Genuine Lies

like
incredible.
“How long have you worked for her?” “Technically just a couple years, but I’ve been underfootas long as I can remember. Aunt Dottie used to let me come over on weekends, and during the summer.”
    “Aunt Dottie?”
    “Travers.”
    “Travers?” Julia nearly choked on her coffee, trying to equate the stern-mouthed, suspicious-eyed housekeeper with the expansive CeeCee. “She’s your aunt?”
    “Yeah, my dad’s big sister. Travers is like a stage name. She did some acting back in the fifties, I think. But never really hit. She’s worked for Miss B. forever. Kind of weird when you figure they were married to the same man.”
    This time Julia had the sense to lower the coffee cup before attempting to drink. “Excuse me?”
    “Anthony Kincade,” CeeCee explained. “You know, the director? Aunt Dottie was married to him first.” A glance at the clock had her straightening from her slouch against the counter. “Wow, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a ten o’clock class.” She bolted toward the living room to gather up books and bags. “I’ll be here tomorrow to change the linens. Is it okay if I bring my little brother? He really wants to meet Brandon.”
    Julia nodded, still trying to catch up. “Sure. We’d be glad to have him over.”
    CeeCee shot a grin over her shoulder as she raced for the door. “Tell me that after he’s been around for a couple of hours.”
    Even as the door slammed, Julia was sharpening her thoughts into calculations. Anthony Kincade. That bitter mountain of flesh had been husband to both the glamorous Eve and the monosyllabic housekeeper. Curiosity sent her bolting through the living room, into her temporary office and to her reference books. For a few minutes she mumbled and swore to herself, trying to locate what never seemed to be in the last place she’d left it.
    She would get organized, she would, she swore to whatever saint watched over distracted writers. Right after she satisfied her curiosity, she’d spend an hour—okay, fifteen minutes—putting everything in order.The vow apparently worked. With a crow of triumph she pounced. She found the listing quickly in
Who’s Who.
    Kincade, Anthony, she read. Born Hackensack, N.J., November 12, 1920 … Julia skipped over his accomplishments, his successes and failures. Married Margaret Brewster, 1942, two children, Anthony Jr. and Louise, divorced 1947. Married Dorothy Travers, 1950, one child, Thomas, deceased. Divorced 1953. Married Eve Benedict, 1954. Divorced 1959.
    There were two more marriages, but they didn’t interest Julia; it was too fascinating to speculate about the peculiar triangle. Dorothy Travers—and the name set off a faint bell in Julia’s head—had been married to Kincade for three years, and had bore him a son. Within a year of the divorce, Kincade had married Eve. Now Travers worked as Eve’s housekeeper.
    How could two women who had shared the same man share the same house?
    It was a question she intended to ask. But first she was going to show the anonymous notes she’d received to Eve, hope for a reaction, and perhaps an explanation. Julia pushed the reference book aside, her bargain with the long-suffering saint already forgotten.
    Fifteen minutes later Travers opened the door of the main house. Studying the woman’s set, dissatisfied face and paunchy build, Julia wondered how she could have attracted the same man as the stunning, statuesque Eve.
    “In the gym,” Travers muttered.
    “Excuse me?”
    “In the gym,” she repeated, and led the way in her reluctant style. She turned into the east wing and headed down a corridor with many intricate wall niches, each filled with an Erte statue. To the right was a wide arched window that opened onto the central courtyard, where Julia saw the gardener, Wayfarers and headphones in place, delicately clipping the topiary.
    At the end of the hall were thick double doors painted a bold teal. Travers didn’t knock, but swung one open. Immediately the hallway was filled with bright, bouncy music and Eve’s steady curses.
    Julia would never have called the room by the lowly name
gym.
Despite the weight equipment, the slant boards, the mirrored wall and ballet barre, it was elegant. An exercise palace, perhaps, Julia mused, studying the high ceiling painted with streamlined art deco figures. Light broke through a trio of stained glass skylights in refracting, rainbow colors. Not a palace, Julia corrected herself. A temple