LITMIR.BIZ

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facts about Marilyn Weaver’s only child. The result of a brief relationship with a violin maker in Chappaqua, New York, Sean had grown up with his father and a series of girlfriends, most of them opera singers or violinists.

      “I didn’t even know my mother was alive until my junior year at Columbia,” he said. “And I might never have found out if my father hadn’t needed a bill of sale for a rare violin when he was in Europe on business. He told me where to find the key to a safe-deposit box, but he had forgotten what was in it besides the piece of paper he needed.”

      Sean chuckled, but he didn’t sound very happy.

      “If only he had asked his latest girlfriend. I could have lived out my life in blissful ignorance.”

      “What was in it? Your birth certificate?”

      “No,” Sean said. “A packet of letters. Letters to me that my father had never shown me. Marilyn started writing the day she left: April 16, 1982. I was nine months old.”

      Sean picked up his glass and took a long drink.

      “I grew up believing my mother had died giving birth to me. When I found out she was alive, I decided to find her. Didn’t take long.”

      What did the letters say? Why did she leave? I wanted to ask. But it seemed too prying, so I just took another sip of wine.

      “My mother’s always on the run,” Sean said, “in case you haven’t already noticed.”

      “Busy, you mean?” I said. “Yeah, she’s got enough energy for three—”

      “No,” Sean said. “I mean on the run. On the lam. Running away. But she’ll never make it.”

      Now I was completely baffled.

      “After I found out she existed, my father filled in a few gaps, and I did some research on my own,” Sean went on. “Her maiden name was Canaday, and she grew up in Seattle. But her mother’s family was from Montana, and Marilyn spent every summer on her uncle’s ranch near Flathead Lake. The Lazy B. Her uncle, a guy named Chuck Beeman, was pretty famous for his rodeo stock.”

      “Beeman—as in Beeman Hall at the school?”

      “Yeah, it’s named for—well, the whole family.”

      “So, Charlene’s a Beeman?”

      “Her mother was,” Sean said. “At least I think that’s how the connection works.” He shook his head. “I sure never dreamed I’d wake up one day and find out I’m related to a bunch of cowpokes.”

      I smiled. “Sounds like Charlene’s a really good cowpoke, at least. She’s doing really well in the cutting horse trials.”

      “I don’t doubt it,” Sean said. “She’s had a lot of—support.”

      He paused and looked at me, thoughts moving behind his eyes. I thought he might launch into a longer story, but instead he smiled.

      The only other fact I’d learned about Sean by the time we stepped back out into the evening heat was that his last name was DuBois.

      “Just like Blanche,” he said, “and I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

      It was still oppressively hot as Sean walked me to my minivan. It’s at moments like these that I wish my parents had chosen something slightly more hip as a college graduation gift. Tapered at both ends and painted white, the van immediately inspired my best friend to christen it “The Maxi Pad.” I still call it “The Max,” but only because nobody in Las Vegas knows why.

      But if Sean thought my wheels were less than cool, he didn’t let on.

      “Do you have to be anywhere right away?” he asked. I told him about my house-sitting gig. I had packing to do.

      “I have a house to babysit this weekend, too,” he said. “My mother’s. She’s going to a meeting in Carson City, and Curtis is off entertaining clients in Palm Springs. I’m their designated cockatiel nanny.”

      “Good luck—”

      “Here’s an idea,” Sean said, leaning in between me and my car door. “Why don’t you follow me to Marilyn’s? It’s near here, and we can order a pizza. You’ve got to eat, don’t you?”

      “Well—”

      “We can go swimming, too, if you’ve got a suit.”

      How could I say no? My well-stocked gym bag was riding shotgun in my van.

      Chapter 7

      Marilyn Weaver’s house was in San Ramon, a gated community just east of Las Vegas Boulevard. I followed Sean through the main gate, which swung open magically in front of his BMW. The houses inside the enclave were all large, and many of them were huge. Each one occupied its own oasis of manicured landscaping. I followed Sean around a traffic island and pulled up next to him in a wide driveway in front of a three-car garage.

      I slung my backpack over my shoulder and grabbed my gym bag. Crossing the front yard, an artful collage of lawn, gravel, and exotic-looking shrubs, I joined Sean at the ornate front door. He was staring at a blinking light on a panel just inside.

      “We’re lucky,” he said. “They didn’t set the alarm when they left. I know the code, but I’m always afraid I’ll call the police instead of disarming it.”

      “Brrr,” I said as he shut the front door behind us. “This is serious air conditioning.”

      “Marilyn likes to freeze,” Sean said. “I’ll turn the thermostat up.”

      I followed him through the entry hall into an enormous high-ceilinged living room with an entire wall of plate glass windows. The hardwood floors were covered with oriental carpets, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanked a carved stone fireplace. Leather furniture and plenty of mahogany made the room sumptuous, but it was also warm and inviting.

      “Want something to drink?” Sean asked as we headed through a spacious dining room to the kitchen. “I only wish I had picked up some absinthe.”

      I laughed. “I’ve got to drive. Water would be nice.”

      “Sure I can’t tempt you with some champagne?” Sean said, pulling a bottle of Mumm out of the refrigerator. “Goes great with pizza.”

      I declined, and Sean didn’t push. I looked around the kitchen while he filled a glass with ice water for me and opened himself a beer. Like the living room, the kitchen was huge and opulent but also pleasant and homey.

      “I love this house,” I said, hoping the Nash place might be just a little like it.

      “Curtis and Marilyn bought it ten or so years ago when they got married,” Sean said. “I love it when they’re gone.”

      After Sean showed me the family room and introduced me to Frank Lloyd the cockatiel, he opened a glass door that led outside. Soon we were standing on the edge of a long rectangular swimming pool with a fountain and waterfall at one end. The whole yard looked particularly inviting in the raking rays of sunset.

      “Why don’t you change into your suit while I order a pizza?” Sean said, and I had to admit it was an enticing idea. I followed him back inside, where he led me to the bedroom wing.

      “Here you go,” he said, opening the door to a large bathroom tiled in pale peach. “Towels in the cabinet.”

      He shut the door behind him, and I surveyed the room. It was messier than I expected after what I’d seen in the rest of the house. The countertop next to one of the sinks was littered with hairbrushes, a couple of cosmetic bags, and a clutter of hair clips, jars, tubes, and bottles. Some were tipped over. I pushed enough of the jumble aside to set my bags down. While I was extracting my bathing suit and beach towel, I noticed a wet washcloth in the sink. She must have been in a hurry, I thought, which would also explain the half-open drawer

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