She decided to lose him, then go straight to Olivia’s. She didn’t want anyone following her there, or while she searched for Kevin’s storage locker. Though she originally thought her pursuer was related to Dru Parker, now she wondered if she’d been mistaken.
Did this have something to do with the threat that ostensibly came from someone close to Gerald Ames? Had Gerald Ames manipulated and deceived her? She had pegged him for being honest in their conversation—he hadn’t promised her his cooperation or blessing, but he definitely hadn’t asked her to stop what she was doing.
The car was keeping pace with her. Max sped up; the sedan sped up. She pulled out her phone and did a quick search for the closest police station. David would have slapped her hand—but this was an emergency.
She exited on El Monte and headed toward the Los Altos Hills police station. The sedan followed, but when she drove into the parking lot, he passed by. She tried to catch a glimpse of the driver, but saw little. Her impression was of a male driver, but other than gender, she couldn’t give a description.
She mapped out an alternate route to Olivia’s house before pulling back onto the road. She didn’t see the sedan and no other car appeared to be following her. She made a few loops just to make sure, and ended up at Olivia’s house thirty minutes later.
Olivia’s husband, Professor Ward, should be at campus, based on his class schedule that Max downloaded off the Internet. She knocked on the door. No answer. She walked around the porch and peered in the windows. The house was immaculate. In the back, a sporty but practical gold BMW was housed in the detached garage.
Max wasn’t in the mood to be ignored. She rang the bell and knocked—loudly—on the door. “Olivia, it’s Maxine.”
The door opened. Olivia stood there dressed like a Stepford wife, but with glassy eyes and a distinct odor of alcohol. Champagne. Max glanced at her watch. Not even ten in the morning.
Olivia tilted her chin up, looking both haughty and regal. “You know, you’re really a bitch, Maxine.”
Max laughed. “Well, aren’t you a surprise. Your husband is at work, you crack open the champagne.”
She didn’t wait for an invitation, but walked in. The house was elegant and far too picture-perfect for Max. While she liked tidy, this was beyond neat—it was obsessively clean.
“Christopher left this morning to guest lecture in Boston.”
“And you didn’t want to join him?”
Olivia laughed, but there was no humor. In fact, she sounded almost crazy. “And come between him and his mistress?”
Max had picked the wrong time to visit. Or … maybe not.
Max closed the front door because Olivia didn’t seem to care whether it was open. She followed her “host” through the house to the back. As she watched, Olivia touched each perfectly aligned picture, moving it just a fraction so it was out of balance.
Hilarious. Christopher Ward, older husband with a mistress three thousand miles away, was a neat freak, and Olivia rebelled by misaligning his artwork and drinking before noon. Max wondered what other rebellions Olivia had. Was that why she’d really met with Kevin at the lake the night Lindy was killed? Maybe growing up she hadn’t been as perfect as everyone thought.
Olivia sat down in a chair on the sun porch, in the back of the house overlooking a pristine pool and rose garden. The champagne bottle, which was chilling in a silver bucket, was half-empty. She pulled it out, refilled her glass, and offered one to Max.
Max was tempted—Olivia was drinking a bottle of Perrier-Jou?t Belle Epoque, one of Max’s favorite champagnes. She couldn’t see the exact year, but it was 199-something. Worth more than $1,000.
But it was ten in the morning, and Max had a lot to do. She declined, and Olivia shrugged, a physical mannerism that seemed ill suited for the trim, perfect, wealthy housewife.
“We had these at our wedding. Ordered a couple extra cases and every year on our anniversary, we open a bottle. It’s gotten better with time.” Olivia sipped. “Sit. Ask your questions.”
“You’ve changed.”
“We all have,” Olivia said.
“In three days.”
She laughed. It sounded bitter. “That’s what good champagne will do for you.”
“I don’t buy it. We don’t change that much. We do, however, wear masks. Is that what you were doing on Saturday? Putting on a mask for your husband?”
“Think whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Max switched tactics. She wasn’t here to save Olivia from her husband or her own bad choices; she was here for answers.
“You told me on Saturday that Kevin talked you out of running away. Why did you want to leave?”
“Lindy always thought my father was molesting me.” Olivia reddened and didn’t look Max in the eye. No wonder Lindy thought that—Olivia acted like an abused woman. “He didn’t, but he was cruel in other ways.”
“How?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She stared at Max, her eyes icy marbles. “It’s irrelevant.”
“I don’t think it is.” Max leaned forward and said, “You could have cleared Kevin and stopped the farce of a trial. You remained silent and lifelong friendships were destroyed. An innocent man sat on trial. Lindy’s killer is still free. Kevin lost everything to protect you. Why?”
“I don’t know why,” she said. “I kept waiting for the police to come and ask me if Kevin was with me that night, but they never did. Not until after the trial, and by that time it wasn’t important. I asked him not to tell anyone, but when things got serious—he said that he didn’t kill Lindy, so he wasn’t going to break my confidence. Maxine, I was scared and angry and worried.”
Now the alcohol had Olivia making no sense. Max decided she might never know why Kevin and Olivia hadn’t come forward about his alibi. Before Olivia poured another glass of the thousand-dollars-a-bottle champagne, Max asked her the most important question:
“Where is Lindy’s diary?”
“I don’t know.”