“It found me. Penny is elderly, but don’t use that word around her. She’s what we’d call spry. Almost eighty and still walking three miles a day, gardening and playing the occasional game of tennis. But the problem with living forever, the money thins out eventually.”
“And she knows everything?” Emma asked.
He nodded. “As you wished. She said, ‘We’ve all hooked up with the wrong person here and there, poor girl.’ This little bungalow is a sort of guesthouse, a casita, though her house, the main house, isn’t that much bigger. Prepare yourself, it’s all quite small. She doesn’t need a keeper. No care involved. But a little bit of rent will probably help you both.” He shook his head. “I don’t know that you’ve ever lived in anything this simple, Em. It’s old, musty, small and tacky.”
“You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to it.”
* * *
The guesthouse was actually a remodeled freestanding garage with a wall and large picture window where the doors once were. The window looked out onto a pleasant tree-lined street. It was a tiny, two-room bungalow with a small bathroom and galley kitchen. A patio separated the guesthouse from Penelope Pennington’s two-bedroom house. “And of course you’re welcome to use the patio at any time,” Penny assured her. “And if you ever have any serious cooking to do, feel free to borrow my kitchen.”
It was an attractive little arrangement. Penny had the driveway removed years before and now there was a carport and storage unit. In front of both little houses and on either side of the driveway and carport were two small patches of grass, shrubs, trees and flowers. From the patio one could reach Emma’s little abode on the right or Penny’s on the left. A tall, white fence with a gate bordered the property.
It took less than half an hour to unload Emma’s small car. There wasn’t much furniture in the bungalow—a bed and bureau, a small table and two chairs, a couple of lamps, a small sofa and two armchairs. She had her own bedding and kitchenware. She found the guesthouse quaint and cozy. Her boxes and suitcases had yet to be unpacked, but she didn’t care. Lyle went off to a nearby market to get dinner, bringing Penny and Emma a huge Greek salad, some hummus, flatbread and a bottle of wine. They had their dinner at Penny’s, sitting around her little dining table, and Emma loved her at once.
Then at last it was just Emma and Lyle, sitting in her cozy living room with a final glass of wine. She sat in a musty old overstuffed chair upholstered with a floral pattern, her feet up on an ottoman that didn’t quite match. Lyle relaxed on the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table.
“This place really needs a fluff and buff,” he said.
“I love it,” she said. “I think this will be my reading chair.”
“How can you read with the flowers in that gaudy print screaming at you?”
She laughed at him.
“Have you given any thought to what kind of job you’re going to get?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, taking a thoughtful sip. “I was considering being a life coach. What do you think?”
“You can certainly provide plenty of experience with what not to do,” he said.
“I can honestly say I haven’t felt this relaxed in years,” she said.
Lyle was quiet for a moment. “Emmie, I don’t know what it’s going to be like for you around here. It’s a quiet town, but not without its resident gossips and petty meanness. Know what I mean?”
“I grew up around here, remember?” she said. “No matter where I go, it’s going to follow me. But I was never indicted for any crime. And believe me, they looked hard and long.”
“I just want you to be ready. In case.”
“In case people are nasty to me or snigger when I walk by? That’s why I came here rather than trying to find some new place where I could be a stranger with a new identity—everyone figures it out eventually. Lies don’t last—Richard was proof of that. Let’s just get it over with. I was married to the late Richard Compton, the infamous broker and thief. There’s no way to undo it. And I didn’t have to think about it long—the stress of trying to keep it secret is something I’m just not up to. I could change my name, color my hair, even get a nose job if I had any money, but eventually everyone is going to know it’s me. It’s hopeless, Lyle—Google me and see for yourself.”
“Under Emma Shay?”
“And Emma Shay Compton, Emma Compton, Emma Catherine Shay.”
“Dear God,” he groaned. “I hope it dwindles away quickly,” he said.
“It’s all on the record. Anyone who’s curious is welcome to read all about it. There are even a couple of books, though they’re not very accurate.”
“How’d he do it, Em?”
She knew exactly what he was talking about. Richard’s suicide. She took a breath. She was surprised he hadn’t just looked it up—it was splattered, like Richard’s brains, across all the papers and internet news sites.
“After he’d attempted to run via a colleague’s private jet with a fake passport, he was returned to jail and held without bond. The lawyers managed to negotiate house arrest with an ankle bracelet. After the guilty verdict was returned he tried to negotiate sentencing by giving up offshore account numbers, hoping to reduce his sentence. But no matter what, he was going to jail for a long time. He opened the hidden safe behind the bookcase in his home office, pulled out his loaded Glock and shot himself. In the head.”
Lyle shook his head. “He didn’t want to go to prison...”
“I’m sure it was more than that,” she said. “Oh, there was no doubt prison would be horrendous, but that’s not why he did it. There was no material wealth left. There were no more offshore or Swiss accounts. It was really over. He was going to go to prison for fifty years and even if he was paroled early or could escape, there was nothing to allow him to retire quietly in Aruba, or some other remote island. With his stash.” She sighed. “It was the most important thing to him. The wealth.”
“I’m surprised the police didn’t know about the safe or the gun,” he said. “Didn’t you say they searched the apartment?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know if they ever saw it—they weren’t looking for it. They confiscated his computers and lots of files from home and his office, all his electronics, but their warrant wasn’t for things like guns or drugs. I didn’t know about the gun.”
“Did he do anything at all to try to protect you?” Lyle asked.
She just shook her head.
“And after he was buried?”
“It was a couple of weeks yet until everything was gone and the paperwork on the auction and the sale of the apartment was final. I closed his office door and slept on a cot in the kitchen. It was the safest place for me. Marshals were watching the apartment and there was a doorman.” She made a face. “It was so horrible.”
“I’m only going to say this one more time, Emmie, then we’re moving on. I’m just so, so
