Shopaholic to the Rescue

TWELVE

Having said that, everyone thinks it’s a mad idea.

Even Suze, who thinks it’s a good idea, thinks it’s also mad. Luke thinks it’s a terrible idea. Mum doesn’t know if it’s good or bad but is desperate for it to work. Janice keeps flitting between wild optimism and utter pessimism. Danny’s really into it—but that’s only because he’s created my costume.

“There.” I give a final adjustment to my scarf. “Perfect.” I turn to survey my audience. “What do you think—identical twins, no?”

“You don’t look anything like her,” says Luke flatly.

“I look exactly like her!”

“Sweetheart, I think you need your eyes tested.”

“No, I can see it,” says Danny. “You look quite like her.”

“Only quite?” I feel a bit crestfallen.

“Everyone looks different than their photos,” says Danny firmly. “It’s fine. It’s good.” He takes the “Guide to Artists” booklet and holds it up next to me, open at the page with the photo of Pauline Audette. And I don’t care what Luke says, I do look like her. It’s uncanny—even more so now I’ve dressed up like her.

I’m wearing a smock-type shirt, which Danny bought at the fair yesterday evening, over some loose trousers belonging to Janice. My hair is held back by a piece of tie-dye cloth, because Pauline Audette always has some boho scarf in her hair. All morning, Danny has been tugging and pinning and adding artistic streaks of paint and clay, which we bought in the crafts tent. To my eye, I look exactly like a French potter.

“OK, I’ll practice,” I announce. “My name, eet ees Pauline Audette.”

Luckily, there are lots of clips of Pauline Audette on YouTube, because she does this thing called “mini-sculpt,” where she takes a handful of clay and models it into something in about five seconds flat. Like a tree or a bird. (I must say, she is pretty amazing.) So I’ve watched her over and over, and I think I’ve got the accent. “I am ceramic artiste,” I continue. “My inspiration, eet come from ze nah-toor.”

“What’s that?” says Janice, looking baffled.

“Nature, love,” explains Mum. “Nature, in French.”

“I ’ave come to Arizona for ’oliday. I ’ave remember Monsieur Raymond who write me ze kind lettairs. I seenk, Zut! I will visite Monsieur Raymond.” I pause and look around. “What do you think?”

“Don’t say Zut,” says Luke.

“You sound like Hercule Poirot,” says Suze. “He’s never going to fall for it if you talk like that.”

“Well, it’s our only shot,” I retort. I feel a bit offended, actually. I thought my accent was pretty good. “And, all right, I won’t say Zut. Come on, assistant, let’s go.”

Suze is playing my assistant, in an all-black outfit with fake spectacles. Her hair is in a sleek ponytail and she’s got just a slash of red lipstick, which Danny says is definitely the “French art assistant” look.

I head to the door of the RV and look around at the eager, hopeful faces. “Wish us luck!”

Alicia isn’t with us anymore, obviously. I have no idea what she did last night. Called another limo service, I expect, and went back to L.A. (She left some things in the RV, and Danny was all for making a bonfire of them, but we’ve decided to send them back with a dignified note.) Over supper last night, I explained to Mum and Janice about how Alicia and her husband had been trying to rip off both Tarkie and Suze and how evil she was. Whereupon they both instantly said that they’d suspected she was up to something all along, and they’d felt it in their bones, and what a good job they’d warned me about her!

I mean, honestly.

“Becky, what if you’re arrested?” says Janice in a sudden panic. “We’ve already had one run-in with the police.”

“I won’t be arrested!” I scoff. “It’s not against the law to impersonate people.”

“Yes, it is!” says Luke, smacking a hand against his forehead. “Jesus, Becky. It’s fraud.”

Luke’s always so literal.

“Well, OK, maybe in some cases. But this isn’t fraud,” I say firmly. “It’s a quest for the truth. Anyone would understand that, even a policeman. And I’ve dressed up now; I can’t bottle out. See you later.”

“Wait!” calls Luke. “Remember, if there isn’t any housekeeper or household staff, if your phone loses signal, if anything feels wrong, you leave.”

“Luke, it’ll be perfectly safe!” I say. “This is a friend of my dad’s, remember?”

“Hmm.” Luke doesn’t look impressed. “Well, you be careful.”

“We will. Come on, Suze.”

We hurry down the steps of the RV and toward Raymond’s ranch. Luke drives off to hide the RV out of sight around the next bend. As we approach the massive gates, I start to feel quite severe jitters, but I’m not going to mention them to Suze. She’ll only say, Let’s not do it, then. And I really, really want to do this. It’s our last chance.

Plus…there’s more to it than that. Putting this plan into action, even if it is a bit ridiculous, I feel like I’ve come alive. I feel dynamic. And I think it’s the same for Suze. She’s still in a real state—she hasn’t heard anything from Tarkie, or about Owl’s Tower, or anything. But it’s like channeling her energies into this is making her feel better.

“Come on!” I clasp Suze’s hand briefly as we approach. “We can do this! You went to drama school, remember? If I get in trouble, you take over.”

The gates to the ranch are vast and wooden, and I count three cameras trained on us. It’s all a bit intimidating, but I remind myself that I’m Pauline Audette and head confidently to the intercom panel. I press the entry button and wait for someone to reply.

“Wait, Suze!” I say in a sudden undertone. “What’s our code word?”

“Shit.” She stares at me, wide-eyed. “Dunno.”

We’ve been talking about having a code word all morning, but we haven’t actually thought of one.

“Potato,” I say hurriedly.

“Potato? Are you nuts? How am I supposed to bring ‘potato’ into conversation?”

“Well, you think of a better one. Go on!” I add, as she looks blank.

“I can’t,” she says, sounding cross. “You’ve put me on the spot now. All I can think of is ‘potato.’ ”

“Hello?” A woman’s tinny voice comes over the intercom, and my stomach turns over.

“Hello!” says Suze, stepping forward. “My name is Jeanne de Bloor. I have Pauline Audette here for Mr. Raymond Earle. Pauline Audette,” she repeats, enunciating clearly.

Suze came up with the name Jeanne de Bloor. She’s decided that Jeanne was born in The Hague, has settled in Paris but has a long-term lover in Antwerp, speaks five languages, and is learning Sanskrit. (Suze is very thorough when it comes to creating a character. She’s made notes and everything.)

There’s silence from the intercom, and Suze and I exchange questioning glances. Then, just as I’m about to suggest that Suze try again, a man’s voice comes from the speaker.

“Hello? It’s Raymond Earle here.”

Oh my God. Now my stomach is churning furiously, but I step forward to speak.

“Allo,” I say into the intercom. “My name, eet ees Pauline Audette. We ’ave corresponded.”

“You’re Pauline Audette?” He sounds gobsmacked, as well he might.

“I ’ave see your exhibition at ze fair. I weesh to talk to you about your work, but I cannot find you. So I come to your ’ouse.”

“You saw my work? You want to talk about my work?”

He sounds so excited, I feel an almighty stab of guilt. I shouldn’t be doing this to a poor, innocent potter. I shouldn’t be raising his hopes. I’m a bad person.

But, then, he shouldn’t have sent Mum and Janice away. Tit for tat.

“May I come in to your ’ouse?” I say, but already the gates are swinging open.

We’re in!

“Jeanne,” I say briskly, for the cameras’ benefit, “you weel accompany me and take ze notes.”

“Vairy gut,” says Suze, in what I think is supposed to be a Dutch accent and nearly makes me double over.

The house is about half a mile away, up a badly kept track, and I realize he was expecting us to be in a car. But I can hardly go and get the RV. As we trudge along the track, I keep seeing weird sculptures everywhere. There’s a bull made out of what looks like car parts, and a man’s yelling face made out of iron, and lots of strange abstract pieces made out of what look like tires. It’s all a bit freaky, and I’m glad to reach the house, until I hear the frenzied barking of dogs.

“This place is spooky,” I mutter to Suze as we ring the bell. The house was probably really impressive once, but it’s a bit dilapidated. It’s made of stone and wood, with gables and a veranda and a massive carved front door, but some of the wooden railings look rotten, and I can see two patched-up broken windows. The dogs’ barking gets even louder, and we both shrink back.

“Have you still got a signal?” I murmur to Suze, and she checks her phone.

“Yes. You?”

“Yup. All good,” I say loudly, for Luke’s benefit. Suze’s phone is recording in her pocket and mine is connected to Luke’s, so everyone in the RV should be able to hear what’s going on.

“Down!” comes Raymond’s voice from inside the house. “You get in there.”

Inside, a door bangs shut. The next moment we hear what seem like about twenty-five locks being undone, then the front door swings open and Raymond Earle greets us.

The first word that hits my mind is “grizzled.” Raymond’s beard is like a gray furry blanket and reaches all the way down to his chest. He’s wearing a blue-and-white bandanna round his head, and his ancient jeans are covered in mud or clay or something. The house smells of dogs and tobacco and dust and old food, with a faint reek of rotting vegetation.

He could really do with a scented candle or two. I’m tempted to give him the link to Jo Malone.

“Miss Audette.” He bows low and his beard flops down. “I’m honored.”

Oh God. I feel even more guilty about tricking him, now we’re here. We need to get into his studio as quickly as possible and action my plan.

“I am enchantée to meet you after all zis time,” I say gravely. “When I come to Wilderness, I remember Monsieur Raymond who has written me ze kind lettairs.”

“Well, I’m delighted to meet you!” He grabs my hand and shakes it heartily. “This is such an unexpected pleasure!”

“Let us go straight to ze studio and observe ze work,” I say.

“Of course.” Raymond seems totally overcome. “I’ll just…come in. Come in.”

He ushers us into a wide hall with a fireplace and a wooden vaulted ceiling, which would be stunning if it weren’t such a mess. There are dusty boots, coats, dog baskets, a bucket of old bricks, and a rolled-up carpet, all just lying around.

“Can I get you a beer? Some ice water?” Raymond leads us into a messy kitchen, which smells of some meaty dish. The back wall is covered in shelves, on which are propped-up paintings and drawings and a few weird-looking sculptures. A housekeeper is trying to dust them, but I can see she’s not finding it easy.

“Careful!” Raymond suddenly snaps at her. “Don’t move anything!” He turns back to me. “Miss Audette?”

“Non, merci. I would like to see your work. Ze piece most dear to you in ze world.” I’m trying to hurry him along, but Raymond doesn’t seem the hurrying type.

“I have so much to ask you,” he says.

“And I ’ave much to ask you,” I counter. Which, at least, is the truth.

“You’ll have noticed my Darin.” He nods toward the shelves.

Darin? What’s a Darin? Is Darin an artist?

“Absolument.” I nod briskly. “Shall we go?”

“What’s your take on his use of form?” His eyes blink at me earnestly.

OK, this is exactly the kind of question I didn’t want him to ask me. I need to come up with some convincing artisty answer, quick. Something about form. Except I never listened in art lessons.

“Form is dead,” I pronounce at last, in my most Gallic accent. “C’est morte.”

Perfect. If form’s dead, I don’t have to talk about it.

“Let us go to ze studio,” I add, trying to usher Raymond out of the kitchen. But he doesn’t move. He seems slightly staggered.

“Form is dead?” he echoes finally.

“Oui, c’est fini.” I nod.

“But—”

“Form, eet ees no more.” I spread my hands, trying to look convincing.

“But Miss Audette, h-how can this be?” stammers Raymond. “Your own design…your writings…your books…are you really giving up on a life’s work? It can’t be!”

He’s staring at me in consternation. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. But I can’t backtrack now.

“Oui,” I say after a pause. “C’est ca.”

“But why?”

“I am artiste,” I say, playing for time. “Not woman, not human, artiste.”

“I don’t understand,” says Raymond, looking unhappy.

“I must seek ze truth,” I add, with sudden inspiration. “I must be brave. Ze artiste must always be brave above all, you understand? I must destroy ze old ideas. Zen will I a true artiste be.”

I hear a tiny snort from Suze but ignore her.

“But—”

“I do not weesh to speak of it further,” I cut him off firmly.

“But—”

“To ze studio!” I wave my hands. “Allons y!”

My heart is thumping hard as I follow Raymond through the house to the far end. I can’t cope with any more conversations about art; I just want to know about my dad.

“Are you supposed to be Pauline Audette or Yoda?” Suze’s murmur comes in my ear.

“Shut up!” I mutter back.

“We need to cut to the chase!”

“I know!”

We arrive at a big room with white walls and a glass roof. It’s bright and messy, with a heavy wooden table in the center and two potter’s wheels, all covered with splotches of clay. But that’s not what I’m seeing. I’m eyeing up the big set of display shelves at the far end of the room. They’re covered with clay statues and sculptures and weird-looking vases. Bingo. This is what we wanted.

I glance at Suze, and she gives a tiny nod back.

“You must tell me, Raymond,” I order. “Which, to you, are ze most precious pieces in ze room?”

“Well.” Raymond hesitates. “Let me see. Of course, there’s Twice.” He gestures at a sculpture which seems to be of a man with two heads. “That was nominated for the Stephens Institute Prize, few years ago. It was mentioned on a couple websites; I don’t suppose you…” He shoots me a hopeful look.

“A fine piece,” I say, with a brisk nod. “And which ees precious to your heart?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Raymond gives an awkward, heavy laugh. “I have a fond spot for this one.” He points at a much larger, abstract piece, glazed in lots of different colors.

“Aha.” I nod. “We will examine zem….” I pick up Twice, and Suze picks up the multicolored one. “Let us study zem in ze light….” I move away from Raymond, and Suze follows. “Aha. Zis one, it remind me of…a potato.”

Suze was right. Potato is a really, really bad code word. But it works. In one seamless movement, Suze and I hold the sculptures above our heads.

(Suze’s looks much heavier than mine. I feel a bit bad. But, then, she’s got strong arms.)

“All right,” I say, in my most menacing voice. “Here’s the truth. I’m not Pauline Audette. My name is Rebecca. Graham Bloomwood is my father. And I want to know the truth about what happened on your road trip. If you won’t tell us, we’ll smash the pieces. If you fetch help, we’ll smash the pieces. So you’d better start talking.” I break off, breathing hard, wondering whether to add “buster,” then think better of it.

Raymond is clearly one of those very slow, think-everything-through types. It feels like about half an hour that we’re standing there, our arms aching, our pulses racing, waiting for him to respond. He scans from me to Suze. He blinks. He screws up his face. He opens his mouth to speak, then stops.

“We need to know,” I say, trying to prod him into action. “We need to know the truth, right here, right now.”

Again, Raymond frowns, as though pondering the great mysteries of life. God, he’s frustrating.

“You’re not Pauline Audette?” he says at last.

“No.”

“Well, thank God for that.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I thought you’d gone crazy.” He peers more closely at me. “You look like her, though. Just like her.”

“I know.”

“I mean, that is incredible. You’re not related?”

“Not as far as I know. It is incredible, isn’t it?” I can’t help unbending to him a little. I knew I looked like Pauline Audette.

“Well, you should google that.” His eyes brighten with interest. “Maybe you have some ancestor in common. You could go on one of those TV shows—”

“Enough of zis chitchat!” barks Suze, sounding like a Nazi kommandant. “We need the truth!” She frowns disapprovingly at me, and I see I’ve let myself get sidetracked.

“That’s right!” I say hastily, and hold Twice up even higher. “We’re here for a reason, Raymond, so you’d better give us what we need.”

“And don’t try any funny business,” adds Suze menacingly. “The minute you call the cops, your two pieces of pottery will be in smithereens.” She sounds like she can’t wait to get smashing. I didn’t realize Suze had quite such a violent side.

There’s another minute or so of silence—which feels like half an hour—as Raymond digests this.

“You’re Graham’s daughter,” he says at last, staring at me. “Don’t look like him.”

“Well, I am. And he’s gone missing. We’ve been trying to track him down and help him out, but all we know is, he’s trying to put something right. Do you know what that is?”

“Has he been here?” puts in Suze.

“Has he made contact?”

“Can you tell us what this is all about?”

Raymond’s face has closed up as we’ve been talking. He meets my eye briefly, then glances away, and I feel a twinge in my stomach. He knows.

“What is it?” I demand. “What happened?”

“What’s he doing?” chimes in Suze.

There’s another flicker in Raymond’s eye, and he stares at the far corner of the room.

“You know, don’t you?” I try to catch his eye. “Why won’t you speak? Why did you turn my mum away?”

“Tell us!” exclaims Suze.

“Whatever he’s doing, that’s his business,” says Raymond, without moving his gaze.

He knows. We’ve come all this way and he knows and he’s not telling us. I feel such a surge of fury, I start quivering.

“I’ll throw this to the ground!” I yell, brandishing Twice. “I’ll throw everything to the ground! I can do a lot of damage in thirty seconds! And I don’t care if you call the police, because this is my dad and I need to know!”

“Jesus!” Raymond seems shocked at my outburst. “Chill out. You really Graham’s daughter?” He turns to Suze. “Graham was always Mr. Calm.”

“He still is,” says Suze.

“I take a bit more after my mum,” I admit.

“So…you’re Graham’s daughter,” he says for a third time. God, is he always this slow on the uptake?

“Yes, I’m Rebecca,” I say pointedly. “But my dad didn’t want to give me that name. For some reason. Which no one will tell me.”

“And Brent’s and Corey’s daughters are Rebecca too,” puts in Suze.

“Brent’s daughter said, ‘We’re all called Rebecca,’ but I don’t know why, and, basically, I’m tired of not knowing about my own life.” My voice is shaking as I finish, and a weird little silence falls over the room.

Raymond seems to be processing everything. He looks at me and at Suze. He looks at the pots, still above our heads. (Suze must have such bad pins and needles by now.)

Then, at last, he seems to give in. “OK,” he says.

“OK what?” I say warily.

“I’ll tell you what your dad’s doing.”

“So you do know?”

“He was here.” He gestures to a paint-stained sofa. “Sit. I’ll tell you what I know. You want some iced tea?”

—

Even though Raymond seems to have decided to play along, we don’t relinquish the pottery, just in case. We sit on the sofa, clutching the two sculptures on our laps, while Raymond pours iced tea from a jug, then arranges himself on a chair opposite.

“Well, it comes down to the money,” he says, as though this is perfectly obvious, and takes a thoughtful sip from his glass.

“What money?”

“Brent signing away his rights. I mean, that’s years ago now. But your dad only just found out, thought it was wrong. Wanted to do something about it. I said, ‘That’s their business.’ But your dad got the bit between his teeth. He and Corey always did have that…I don’t know what you’d call it. A spark. Corey wound your dad up. Anyway, so that’s what he’s up to.”

Raymond leans back as though all is now perfectly clear and takes another sip of iced tea. I stare at him, nonplussed.

“What?” I say at last. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, you know,” says Raymond with a shrug. “The spring. The money.” He eyes me closely. “I’m talking about the money.”

“What money?” I retort with a flash of irritation. “You keep talking about money, but I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

“You don’t know?” Raymond gives a little whoop. “He never told you?”

“No!”

“Oh, Graham. Not so holier-than-thou now.” He gives a sudden guffaw.

“What are you talking about?” I’m exploding with frustration.

“OK.” Raymond flashes me a grin. “Now, you pay attention. This is a good story. We all first met in New York, the four of us, waiting tables. Corey and Brent were science grads. I was a design postgrad. Your dad was…I don’t remember what your dad was. We were young men, waiting to see where life would take us, and we decided to go west. Have an adventure.”

“Right.” I nod politely, though my heart is sinking. People say, “This is a good story,” and what they mean is, I’m going to share a random slice of my life with you now, and you have to look fascinated. The truth is, I’ve heard this story a million times from Dad. Next we’ll be on to the sunsets and the shimmering heat and that time they spent the night in the desert. “So, where does money come into it?”

“I’ll get to that.” Raymond lifts a hand. “Off we went, traveling around the West. And we talked. A lot. No cell phones back then, remember. No Wi-Fi. Just music and conversation. In bars, sitting around the campfire, on the road…wherever. Corey and Brent used to spitball ideas. They used to talk about setting up a research company together. Bright boys, both of them. Corey had money too. And looks. He was what you might call the alpha male.”

“Right,” I say dubiously, remembering the tanned, weird-looking guy we met in Las Vegas.

“Then one night…” Raymond pauses for effect. “They came up with the spring.” A little smile dances around his mouth. “Ever heard of a balloon spring?”

Something is ringing in my mind, and I sit up straighter. “Hang on. Corey invented a spring, didn’t he?”

“Corey and Brent invented a spring,” corrects Raymond.

“But…” I stare at him. “I saw articles about that spring online. There’s no mention of Brent anywhere.”

“Guess Corey had him airbrushed out of the story.” Raymond gives a wry chuckle. “But Brent helped invent it, all right. They came up with the first notion together one night by the fire. Sketched out the concept right then and there. It was four years before it was actually developed, but that’s where it all began. Corey, Brent, your dad, and me. We all had a stake in it.”

“Wait, what?” I stare at him. “My dad had a stake in it?”

“Well, I say ‘stake.’ ” Raymond begins to chuckle again. “He didn’t put any money in. It was more like a ‘contribution.’ ”

“Contribution? What contribution?”

I’m half-hoping to hear that my dad was the one who had the blinding insight that kick-started the whole invention.

“Your dad gave them the pad of paper they wrote it on.”

“Paper,” I say, deflated. “Is that all?”

“It was enough! They joked about it. Corey and Brent were desperate for something to write on. Your dad had a big sketchbook. He said, ‘Well, if I give you my sketchbook, I want in on this,’ and Corey said, ‘You got it, Graham. You’ve got one percent.’ I mean, we were all joking. I helped them sketch out their ideas. It passed a few evenings.” Raymond takes another glug of iced tea. “But then they made the spring. The money started pouring in. And as far as I know, Corey stuck to his word. Sent your dad a dividend every year.”

I’m dumbstruck. My dad has a stake in a spring? OK, I take it back. This is a pretty good story.

“I had an inheritance around that time,” Raymond adds, “so I put some real money in. Set me up for life.”

“But how can a spring make so much money?” says Suze skeptically. “It’s just a piece of curly wire.”

That’s exactly what I was thinking, only I didn’t want to say it.

“It’s a kind of folding spring.” Raymond shrugs. “Useful thing. You’ll find it in firearms, computer keyboards…you name it. Corey and Brent were smart. Corey had a gun; he did some hunting. They’d take it apart in the evenings, play around with the spring-loading mechanism. It gave them ideas. You know how it is.”

No, I don’t know how it is. I’ve sat around loads of times with Suze, and we’ve taken plenty of things apart, like makeup kits. But I’ve never invented a new spring.

I suddenly understand why Dad was always so interested in my physics report. And why he used to say, “Becky love, why not go into engineering?” and “Science is not boring, young lady!”

Hmm. Maybe he had a point. Now I half-wish I’d listened.

Ooh, maybe we can train up Minnie in science and she’ll invent an even more advanced spring and we’ll all be squillionaires. (When she’s not winning the Olympics at show jumping, of course.)

“When they got back from the trip,” Raymond is saying, “they hired a lab and developed it properly. Four years later they launched it. At least, Corey launched it.”

“Only Corey? Why not Brent?”

Raymond’s face kind of closes up. “Brent bowed out after three years,” he says shortly.

“Three years? What do you mean, before it launched? So he didn’t make any money?”

“Not to speak of. He pretty much just signed away his rights.”

“But why on earth would he do that?” I demand in horror. “He must have known it had huge potential.”

“I guess Corey told him—” Raymond breaks off, then says with sudden heat, “It’s in the past. It’s between the two of them.”

“Corey told him what?” I narrow my eyes. “What, Raymond?”

“What?” echoes Suze, and Raymond makes an angry, huffing sound.

“Corey had taken over the business side. Maybe he gave Brent the wrong impression. Told him the investors weren’t coming forward, told him it wasn’t developing commercially, told him it was going to be expensive to take it to the next level. So Brent sold out for…well. Pretty much nothing.”

I stare at Raymond in utter dismay.

“Corey conned Brent? He should go to prison!”

Into my head flashes an image of Corey’s Las Vegas palace, followed by Brent’s trailer. It’s so unfair. I can’t bear it.

“Corey didn’t break any law as far as I know,” Raymond replies stolidly. “He was right in some of what he said—it wasn’t a sure thing. It did need investment. Brent should have looked into it. Shoulda been smarter.”

“You know Brent’s been living in a trailer?” I say accusingly. “You know he’s been evicted from a trailer?”

“If Brent was fool enough to fall for Corey’s patter, that’s his problem,” returns Raymond aggressively. “I believe he attempted legal action, but the facts didn’t stack up strongly enough. Corey’s word against Brent’s, see.”

“But that’s so wrong! Brent helped invent it! It’s made millions!”

“Whatever.” Raymond’s face closes up even further, and I feel a surge of contempt for him.

“You just don’t want to know, do you?” I say scathingly. “No wonder you hide yourself away from the world.”

“If Brent’s so talented,” puts in Suze, “why didn’t he make something of himself anyway?”

“Brent was never the strongest character,” says Raymond. “I think it ate him up, seeing Corey succeed. He drank, married too many times—that’ll burn through your money.”

“No wonder it ate him up!” I almost yell. “It would eat anyone up! So, you think this is OK, do you? One of your friends conned the other and you don’t want to do anything about it?”

“I don’t get involved,” says Raymond, his face expressionless. “We lost touch.”

“But you still take the money,” I say pointedly.

“So does your dad,” returns Raymond, equally pointedly. “He still gets his dividend, as far as I know.”

My racing thoughts are brought up short. My dad. The money. The dividend. Why did he never tell us about this? He told us everything else about that holiday, over and over. Why did he leave out the best bit?

I’m sure Mum doesn’t know any of this. She would have said. Which means…He’s been keeping it secret, all these years?

I feel a bit hot. My dad is the most open, straightforward person in the world. Why would he keep a massive great secret like this?

“Bex, didn’t you know anything about it?” says Suze in a low voice.

“Nothing.”

“Why would your dad hide something like that?”

“I have no idea. It’s weird.”

“Is your dad secretly a billionaire?” Her eyes widen.

“No! No. He can’t be!”

“I don’t think Corey sends your dad much,” says Raymond, who’s blatantly listening in. “It’s more of a token between friends. A few thousand dollars, maybe.”

A few thousand dollars…every year…And, like a flash, it hits me. The BB. Dad’s Big Bonus.

He’s had these bonuses my whole life. He’s always told us they come from consultancy work and has taken us out for treats, and we’ve all raised a glass to him. Do the big bonuses come…from Corey?

I look at Suze, and I can see she’s had the same idea.

“The BB,” she says.

One year Suze was staying with us when Dad got it, and he bought her a Lulu Guinness bag, even though she kept saying, “Mr. Bloomwood, you mustn’t!”

“The BB.” I nod. “I think that’s it. It’s not consultancy. It’s this spring.”

My head is spinning. I need to talk this out. My dad has a whole secret thing going on. Why didn’t he tell us?

“Does Corey know Brent was evicted?” Suze is asking Raymond.

There’s a pause. Raymond shifts around a little in his chair and stares out the window. “I believe your dad told him. I believe your dad was appealing to Corey for a financial settlement for Brent.”

“So that’s what he’s been trying to ‘put right.’ ” I glance at Suze. Now it’s all starting to make sense. “And what did Corey say?”

“I believe Corey refused.”

“But you didn’t get involved?”

Raymond gazes steadily back at me. “Not my life.”

I can’t believe how much I loathe this man. He’s just bowed out. Looked the other way. It’s all right for him, living off his lucky investment, with his pottery and his ranch and his messy house. What about Brent? Brent who probably doesn’t even have a house?

Tears have started in my eyes. I feel so proud of my dad, standing up for his old friend, trying to right this wrong.

“Doesn’t Corey feel guilty?” persists Suze. “Weren’t you all supposed to be friends?”

“Well. It’s more complicated than that with Brent and Corey.” Raymond steeples his fingers. “It all goes back, you see.”

“To what?”

“Well, I guess you could say it goes back to Rebecca.”

Both Suze and I inhale sharply. I feel my skin prickling all over. Rebecca.

“Who…what…” My voice isn’t working properly.

“We need to know who Rebecca is,” chimes in Suze firmly. “We need to know what this is all about. Start from the beginning and don’t leave out a single detail.”

She sounds just a teensy bit bossy, and I see irritation sweep over Raymond’s face.

“I’m not starting anywhere,” he lashes back. “I’m tired of rehashing the past. If you want to know about Rebecca, ask your dad.”

“But you have to tell us!” protests Suze.

“I don’t have to do anything. I’ve told you enough. Interview over.” He gets up, and before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbed Twice out of my hands. “Now, put down my piece,” he says, glowering at Suze. “And leave my property before I call the police.”

He looks quite menacing, and I gulp. Actually, it might be time to go. But as I get up from the sofa, I can’t help shooting him my most scornful look.

“Well, thanks for filling us in on the story. I’m glad you can sleep at night.”

“You’re welcome. Goodbye.” He jerks a thumb at the door. “Hey, Maria!” he adds in a yell.

“Wait! One more thing. Do you have any idea where my dad might be?”

There’s silence, and I can see in Raymond’s eyes the thoughts passing through his mind.

“You tried Rebecca?” he says at last—and again I feel a weird little zing at hearing my own name.

“No! Don’t you understand? We don’t know anything about Rebecca. Not her surname or where she lives—”

“Rebecca Miades,” he cuts me off shortly. “Lives in Sedona, about two hundred and fifty miles north of here. Your dad was talking about contacting her. She was there that night, see? She saw how the idea was born.”

She was there? Why didn’t he mention that before? I’m about to ask more—but before I can draw breath, the housekeeper arrives.

“Maria, show these girls out,” says Raymond. “Don’t let them take anything.”

Honestly. We’re not thieves.

And then, without another word, he opens the far door and stalks out of the studio into the yard. I can see him taking out a pipe and lighting it. I meet Suze’s eyes and I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing: What an awful, awful man.

—

My phone’s been on the whole time in my pocket. Which means, assuming that the signal was OK, Mum must have heard at least some of the conversation. I can’t quite face seeing her yet, so as soon as we’ve got through Raymond’s gates, I find a bare patch of ground and flop down. I text Luke: All fine, on way, and then sink back on the scrubby earth and look up at the huge blue sky.

I feel a bit overwhelmed, to be honest. I’m proud of my dad, trying to help out his old friend—but I’m kind of perplexed too. Why wouldn’t he tell us the truth? Why would he invent some “bonus”? Why the mystery, for God’s sake?

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” says Suze, echoing my thoughts. “We have to go to Sedona now.”

“I suppose so,” I say after a pause. Although the truth is, I’m a teeny bit over chasing my dad round the country.

I have a pang of longing for simple family life at home in Oxshott. Watching the telly and praising Mum for some Marks & Spencer ready meal and arguing over whether Princess Anne should cut her hair.

“I get that Dad wanted to make things right for Brent,” I say, still gazing at the blueness. “But why didn’t he tell us?”

“No idea,” admits Suze, after a pause. “The whole thing is just weird.” She sounds fairly wiped out too, and for a while we’re quiet, breathing in the arid air, feeling the American sun on our faces. There’s something about that great big sky. I feel a million miles from anyone. I feel like things are clearing in my head.

“This has been splitting us up too much,” I say suddenly. “This whole affair, everyone’s been split up. My mum and dad, you and Tarkie, my dad and me—we’re all splintering away into separate bits, with secrets and misunderstandings and confusion. It’s horrible. I don’t want to be separate anymore. I want to be solid. I want to be together.” I raise myself on one elbow. “I’m going to Sedona, Suze. I’m going to find my dad. Whatever he’s doing, whatever his plan is, he can do it with us alongside. Because we’re a family.”

“He can do it with me too,” says Suze at once. “I’m your best friend. I’m practically family. So count me in.”

“Count me in too,” comes a voice, and Luke appears round the bend in the road, holding Minnie by the hand. “We wondered where you’d got to,” he says mildly. “Darling, you can’t just go AWOL.”

“We haven’t gone AWOL; we’re making plans.”

“So I hear.” Luke meets my gaze with warm eyes. “And, like I say, count me in.”

“Count us both in,” says Janice eagerly, hurrying behind him. “I’m practically family, love. You’re right—it sounds like your dad needs a bit of moral support.”

“You can count me in too,” says Danny, appearing from behind Janice. “We heard the whole story over the phone. Jeez, that Corey! What a scumbag! And Raymond’s not much better. But your dad rocks. We should totally help him.”

He’s so animated, I feel a sudden tug at my heart. Danny’s an important person with a big career. He doesn’t have to be here. No one has to be here, in some remote corner of Arizona, focusing on an injustice that happened to my dad’s friend a long time ago. I mean, really. People must have better things to do, surely? But as I look around, I see a bank of such eager, loving faces, it makes me blink a little.

“Well…thanks,” I manage. “My dad would really appreciate this.”

“Becky?” We all look round and I see Janice wincing. Mum is trudging along the side of the road, and I can tell she’s in a bit of a state. Poor Mum. Her face is pink and her hair is askew.

“Why would he lie?” she says simply, and I can hear the hurt crackling through her voice.

“I don’t know, Mum,” I say hopelessly. “I’m sure he’ll explain….”

Mum’s hands are twisting at her pearls. Her Big Bonus pearls. Or do we still call them that?

“So we’re going to Sedona now?” She seems a bit defeated, as though she wants me to take the lead.

“Yes.” I nod. “It’s our best way of finding Dad.”

Plus—I don’t say this—it’s my best way of getting to meet my anti-namesake, Rebecca. And, honestly, I cannot wait.