“We won’t be on the list,” says Luke smoothly. “But we’d like to see Corey Andrews. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“It’s a matter of life and death,” chimes in Mum wildly.
“We’ve come all the way from Oxshott,” Janice adds. “Oxshott in England.”
“We want to find my dad,” I explain.
“And my husband,” says Suze, pushing her way to the front of the group. “He’s missing, and we think maybe Corey knows something about it.”
The linen-suit man is looking bewildered.
“I’m afraid Mr. Andrews is tied up right now,” he says, backing away from Suze. “If you can give me your details, I’ll pass them on—”
“But we need to see him now!” says Mum passionately.
“We’ll be quick,” says Luke.
“Want to ride tiger car!” Minnie puts in emphatically.
“We won’t be any trouble,” adds Mum eagerly. “If you could just—”
“Please give Mr. Andrews this.” A low voice comes from behind us, and we all turn to see Alicia coming forward, holding out a Golden Peace card with its distinctive shiny insignia and some words scribbled on it.
The man takes it, reads it in silence, and his expression changes.
“Well,” he says. “I’ll let Mr. Andrews know you’re here.”
He retreats and we all face Alicia, who’s looking smug yet humble in that annoying way she has.
“What did you write?” I demand.
“Just a few words that I thought might help,” she says simply.
I can hear Mum and Janice agreeing in loud whispers that the name “Alicia Merrelle” is like royalty in the States and think how many celebrities she must have met at Golden Peace, not that she’d ever gossip, because she’s such a nice discreet girl.
A nice discreet girl? I have explained to Mum about Alicia Bitch Long-legs over and over—
Anyway. Whatever.
—
It’s only a few moments later that our friend in the linen suit appears again and ushers us silently toward the house—all except Luke, who stayed in the RV to talk to Gary. (There’s some big piece of gossip from the conference dinner, involving a junior government minister.) The house has a massive studded front door, and just for a moment I think a drawbridge is going to come down. But instead we skirt round the house/castle/mansion altogether and file between some immaculate hedges like in the maze at Hampton Court, until we come out onto a great big lawn with a gigantic bouncy castle and a table covered in food and five zillion kids running about and a banner reading HAPPY 5TH BIRTHDAY, PEYTON!
Ah. So that’s who Peyton is. Actually, you can’t tell who she is, because every single little girl is wearing a shiny princess frock. But it’s obvious who Corey is, from the way the guy in the linen suit approaches him deferentially and starts gesturing at us.
He’s quite amazing-looking, Corey. He’s very buff and tanned, with thick black hair and what look like tweezered eyebrows. He looks way younger than Dad. Next to him is a woman who I guess is Mrs. Corey, and when I look at her, the only word that comes to mind is “frosted.” She has shiny blond hair, a sparkly top, embossed jeans, diamanté sandals, zillions of rings and bracelets, and a jeweled clip in her hair. She basically looks like someone took the glitter pot and emptied it over her. She also has big tanned breasts and a very low-cut top. I mean, very low-cut. For a children’s birthday party.
At last Corey heads toward us and we all glance at one another. We haven’t decided who’s going to speak or what we’re going to say or anything. But, as usual, Alicia gets in first.
“Mr. Andrews,” she says. “I am Alicia Merrelle.”
“Mrs. Merrelle.” Corey takes her hand. “Honored to have you visit. How can I help?”
Close up, he doesn’t look quite as young. In fact, he’s got that over-tight, too-much-plastic-surgery look. And now I’m really confused. Is this Dad’s Corey or not? I’m opening my mouth to ask him, when Mrs. Corey appears by his side. If you put her in a cotton frock and wiped off all the shiny eye shadow, she’d probably look about twenty-three. Maybe she is twenty-three.
“Honey?” she says questioningly to Corey. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” He gives a little laugh. “What is going on? This is Alicia Merrelle,” he adds to his wife. “Owns Golden Peace. My wife, Cyndi.”
Cyndi gasps and goggles at Alicia. “You own Golden Peace? That place is inspirational! I have your DVD, my friend did the retreat…how can we help?”
“We’re looking for my father,” I plunge in. “He’s called Graham Bloomwood, and we think you knew him years ago. Unless…” I add uncertainly to Corey, “there’s another Corey Andrews who puts eagles in his paintings?”
Cyndi laughs. “Only one Corey Andrews, isn’t there, babe?”
“Great!” I say, encouraged. “So, you went on a trip with my dad in 1972. A road trip. There were four of you.”
Something tells me I’ve said the wrong thing. Corey’s face barely moves, but I can see it in his eyes. A flicker of hostility.
“In 1972?” Cyndi wrinkles her brow. “Corey would have been too young for a road trip back then! How old were you then, honey?”
“I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” says Corey tightly. “If you’ll excuse us.”
As he turns away, I can see tiny scars behind his ears. Oh, for God’s sake. This is about his personal vanity. That’s why he’s denying he knows Dad. Cyndi has hurried to help a fallen child, but before Corey can disappear too, Mum grabs his arm.
“My husband’s missing!” says Mum dramatically. “You’re our only hope!”
“Look, I’m sorry, but you must be the same Corey,” I say firmly. “I know you are. Has my dad come here? Have you heard anything from him?”
“This conversation is over.” He glares at me.
“Are you in touch with Brent or Raymond?” I persist. “Did you know that Brent’s been living in a trailer? My dad says he’s got to ‘put something right.’ Do you know what that is?”
“Please leave my property,” says Corey flatly. “It’s my daughter’s birthday party. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Can you give us Raymond’s surname, at least?”
“Raymond Earle?” says Cyndi brightly, rejoining the group. “That’s the only Raymond I ever heard Corey talk about.”
I glance at Corey, and he looks livid.
“Cyndi, don’t talk to these people,” he snaps. “They’re just leaving. Go back to the party.”
“Cyndi, where does Raymond live?” I quickly ask. “Isn’t it Albuquerque? Or San Diego? Or is it…Milwaukee?”
I’m just plucking places from the air, hoping it’ll prod her into answering, and it works.
“Well, no, he’s down near Tucson, right?” She glances uncertainly at Corey. “Only he’s a bit nuts, isn’t he, babe? Total recluse? I mean, I overheard you talking….” She quails at Corey’s look and falls silent.
“So you are in touch with him!” I feel a surge of frustration. We’re so on the right track. But if this stupid plastic-faced idiot won’t help us, we’ll be stuck again. “Corey, what happened in 1972? Why’s my dad gone on this mission? What happened?”
“Please get off my property,” says Corey, wheeling round. “I’m calling my security team. This is a private birthday party.”
“My name is Rebecca!” I shout after him. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Oh!” exclaims Cyndi. “Like your oldest, hon!”
Corey turns back and I can see him staring at me, the weirdest look on his face. No one else speaks. In fact, I think everyone’s holding their breath. He has a daughter called Rebecca too. What is going on?
Then he wheels round again and strides back toward the party.