Page 37 of Your Every Wish

We’re on our way home and it feels like we’re fleeing a crime scene. And for what?

After all that sawing with a butcher knife, dust from the sheetrock, cleanup from the mess, and trying to leave everything exactly the way we found it, all we got for our trouble was a book on gambling.

The Sports Gambling Bible. Stuck between the pages was a piece of paper containing a row of hand-scrawled numbers.

Probably the odds for horses at Belmont Stakes.

In Liam’s infinite wisdom, we snapped pictures of the book and the paper before tucking everything back inside the hidey-hole. No harm, no foul, right? Except we’re right back where we started.

Liam pulls off the interstate for a rest stop, so we can use the bathroom and freshen up. We’ve been going for nearly thirty-six hours without sleep. When we get to Cedar Pines I’m going to stay in bed for a week.

A sharp, cold wind cuts through me as Emma and I cut across the parking lot to the restrooms. We’re on something Emma calls the Grapevine. I thought it was supposed to always be warm in Southern California.

We each take a stall, then wordlessly wash our hands and face at the sad excuse for a mirror in front of the sinks.

“Well, that was fun,” Emma says as we turn to leave.

I shoot her a look. “As soon as we get home, I’m going to strangle Misty.”

“Ah, leave the lady alone. For all we know those numbers hold the meaning to world peace.”

“More like some imbecilic betting strategy on a baseball game. ”

“Then why go to such great pains to hide it?” Emma says. “The more I think about it, the more I think Misty may be onto something. It’s important. We just don’t know why yet. ”

We find Liam at the van with his nose buried in his phone. “I’m trying to decode these numbers.”

“If nothing else we always have the Mossad guy. Maybe he’ll know.” I’m joking, of course, but as a last resort we could always hit him up. I get in the back seat, hoping to catch some sleep for a few hours, then maybe food. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

Somewhere around Sacramento I wake up with a crick in my neck. Emma and Liam are quietly talking in the front seat. It’s light outside, probably close to nine in the morning, or even ten.

“Can we hit a drive-through? I’m starved.” And thirsty. My throat is sore and I’m freezing. I better not be coming down with something.

Emma turns around. “We thought we’d try to make it all the way home. I don’t think my stomach can handle a greasy breakfast sandwich and I feel too grubby to go to a real restaurant. If you can go another hour, I’ll make us pancakes and bacon when we get home.”

That sounds so good my mouth waters. “Works for me. You two figure out the numbers while I was asleep?”

“Nope. But it’s got to be some kind of code,” Liam says. “I’ll do some research when we get home.”

Liam is a smart guy. Every morning when I pass his trailer during my runs, he’s outside, sitting in a folding chair with his nose in a book.

And he can fix anything. Half the residents in the park send him their broken toaster ovens, microwaves, computers, anything electric for him to work his magic.

As far as I can tell he does it free of charge.

He’s been cagey about what he actually does for a living. Emma and I have spent hours trying to guess. Maybe he’s the one who’s a secret agent for Mossad, or the CIA, or MI6, though he doesn’t have a British accent.

He’s certainly taken with Emma and looks for every excuse to be around her, even if it means committing a few felonies.

Dex can’t even summon the energy to drive his lazy ass up here on the weekends.

I suspect the only reason he visits her at all is because he’s horny.

I don’t understand what she sees in the guy.

Then again, I don’t see what Madge sees in Max.

Or Lorelie in her stunted boy toy. As my former personal trainer used to say, “You can be unhappy all by yourself.” In Madge’s case, it would be a lot cheaper.

In any event, I’m rooting for Liam, even though he doesn’t stand a chance in hell.

* * *

It’s two days after we broke into Willy’s house and Misty’s been avoiding me. Twice, I’ve gone over to her trailer to have her do her woo-woo crap with the numbers we found. Twice, she shooed me away, saying she was too busy.

I have a good mind to put Cedar Pines Estates on the market just to spite her.

Tonight, I’m not going to be ignored, to quote Fatal Attraction . Emma’s with dickhead Dex, who—wait for it—drove up on a weekday because he missed her. Yeah, right. He drove up to get himself some.

To give the two lovebirds space, I grab a bottle of white out of the fridge and hoof it to Madam Misty’s for some quality time.

She’s thrilled that I’ve showed up uninvited, I can tell.

“I was just about to turn in for the night,” she says and starts to close the door.

Not so fast. I manage to wedge my foot in the way and let myself inside. “It’s not even eight. And I’ve brought wine.” I hold up the bottle.

She eyes the bottle. “Fine, but an hour max. Then I have to go to bed. It’s been a long day and I like to get up at dawn and watch the sun rise.”

“You have an opener for this?”

“Come into the kitchen. Where’s your better half?”

“What a sweet thing to say. Emma’s with Dickless Dex. I’m sure we have you to thank for that.”

“Ah, it’s working.” She rubs her hands together, ecstatic with herself.

“Did you mix him a love potion?” It’s all I can do not to barf.

“You watch too many movies. Here, hand me that.” She pulls the bottle of wine away from me, tired of watching me methodically remove the protective foil wrapping around the cork. “If you must know, I got inside his head, found the one thing that makes Dex tick.”

“And what is that?” Killing kittens? Drinking lamb’s blood? Disappointing Emma?

Misty uncorks the wine and pours us each a glass. “Winning. Dex loves to win and hates to lose.”

Don’t we all?

“Yeah, so how does that help Emma?”

“By giving Dex some competition.” Misty’s lips curve up. “Liam.”

“Seriously? This is what you call witchcraft? Because I call it the oldest trick in the book. Lame, Misty. You’re better than this.” I take my wine to the living room. Despite the cutesy signs and all of Misty’s crocheted dollies, it’s more comfortable here than standing around the kitchen.

“Hush. It’s working, isn’t it?”

I doubt it. What’s working is Dex’s need to insert his penis somewhere other than his hand. But I didn’t come here to quibble over Misty’s magical matchmaking skills, which aren’t all that magical.

“We’ll see.” I find space on the sofa, which is cluttered with her sewing accoutrements. “Are you still working on your costume?”

“It’s a complicated pattern, dear. All right, tell me what you found and what you didn’t find. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

I pull up the picture of the piece of paper we discovered in Willy’s wall and hand my phone to her. “This.”

She studies the picture for a few minutes, zooming in with her fingers. “Where’s the original?”

“We left it, afraid it would implicate us in a crime. But the photo is good.”

“I need the original,” Misty says.

“Come on. What’s the difference? It’s a piece of white notepaper with some chicken scratches on it. It’s not The Da Vinci Code .”

“I can’t get a reading from a photograph. I need to feel the presence of the person who wrote these numbers. What they were thinking. What they were going through at the time.” She hands my phone back to me.

“Misty, what we did was illegal. We could go to prison for burglary—or worse.”

“I never told you to break into your late father’s house. That was not my suggestion at all.”

“I’m not saying you did. All I’m saying is we did our best to mitigate the situation by not taking anything, especially something that might be seen as evidence.

” Though what good would it do the authorities now that Willy is dead?

“And there’s no way we’re going back again.

Even if I were willing to risk it, that was our last chance.

The place goes on the auction block this week.

So this is what we have to work with.” I wave the picture on my phone in front of her for emphasis.

“I just need to know what the numbers mean or if they mean anything at all.”

“You give me such a headache. Or is it this wine?” She picks up the bottle from the coffee table and studies the label, then puts it down with a shake of her head. “Let me see the picture again.”

I slide her my phone. She blows it up and stares at it for what seems like an eternity. I start to explain our various theories, but she holds her hand up for me to be quiet and stares at the picture some more.

“I’m not getting anything,” she says, finally. “It’s completely stagnant. ”

“Take your time,” I say, starting to fear that Misty, my last hope, is a dead end. “Would it help if I set up the scene and describe the wall where we found it?”

“What would help is if you stopped talking.”

Surly much?

“It’s impossible.” She pushes the phone at me.

“Do you at least think it means something having to do with the golf bag or the money?” The money. I’d spent it a dozen different ways in my head. A new car with an air conditioner that works. A condo in one of those swanky new buildings in Summerlin. A real Birkin bag.

I’d buy my mother a place, too, if she promised to leave Max off the deed. And a car. Emma could get a place in San Francisco, maybe something with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. She could have a real office to write her column, instead of having to use the kitchen table.

“When we Skyped and I saw the wall, I felt it. The key. Not the actual key but the key to what you’re looking for. A roadmap.”

“But you don’t see it any more with the photograph.”

“I don’t see anything,” she says. “It’s just a picture. Perhaps that lawyer could pull some strings and get the original. Having that would help.”