Surprisingly, this wasn’t the worst Valentine’s Day of my life.
“I said, it looks like the Farhats are having a party.”
It did, actually. The house at the address Parisa had given us was on a seaside road so exclusive, the homes there listed in the high seven figures (when they went on sale at all, which was rarely). The Farhats’ sprawling place was lit up as brightly as a toy store on Christmas Eve, and bouquets of heart--shaped, helium--filled balloons—-now looking a bit bedraggled in the rain—-dotted the fence, punctuating the line of cars all down the long driveway, stretching out onto the street.
Evidently the Farhats weren’t going to let the weather—-or the death of a beloved teenage cousin—-spoil their good time.
“Good,” I said. “We can go in like we were invited. Too bad we didn’t bring that bottle of sparkling wine. It would have been a nice hostess gift, to throw them off.”
Jesse pulled into a space as close as he could get to the house, though we were still going to be soaked as we made our way in.
“That’s one of the many things I love about you, Susannah,” he said. “You’re always so polite to the parents of the kids you’ve unintentionally set up to be murdered.”
“It’s just the way I was raised.”
I checked my reflection in the sun visor’s vanity mirror, and saw that my eyeliner, lip gloss, and hair were in order, though they’d soon be ruined by the rain, despite the fact that there was an umbrella in the backseat, and I had every intention of using it. This wasn’t that kind of rain. It was the mean, sideways--slanting kind.
“Shall we?” I asked.
“Let’s.”
Bursting into parties to which I wasn’t invited—-but acting as if I had every right in the world to be there—-is another one of my many gifts. It’s basically all about confidence—-and having the right shoes, of course. If you have the right shoes, you can do anything.
And I had on my favorite shoes, a pair of black leather platform boots with a steel--reinforced toe and chunky heel that basically screamed, This girl is not to be messed with. I don’t know why Mark Rodgers hadn’t been intimidated.
It helped also that I walked into the Farhats party with Jesse at my side. He’s so tall and handsome and—-it must be admitted—-otherworldly looking, despite living in this world now, -people can’t help staring and wondering if they’ve seen him before. (They have. He looks just like every mid--nineteenth century romantic Spanish poet or soldier or ship captain who died tragically just after having his portrait painted by some artist who was besotted with him. Everyone’s seen pictures like these hanging in museums or in some mansion on a show on PBS or something).
Tonight was no different. A dark--haired lady wearing a flowy pantsuit and a lot of heavy gold jewelry came hurrying over to us when we blew through the door—-literally, we were blown through the door by the gusting wind—-and cried, “Why, hello! You made it!”
“Yes, we made it,” I said, shrugging out of my leather jacket and handing it to the person who was hovering nearby in black pants, white shirt, and a black vest and bow tie . . . the ubiquitous uniform in Carmel for hired party waitstaff.
I was relieved to see that, beyond the foyer, the party was in full swing. The aggressively modern home was crowded with well--dressed middle--aged -people all holding wineglasses and chattering as loudly as possible so that they could hear one another over the sound of the pounding rain on the roof, the roar of the surf beyond the sliding glass doors leading to the pool, and the overloud tinkling of the baby grand in the corner, at which a hired professional was crooning how “s’wonderful” and “s’marvelous” it was that we should care for him.
In one swift glance, I recognized Carmel’s mayor, police chief, and chief prosecutor, all schmoozing it up with their spouses.
If a crazed, murderous spirit had burst in and attempted to kill the Farhats’ son any time in the past hour, I doubted any of them would still be there, let alone be in such a party mood—-if they’d even noticed, of course. Non--Compliant Deceased Persons don’t always make their presence known as obviously as Mark had at the cemetery.
Then again, I was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten the sweet revenge he was seeking, or the storm outside would have already abated.
And it seemed as if Zack might be home, since Jesse and I had spotted the “Beamer” and Jeep that Parisa had described, along with an F150 pickup that looked like it might belong to a teenager—-the bed was jacked up away from the enormous wheels, and there was a large sticker of a snorting bull (the mascot of one of area’s high school football teams) in the back windshield—-parked close to the home.