view was anunobstructed swath of terraced lawn, privet-hedged flower beds, swooping meadow, and impeccable corral. Choice lot, backed by an outcropping of granite and set high enough to block the scrutiny of neighbors.
Two horses occupied the riding ring, both statuesque and dark brown with black manes and tails and white ankles that suggested gym socks. They circled slowly, bearing the easy weight of slender young women. Finally a break in the dress code: This pair wore form-fitted T-shirts tucked into their jeans, one red, the other yellow. Loose hair the color of clarified butter streamed in the breeze. The sound of laughter sailed through the high, dry air.
No need to disturb the reverie yet; entrance to the property was a coast under a white-painted arch crowned
Aventura
. Easing onto an asphalt patch, I parked in one of four slots delineated by white paint.
The T-shirted girls brought their horses to a halt.
Milo said, “Here we go. Damn.”
Two years separated the Corey sisters but they could’ve been twins. Tall, leggy, effortlessly svelte, their faces were smooth bronze ovals graced by symmetrical features. Narrow hips, tight waists, and generous shoulders suggested athleticism. Straight blond hair flowed past the belt line of the girl in the red tee. Luxuriant waves fanned the shoulders of Yellow.
Both girls remained straight-backed on their horses as we reached the railing of the corral, pretty mouths set firmly, blue eyes watchful.
Milo said, “Ashley and Marissa?”
Wavy said, “I’m Marissa, she’s Ashley,” in a husky voice. “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. police. We need to talk to you, please.”
“Cops? L.A.?” said Ashley Corey in an even throatier tone. Once upon a time, their mother probably had a sultry voice.
Marissa Corey said, “Agoura sheriff’s in charge and we already told them we had nothing to do with it.”
“With …”
“Laura’s car. We knew totally nothing about it and the sheriff finally believed us so only Laura has to go to court so I don’t know what you think—”
Ashley squeezed her sister’s arm. “Fellinger said you shouldn’t even be talking to them, Rissy.”
Milo said, “I’m glad the thing with Laura worked out, but that’s not why we’re here. Now, if you could please get off your horses, girls.”
Marissa said, “This is exercise time.”
Ashley said, “We don’t stop because you say.”
“It’s important, girls. Really.”
Ashley tossed her own mane, frowned, and formed silent words that looked nasty, but she complied. When her boots touched ground, her sister followed suit. The two of them left the corral, Ashley locking it behind her. Both girls were over six feet in polished riding boots—snakeskin for Ashley, something that looked like elephant hide for Marissa. Each T-shirt read
Look a Gift Horse
above a cartoon of a wide-open mouth.
Marissa folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, what?”
“I need to talk to you about your mother.”
“Mom?” By the end of the syllable her voice had shot up half an octave.
Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “What about Mom?”
Milo did his best to be gentle but there’s no way to mute the horror, no way to prevent yourself from becoming yet another survivor’s worst memory.
Ashley and Marissa Corey shrieked in unison then began shouting “No, no, no” in a syncopated rhythm that smoothed out to a cataract of grief.
Marissa’s arms dropped. She began punching herself in the chest. Ashley wrung her hands and drummed her own forehead. Tears gushed.Both girls slammed against each other, remained locked in a terrible embrace.
Milo chewed his cheek and tapped his foot and wiped his face so hard with one hand that he raised a pink splotch where his left eye met his temple.
We continued to watch and wait and feel useless as Ursula Corey’s daughters began gulping and wailing something that sounded like
youyouyouyou
.
It took a long time for that to taper to downcast
Two horses occupied the riding ring, both statuesque and dark brown with black manes and tails and white ankles that suggested gym socks. They circled slowly, bearing the easy weight of slender young women. Finally a break in the dress code: This pair wore form-fitted T-shirts tucked into their jeans, one red, the other yellow. Loose hair the color of clarified butter streamed in the breeze. The sound of laughter sailed through the high, dry air.
No need to disturb the reverie yet; entrance to the property was a coast under a white-painted arch crowned
Aventura
. Easing onto an asphalt patch, I parked in one of four slots delineated by white paint.
The T-shirted girls brought their horses to a halt.
Milo said, “Here we go. Damn.”
Two years separated the Corey sisters but they could’ve been twins. Tall, leggy, effortlessly svelte, their faces were smooth bronze ovals graced by symmetrical features. Narrow hips, tight waists, and generous shoulders suggested athleticism. Straight blond hair flowed past the belt line of the girl in the red tee. Luxuriant waves fanned the shoulders of Yellow.
Both girls remained straight-backed on their horses as we reached the railing of the corral, pretty mouths set firmly, blue eyes watchful.
Milo said, “Ashley and Marissa?”
Wavy said, “I’m Marissa, she’s Ashley,” in a husky voice. “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. police. We need to talk to you, please.”
“Cops? L.A.?” said Ashley Corey in an even throatier tone. Once upon a time, their mother probably had a sultry voice.
Marissa Corey said, “Agoura sheriff’s in charge and we already told them we had nothing to do with it.”
“With …”
“Laura’s car. We knew totally nothing about it and the sheriff finally believed us so only Laura has to go to court so I don’t know what you think—”
Ashley squeezed her sister’s arm. “Fellinger said you shouldn’t even be talking to them, Rissy.”
Milo said, “I’m glad the thing with Laura worked out, but that’s not why we’re here. Now, if you could please get off your horses, girls.”
Marissa said, “This is exercise time.”
Ashley said, “We don’t stop because you say.”
“It’s important, girls. Really.”
Ashley tossed her own mane, frowned, and formed silent words that looked nasty, but she complied. When her boots touched ground, her sister followed suit. The two of them left the corral, Ashley locking it behind her. Both girls were over six feet in polished riding boots—snakeskin for Ashley, something that looked like elephant hide for Marissa. Each T-shirt read
Look a Gift Horse
above a cartoon of a wide-open mouth.
Marissa folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, what?”
“I need to talk to you about your mother.”
“Mom?” By the end of the syllable her voice had shot up half an octave.
Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “What about Mom?”
Milo did his best to be gentle but there’s no way to mute the horror, no way to prevent yourself from becoming yet another survivor’s worst memory.
Ashley and Marissa Corey shrieked in unison then began shouting “No, no, no” in a syncopated rhythm that smoothed out to a cataract of grief.
Marissa’s arms dropped. She began punching herself in the chest. Ashley wrung her hands and drummed her own forehead. Tears gushed.Both girls slammed against each other, remained locked in a terrible embrace.
Milo chewed his cheek and tapped his foot and wiped his face so hard with one hand that he raised a pink splotch where his left eye met his temple.
We continued to watch and wait and feel useless as Ursula Corey’s daughters began gulping and wailing something that sounded like
youyouyouyou
.
It took a long time for that to taper to downcast
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