“Yikes. That’s quite an accusation.” I tried to chuckle but Lydia’s lips firmed, stopping me mid-chuckle.

“Not that you probably give a rat’s ass, Pauline, but Devin McCloud was a carpenter. No, not even a real carpenter. One of those handymen who worked his way into my aunt’s house and into her…freaking bed.” She shivered.

So did I. Ick was right.

“Anyway,” she continued without my prodding, “the guy isn’t around more than two months, and they get hitched. Freakin’ hitched. I think he found out some dirt on Auntie, but I never could prove it.”

Either that or he was damn good in the sack.

I stared at her over the rim of my teacup. For a teenager, she sounded so astute. How in the world would she suspect such things-and how in the world did old Devin manage all that? “That must have upset the entire family.”

She licked chocolate from her finger and looked at me. “I’m the only freaking blood relative, Pauline, and I’d rather commit suicide than be considered family to those two.”

Speechless was not usually in my autobiographical vocabulary-however, Lydia had me momentarily unable to comment. I kept watching her and thinking, Man, what do I say to that one?

Finally I yanked my sanity back and said, “Suicide? That’s pretty heavy-duty stuff, Lydia. I’m sure you don’t mean it.” I tried to sound as serious as I felt, so she couldn’t back away from my comment. However, with teens nowadays, you never knew.

Instead she leaned closer, actually grabbed me by the arm and said, “Suicide would be a welcome relief compared to living with those two.”

All the way back to Highcliff, I couldn’t help but think of the pain in Lydia’s eyes and the suicide statement from someone so young. Someone who should be looking forward to her entire life-and enjoying the heck out of her youth.

Then I thought of her situation. Where were her parents? Why live with an aunt? Why would that aunt marry some assumed gigolo who was young enough to be her son, according to Lydia?

By the time I walked into the driveway, I had no answers and only more questions. So I decided I’d get right to a source that might help me with my dilemmas.

When I walked into the lobby, I noticed Goldie sitting on the high-back chair near the fireplace talking to a few women. They were chatting and laughing, so I merely waved and headed to the reception desk-to my new buddy.

Ian sat with his back toward me while he typed away on the keyboard. If only I could stand there innocently and read over his shoulder. But the guy had radar like a bat and turned as soon as I let out what I thought was a very silent breath.

How come he couldn’t have been some hard-of-hearing old geezer of a receptionist?

“Hey, Ian.” I eased closer and wanted to sit on the edge of the counter, but knew he wouldn’t go for that.

“Pauline. Leaving for the day?”

I’m sure you wish. “Oh, no. Just back from lunch. I love that Market on the Boulevard. Their clam chowder is to die for.”

Did he just flinch?

It looked as if he did, but Ian was a pretty up-tight kind of guy so just my being here could make him flinch or any other number of negative behaviors. It wasn’t that I didn’t think he liked me, more that he liked Goldie better and I was a reminder that maybe he didn’t float Goldie’s boat. I’m sure he blamed it on me somehow.

“Ah…yeah. Great stuff. Need something?” he asked.

“Nope. Why would you think I needed something?”

He swung around to his computer, wiggled the mouse and clicked to that paradise scene on his wallpaper. Guess he didn’t worry about being too obvious that he was hiding something from me.

And here I was just a plain old private-duty nurse. Why would the guy act like that with me? Unless…he had such a guilty conscience that anyone that came near his precious files was automatically disliked.

Dear Ian, just what are you hiding?

The guy sat there on the mahogany desk chair, at the mahogany counter, looking oh so cute and innocent yet acting like one of the queen’s foot guards at Buckingham Palace.

I was no dummy. I needed reinforcements.

While Ian kept his back to me, I looked over at Goldie and gave him a mental Help! over and over until he looked up. Man. That actually worked. Or else he just happened to look up. I chose to think I had some kind of special connection and/or powers. I winked at him and motioned with my head.

In seconds my friend was next to me and making small talk with Ian the guard, who at this point would have let me raid his computer without a thought while he drooled over Goldie.

Sure I felt guilty-but only for a few seconds.

Before I knew it, miraculously, Goldie had Ian up and walking toward the back patio to get a cup of tea! For a few minutes I stood there in awe until I realized it was my chance to do the real work that brought me there.

The women in the living room area were so preoccupied at looking in the many mirrors that decorated nearly every wall in the place and with chatting like a Stepford wives’ coffee klatch, I felt I could make this move unhindered.

My theory-which I’d just developed, by the way-was that if you acted nonchalant and like nothing was wrong and like you belonged, no one would question you. So I walked purposefully behind the desk, gave a quick look toward the patio door, to see it was empty, and sat in Ian’s chair. Thank goodness I was shorter than he because once I was down, no one could see me behind the counter.

Luckily he hadn’t stuck the computer into some security mode where I’d need a password. Thank you, Saint Theresa. Then again, maybe Goldie’s presence had made poor Ian so nervous that he forgot. Either way, I was happy. Not being the most computer savvy girl in the world, I clicked and fiddled until I found the Window’s Explorer icon. When I opened it, my heart sank.

Ian had some weird code name system for all the files. How the heck did the other receptionists follow along? Then again, noting the way Ian had been with me, I’d bet he “volunteered” to do all the files and computer work himself, leaving them to only answer the phones and “guests’” questions.

Very clever guy that Ian.

But was he somehow involved in the fraud and knocking me over-not to mention Mr. Baines’s murder?

My heart skipped a few needed beats on that one. Just the mention of the word did that to me since I changed professions mid-career. Sure I’d dealt with death in nursing, but murder took on a whole new meaning-and not a very pleasant one.

Little Mary Sunshine. Darth Vader. Brad Pitt. Johnny Depp. I took a moment to sigh. Little Red Riding Hood and Alice out of Wonderland. What the heck kinds of file names were those? I didn’t have time to open and close each one so I had to make a judgment call here.

What would Ian title his most secret file?

I ran the cursor along the right column to scan down the list of file names on the left side. Suddenly one caught my attention. All the others had been capitalized but not this one: ff.

At first I thought it a typo, then I leaned back in my chair. Frequent fliers. Ian had called the repeat customers “frequent fliers.” I clicked on the file folder icon and opened a document that listed familiar names like Daphne Baines, Devin McCloud, and Babette LaPierre. Ian had been wrong though. There weren’t only seven names listed.

There were twelve.

And all files were dated within the last six months.

Because of Lydia, I clicked on Devin’s file first. “Oh…my…God!” snuck out before I could swallow it back. The before and after and after and after photos of the guy were unbelievable. He’d started out looking as if he’d spent way too much time in the sun and at a young age, and thus had more wrinkles than a Chinese shar-pei. Not only was his nose bigger than needed, but it also seemed too far up on his face.