Cover

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the women who keep on fighting.

With my sincere gratitude for endless patience and friendship to Sarah Jordan and Diane Flindt. For unfailing support to Jill Marsal. For invaluable help to Linda Ingmanson, Toni Lee, Mary-Theresa Hussey and Margie Lawson. For steadfast friendship and support to Patsy Keller. For early feedback to Deb Posey Chudzinski, Marcy Collins, Hilary Powell, Jo Dawson, Judy Wagner, Kaela Stokes, Audrey McDonald, Robin Diebold, Sue Cleereman, Linda Dossett, Sharon Ford, Dalice Peterson, Michelle Cox, Gretchen Coon, and Sue Chatterjee. And a huge thank you to all the wonderful friends on FB who helped me pick the cover art and provided encouragement along the way.

Chapter One

Emsley

The first time I saw the blue box of mystery was the last time I talked with my grandmother face-to-face.

“If you want to murder that cheating boyfriend of yours, I’m in,” she told me. “I thought about it, Emsley. I can’t help you bury his body, or Diya’s, but I can provide you with an alibi.”

She adjusted her Monet-print silk robe, blue-green with a smattering of purple water lilies, until it draped over her frail body just so. The goddess in repose. Stroke or no, prop-up bed or no, she was still Violet Velar, the Artist, the Diva, the toast of New York.

The cloud of disinfectant that hovered throughout the care center like highland mist in a Robinson Hall painting didn’t dare breach her room. Her perfume embraced me. Spicy, unrestrained, bold.

I plunked a stack of art magazines and auction catalogues on her nightstand. “We can let Trey live another day. He’s allowed to have a relationship with Diya, if that’s what they want. We’re business partners. I’m prepared to stick out the rough spots.”

“You could come back.”

I kissed her cheek. “You know New York is my Camelot.” The magical kingdom I always longed for. “But LA is my reality.”

New York auction houses seemed to have a secret charter that required auctioneers to look like the host of a British documentary series. You had to sound like you went to Cambridge in the sixties to be allowed on the stage.

“I’m not of a distinguished age, and here, that matters. I don’t have a stature that commands respect.” I turned down the metal bars around Violet’s bed that the new nurse liked to pop up for safety, but Violet hated. “And I’m not the preferred sex. I’m missing the dangly bits.”

She growled at that.

My sentiments exactly. “You know what Henry Fullerton told me when I asked for a promotion?”

“Henry was always an ass.”