Secrets to the Grave

41

“We can go in and make sure she’s not dead on the floor,” Mendez said. “But we can’t take anything—unless we’ve got an obvious crime scene—and then Worth wants me to call her so she can come and make sure I’m not lying.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Vince said. “She’s going to dot every i and cross every t in ink. She’s good. She’s careful.”

The three of them—Hicks, Mendez, and Vince—went into Gina Kemmer’s cute little Tudor house with gloves on and paper booties over their shoes. Just in case. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no signs of forced entry or of there having been a struggle in the house.

Someone had cleaned up the broken plant pot and the vomit in the living room. The snapshots that had been lying loose on the coffee table had been put away.

Vince had wanted another look at them. He would have liked to have put them up on a wall and just stare at them, waiting for that one certain something to pop out at him. He had wanted to study the two women—their faces, their body language, how they related to each other. He had wanted to find a date on the back of one of those snapshots that predated 1982.

He opened a drawer in the base of the table. No photos. He looked in a magazine rack, in a small bookcase. Nothing.

Wandering through the house, Vince was struck again by the feeling Gina Kemmer had put roots down here. He didn’t think she would pull those roots back up easily and just leave.

The house was neat and clean, but comfortably lived-in. There was an afghan tossed over the arm of the sofa, a couple of jackets hung on the hooks of an antique hall tree near the front door. There was art on the walls—several small paintings from Marissa, and casual groupings of photos, presumably of family and friends.

“It doesn’t look like she packed anything,” Mendez said, poking his head in the bedroom closet.

The bedroom was tidy. Dust rose and country blue. Very girly. Lace and dried flower bouquets. A couple of well-read romance novels were stacked on the nightstand at the base of a lamp with a frilly shade. Gina Kemmer still believed in fairy tales

Vince went into the kitchen. The counters were cluttered with canisters and cookbooks. The refrigerator held half a dozen Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, a rusting head of lettuce, some cheese, and condiments.

On the door of the fridge a multitude of novelty magnets held photographs and notes and a drawing Haley had made.

“Who are these people?” he asked, pointing to a snapshot of Gina and Marissa and two good-looking men at a beach party. The girls were in bikini tops and hula skirts. The men were in baggy shorts, Aloha shirts, and Ray-Bans. All four of them were laughing, having the time of their lives.

Hicks closed a cupboard door and came to look.

“The taller one next to Marissa is Mark Foster, head of the music department at McAster. He and Marissa went out from time to time. The one on the other side of Gina is Darren Bordain.”

“You’ve talked to both of them?”

Mendez nodded. “Don Quinn told us Foster is gay. Foster denies it. I can’t imagine anyone would care one way or the other.”

“People are funny about their secrets,” Vince said. “It doesn’t matter if anyone else cares or not. People will guard their secrets like junkyard dogs, and take them to the grave if they can.”

“He’s the one who saw Steve Morgan having dinner with Marissa Fordham in Los Olivos,” Hicks said.

“And Morgan said ...?”

“‘So what?’” Mendez answered with a dark look.

“What about Bordain?”

“Fair-haired child of Milo and Bruce Bordain,” Hicks said. “He seems to be one of the few guys in town who hasn’t gone out with Marissa. They were casual friends.”

“What did his mother think about that?” Vince asked.

“He said maybe he should have had a fling with Marissa just to flip the old lady out,” Mendez said.

“Marissa was her toy, her pet,” Vince said, thinking about Milo Bordain’s attitude regarding Haley. Possessive. Entitled.

“Right,” Hicks said. “Good enough to trot out for occasions, but never invited to Thanksgiving dinner, he said.”

“Hmmm ...”

“He also said a bohemian single mother wouldn’t be good for his future political career.”

“The apple didn’t fall far from that tree, did it?” Vince said. “What about Bruce Bordain? Have you spoken with him?”

“He’s been out of town,” Hicks said. “He was supposed to fly into Santa Barbara last night.”

“I’m just curious about the family dynamic,” Vince admitted.

“According to the son, Bruce and the missus live separate lives. They hardly ever live in the same house at the same time.”

Which could have explained, at least in part, Milo Bordain’s need to hang on to the people in her life, Vince thought. She was lonely. It was as simple as that. Being able to keep Haley in her life would fill the void left by losing Marissa, who had filled the void left by an inattentive husband.

“She was a beauty, wasn’t she?” Vince said of their victim as he looked at the photo.

“Vibrant” was the word that came to mind. With a wicked smile and dancing dark eyes, there was something about her that just made her seem more alive than anyone else in the picture.

Funny, Vince thought, they were supposed to be looking at Gina Kemmer. She was the one missing. Her situation was urgent. Yet they were all drawn to Marissa. She had definitely been the dominant person in the friendship.

Gina was pretty, but in a quieter way. Blond and fair, she paled in comparison to her friend—physically as well as in terms of her presence. He had never met Marissa in life, but even after death he could feel the strength of her spirit. Gina didn’t have that. She had been the shy one hanging on to her friend’s coattails.

Mendez had glanced away to look in the trash. He reached into the receptacle and came out with a long-handled tongs at the end of which was the Polaroid of Marissa Fordham, stabbed, her throat slashed, dead eyes half open.

He held it up next to the happy snapshot.

“She was a beauty,” he said.

She was no more.

They could only hope her friend had not met the same fate.