“Had?” I said.
“About a year after Gretchen married Randy, her mother, sister, and little brother died in a horrible house fire,” she said. “There were rumors about arson but no arrests.”
I had heard three stories about fires within twenty-four hours: The address Margaret Smith gave the prison burned last December, a month after Gretchen’s husband left her; Gretchen’s family died in a fire; and someone torched my former townhouse last night. Coincidence or connected? As I edged closer to Jarret’s neighborhood, I ticked off a list of Gretchen’s lies—her name, her marriage, her lack of siblings, her relationship with Jarret’s parents, and the timing of her mother’s death.
“Did Gretchen know your garage door code?”
“All of Jarret’s friends did,” she said.
“One last question. Did you ever hear Gretchen talk about devil worship?”
“I would have barred her from my house if she did. Liz, you’re worrying me. Was Gretchen the woman who died at Jarret’s house?”
“No, Marion. The victim was Laycee Huber, a woman Jarret and I knew in Atlanta. Jarret told me a little about Gretchen last night. Margaret Smith’s name came up during the investigation. I didn’t know Gretchen and Margaret were the same person until you told me. She moved to Los Angeles a few months ago using her maiden name.”
Her voice sank. “Jarret didn’t tell us. I pray he’s not involved with her again. That woman is disturbed.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
I passed the entrance to the 405 on Sepulveda and as I drove under the freeway bridge marking the end of the business district and the beginning of the upscale residential section, the driver behind me tooted his horn. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a familiar red sports car with the convertible top down. Jarret tipped his Ray-Ban Aviators and, oozing charm, flashed his celebrity smile—the wide, cocky grin he broke out in public. A heart-melting, bad-boy expression a girl could and would fall for. I did, a long time ago. So had Gretchen.
He maintained a car length’s distance behind me until the turn on Royal Oak Road, then he playfully tailgated me on the slow wind through the sunlit arc of lush green trees leading up the hill. Two blocks from his street, he eased back. In the rearview mirror I saw him talking on his headset. Definitely not smiling. I swung my car up his asphalt driveway and stopped at the apron of pavement in front of his garage. Jarret parked next to me, still deep in conversation. I heard him before I got out of my car, his voice resonating loud through the quiet of the sheltered neighborhood.
“For God’s sake, Ma, I saw Gretchen once and only because she begged me. I wouldn’t be seen in public with her, much less date her. There’s nothing going on between us. There never will be. I dumped her years ago—why would I care about her now?” From the agitated twist on his face, I assumed Marion Cooper had hung up from me, made a pot of coffee, lit a cigarette, and called her son to offer an opinion on his renewed contact with Gretchen.
I stood away from his car to give him privacy although he spoke loud enough for anyone within driving distance to hear the contemptuous description of what he called a one-time pity dinner with Gretchen. While I waited for him to finish, I gazed at the house with a tinge of melancholy. The front door stood centered between bushes lining the windows to a gourmet kitchen suitable for a master chef, and the sliding glass doors to the bedrooms we had planned as guest rooms or offices. The living room, great room, and master suite created an L across the back of the house, facing the pool, custom brick outdoor kitchen, and the landscaped yard.
After Jarret bid his mother good-bye, I turned, bracing for the backlash.
He got out of his car, his tan barely masking his red-faced anger. “You riled my mother over a pathetic case like Gretchen? Are you serious?”
“Very serious, and stop shouting.” I walked ahead of him to the front door stoop then turned. “You must realize Gretchen is infatuated with you again. There are a few things we have to talk about before you see her tonight.”
“See Gretchen? What makes you think I’m seeing her tonight?”
“This morning at the gym she told me the two of you are having dinner together,” I said.
“That’s crazy. I’m staying home, alone. Why are you talking to Gretchen and why the hell did you call my mother about her?”
“Please listen to me, Jarret. Gretchen’s been lying to you.”
He folded his arms. “About what?”
“Do you know who Margaret Smith is?”
“No. And why should I give a damn?”