s policy to run away before anyone asked questions?”
“Not always.” Rhonda picked at a blueberry. “Danger fascinated Lillian. In tenth grade, a classmate had a seizure in the science lab after school, and only Lillian and I were there.” Rhonda popped the berry in her mouth. “I went to get help, but Lillian wanted to watch.”
Casey turned left onto Venables. “Watching people suffer evolved into making them suffer. How many marriages did her affairs destroy? Six? Seven?”
“Five, but things worked out for some of us. Your dad and I fell in love.”
What about all the other families? “You sound awfully forgiving.”
“The older I get, the more I understand Lillian’s instability.” She turned to Casey. “She needed men to feel alive. She couldn’t control it. My lousy ex, on the other hand, could have controlled his lust if he’d wanted to.”
“Semantics.”
“I’ve known your mother since we were seven years old, sweetie. I knew her better than her folks and Marcus did. She’s to be pitied, not hated.”
Maybe, maybe not. Minutes later, she drove across the Lions Gate Bridge, grateful for not having to use this aging three-lane structure often. Beautiful as West Van was, with its executive homes and panoramic views of ferries gliding back and forth, she preferred living among the wider variety of incomes, lifestyles, and ethnic backgrounds in East Vancouver.
By the time she reached Marine Drive, Casey found herself brooding over Dad again. Had he lived alone? Given his charm and looks, he should have found a lover. She glanced at Rhonda, who was trying to see beyond all the locked gates and tall hedges. The sky had lightened up enough to provide glimpses of elaborate, multi-level houses. Some were built closer down to the water, so only roofs and skylights were visible from the road.
“How could Marcus have afforded this area?” Rhonda murmured.
“Do we want to know?” Casey scanned house numbers posted on gates. “There it is, on the left.”
She pulled over and studied a two-story structure partially concealed by bushes bordering the property. Two police cruisers and a familiar Sebring were parked in front. Crap, what was Lalonde doing here so early?
“We’ll never get inside now,” Rhonda said.
“This is waterfront property. There’s probably beach access somewhere.”
Casey drove on until she spotted a footpath between two homes. She parked on the shoulder, four houses down from Dad’s place.
When they reached the beach, Rhonda said, “Oh god, Marcus brought me here once. Showed me where he wanted to build his dream home.” She walked on.
While Casey picked her way along the narrow rocky beach, she remembered Dad saying that Rhonda made him feel good about himself, that he felt easy and relaxed around her. Why had everything changed?
“When did Dad bring you here?”
“A month after we got engaged. Then he got busy with work and we never came back.”
Five years ago. They’d never set a wedding date. Surely Dad wouldn’t have faked his own death to avoid marriage. He’d ended relationships before, maturely and face-to-face. He wouldn’t have run from Rhonda, would he?
Dad’s trademark rectangular design was easy to spot. Homes on either side were varying levels and angles, but Dad had preferred straight, simple lines that critics had called boring. Truth was, he hadn’t cared as much about exteriors as he had interiors. Casey studied the thirty-foot high cliff. Rocks and boulders provided a gradual incline. She hitched up her narrow skirt and began to climb.
“You can’t be serious,” Rhonda said.
“I want a closer look at the house.”
The cold rocks were sprinkled with damp sand, pebbles, twigs, and the occasional beer can. By the time Casey reached the police tape along the perimeter, her hands were gritty.
Open, vertical blinds covered first-floor windows that ran the length of the house. Second-floor windows were exposed. The left half of the sloping roof was mostly skylight.
“Pull your skirt down,” Rhonda called from behind. “We’re attracting attention.”
Casey spotted a guy leaning over the second-floor balcony of the house on their left. Brown, shoulder-length hair shielded most of his face. A moment later, she saw Lalonde strolling toward her. Damn.
“What are you doing here, Miss Holland?”
“Satisfying my curiosity.” She ducked under the tape and rubbed grit from her hands. “Do you always start this early?”
“There’s been a break-in, and I got your message about the Saab.” He watched Rhonda climb up. “You should have called before you went after him.”
“There wasn’t time,” she mumbled, so Rhonda couldn’t hear.
“What if he hadn’t driven away, Miss Holland? What would you have done?”
“Casey, help.” Clinging to a boulder, Rhonda struggled to climb onto the property.