"So?"
"Once I was in Sedona, Roseanne sent me a sugar-coated e-mail in which she pretended like she and I were the very best of friends and she thought Paul was a cad, while at the same time Jake and Paul were starting a business together. I'll never forget her cutesy little message. She kept harping on how awful it was that I was reduced to living in a trailer and having to wait tables for a living. She even offered me a place to stayin their newly remodeled casita."
"I take it you turned her down."
"Do you think?" Ali asked with a curt nod. "But now it grates on me that I have to go see this woman and make nice with her when what I'd really like to do is smack her upside the head."
"We're doing this for your mother," Dave reminded her. "Stay cool."
Ali had no difficulty driving them to Jake and Roseanne's sprawling, ranch-style house built on a grassy hillside outside Thousand Oaks. At the bottom end of the long, paved driveway, an ornamental iron gate blocked the way. Ali pressed a button and a disembodied voice spoke to them through an intercom attached to the gatepost. Half a minute later, the gate swung open.
Jake Maxwell himself stepped through the tall front door and came out into the circular parking area to meet them.
"Ali," he gushed, taking her hand in both of his. "What an unexpected pleasure. How good to see you, although I can't imagine what you're going through right now."
And you don't know the half of it, Ali thought.
When Dave emerged from the far side of the car, Jake frowned slightly. "And who's this?" he added.
"Dave Holman is a friend of mine," Ali replied without any further explanation. "We have some questions for you."
"What kind of questions?" Jake asked.
"About S and S Enterprises," Ali returned. "And about a guy named Tracy McLaughlin."
Jake glanced warily from Ali to Dave and back again. It was something that wouldn't have been apparent over a phone line. Clearly Jake had been caught off guard. Ali was glad they'd put good manners aside and hadn't called in advance to warn Jake of their impending arrival.
"What about Tracy McLaughlin?" Jake asked.
"We were wondering if you knew where we could find him," Ali said casually. "A few loose ends came up after the shoot ended yesterday. I wanted to ask him about them."
"What things?"
Before Ali could answer, the door behind Jake opened. A woman wearing a pair of tight pedal pushers tottered out onto the front porch on a pair of very high heels. She was carrying a tall goblet filled with red wine.
"Didn't know we had company," she said, coming to an uncertain stop and standing, weaving, with one hand poised on her hip. "I just told Kimball to open another bottle," she said. "Anybody want to join me for a little drinky-poo?"
Kimball (Ali had no idea if Kimball was the man's first or last name) was a professionally trained butler with a British accent and an imperious air who had been Jake Maxwell's aide-de-camp for as long as Ali could remember.
Ali stared. Whoever this smashed young woman was, she sure as hell wasn't Roseanne Maxwell. And why she felt free to order Kimball around was another issue entirely.
"Go back inside, Amber," Jake said brusquely. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
Amber pouted. "I was just trying to be hosp amp;hosp amp;" she began before finally subsiding into tongue-tied silence.
"Hospitable," Jake finished for her impatiently. "Now do as I said. Go back inside and wait."
As in "Sit!" and "Stay!" Ali thought.
Without another word, the woman staggered back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Jake looked back at Ali.
"One of Roseanne's friends," he explained unconvincingly. "She's staying here while she's waiting for her new house to close. I'm afraid she had a bit too much wine with dinner. But I'm forgetting my manners. Won't you come in?"
Amber's appearance had fueled Ali's curiosity. Based on her own unfortunate marital experience, nothing short of a loaded weapon would have kept her from accepting Jake's rather halfhearted invitation.
"Thank you so much," Ali said, and headed for the door, leaving both Dave Holman and Jake to trail along behind her.
She saw signs of change the moment she stepped inside the entryway. For years a flattering oil portrait of Roseanne Maxwell had held sway just inside their front door. That painting was no longer there. Instead, a large rectangle of slightly lighter cream paint showed where the painting had once hung. Over the massive river-rock fireplace another paintingan unframed canvas Ali recalled as featuring a modern rendition of what appeared to be sunflowerswas also missing from its place of honor. Amber was nowhere to be seen, but from some distant corner of the house came the muffled sound of a television drama.
"Don't tell me Roseanne isn't home," Ali exclaimed. "She was really kind to me last spring when everything was so awful. I wanted to thank her."
"She's in New York right now," Jake said a little too quickly. "She went with one of her friends. They're busy buying next year's clothes and taking in a couple of shows."
"Do let her know I'm sorry we missed her," Ali said. "If she returns before I leave, we'll have to have lunch."
"Of course, of course," Jake murmured. "Now, can I get you something?"
Dave shook his head. "No, thanks," he replied.
"Some ice water would be nice," Ali said.
While Jake summoned his majordomo and issued the drink order, Ali examined her surroundings. Two pieces of Dale Chihuly blown glass were missing from the ebony sideboard in the dining room. Their absence along with the missing paintings led Ali to only one conclusion. Most people don't pack their precious artwork when they go off on a weeklong shopping excursion. Roseanne's departure had to be more serious than that.
Kimball appeared, bearing a silver drinks tray complete with an ice bucket, a collection of Baccarat crystal glasses, Voss bottled water, a decanter of wine, and a bottle of Oban single-malt scotch. With a slight bow, he deposited the tray on a side table. Then, without bothering to ask, he poured Jake a rocks glass with a tall, two-finger scotch. Meantime, Jake settled himself comfortably on a nearby love seat and crossed his legs, revealing a pair of very expensive Italian loafers.
"So what's all this about Tracy McLaughlin?" he asked.
He was trying so hard to be nonchalant and casual that an imp got into Ali Reynolds. She decided to go for the gold.
"I suppose you've heard about Paul's will?" she asked.
"Yes," Jake said with a thoughtful nod. "I heard that you got left holding the bag. It's got to be really tough, dealing with a complicated mess like that. And then, with everything else, to have April's mother fall down the stairs amp;"
"It's been tough, all right," Ali agreed. "And it's likely to get even tougher. Dave and I have reason to believe that the child April is carrying might not be Paul's after all. Since you and Paul were so close, I was wondering if you'd have any insight into that?"
Jake's face registered astonishment. "If it's not Paul's, whose baby is it?"
"She," Ali corrected. "The baby is a she. But that's what we're trying to determinethe identity of the baby's father. It's also why we're looking for Tracy McLaughlin."
Jake allowed himself a generous slug of neat Oban. "You're thinking Tracy might be the baby's father?" he asked.
"It's possible," Ali said. "So what can you tell us about him?"
Jake peered into his glass, studying the contents. "I suppose you know that he had a bit of a rough start."
"As in being sent to prison for grand theft auto," Ali returned. "Yes, we're aware of that."
"After he got out, he came out to California, where he eventually developed this Sumo Sudoku idea. And it was a great ideahe got a trademark on it and everything. Unfortunately, at the same time, Tracy was also developing a bit of a gambling problem. Finally, he was in so deep that Paul and I bought him out. We gave him enough of an advance to pay off his debts. After he's earned that back, he'll get royalties."