Coldwater. Diana Gould

“the police were here earlier asking about Caleigh. They talked to all of us. I told them I hadn’t seen her since Monday and have no idea where she is.”

      She looked to the others; they all agreed that’s what they had said too.

      “Did you tell them about ‘enjo kosai’?”

      Hannah startled as if a car had backfired. She and Heather exchanged uneasy glances before Hannah looked away. Dawn stared down into her latte, slurping loudly, but not looking at anyone.

      “What did Julia tell you?” asked Heather softly.

      “She said ‘enjo kosai’ was something Caleigh was into. She called it ‘paid dating.’ She said someone had told Caleigh that it was a fad in Japan but that Caleigh had gotten some kids from Eastman into it.”

      “Did she say who?” asked Heather.

      I watched Hannah’s hands tremble as she stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. I knew she was listening for my answer.

      “No. But she thought it might have something to do with what’s happened to Caleigh.”

      “That is so lame,” said Dawn. “Caleigh makes up these stories. I don’t believe any of it.”

      “She talked about it,” said Heather. “She said it was a way we could make money. But I don’t think anyone actually did it.”

      “Like Caleigh showed up at school one day waving a thousand dollar bill around and bragging about how she got it? Like it’s so hard for Caleigh to come up with a thousand dollar bill? Give me a break. She probably just took it from her dad’s wallet.”

      “Did she say who had given it to her?”

      “Caleigh lies about everything. Nobody would believe anything she’d say anyway.”

      “I’ve got to go,” said Hannah, standing. “I’ve got my Dante paper due tomorrow.”

      Dawn looked at her watch, and Heather drained her latte, crumpled her napkin, and stood, looking for a place to throw them.

      “Wait a minute,” I said. “Before you go.” I dug into my bag to get my notebook and a pen. “Let me get Julia’s phone number. And give you mine.” I started to write my number down on a piece of paper. That just goes to show how laughably retro I am.

      “I’ll bump it to you,” said Heather.

      Noticing my clueless expression, Heather took my phone away from me, held it in the other hand from hers, bumped the two together, and handed mine back. Julia’s name, number, and photo showed up on my cell phone. And mine on hers.

      “How’d you do that?” I asked, marveling.

      “It’s easy.” Heather used her phone to take my picture and attach it to my number. She showed it around, and they all laughed at the expression of bewilderment on my face.

      “Can I give mine to each of you? And would you please call me if you hear from Julia or find out anything about Caleigh?”

      With some mysterious combination of finger taps and gestures they instantly had my contact, and I theirs, as I stood by helpless in the face of technology that came so easily to them.

      “Before you go. Even if you think it was a lie. Who did Caleigh say had given her the thousand dollars?”

      “Some movie star wasn’t it?” asked Heather.

      “Campbell McCauley,” Dawn raised her eyes. “Yeah, right. Like Campbell McCauley, only the sexiest man on the planet, who’s married to Rosalie Bennett, like the biggest box office star in the world, has nothing better to do than pay Caleigh Nussbaum a thousand dollars to have sex with him. Give me a break.”

      They tossed their empty cups into the trash, and got ready to leave. I remembered the look of fear in Julia’s eyes as she’d turned from watching the runner on the beach. Coincidence?

      I wondered if I’d hear from them again.

      CHAPTER 7

      Still reluctant to go back to Gerry’s, I turned off Sunset and went north on Cliffwood, hoping to find Julia at home. It felt strange driving into my old neighborhood. I drove past homes that I remembered as modest and unassuming, recessed from view behind bursts of bougainvillea. Remodeled, they had expanded to twice their size, and now squatted swollen and pretentious, like gluttons who had burst their seams, jostling and competing for space.

      Since I’d moved out, Murder had gone on without me and had made its lucrative syndication deal. It was still playing, somewhere in the world, any hour of day or night. My points had been net, and what little back end I had was being garnished by the IRS. Jonathan on the other hand had a track record that warranted gross points. He worked for Poseidon now, and the success of Murder and other shows he’d developed had resulted in stock options and bonuses exceeding even the producer’s share of profits. He was a rich man with a new trophy wife.

      I turned into my old driveway. If I’d expected a remodeled monstrosity, what I saw was worse: Nothing had changed. The house was as unpretentious and charming as ever, nothing different except the absence of me.

      It hadn’t occurred to me that either Jonathan or Lynda would be home this time of day. But the blue BMW in the driveway was the model Jonathan leased new every three years, and I’d bet anything that the pearl grey Jaguar beside it belonged to Lynda. No sign of Julia’s Prius.

      I went to the door and rang the bell.

      A maid in uniform, who appeared to be Hawaiian or Philippine, answered my ring. I didn’t recognize her.

      “Hi. I’m Brett Tanager. Is Julia home?”

      The maid looked uneasily around as if unsure of how to handle the situation. She decided on a simple, “No.” But before she could close the door, I heard the sharp staccato of heels on the stone floor, and a woman’s voice ask, “Who is it, Maile?” The heels belonged to a pair of sling-backs so minimalist that when you saw them in a store window, you’d ask yourself “who wears shoes like that?” The answer walked towards me: Lynda.

      She stopped short when she recognized me. “Brett. What are you doing here?”

      Lynda LeWylie, now Lynda LeWylie-Weissman, was a “suit,” like Jonathan. The people who actually wrote, directed, and produced the shows spoke disparagingly of the “suits”—executives who didn’t have to solve problems, only create them by giving “notes.” Lynda’s was Armani, natch, with a mini-skirt so high and a plunging cream silk neckline so low they all but met in the middle. Her outfit managed to communicate at one and the same time a willingness to please and the will to command. The large diamond sparkling from her left hand signaled that she had married well.

      “I’m looking for Julia,” I said, coming into the house as if I’d been invited.

      “Why?”

      “Research.” The lie came easily as I walked past her into the large entry room, which opened onto the living room with its sensational hillside view of the canyon.

      The first thing I noticed was that the table was gone: the antique washstand near the door that we’d used as a catchall for mail and keys. And that the floor, which had been Spanish tile, had been replaced by white marble.

      “I’ve been working on a teen thing, and she said she’d help me with some background.” Those tiles had been so beautiful. Brilliantly colored, hand-painted, consistent with the Spanish Moorish design of the house. Who could possibly think this white stone was an improvement?

      “When?” asked Lynda.

      Jonathan came in from the kitchen, a look of concern disturbing his usually sanguine features. “I called the O’Connors and the Rosens and the Delaneys. Nobody knows anything.” He stopped short when he saw me standing there.

      “Brett. What are you doing here?”