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  “Wesley, darling, good to see you,” she said, offering her cheek. “I see Jeffries has gotten you a drink.”

  “I helped myself. I hope you don’t mind.” Wesley wagged the glass at her and settled back easily on the cream-colored sofa. “I can always count on you for good scotch.”

  “I’m happy you made yourself at home.” Cleo tried to keep a pleasant expression on her face. She couldn’t stand people who made themselves at home in her house. She took a seat in a winged-back chair opposite the attorney. She noticed his hair had more than a dusting of silver. He was somewhere around her age, but her father always referred to him as “the kid” and she always thought of him as one, too. Wesley had been a young associate when he first started working for Sebastian Pennyfeather—a high-powered Los Angeles lawyer with a reputation for being fearless in business affairs, the perfect attorney for her father. When Mr. Pennyfeather disappeared in a boating accident twenty-some years ago, the financial world had been stunned when her father decided to stay with Pennyfeather’s protégé Wesley Tensaw. It was a high-risk move, but her father thrived on those. And it paid off. Over the years, Wesley had built himself a first-rate reputation around town.

  “Where were you just now?” Wesley asked. “And please don’t lie to me. It’s a waste of time and just makes me drink more.”

  Cleo stared at him. He got up and poured himself another drink from the Waterford decanter.

  “Fine,” Cleo said, letting her fake smile crash to the Oriental rug. “I went to see Dymphna Pearl. She’s—”

  “Damn it, Cleo! I know who she is,” he said, cutting her off. “I thought we agreed my office would contact everyone.”

  “But there are six of them . . . seven if we include my nephew.”

  “Which we do . . .”

  “I just thought, at least this one is local. So I went to see her for myself.”

  “And did you learn anything?” he asked as he settled back on the couch.

  “Not really,” Cleo said, getting up and pouring herself a scotch. “I just can’t understand what Daddy saw in her.”

  “Your father was ninety when he died,” Wesley said, expertly swiping through the notes on his iPad. “This Dymphna Pearl is only twenty-eight. That this was a love connection seems . . . unlikely.”

  “This whole thing seems unlikely!”

  “Yes, well, at least we agree on that.” Wesley took a hefty swig. “Ready to go over this once again?”

  “All right.” Cleo returned to her chair, sat back, and closed her eyes. “Daddy died a month ago. He left specific instructions with you to contact seven people . . . six of whom no one in our family has ever heard of. They are all different ages and live all over the country. Some had no mailing addresses.”

  “No mailing addresses that we could easily discover, you mean,” Wesley said.

  Cleo opened her eyes. “That sounds promising.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Wesley said. “Go on.”

  “Daddy said I . . . well, we . . . had to find them—all of them—or I wouldn’t get my inheritance.” Cleo’s voice cracked slightly. “So, tell me—did you find them all?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “That’s a relief,” Cleo said, relaxing into the chair.

  “I’ve followed your father’s instructions. I’ve located them all. But I can’t find any connective thread. Just a motley crew of random people.”

  He motioned for her to come sit next to him. She hesitated. What would Jeffries think if he came into the room and saw the two of them sitting side by side? She dismissed the thought. Clearly, Jeffries would know that someone with Cleo’s breeding would never be interested in the family attorney. She glanced sideways at him. Admittedly, he was very handsome and had a certain charm. But Cleo tried never to mix business with pleasure, and this was definitely business. She got up, smoothed her skirt and sat next to him. She stared at the tablet screen as the image of an old woman appeared. The woman had gray hair pulled back into a bun and an equally severe expression.

  “This is Bertha Belmont,” Wesley said. “She’s eighty years old. Retired, never married, no family to speak of. Worked as a secretary, a fast-food manager, that sort of thing. Ended up doing all right for herself as a bookkeeper for some entrepreneurs, but nothing earth-shattering. Seems she worked for one of your father’s businesses in the nineteen fifties, but that’s about it.”

  “My father was in his thirties then. He only had one business. And it wasn’t even a proper company—it was a store.”

  “I stand corrected,” Wesley said. “She worked for your father’s store. Moving on?”

  Cleo nodded. Wesley had been her father’s attorney for more than two decades. Shouldn’t he know this already? She realized that she was probably being unfair. Her father was not the type of man to discuss his personal life with the help—and he considered anyone he paid to be “the help.”

  Wesley flicked his finger over the iPad and the image of a young Japanese man came up on the screen.

  “This is Wallace Watanabe. He’s a fourth-generation Japanese-American. He’s twenty years old. His gang calls him ‘Wally Wasabi.’”

  “His gang? Dear Lord!”

  “Well, the good news is, he’s been arrested a couple of times for petty theft, so he was pretty easy to track down.”

  “Fabulous,” Cleo said grimly.

  “His parole has ended, so he’ll be able to get to Los Angeles for the big meeting, I suspect.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Up in the Bay Area.”

  At least that’s an inexpensive ticket. Cleo let out a long, slow breath. She got up to stretch her legs and walked over to the large bay window. It was hard to absorb all this information at once, but time was running out. She had to get these oddballs in and then quickly out of her house. She had bills to pay. She needed her inheritance! What could her father possibly have been thinking? What did he want with them? What did he want from her?

  “OK, that’s two. And we know about Dymphna Pearl and my nephew Elwood,” Cleo said, leaving her calming view and returning to Wesley “Wasn’t there another woman’s name on the list?”

  “Yes. Polly Orchid.”

  Wesley scrolled to a picture of a young woman. She had long, bright red hair with the sides shaved. She wore thick kohl rimming her eyes that would have embarrassed Nefertiti. She had several piercings, including a nose ring and graduated-sized silver earrings marching from the tip of her ear to the lobe. Cleo stared at the girl, trying to make some sense of her fashion choices.

  “She’s twenty-two,” Wesley offered.

  “What was with my father and these young women?”

  Wesley’s eyebrows went up almost imperceptibly, but she caught it nonetheless.

  “Forget I asked,” she said. “Go on.”

  “Her father was a first responder on 9/11,” Wesley said. “Fell through the floor during the World Trade Center rescue. Didn’t make it. She apparently is a good kid, but aimless. Can’t seem to follow through on anything.”

  “There’s medication for that, you know,” Cleo said.

  Wesley ignored her. Cleo studied the picture of the willowy, long-limbed girl dressed in many layers of black. While Cleo would never sanction Polly’s aggressive Goth style, she had to admit that the girl could carry it off.

  “That leaves the body builder . . .” Cleo impatiently swiped the iPad herself. A well-muscled, oiled-up black man in a thong, striking a classic bodybuilder pose, stared back at her.

  “Titan . . . real name Ray Darling. He’s thirty-five.” Wesley looked at Cleo. “Did your father take up bodybuilding late in life?”

  “You know as well as I do. That would be no.”

  “This guy has an interesting past . . .”

  “If it doesn’t directly involve my father, I don’t care. Anything else?”

  “Not much. I mean, he’s a disciplined guy. You’d have to be with all that bodybuilding. But he never re
ally settled anywhere. Right now, he’s a dresser in Vegas.”

  “A dresser?” Cleo’s perfectly arched eyebrows shot up.

  “Yeah,” Wesley said. “You know, he does costumes.”

  “I know what a dresser does,” Cleo said.

  “He’s working wardrobe at a gay burlesque show off the strip.”

  “Oh?” Cleo studied the iPad closely. “Do you think he’s . . . ?”

  “Gay?” Wesley ventured. “Possibly.”

  “Working at a gay burlesque show is kind of a clue, right?” Cleo asked.

  “I’m not in the business of guessing,” Wesley said.

  Cleo found herself disconcerted by his smile. She looked down at the iPad, flicking through the pictures, stopping at each one and studying it—Titan, Polly, Dymphna, Elwood, Wally Wasabi, and Bertha.

  “Do these people have anything in common?” Cleo asked.

  “With you?”

  “Dear God, no,” she said. “Obviously, they have nothing in common with me. I meant—do they have anything in common with each other?”

  “Nothing obvious, that’s for sure,” Wesley said, turning off the iPad display. “Except that none of them seem to have achieved much in life—at least by your father’s yardstick. They’re either lost, like Polly Orchid, screwed up, like Wally Wasabi, or, like Dymphna Pearl and Bertha, just don’t seem very interested in money. Certainly none of them are in your father’s league.”

  “What about my nephew, Elwood? He’s a professor. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

  “You’d have to ask your dad,” Wesley replied. “But he’s not here.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Blanche and Earrings were Dymphna’s least sociable rabbits. They had just hopped around the rabbit run—a large section of the yard given over to exercising the Angoras—when Erinn arrived with the mail. Because Dymphna lived in the guesthouse, she didn’t have her own address, so they shared a mailbox. Dymphna had offered to get a post office box. It always made her slightly uncomfortable that Erinn, who owned the beautiful main house, always delivered Dymphna’s mail to the backyard. But it was rarely an issue. She got very few deliveries, other than Rabbits Quarterly.

  “You have a letter,” Erinn said, walking across her own back porch and down the steps into the yard. “Very good stationery, too.”

  Dymphna finished locking the rabbits’ pens and brushed her hands over her jeans before taking the envelope.

  “How do you know it’s good stationery?” Dymphna asked. “Is it like thread count?”

  Dymphna’s knowledge of fibers was often her gauge for comparison.

  “All writers can instinctively rate stationery,” Erinn said. “It’s a gift.”

  Dymphna could never tell when Erinn was joking, so she nodded and took the letter. It was from “The Law Office of Wesley J. Tensaw.” She stared down at it and frowned. “Why would I be getting a letter from a law office?”

  “As Carl Jung once said, ‘Often the hands will solve a problem that the intellect has struggled with in vain.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning . . . Open the letter.”

  Dymphna looked up and saw that Erinn had taken a seat on the top step of the porch.

  “All writers instinctively want to know what’s in someone else’s mail,” Erinn said. “It’s a curse.”

  Dymphna opened the letter carefully. She didn’t want Erinn to think she wasn’t respectful of good stationery. She read every line over three times, trying to process it. Without a word, she handed the letter to Erinn.

  The Law Office of Wesley J. Tensaw

  43298 Avenue of the American Stars

  Los Angeles, CA 90067

  888-555-1212

  Ms. Dymphna Pearl

  612 Ocean Avenue

  Santa Monica, CA 90402

  Dear Ms. Pearl,

  This office represents the executor of the Estate of a prominent, internationally known client. The testator instructed that his Will cannot be read unless you, among others, are present. Until the reading I am not at liberty to discuss either his identity or any other provision of the Will—except to note that it would be particularly against your interest to mention the reading or to show this letter to the press. Please call Ms. Rhonda Kimberly at the phone number above to confirm that you will attend the reading at 10:00 AM on Tuesday, August 12. Ms.

  Kimberly will give you the address (which must also remain confidential). I look forward to meeting you.

  Very truly yours,

  Wesley J. Tensaw

  “Do you think it’s real?” Dymphna asked when Erinn was finished reading.

  “Well, Wesley Tensaw is definitely real. A heavy hitter in the legal community,” Erinn replied. At Dymphna’s astonished look, she confessed, “I Googled Tensaw when I saw the envelope. I told you, it’s a curse.”

  Dymphna arrived at the Beverly Park Circle address at 9:48 on the appointed morning. Erinn was insistent that Dymphna attend the reading.

  “Think of it as an adventure,” Erinn said.

  “I’m not really a huge fan of adventure,” Dymphna had replied.

  “Don’t be silly,” Erinn shot back. “Anybody who hates adventure does not raise rabbits for a living.”

  Erinn had a way of making Dymphna feel much more interesting than she found herself on a daily basis. So there she stood, across the street from the gates, behind which twisted a long driveway lined with palm trees. She’d parked across the street from the intimidating drive. She looked down at her brown skirt to make sure there was no rabbit hair sticking to it. She also wore a white blouse with billowy sleeves and a brown cloche hat she’d knitted the night before. She always felt more secure—more grounded—when she was wearing something she’d created from the fur of one of her rabbits. She wasn’t sure how you dressed to meet anyone associated with a prominent, internationally known person, but these were the best clothes she had. Mr. Tensaw’s secretary gave her no information other than the address and another warning not to speak to the press. Was she meeting his family? Why weren’t they meeting in an office? The longer she stood, the more questions she had.

  As she forced herself to approach the gates, an astonishingly muscular black man walked up to her.

  “What a dump,” he said, looking up the driveway.

  “Do you think so?” Dymphna wondered if this gentleman was a billionaire as well.

  “No, honey,” the man said. “I’m teasing! I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. And I’ve been to a pool party at Siegfried and Roy’s!”

  “Oh! A joke,” Dymphna said. “Sorry. Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I have no sense of humor.”

  “Well, you need to get over that right now. When you’re nervous, that’s when you need your sense of humor the most.”

  Dymphna was struck by the kind, mellifluous voice coming from this moving van–sized man. She looked back up the drive.

  “I was wondering if I should drive up or walk. I couldn’t remember what Mr. Tensaw’s secretary told me to do. First I thought I would look too aggressive if I drove up. Then I thought I would look too passive if I parked down here and walked up.”

  “I know just what you mean,” the man said, putting out his fist for a bump.

  “So I’ve just been standing here,” Dymphna replied, giving his fist a solid thwack. “And—”

  “Don’t tell me. You’ve been standing here watching car after car go in, and now you’re afraid, even if you did drive in, there wouldn’t be any room left in the driveway.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Great minds,” the man said, beaming at her. “Well, let’s do this.”

  He pressed a meaty finger to the buzzer.

  “May I help you?” came a disembodied voice from the speaker box.

  “Yes, hi,” the man said.

  “Please push the red button to speak,” the voice commanded.

  “Oh my God,” the man said to Dymphna, putting his massive hands to his temple
s. “I feel like I’m in Oz.”

  He pushed the buzzer and continued. “Hi. Uh . . . This is Ray Darling. . . um . . . I might be on the guest list as ‘Titan’ . . . and this is . . .”

  Before Dymphna could open her mouth, the buzzer bleated at them. The gates opened with a quiet hum. Ray Darling stepped aside and let Dymphna precede him through the gate.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” he asked.

  “No,” Dymphna said, shaking her head. “And I’m really, really tense.”

  “Well, don’t be. You’ve got Titan as a wingman, now.”

  “And you’ve got Dymphna Pearl,” she said, staring up the drive. “I’ve never seen a driveway this long in Los Angeles.”

  “Come on, girl,” Titan said, picking up the pace. “Power walk!”

  Dymphna smiled. She felt much better knowing she had a wingman.

  By the time they reached the front door, both of them were glistening from exertion. Jeffries was waiting for them at the door with a tray of fluted goblets. He held it out to them. Dymphna was so thirsty, she thought she could down the whole tray-full.

  “Orange juice, mimosa, or Bellini?” Jeffries offered, without a smile.

  “Oh, I haven’t had a Bellini in ages,” Titan said, turning to Dymphna. “Would you like one?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Peach nectar and Italian sparkling wine, ma’am,” Jeffries said.

  “It’s fab,” added Titan.

  “I think I’ll stick to juice,” she said, taking a glass.

  She watched Titan daintily navigate the tray with its array of delicate stemware, before selecting a peach-tinged flute.

  “You are expected in the library,” Jeffries said. “If you would follow me, please.”

  Jeffries pivoted on his heels and led the way, still carrying his tray. He guided them under the double staircase and through a long hallway with modern artwork lining the walls. The recessed lighting highlighted each painting perfectly. Dymphna was dizzy as she took in the names of artists on the canvases. She didn’t catch them all, but she was almost sure she saw a Salvador Dalí, a Louise Bourgeois, and an Arshile Gorky—all leaders in surrealism. Dymphna spent hours at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the Getty, the Norton Simon, and the Museum of Contemporary Art, getting inspiration for her own craft. She was open to all styles of painting, but found the twentieth-century avant-garde movement cold by its very nature. Give her the Impressionists any day. Art was about feelings and emotions, not an intellectual exercise. Dymphna and whoever picked the paintings for this household had very different ideas about art.