Chapter 6
Chelle Cavendish lived in a mustard-yellow bungalow a few miles off the coast. I parked and made my way to the front door, stopping a moment to look at a mosaic of broken tiles, which framed the walkway and led to a rusted lawn flamingo guarding a pot of thriving succulents.
The door swung open before I had the chance to knock, and a woman smiled at me. She was barefoot and dressed in paint-splattered jeans and a loose pastel tunic that had seen better days. Her gray hair was piled on top of her head and had two pencils stuck through it.
“I’m guessing you’re Georgiana Germaine,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I’m Chelle. Whitlock called and told me you might stop by for a visit.”
“I’m following up on Holly’s case,” I said.
“Come on in but watch out for my cat. He’s a bit feisty with strangers.”
I walked into a living room crowded with mismatched furniture and shelves packed with pottery, seashells, puzzle globes, and vintage cameras. A single mural stretched across the far wall was painted in bright swirls of color that looked like a sunset on a bright summer day.
Chelle motioned toward a couple of chairs covered in pink sheets.
As she dropped into one of them, she turned toward me. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve just learned that Holly was adopted. You told Whitlock you didn’t know anything about it, which surprises me.”
“He’s right. I didn’t know about it.”
I searched her features for a tell, any sign she was holding something back, but she offered nothing.
“Celia was one of your closest friends,” I said. “A friend you’d known for decades. It’s hard for me to believe she kept the adoption a secret from you.”
“Celia guarded some parts of her life. We all do it on occasion, don’t we?” Her jaw shifted, a small tell, and she turned, glancing out the window. “We lost touch for a time after high school when she moved away for a while. When she returned home, we picked up right where we left off.”
“Do you have any children?”
“I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“Whitlock mentioned a photo album he found in Celia’s house. You were around so much, I bet you were like a second mother to Holly.”
Chelle narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at?”
“Why did you lose touch with Celia after she moved?”
“The move, it was … well, strange. She loved living in Cambria, so when she said she’d decided to move to Sedona, I was shocked.
I tried visiting, but for a while, all she gave me were excuses about why it wasn’t a good time.
And then when she did invite me, I found out she had a one-year-old daughter, and she’d married a guy named Lenny. ”
“Why do you think she took so long to ask you to come for a visit?”
“I’m not sure. My best guess is she thought I wouldn’t be fond of Lenny, and she was right. I didn’t care for him, and I told her as much. She thought if we all spent time together, I might change my mind, but I didn’t. If anything, it made it worse.”
“When did your friendship with Celia get back on track?”
“The day Lenny left her. She called me in a tizzy. She said he’d said he wasn’t cut out to be a husband or a father, and he wanted a divorce. I talked her into moving back here, and once she did, it was like no time had passed between us.”
I crossed one leg over the other, taking in the information she’d just given me.
“There’s something you should know about me.
When I’m seeking out the truth, I go to any lengths needed to get it.
If I have reason to believe you’re not being honest with me, I’ll start digging up your past, talking to anyone and everyone I can.
When I’m finished, I’ll know more about you than your own mother does. ”
She crossed her arms, huffing, “I didn’t have to invite you into my home, but I did. The way you just spoke to me is tactless and unprofessional. I’m trying to help. Can’t you see that?”
“Lying about the past isn’t helping, and it sure won’t solve Holly’s murder. Don’t you want justice?”
“Of course, I do.”
I’d rattled her, and yet, she hadn’t broken—yet.
Eyes brimming with tears, she blinked through them, struggling to keep her composure. “All I’ve ever wanted was to protect my friend, her legacy and that of her daughter. Is that so wrong?”
“If you have information that could lead me to Holly’s killer—yes. It is wrong.”
“What makes you assume I do?”
“When I entered your house, I noticed the photographs in your hallway. One stood out more than the rest, a collage of photos of Holly, starting with one that looks like it was taken right after she was born and then one to represent every year of her life thereafter, as indicated by the numbers beneath each photo.”
“What about it?”
“If you didn’t know about Holly until you visited Celia in Sedona, how do you have a photo of her right after she was born? You could say Celia gave you the photo at a later date, but I believe Celia may have kept in touch with you more than you’re letting on. Am I right?”
Chelle pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes as she took a deep breath in.
When she reopened them, she said, “You’re right.
I knew about Holly before my visit, but not long before.
Celia had a post office box, and that’s how we kept in touch.
In one of her letters, she told me she was adopting a little girl, but she’d decided never to tell Holly she wasn’t her biological mother. ”
“Do you know why Celia decided not to tell Holly about the adoption?”
“She wanted Holly to grow up feeling wanted and loved, and she thought if she told her the truth, she would feel abandoned by her birth mother.”
“I think that’s one reason why, but I believe there are others.”
“If there were, she didn’t share them with me.”
Chelle rubbed the back of her neck, wincing as though it was tender.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine. I pulled a muscle or something the other day, and I never know when it’s going to flare up.” She paused, then said, “It seems like the adoption angle is important to you. Why? Do you think it might have something to do with her murder?”
“After Holly found the adoption papers, she started searching for answers. She told one of her friends she thought she was being followed. If she was, I think she may have been murdered before she had the chance to get to the truth.”
“You should have said that from the start.”
She was right.
I should have.
“Did Celia ever mention anything about Holly’s biological parents?” I asked.
“Not by name,” Chelle said. “The night she moved back to Cambria, after I helped her get moved in, we cracked open a couple bottles of wine, and she said something I found odd.”
I leaned in, interested in what she was going to say next.
“After Celia’s third glass of wine, she told me one of Holly’s birth parents was famous.”
In terms of clues, it was a good one.
“Famous how?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I pressed her about it, and she clammed up. Never mentioned it again.”
I thanked her for her time, and she walked me to the door. When it swung open, a breeze moved through the porch, the spoon chimes on Chelle’s railing letting out a soft, metallic song.
As the door closed behind me, I stood on the walkway for a moment, taking in the ocean breeze, and thinking about the conversation we’d just had.
Holly’s adoption had taken on roots.
A famous parent.
A closed adoption agency.
A mother with a possible secret.
And Chelle, who’d just cracked the case wide open.