“You know what I mean.”
“You could be more specific.” Max was antagonizing the cop, but she almost couldn’t help herself. This was a ridiculous situation made more humorous by the fact that she was being interrogated but two cops who were younger than her named Grant and Sherman. Sherman obviously watched too many cop shows. Her hand rested on the butt of her gun, which irritated Max even more.
Grant came out of the car and spoke quietly to Sherman. Whatever he said, Sherman didn’t like. She got back in the car.
“Ms. Revere, you’re free to go.”
“I know.”
He frowned. “I need to ask you not to come back to the Ames house. The owners have requested that if you return, we arrest you for trespassing. I’m sure you don’t want to embarrass your family by causing a situation.”
Max stifled a laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, I live to embarrass my family.”
“Ma’am, I think—”
“I understand, Officer Grant. By the way, you might want to help Officer Sherman with her geography.”
Max drove away.
Chapter Nine
Eleanor Revere, Max’s grandmother, lived only a mile from the Ames family, at the end of a long, meandering cul-de-sac. Eleanor had always liked modern, contemporary architecture, but a sign of the times when she and Max’s grandfather designed the house more than forty years ago was the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright—both modern and nostalgic. The smooth, linear style of Wright also appealed to Max. Guests often asked if Wright himself had designed the house, and Eleanor was always pleased. “No,” she’d say, “but we asked the architect to adapt Wright’s style to our unique landscape and the original frame of the house.” She’d also doubled the footprint of the single-story house, though it was impossible tell from the outside how large the home truly was.
Max could practically hear Eleanor lecture: We don’t flaunt our wealth; it’s uncouth.
When Max rang the bell, it was William who answered the door. He looked relieved.
“Did you think I would bail?” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Then don’t look so concerned.”
In a low voice, William said, “The chief of police just got off the phone with my dad. Why were you at Gerald Ames’s house?”
“The rumor mill is working double-time.” Max wasn’t surprised that Chief Clarkson called Brooks; she just thought she’d have more than fifteen minutes to figure out what to say to her family.
The large, tiled foyer flowed seamlessly into a lowered gathering room that, weather permitting, opened onto a rose garden surrounding a fountain and a large koi pond. Max had always loved the fountain, the sound of running water was soothing. She’d spent many hours on the bench behind the fountain, where she couldn’t be seen from the house. Reading, thinking, crying when her mother forgot her birthday. Again.
The Reveres had lived here for more than fifty years. Her mother had been raised in this house. It was a spacious one-story, not a grand mansion with sweeping staircases, but quietly appointed with lots of glass, pinpoint lighting, polished floors, hand-crafted rugs, and every piece of furniture picked and placed for that exact spot.
Max breathed in and her mouth watered at the authentic Sicilian smells. “I’m so glad Regina is still here.”
Regina had been her grandmother’s housekeeper for fifteen years. She worked nine-to-five and often prepared meals, especially when James Revere was still alive and Eleanor was more involved with charity work.
Conflicting feelings of nostalgia, regret, and anger—anger Max thought she’d left behind—flitted to the surface. She’d never hated her family, but the expectations and fundamental disagreements had weighed on Max her entire life. Though her grandparents hadn’t made her feel inadequate for being born out of wedlock or abandoned by her mother (those subtle attacks were reserved for her uncle Brooks), Max sensed she was expected to be faultless, as if required to repent for her mother’s many transgressions.
“Don’t avoid me,” William growled.
“I hadn’t planned on it,” she said. She smiled at him, bemused. “Why do they think I was at Gerald’s house?”
“Maybe this dinner was a bad idea.”
Could William have left the message at the hotel? It wasn’t like him—not threats. He’d come to her personally, using his leverage as her closest friend in the family.
Except she was about to destroy their relationship.
“I have a question for you.”
“Can it wait?”
She glanced down the hall. “What are you so nervous about?”
“I’m not.”
William was most certainly nervous.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were at Lindy’s house the night she was murdered?” Max hadn’t meant to ask the question that way. She’d planned to ask if he’d told the police he’d been there. She’d been questioned, just like all of them—the police asked about the last time she’d seen Lindy, who she’d been with, her state of mind, if she was having an argument with anyone, who did Max think might have killed her. Though she wasn’t in the room when William was questioned, he would have been asked similar questions.
“I wasn’t,” he said without hesitation.
“Your car was ticketed down the street from Lindy’s house three hours before she was killed. That never came up in the trial, and it never came up in any of our conversations.”
“Shh! Dammit, Max!”
“Why did you hide that information?”
“I knew you didn’t come just for Kevin’s funeral.” He ran a hand over his gelled hair, a bit long, but not too long, like Max always imagined Jay Gatsby would look.
“I did.” She caught his eye. “But I changed my mind.”
He paled. “Max, please—”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why does it sound like you’re interrogating me?”