“But they’ve been divorced a long time. Were there still feelings between them?”
A warning rushes up my spine. What are they digging for here? I temper my reply. “Not feelings feelings. They were like siblings.”
“Hmm. More than that,” Vaca says.
“No,” I say dismissively. “It wasn’t that kind of relationship. He had some new girlfriend. Have you talked to her?”
“Norah Rivera,” he says. “We’d love to, but we can’t find her. She lived here when he died, but your stepmother kicked her out and we haven’t been able to locate her.”
“Meadow kicked her out?” I draw my brows down. “Why would she do that?”
“She said she wanted the house to be ready for your return.”
“Ah.” I lift my chin. That makes sense.
“Who inherits all this?” Vaca asks, spinning his finger in a circle. “The house, the restaurant?”
I sigh, cross my arms. “Me.”
“Nobody else gets any of it?”
“Not as far as I know. He didn’t have a wife, and Rory really, really didn’t want it. She was very clear about the house coming to me.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, she has a house in Santa Barbara that she’s worked her ass off on, and they love it. As for the restaurant, she never, ever wanted to be part of the restaurant business.”
“Not fair that one daughter should get everything and the other nothing, though. Is it?”
“It’s not nothing,” I say. “She inherits all of her mother’s property. And honestly, my dad didn’t do the fair thing. He did whatever the fuck he wanted, all of his life. Why should it be any different now?”
“That’s Meadow Sweet Farms? In . . .” Vaca flips through his notes.
“Ojai,” I supply.
The woman nods, but Vaca inclines his head. “If you hear from Norah, we would really like to speak with her.”
I lift my shoulders. “I wouldn’t know her. We’ve never met.”
“All right.” He holds up a business card and sets it down on the counter. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, give us a call.”
“Sure.”
The Brewed Bean is fairly busy when I first arrive, and it’s pleasurable to lose myself in physical activity, making espressos and lattes, delivering sandwiches, running dishes back to the kitchen. It’s a small staff, just me and the prep cook in the back, and whoever is upstairs roasting beans. I can smell them, and the scent layers over the top of brewing espressos with a heady depth that makes me remember I once read that the smell of coffee has healing properties. It’s so thick here that I wonder if it can also make you high. When things slow down, I run upstairs to see what they’re doing, but the room is empty.
By three, it has cleared out, only four or five tables. At one of them is a dark-haired woman I’ve seen here before, and at another a pair of businessmen talking over something that needs a lot of spreadsheets to explain, and in the prime corner, his back to the wall, his face toward the view of street and palm trees and ocean, is Ayaz. He was here when I arrived, and gave me a simple lift of the chin in acknowledgment, but has nursed the same cup of tea for two hours. I keep expecting that he’ll leave, but he’s writing on yellow legal tablets with a fountain pen. Quickly, slowly. Pause. I find myself looking at his lovely hands far too much.
Mind your own business.
Maybe it’s just waking up after being so constantly soaked in the poison of alcohol, but my body has been asking for attention, food and sleep, and now this, too. I want to feel hands on me. I want kissing and friendly engagement. Nothing deep or connected. Just sex.
The idea of poison makes me think about the detectives. Did someone poison my father? The idea seems absurd, and I can’t believe they’re taking it seriously. He had enemies, for sure, but did anyone hate him enough to kill him?
It’s hard to believe.
Across the room, Ayaz focuses on his tablet. From the corner of my eye, I admire the way light highlights his profile, and the pleasure it gives me is a warning that while the need for sex is pretty ordinary and addressable, maybe not with him. It feels like it could be too much, like I might want more.
The dark-haired woman, the one who’s been working on her computer, scribbling notes and nodding to herself, brings her ceramic cup to the counter. Her focus is impressive, and I’ve tried to leave her alone. Up close, she’s remarkably beautiful, with enormous dark eyes and shiny hair and poreless skin. “Can I get another cup, please? The Tiger Blend, with cream.”