Page 61 of Ten Beach Road

There was the creak of floor above them and a cell phone rang. They froze and reached for their phones, but it was coming from upstairs, the melody loud in the quiet of the house.

“That isnota ringtone of Ethel Merman singing ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business,’ ” Maddie whispered. “Is it?”

Avery shrugged, and then like a Special Forces person on television, she executed a series of hand motions meant to signal them to the back stair and herself to the front. The Singers rolled their eyes at her.

As she crept silently up the front stair, trying to avoid the known squeaks, a vaguely familiar scent tickled Avery’s nose, trumping the smells of sawdust and cleaning products. She sniffed the heavy floral scent for a moment, not quite able to place it, then drew a steadying breath before climbing the rest of the way up to the second-floor landing, reaching it at just about the same time as Maddie and Kyra.

A sliver of light spilled into the hallway from the master bedroom. There was a murmur of a female voice and the occasional quick click of heels on wood. Avery inched forward and pushed the bedroom door open another crack. A mound of expensive luggage sat in the middle of the bedroom floor and an even more expensive briefcase leaned against one wall.

“Great,” Maddie said, still brandishing her weapons. “Maybe someone got their hotel reservations wrong. Do you think they thought they were checking into the Don CeSar?”

Avery looked up at the ceiling and the large amoeba-like stain around the hole that had been patched. The moldy green shag carpet and most of its bad smell were gone, but the longneglected wood floor underneath was in desperate need of attention. “Not unless they’re blind and have lost their sense of smell,” she said. “And I don’t think there are too many homeless people with a matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage.”

The click of heels drew closer and they all turned to the double doorway that led to the dressing room and master bath. Kyra raised her camera to her eye. Maddie held the knife and phone out in front of her. Despite the signs that they were not dealing with a violent intruder, her hands trembled slightly.

Feeling incredibly stupid, Avery raised the two-by-four up over her head. Just in case.

The doors flew open and the familiar smell snapped into place in her memory. A beautifully dressed and perfectly coiffed woman posed in the opening. “Darling,” the woman said with a look of delight. “Trent told me what was happening, and I thought you might need my services. And now I can see that you do.”

She walked forward sort of like Lauren Bacall or Bette Davis in one of those old glamorous black-and-white movies—moving shoulders and lots of hip sway.

“I hope you don’t mind that I put my things in the master. It looked unoccupied.” Her smile dimmed but only slightly. “But, of course, that was before I realized that the bathroom wasn’t functional. And, of course, there is no bed.”

Avery couldn’t think of a thing to say. Slowly she lowered the piece of wood still clutched in her hand.

Kyra kept filming. She actually moved to get a wider angle of the three of them. Maddie lowered the knife and her phone, but she still looked uncertain.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling?”

Avery gritted her teeth. A burglar would have been preferable. As far as she was concerned even Norman Bates from the Bates Motel would have been more welcome. It already required all of her self-control to work with Chase Hardin. Throwing Deirdre into the mix was cruel and unusual punishment.

“Deirdre, this is Madeline Singer, one of my partners in the house, and her daughter, Kyra.” Avery clenched her jaw in an effort to prevent all of the things that threatened to slip out as recognition dawned on their faces. “Maddie, this is Deirdre Morgan, well-known interior designer to the stars.”

It was hard to believe that there were degrees of comfort when sleeping on the floor, but there were. After drinking half of their remaining bottle of red wine with her nose scrunched up so as not to actually taste it, Deirdre had passed on Maddie’s offer of a blow-up bed and commandeered Avery’s mattress instead along with what felt like most of the air in Avery’s room.

Avery had spent the entire night trying to find a comfortable position on the twin-sized air mattress and failing miserably; she was small and didn’t hang over the sides, but she was not a child. So she’d lain in the room like the slave who waited on the queen, listening to her mother’s breathing while trying to figure out why Deirdre was there and how to best get rid of her. She didn’t fall asleep until just before sunrise.

It was ten A.M. before she stumbled into the bathroom to splash water on her face and hurriedly brush her teeth. Male voices floated up from outside; the female voices rose from downstairs. She followed the latter into the kitchen and found Deirdre at the head of the kitchen table apparently holding court. Maddie, Kyra, Chase, and Nicole sat in a semicircle around her.

“Ah, there she is,” Deirdre cooed when Avery stepped into the kitchen. “My, you’re a sleepyhead.”

Avery stopped where she was. Deirdre was impeccably dressed and fully made-up as if she and not Nicole had just returned from a pampered weekend in Palm Beach. “Sleepyhead? Try, mercifully glad to have finally fallen asleep at all. It was bad enough having to give up my mattress, but the snoring? Oh, my God! It was like trying to sleep on train tracks.”

Deirdre laughed, a beautiful tinkly laugh, which Kyra captured on video. “I’m so sorry to have usurped your mattress, Avery. But I do not snore. I’ll get a bed delivered as soon as possible.” She sounded like the Queen of frickin’ England.

Avery poured a cup of coffee, using the time to tamp down her panic and irritation, and took the only empty seat next to Chase. The others looked surprised at Deirdre’s apparent intention to move in, but no one voiced the slightest opposition.

Kyra lowered her video camera. “Your mother knows people who know people in Hollywood.” Her voice hummed with an odd sort of excitement. “Apparently Daniel Deranian’s wife, Tonja Kay, is moving into a house of her own. Without Daniel.”

Maddie shot her daughter a worried look, but Kyra just lifted the camera back to her eye and smiled happily. It was the most animated Avery had seen her.

“Your mother did a walk-through a little while ago, and she has some really great ideas for the house,” Maddie said, shooting Avery a silent look of apology. The rest of them were smiling and nodding at Deirdre. Much like Avery used to do onHammer and Nail.

Avery paused with the cup midway to her lips. “Really.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” Deirdre answered. “The bones of this house are just magnificent. Chase says much of what it needs at this point is cosmetic rather than structural and, well, thatismy area of expertise.” She smiled as if that was that and that explained everything.

“But we don’t know why you would want to be involved in this . . . project,” Avery replied. “I don’t remember anyone here placing a call to you asking for your help. And as I do remember, you couldn’t wait to get out of Florida. You couldn’t shake the sand off your shoes fast enough.” Ditto for her husband and child.

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