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.

“Well, great to meet you guys!” says Cyndi uncertainly. “Pick up a party bag for your little one as you leave.”

“Oh, we couldn’t do that!” I say at once. “They’re for your guests.”

“But we have way too many. Please, go ahead.” She hurries after Corey, stumbling a little on her heels. I can hear her saying in puzzled tones, “Babe, what’s up?”

A few moments later, the guy in the linen suit rounds the corner of the house, accompanied by two guys who are not in linen suits. They’re in jeans, and they have crew cuts and those expressionless faces which say Only doing my job as they beat you to a pulp.

You know. I’m assuming.

“Um, let’s go,” I say nervously.

“Goodness,” gulps Janice. “Those men look rather threatening.”

“Big bullies!” says Mum indignantly, and I have a sudden dreadful image of her squaring up to them with her Oxshott Senior Ladies’ Self-Defense Group moves.

“Mum, we need to go,” I say, before she can get any bright ideas.

“I think we should leave,” agrees Alicia. “We’ve learned all we can for now.”

“Thanks!” I call to the crew-cut guys. “We’re on our way out. Super party, we’re just getting our party bag….”

As I steer Minnie to a table covered in massive loot bags, Cyndi reappears, holding a cocktail. She sees us approaching the table and hurries over.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Cyndi says breathlessly. “My husband can be a grouch with people he doesn’t know. I say to him, ‘Honey! Lighten up!’ ” She picks up a bag tied with purple ribbons and peeks inside. “Oh, now, this one has a ballerina doll in it.” She holds it out to Minnie. “You like ballerinas, honey?”

“Party bag!” yells Minnie ecstatically. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-party,” she adds with care. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-parteee.”

“You’re a darling.” Cyndi beams at her. “That accent!”

“It’s an amazing party,” I say politely.

“I have a very generous husband,” says Cyndi earnestly. “We’re very lucky. But you know, we appreciate it. We don’t take it for granted.” She nods at the table. “Every one of these loot bags has a counterpart going to an underprivileged kid.”

“Wow.” I blink at her. “That’s a great idea.”

“It’s the way I like to do things. I wasn’t born to this.” She sweeps an arm around, gesturing at the castle. “We can always remember those less fortunate than ourselves. And that’s what I want to teach Peyton.”

“Good for you.” I feel a tweak of admiration. I reckon there’s more to Cyndi than meets the eye.

“Corey has his own charitable foundation too,” she adds. “He’s the most generous, giving man. He constantly thinks of others.” She looks a little misty-eyed. “But you must have picked that up from meeting him.”

“Er…absolutely!” I lie. “Well, nice to meet you.”

“Great to meet you too! Bye-bye, pumpkin!” She pinches Minnie’s cheek. “Good luck with everything.”

“Oh, just one thing,” I add casually as we turn away. “I was wondering…do you know why Corey called his first daughter Rebecca?”

“Oh my.” Cyndi looks awkward. “I have no idea. You know, they don’t really talk. I’ve never met her. It’s kinda sad.”

“Oh.” I digest this.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned her just now. Corey doesn’t like to talk about the past at all. He says it brings him bad luck. I tried to invite her for Thanksgiving once, but…” She looks crestfallen for a moment, then brightens. “Anyhow. Can I get you guys a snack for the road?”


FIVE

The party bag is insanely lavish.