V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

She left her car in the motor court at the beach house and tramped through the soft sand to the hard pack. She did her four miles on the beach, timing herself since she had no way to measure distances. Beach access was blocked in places, which forced her into detours that took her up a set of steep wooden stairs built into the hillside and through two gated communities otherwise closed to the public. She emerged on the two-lane road that passed in front of the Edgewater Hotel, pausing to allow two cars to pass. The first turned into the driveway leading to the hotel entrance. The second came to a stop. She heard a horn toot and looked over as the driver rolled down her window.

“I thought I recognized you,” the woman said, with what passed for gaiety. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

Imelda Malcolm lived two doors away from the Vogelsangs’ Montebello house. She was in her early sixties and bird thin, with sparse hair dyed a tawny shade. She pushed her sunglasses up on her head and her washed-out gray eyes were sharp. Imelda walked the neighborhood streets, and Nora had learned to avoid the woman by varying her time and route so their paths wouldn’t cross. Imelda was a vicious gossip, unapologetic about her rumormongering. Nora had joined her a few times just after they moved to town and noted that even in the open air, Imelda’s comments were made under her breath, as though the intimacies she passed along weren’t meant to be overheard. It gave Nora the uncomfortable sense that she was supporting Imelda’s malevolence.

“I like the occasional change of scene,” Nora said. “How about you?”

Imelda made a face. “I told Polly I’d sport her to a facial. You know Rex filed for Chapter 13 or maybe it was Chapter 7, I forget which. Talk about a low blow.”

“I heard. That’s too bad.”

“Horrible,” Imelda said. “Polly says she can’t bear to walk into the club, and not just because they’re so far in arrears. I’m sure Mitchell will find a way to let them know they’re not welcome anymore, though he has too much class to make a scene. She says the women aren’t actually cutting her, but the pity is more than she can stand. Have you seen her lately?”

“Not since New Year’s.”

“Oh, my god. She looks awful. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but I promise you she’s aged fifteen years. And she didn’t look that good to begin with, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

“I’m sure they’ll weather the storm,” Nora said. She glanced at her watch and Imelda picked up on the hint.

“I won’t keep you,” she said. “I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call you about bridge tomorrow afternoon. Mittie’s doing pre-op appointments for the work she’s having done, and I thought with Channing gone, you’d have time on your hands.”

“Won’t work,” Nora said promptly. “I have to be in L.A. I’m just waiting for a call back from our accountant to set a time. Besides, I haven’t played for months. I’d make a miserable partner for anyone.”

“Don’t be silly. This is four tables. Lunch and lots of wine so no one takes it seriously. We’re playing again on Friday, so I’ll put your name down.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you.”

“My house. Eleven thirty. We’re usually done by three.”

She did a little finger wave, rolled up her window, and glided away.

Nora closed her eyes, so irritated with the woman she could hardly move. She loathed presumption. She loathed the sort of female aggression Imelda wielded as a matter of course. As soon as she reached the beach house, she’d call and leave a message on Imelda’s answering machine saying she’d forgotten a prior engagement. So sorry. Kiss, kiss. Maybe another time. Imelda would know she was lying, but what could she do? Nora continued to the seawall and picked her way down the battered concrete stairs that put her back on the beach. If Imelda ever got wind of Nora’s relationship with Dante, she’d have a field day.

In truth, she was embarrassed she’d slept with the man. What was the matter with her that she’d succumbed so easily? She knew there was anger at Channing buried in the act. What distressed her was the truth about herself embedded in her decision. Apparently, she didn’t require longevity or trust or the sanctity of marriage. All she needed was the opportunity and there she was, flinging off her clothes in a white-hot flash of desire. Granted, Dante was spectacular, giving and tireless and loving and complimentary—the latter being another source of dismay. Remembering certain things he’d said to her, she felt easily gulled, a woman so shallow that the slightest praise had her flat on her back with her legs in the air. Had Thelma surrendered as easily? Good wine, a few superficial strokes, and she’d hopped in the sack without regard to Channing’s marital status. Now Nora had tossed aside loyalty and fidelity, and while she was ashamed of her behavior, she was also unrepentant. The recollection made her shiver and the shivering made her smile.