Dying for the Highlife Read Free

The Rosewood was a venerable, elegant bar. The room was shaded in tones of dull green and rich timber, and the seating was private and shadowy. An antique chandelier cast a smattering of faint gold light over the cocktail tables.
    “You were about to give me the background on your stepson,” I said.
    She turned toward me, and the edge to her eyes softened a bit.
    “Jimmy was a kid that could have had anything he wanted,” she said. “He had brains, he was charming and good looking, very athletic, and very popular. But at some point—it must have been when he was nineteen or twenty—it became clear to me he wasn’t interested in making much of himself.”
    “That’s a pretty young age for a parent to draw that kind of conclusion. Maybe he was still sowing his wild oats.”
    “Yeah, if sowing his wild oats meant ripping off his friends and dealing drugs. He also refused to get a job or go to college. Then he was arrested for DUI, and later for possession of a controlled substance. After that, he started drifting, moving from one town to another. I think he became a heavy drinker, like his father, and also I suspect he was hooked on drugs.”
    “Did you or Mr. Homestead try to help him?”
    “I thought we should have intervened in his life. But John didn’t have any interest.”
    “Didn’t want to bother with his own son?”
    “That about sums it up,” she said, then her brow creased and she took a long breath. “I made a huge mistake in my life when I was a very young woman. I think I must have been looking for a father figure when I married John Homestead. I was seventeen and he was twenty-eight, and he had two sons from a previous marriage. At the time, I’m sure I thought he was very mature and dashing.”
    “But you found out otherwise,” I said, sipping my bourbon rocks.
    “Yes, I did, and then some,” she sighed. “He was a violent drunk, and a stupid, gullible man.”
    “When did you leave him?”
    “After ten years, ten really lousy years, I divorced him. I’ve spent the last twelve years rebuilding my life. It hasn’t been easy.”
    I did the math in my head, trying to figure her age. Almost forty, if she was telling the truth. She didn’t look it.
    “My ex-husband caused me a lot of grief, both during our marriage and during the divorce. At one point I feared for my safety. But there’s something else…” Her lips became a tight line, and she turned toward the windows. I studied her profile, thinking how perfect her features were, and then I saw her eyes were wet.
    She dabbed at her nose with a cocktail napkin and didn’t look at me when she spoke.
    “Before he left home for good, Jimmy raped me.”
    I looked out the window behind her, into the black sky. I became aware of sounds I hadn’t noticed before: the clinking of glasses, muted tones of conversation, piano music, and occasional laughter.
    “Did you report it to the police?” I asked.
    “No,” she whispered.
    “Did you tell your husband?”
    She wouldn’t look at me, and I sat and waited while she stared out over the forest at Lake Tahoe. Her eyes looked as dark and liquid as the surface of the lake.
    “I never told anyone. Until now,” she said, a network of tiny wrinkles emerging around her eyes. I picked up her martini glass and went to the bar for another round. I took my time, and saw her reapplying her lipstick when I looked in the bar mirror.
    When I sat back down across from her, her face was cool and distant.
    “It was a terrible time in my life. Do you really need to know any more about it?” she said.
    “Not right now.”
    “Good.”
    “But I’ll need you to tell me as much as you know about Jimmy’s recent history. Where he’s worked, girlfriends, running buddies, where he’s lived.”
    “Hmph,” she said. “He’d spent some time as a house painter—on and off, I suppose, but that was at least ten years back. I heard he’s done some restaurant work too—washing dishes, and he’s been a