Fading Starlight Part 3

"Exactly as I expected. I don't have cold, hard proof yet, but I'm working on getting it. When I do, I would like to come to you for an official interview. We'll do some sort of piece where we break the story wide open, giving your side of it. We'll make a big point of how her selfish ambition destroyed what you'd worked long and hard-and honestly-for. It will be a contrast that our readers will eat up. You'll suddenly be seen as the innocent victim of a wild child's scheme to get some publicity. You'll go from being a scapegoat to a martyr in one fell swoop. People are going to love you."

"That sounds almost too good to be true." And too awful. She still couldn't begin to believe that Marisa would have done this to her.

Kendall shrugged. "And yet . . . it is true. It will take a little work to get the absolute proof-and believe me, no one would touch this story without some strong evidence behind it-but when I pitch the story to my editor, I just want your word that you will give me exclusive access until the story has broken wide open."

"If you can clear my name in all this, I'll grant you exclusive access for as long as you want." Lauren hadn't even realized the weight of the burden that had pressed against her until some of it was suddenly and unexpectedly removed. Maybe she hadn't made a mistake, after all. Maybe this really wasn't her fault in any way. She felt so . . . free. "Sounds like a dream come true."

"Great. I was hoping you would say that."

"I can't believe it." Lauren took another sip, her imagination already daring to picture a second chance at everything. She could get her life back due to one little article. For now, she would keep her head down and spend the next few months keeping her word and doing some interesting work for the local theater. Kendall could continue to research her story until she found proof. At the end of it all, Lauren would be hardly any worse for wear.

"Listen, I do have a little favor to ask in return."

Here it came. She'd known it was too good to be true. "I already told you, I don't know anything about Marisa or her personal life."

Kendall made a dismissive gesture. "Nothing like that. In fact, it has nothing to do with Marisa at all."

"Really? What then?"

"I know you are moving into the Edwards family's house right now, next door to an old Victorian." Kendall looked directly at her, her gaze unwavering.

"How do you know that?" Lauren rubbed her finger around a circular stain on the wooden table, hoping to hear a logical and nonthreatening explanation, although she couldn't think of what that might be. The silence continued until Lauren finally looked up to find Kendall's attention still locked on her.

"The lady who lives in that old Victorian is Charlotte Montgomery, a wannabe movie star from the late 1940s and early '50s. I'd be interested to know about any interaction you have with her."

"Interaction? I doubt seriously I'll have any. I'm told she keeps to herself."

"Definitely true, which is why I'd be happy to have any and all information."

"There is a very strict privacy policy in the neighborhood."

"Don't I know that. And I'm not asking you to break that agreement in any way. No pictures or roaming through private areas. All I'm asking is for some general information if you should run across her."

"What kind of information?"

"Anything at all. How she looks now, what she might be wearing, any jewelry you might see. I'm working on an article about her. She left Hollywood sixty years ago-right after a high-profile and very suspicious murder. No one was ever arrested. I've been doing some investigative journalism, just for fun, and I've come across some things that have led me to believe that she might have been more than a little involved. There are a couple of gowns and one particular piece of jewelry I would love to know if she still owns. So . . . if you ever see her, I'd be most interested in what she's wearing."

"Why don't you interview her?"

"As you said, she keeps to herself. Basically, she's little more than a hermit. Receives very few visitors, and if she even gets a hint that there is press around, she goes into all-out lockdown mode. Most people have a.s.sumed she's just a rich, eccentric old lady. I'm wondering if there might be more to it. Google it when you get home-the Randall Edgar Blake murder case. I think you'll find it interesting. Anyway, I'm not asking for you to spy on her, just if you see her out in the open, let me know." She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. "Here's my number if you have anything to tell me. Otherwise, I will keep in touch and keep you updated on anything I find out about Marisa and the malfunction."

"Okay." Lauren put the card in her back pocket. "Well, I need to get back to my new home and get to work."

Kendall stood up and offered her hand. "It was nice meeting you."

As Lauren drove back toward the cottage, she tried to wrap her mind around what she'd just learned. Marisa may have set the whole thing up?

She called Chloe and told her everything.

"That little brat," Chloe said. "Remember how you were so convinced that she was actually nice deep down? A cla.s.sic case of the wolf in sheep's clothing, only the wolf turns out to be a peac.o.c.k-one with nudist and flas.h.i.+ng tendencies."

Lauren couldn't help but laugh at the mishmash comparison. "If it's true, and I still don't think it is, but if it is, I hope Kendall is able to find some concrete proof."

"Just think how this will sound to the public when they read this story. Wronged design intern doing amazing work for high school theater, for a pittance, after spoiled, scheming star ruins her life to serve her own evil purposes. You will come out the victorious hero in the end, and everyone will know it."

Lauren was trying hard not to get her hopes up. Anger was battling with betrayal, which battled with disbelief. Where was the truth here? She had no idea. "I hope you're right."

"Of course I am. It's going to be wonderful."

"Speaking of wonderful, my new living arrangement needs a little work before it reaches that lofty distinction. I'm going to stay and do some cleanup today and will probably just crash here tonight. I'll drive back down tomorrow and get some clothes and things."

"So you're going to move in there right away?"

"I'm going to start working on it immediately, trying to get it livable while I've got the time. I have a meeting with the theater director on Monday and will need to start work rather quickly. It's too much driving if I don't stay here most of the time."

"You'll still make it to tea on the sixteenth, right?" Chloe and Jasper were planning a very small wedding, but they had arranged several creative events during the weeks before, and even after, the wedding. Something to satisfy Chloe's quirky, creative nature. A week from Wednesday, Chloe's mother was hosting the girls for high tea at a local Danish bakery.

"Chloe, I may be moving a hundred miles north, but I am still your best friend and maid of honor. I've never been to high tea before and have always wanted to try it, and there's no possible way I would miss spending a few hours with your mother and her words of wisdom. Of course I'll be there. Not to mention, I want to do one last fitting of your dress."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say. And speaking of my mother and her words of wisdom, I'm trying to make a list of some of her more memorable quotes. I'm making her a keepsake for her fiftieth birthday that will include a bunch of them. Can you help me think of some and maybe text or email 'em to me?"

"You got it. See you sometime tomorrow."

Lauren hung up just as she drove through the entry gate. She was busy thinking through all the quotes and verses Rhonda Inglehart had bestowed on them over the years as she glanced toward the Victorian house at the end of the lane. She thought about what Kendall Joiner had told her and found herself glancing to see if Charlotte Montgomery might be outside, maybe carrying some sort of sixty-year-old murder weapon. Lauren shook her head and laughed. Ridiculous.

There was no sign of movement anywhere near the Victorian. Sorry, Kendall, I tried.

One of Rhonda's quotes popped into her memory. She laughed when she thought about the random Bible verse Rhonda used to quote whenever she felt that Chloe or Lauren was being drawn in by a bad crowd. Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land where you are going, or they will be a snare among you.

The words kept rolling over and over in her mind, getting louder and louder and louder. Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land where you are going, or they will be a snare among you. Weird. She did not plan to have anything to do with Charlotte Montgomery, much less make a treaty with her. It was time to move on to a new quote.

She carried her supplies into the house, and still the words nagged at her. Well, it was time to get to work, so there was only one thing to do in this situation.

She pulled out her iPod, put in her earbuds, and turned up the music.

five.

The sink was scrubbed to a color that was as near white as it was going to get, the countertops were spotless, and the cabinets were cleaned and polished as the daylight began to fade. Lauren felt her strength draining with the fading light. The place was coming along, but dirt that went as deep as this required more than a little effort to clean.

She'd hauled the mattress and box spring out onto the back porch to air out and had thumped them with a broom like she'd seen people do in old movies. Nothing visible flew out of them, which she found somewhat comforting. Her plan was to fix the place up as nice as possible. Not just to make it livable, but to make it nice. It was the best way she could think of to show her appreciation to the Edwards family. Even if they didn't use this place, they would certainly be able to see that she appreciated getting to live here for several months rent-free.

There were three wooden cupboards in the kitchen. The front panel was cracked down the middle of one of them, and the other two were badly scarred. She didn't know much about refinis.h.i.+ng but thought maybe she would give it a try. Her phone rang. "h.e.l.lo?"

"I've gone and done it again." The sound of her best friend's frazzled voice quickly brought a smile to her face.

"Oh really, Chloe? What have you gone and done?"

"My usual. I was so caught up in the details of your story about that brat Marisa's little trick, and then of course worried about my own pre-wedding plans, that I didn't even ask you the details about your new place. So . . . what's up with it?"

"It's charming, truly charming. Needs some elbow grease, which I've already started applying, and even now it is beginning to show its potential. Say, what do you know about refinis.h.i.+ng cabinetry?"

"That would be a big zilch. But Jasper knows how to do it. I've heard him talk about it. Why? Are you thinking of trying it?"

"I'm thinking about it. The kitchen cabinets here are pretty rough looking. Thing is, I don't want to do it if I'm going to mess it up and make it look worse than it was in the beginning. You know what I mean?"

"Maybe we can drive up and have a refinis.h.i.+ng party sometime soon. Jasper could lend his expertise, and you know Mom would be all over it. Between all of us, I'm sure we could make it look nice."

"You don't have to do that. You've got plenty of other things going on in your life right now."

"Of course we don't have to, we want to. You know we're all dying to see the new place."

"I better make sure I get your names on my approved visitor list, then. Don't be alarmed if some FBI agents show up at the apartment asking a bunch of personal questions."

"Approved visitor list? Are you kidding me?"

"Apparently not. Everyone has to be cleared before they are allowed through the gate. I was being sarcastic about the FBI, obviously, but it's still pretty intense."

"Well, make sure you add me, and Mom and Dad, and Jasper, and probably you should add Cody, too, just so you're prepared."

"Somehow I doubt that will be necessary."

"Oh, I think it will. Jasper says he keeps asking about you. I'm surprised he hasn't called you himself, or has he and you're just not telling?"

"No, he has not."

"He has your number, right?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"You didn't give it to him? When you sent that thank-you for the flowers?"

"No. Why would I? That seems rather pushy, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think it's pushy." She paused. "Okay, well maybe a little pushy, but not much. Tell me the truth, what's your problem with him?"

"I don't have a problem with him at all. I have a problem with me. It's all just so embarra.s.sing. The one and only time he ever sees me is when I'm humiliated in front of the entire world. And then I just walk out of the room and leave, which I know was so rude, but honestly, I just don't think I could have done it any differently."

"Apparently he still thinks you're worth getting to know. And besides, supposedly he has a little workbench in his garage. I'm guessing he would be just the man to help with your cupboards. What?" Chloe's voice trailed away from the phone. "Listen, I gotta run. I'll talk to you soon." The phone line clicked, and Chloe was off and running to her next event. That girl lived in a swirl of chaos and activity that never calmed down. It was one of the things Lauren was going to miss while she was out here all by herself.

She went to her car and removed an insulated bag of snacks she'd brought with her just in case. Tomorrow evening she would buy some groceries on her way back with her clothes and things. Given the distance from this place to anywhere she might want to go, grocery store included, living here would definitely require advanced planning. For tonight, she would eat the apple and yogurt she'd bought and call it dinner.

First, though, it seemed like a good time to walk down to the beach. Just the thought of putting her toes in the ocean revived her energy. Nothing like the cold spray of the Pacific to wake a girl up, and the prospect of watching the sun set above the water on a regular basis was enough incentive to make her all the more determined to get this place spiffed up.

She stepped down from her porch and took a good look at the home at the end of the lane. It had a wrought-iron fence around the expansive lawn. The area just outside the gates and fence was simply a patch of dirt between the fence and the street curb. It looked drab in comparison to the lawn area, which was mowed and had neatly trimmed interior shrubs. The landscaping, even inside the fence, was manicured, but it by no means had the appearance of being tended with the loving care Aunt Nell, her great-aunt, would have shown it.

The large Victorian home was painted a medium green with dark green trim. It was two stories tall, with a turret that went up to a third level, offering what Lauren could only imagine to be breathtaking views of the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other. The home was striking in its beauty and quite an unusual sight in this part of the central coast, where the homes tended toward the Mediterranean or Craftsman styles. On this little lane it stood out in both size and style, but she suspected that had been the builder's intent. To stand out.

She crossed the cul-de-sac and started down the dirt path, which ran adjacent to the Victorian home. Farther back, there was a clear view of the backyard through the fence. The back side of the home had an expansive back porch and gazebo. The yard eventually dropped off, leaving nothing but clear ocean views. What an amazing place.

A movement caught her eye, and she noticed an elderly woman walking slowly across the back porch. She was shading her eyes from the sun and looking directly at Lauren. "This is a private area!" she yelled across the lawn. "You must leave here immediately." Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a rather formal twist, and she wore a full-length evening gown.

"I've just moved into the cottage across the street. I was told that I am allowed to use this trail to walk down to the ocean."

"You don't say." The woman leaned on the rail surrounding her raised back porch. "You might be allowed to walk to the beach, but you most certainly are not allowed to snoop around my place. We all live here because we want to be left alone and in peace. I was a.s.sured by Mr. Winston that you would understand that very clearly."

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"Mean to or not, that's what you were doing. Either abide by that principle or find yourself somewhere else to live, because I absolutely will not tolerate it." A short necklace glinted at the base of her neck in the fading evening light. It appeared to be blue in color, but from this distance it was hard to tell. She swept around in a half circle and glided back toward her house. The dark blue silk gown she wore trailed behind her.

Lauren was almost certain the dress was an Angelina Browning-the Los Angeles designer famous for her elegant dresses dating back to the mid-1940s. Lauren adored fas.h.i.+on history, especially that particular era, and Browning was among the very best.

An elderly woman in a Browning gown who valued her privacy to the point that she was willing to strictly enforce the already strict neighborhood code, all for the sake of extreme privacy? What was she hiding? Lauren thought about Kendall's story of a decades-old murder and wondered if her neighbor was indeed involved in some way.

She turned and made her way down the steps toward the ocean. This was going to make for an interesting place to live, that much was certain.

When she got back to the cottage later, she sent a quick email to Kendall.

Just saw my elusive neighbor. She is not exactly warm and fuzzy, I'll say that much about her. Not much to report, but I can verify that she does exist and was wearing a blue evening-type gown. That's all I can say for sure.

Since she didn't know if the gown really was a Browning, and couldn't see any detail at all about the necklace, she chose not to mention them.

That night Lauren dreamed about Aunt Nell. Scenes of them hiking together, going to town for ice cream, and working in the garden. Unfortunately, the dream morphed into her strongest memory from after the funeral-looking in the rearview mirror down Aunt Nell's long driveway and seeing the weeds and shriveled flowers in the flower bed. Even in the midst of the dream, she felt nauseous.

She awoke filled again with regret for the disrepair Aunt Nell's yard and garden had fallen into when she'd gotten sick. It should have been an immediate tip-off to the neighbors that something wasn't right when her pristine lawn and flower beds suddenly became overgrown and weed filled. However, Aunt Nell was always such a quiet, una.s.suming person, apparently most people never even thought to check and see if something might be wrong.

Since all her kids lived in other states, and since Lauren had been in LA at school, no one in the family had known about Nell's diagnosis because she had decided not to "bother" anyone. None of them had realized that she had gotten so sick that she could barely take care of herself-she certainly never alluded to it in phone calls or her trademark handwritten letters that were more like novels. She had died alone and in pain, and while she had done so for purely unselfish reasons, Lauren wished very much that her aunt could have understood that they all needed to help her. That doing so would have made their good-bye less painful. Less guilt-ridden.

She shook her head and got out of bed, wondering what had prompted that particular dream. She hadn't had it for a couple of years now. Maybe it had something to do with Miss Montgomery. She was roughly Aunt Nell's age. Although that was probably the closest thing to a commonality the two women would ever share.

six.

On Monday morning, Lauren woke up s.h.i.+vering. The cottage was drafty, and with the wind coming from the general direction of the cool Pacific waters, it made for a frigid morning. She knew that it would be warm by noon, but she chided herself for not bringing some flannel pajamas and warm fuzzy socks from her apartment yesterday. She reached to the bedside table for her phone to check the time. 6:45 a.m. The contractor would be here in less than two hours, so she needed to get moving. She climbed out of bed, heated some water for a cup of tea, and planned to take full advantage of what Rhonda referred to as a time to go deep.