Page 23 of A Hidden Past

CHAPTER TEN

Lena had interviewed seventy-three grieving couples in her ten years as a detective. She knew what real heartbreak looked like.

It didn’t look like Julian and Clara Kensington.

Clara was an actress, and she was playing for the Academy. Each hitching breath, each shaky-handed dab with her handkerchief, each time she grabbed her husband’s hand and released it was timed perfectly to give the impression of someone who was barely able to hold herself together.

Timed too perfectly. Truly grieving parents tended toward one of a few extremes. Either they were in shock and appeared dazed and not entirely present, or they were complete blubbering train wrecks who could barely breathe for weeping so hard, or they were semi- or sometimes fully hysterical lunatics who alternated between crying, laughing and screaming.

Not all parents were like this. Some managed to hold themselves together enough to function and then had their meltdowns in private. No parent managed to act completely devastated yet still function enough to provide an ironclad alibi.

“I just… wish we… were home,” Clara stammered. Two words, one and a half second pause, Lena noted. Three second pause at the end of the sentence, then a new sentence. “I… told Barry… that we… should go… check on… Lila, but… he said… she would… be fine.” Brief, eight second crying fit. “Oh, why didn’t we leave that stupid party at the Feingold’s house!”

Lena turned to Julian. Oddly, despite having no thespian training at all, Julian was doing a far better job of selling grief than Clara was. He was pretending to be in shock and doing a decent job. His eyes were vacant, and he stared through the detectives rather than at them.

But his body was relaxed. Not slumped with the exhaustion of grief or tense with the anxiety of shock, just relaxed. His face seemed dejected, but his body language seemed confident.

Lena didn’t like that. She didn’t like that one bit.

“Let’s go back to the beginning, Mr. Kensington. I want to hear in your own words what happened today.”

“Sure,” Julian replied. “I… um… we had a party at the beach in Malibu, like Clara said. The Feingolds are morning people, and they were taking advantage of the warm weather, so that’s why the party was starting so early. We invited Lila, but she didn’t want to go, and that was fine with us. She’s ninenteen, she’s an adult, so we let her stay home. We left around nine-thirty—”

“Not eight-thirty?” Clara asked, eyes widening in surprise.

"No, it was nine-thirty. Remember, because you decided to change into a different outfit and needed it ironed."

“Oh yes, that’s right.”

Ooh, they were good. They had planned a discrepancy in their stories to make it seem more like a natural memory and less like something they discussed beforehand. Clever, clever little crocodiles.

“So we left at nine-thirty and drove to Malibu. Traffic was… well, traffic, so we got there around ten-fifteen. We stayed there for the day and came back around an hour ago. And…” he lifted his hands and let them drop. “And this.”

“Oh, Lila!”

Clara buried her face in her hands and sobbed, shoulders shaking. Julian put his hand on her wife’s shoulder and left it there, still staring through Lena and Harris.

The two detectives looked at each other, and Harris stood. "If you don't mind," Harris told the Kensington. "I'm going to give the Feingolds a call. Just to make sure you were where you say you were."

“Of course,” Julian said. Clara kept sobbing.

Lena debated whether to ask the next question. Part of her wanted to make the Kensington sweat a little more before she brought the pool boy into this, but if this was a story, it had been planned well. She wasn't going to make them sweat this way.

“Did you two hire a pool cleaner recently?”

Clara frowned. “Um… we… well, yes.” Two second pause, then eyes widen. “You don’t think…” One second pause. “Did he do this?”

“We don’t think so,” Lena said.

It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it wasn’t exactly a lie either. She just wanted to see how they’d react.

Nothing on their faces indicated they were disappointed that Nathan Harlow wasn’t a suspect. That didn’t completely rule out the possibility that they had framed him, but it didn’t support it, and that was a stretch, anyway. They couldn’t have orchestrated the kid forgetting his pool vacuum.

“Oh God. I hope not. He seemed like such a nice boy. Then again, Lila was always parading herself in front of the boys.”

“Clara,” Julian warned.

“No, I want to hear about that,” Lena said. “What do you mean parading herself in front of the boys?”

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