Even as she spoke the words, Jessica’s mind was whirring with the knowledge the cops had had a suspect in the murder of Eleanor Lavelle—and the disappearance of Alicia—whom they’d never been able to track down.

9 JESSICA

9

JESSICA

The meeting with Catherine Tavernier was at her home and not, as Jessica had assumed, at the woman’s office.

South Oak Knoll Avenue was the kind of neighborhood where you needed a trust fund and an Ivy League education just to be allowed to deliver the mail to its residents. Multimillion-dollar homes sat back from a street lined on both sides by the eponymous oaks, many of the properties hidden away behind ornate wrought iron gates.

Jessica glanced down at her outfit and thought of Darla’s earlier disapproval. Maybe she should have worn heels and a cute pencil skirt or a smart pantsuit. At least made an effort to cover the tattoos. She quickly dismissed the thought with a muttered “Fuck it” and decided she really didn’t care what Catherine Tavernier thought of her sartorial choices. She was here as part of an investigation, not for a job interview.

Jessica double-checked the house number scrawled on a Post-it Note stuck to the dash and pulled up in front of twin gates flanked on either side by hedges as neat as a Brazilian wax. Before she had the chance to wind down the driver’s-side window and search for an intercom, the gates swung inward, permitting entry to the grounds of a stunning Spanish colonial–style house. The place had probably been built in the 1920s, but its gleaming white stucco exterior and red clay tiled roof were immaculate.

She parked in the driveway next to a noisy water fountain feature and made her way toward the front door. It opened to reveal a thin, birdlike woman with sharp features and short gray hair, wearing a cream silk blouse and navy slacks.

“Ms. Tavernier?”

The woman looked nothing like the pictures Jessica had seen online, but she held out her hand anyway.

The woman’s grip was weak and clammy. She smiled and shook her head. “I’m Iris—I’m Catherine’s housekeeper. You must be Jessica?”

She nodded.

“Please, come in,” Iris said, stepping aside so Jessica could enter the house. “Catherine is expecting you.”

Jessica walked into an impressive entrance hall dominated by a wood and wrought iron staircase and decorated with modern art canvases and giant vases that probably cost more than she made in a year. She kept her arms straight down by her side, careful not to bump into anything, and followed Iris into a room with high beamed ceilings, leather chesterfield sofas, and bookcases stuffed full of hardcovers.