Jessica very much doubted it, but she smiled politely as Catherine popped the cork on the wine bottle and poured generously into the two glasses. As she handed one over, Jessica noticed the woman was still wearing the driving gloves.

Catherine said, “Another bottle from the Napa Valley. It’s actually from a vineyard I bought some shares in last year. I do hope you like it.”

She watched as Jessica took a sip of wine. It tasted awful.

“Please tell me you like it,” Catherine said. “I’d hate to think I’ve wasted all that money on a bad grape. As you can imagine, Jessica, I’m very careful with my money.”

“It’s lovely,” Jessica lied.

It reminded her of terrible, cheap booze at frat parties while she was at college. She took another, longer sip and longingly eyed the bottle of Johnnie Walker sitting next to Catherine’s own wineglass, wishing she could pour herself another large measure of the far superior amber liquid. But she knew the woman really would be offended if Jessica switched to her own booze. She drank some more of the wine. It would at least help provide some much-needed Dutch courage for the conversation that was about to take place.

Jessica said, “As you know, Catherine, I’ve spent the last few days investigating what happened to Eleanor Lavelle and her daughter here in Eagle Rock twenty-five years ago. And I’ve, well, I’ve made some interesting discoveries.”

Catherine Tavernier’s immaculately groomed eyebrows arched slightly. “Really? How so?”

“You were right when you told me Eleanor was having an affair with a coworker at Tav-Con.”

Jessica drained the wineglass.

Catherine sipped delicately from her own. A slightly amused smile played at the edges of her collagen-plumped lips. “I see,” she said.

“There’s really no easy way to say this,” Jessica said. “Eleanor Lavelle was having an affair with Lincoln Tavernier. Your father.”

As soon as she’d seen the name scribbled on the pink Post-it Note, Jessica had realized the familiar man in the photo with Eleanor outside the Tahiti Club was the same one in the wedding photo she had seen at Catherine’s home in Pasadena.

Jessica stared at Catherine Tavernier now, expecting some kind of response. Shock, disbelief, surprise, anger, outrage. Something. The woman simply poured herself some more wine. “Top up?”

“No,” Jessica said. “I’m good.”

Catherine held up the bottle, wiggled it slightly. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a little more?”

“I don’t want any more wine. I’m not a big drinker.”

Catherine Tavernier laughed. It was a hard sound that grated on Jessica’s nerves.