T.J. doing the strategizing, with Quinton muttering “Yeah, yeah” every few seconds. Veronica turned to Wallace.
“Thanks,” she said, handing him another pile. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Can’t say I planned to spend my spring break supervising teenagers,” he said under his breath. “You owe me, Mars.”
“Just add it to my tab.”
He grinned. “So what are you guys doing tonight? Want to go get a few beers?”
“Tempting,” Mac said. “But I thought I’d stab my eyes out with a spoon instead.”
“Come on, it’s not nearly as crazy out there as it was last year.” He looked from her to Veronica. “If I’m going to be wrangling these kids all day, I’m going to need a little R and R, you know what I mean?”
An idea suddenly came to Veronica. A slow, thoughtful smile spread over her face. Wallace’s eyes widened, and he leaned back a little.
“It scares me when you smile like that.”
“Scares you? Wallace, come on. Don’t you trust me?”
“Are you looking for the honest answer or the one where we stay on speaking terms?”
“All right, fine.” She lifted up her hands in mock surrender. “I thought you were looking for some R and R, but if you don’t want an invite to the party of the season, I can’t make you go with me.”
He gave her a wary look. “Party of the season?”
“Party of the century, if the stories are to be believed.”
“Uh-huh. Veronica Mars, social butterfly? No one’s buying it. So what’s the catch?”
“No catch.” She looped her arm through his. “But if we’re lucky, we may just score some information on what happened to Hayley Dewalt.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Manzanita Drive was a winding road that ran parallel to Neptune’s northern coastline, surrounded on both sides by the dense foliage that cloaked the hideaways of the superrich. A lot of the houses were vacation homes for movie stars, diplomats, and CEOs, though a few were permanently occupied—Logan’s friend Dick Casablancas lived on the Drive, in a Cape Cod overlooking the Pacific.
Veronica had passed his gates earlier that night, when she’d gone to check out the house Hayley’s friends had told her about. They’d said there were theme parties there every night, and from the aloha shirts and flower leis she saw as she drove by the crowd of waiting guests, it looked like tonight was a tiki party.
She’d run home after, hoping against hope there was something trashy and tropical at the back of her closet. When she emerged an hour later, she was wearing a skintight red sarong dress, purchased more than a decade earlier for the pep squad’s annual luau-themed fund-raiser. She’d curled her hair in bouncy Marilyn ringlets and, as an afterthought, picked one of her dad’s plumeria blossoms and pinned it behind her ear. When her father caught sight of her he did a double take.
“Hot date at the Tonga Room, dear?” Keith sat on the sofa, a battered paperback copy of
Get Shorty
in one hand. Veronica kissed him on the forehead.
“Don’t wait up,” she said, looping her arm through the straw tote bag she’d traded for her studded leather purse, then leaving to pick up Wallace.
Now they were waiting in the house’s gated driveway behind a RAV4 full of college kids. Beyond the gate, through a copse of palm trees, she could make out the pulsing glow of a mansion. Laughter, shrieks, and the steady thump of bass reverberated in the cool night air. She angled the rearview mirror toward her and reapplied her lipstick.
“Think I can pass for a coed?” she asked, blowing a red kiss at Wallace.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” He was wearing an aloha shirt that belonged to Keith, procured on a Maui vacation a few years earlier. It hung off him, two sizes too big. He caught her grinning and narrowed his eyes. “I
know
you’re just marveling that I can look this good in a Don Ho shirt.”
“Hell yeah, I am,” she said, rolling the car forward as the line moved up.
She
“Thanks,” she said, handing him another pile. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Can’t say I planned to spend my spring break supervising teenagers,” he said under his breath. “You owe me, Mars.”
“Just add it to my tab.”
He grinned. “So what are you guys doing tonight? Want to go get a few beers?”
“Tempting,” Mac said. “But I thought I’d stab my eyes out with a spoon instead.”
“Come on, it’s not nearly as crazy out there as it was last year.” He looked from her to Veronica. “If I’m going to be wrangling these kids all day, I’m going to need a little R and R, you know what I mean?”
An idea suddenly came to Veronica. A slow, thoughtful smile spread over her face. Wallace’s eyes widened, and he leaned back a little.
“It scares me when you smile like that.”
“Scares you? Wallace, come on. Don’t you trust me?”
“Are you looking for the honest answer or the one where we stay on speaking terms?”
“All right, fine.” She lifted up her hands in mock surrender. “I thought you were looking for some R and R, but if you don’t want an invite to the party of the season, I can’t make you go with me.”
He gave her a wary look. “Party of the season?”
“Party of the century, if the stories are to be believed.”
“Uh-huh. Veronica Mars, social butterfly? No one’s buying it. So what’s the catch?”
“No catch.” She looped her arm through his. “But if we’re lucky, we may just score some information on what happened to Hayley Dewalt.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Manzanita Drive was a winding road that ran parallel to Neptune’s northern coastline, surrounded on both sides by the dense foliage that cloaked the hideaways of the superrich. A lot of the houses were vacation homes for movie stars, diplomats, and CEOs, though a few were permanently occupied—Logan’s friend Dick Casablancas lived on the Drive, in a Cape Cod overlooking the Pacific.
Veronica had passed his gates earlier that night, when she’d gone to check out the house Hayley’s friends had told her about. They’d said there were theme parties there every night, and from the aloha shirts and flower leis she saw as she drove by the crowd of waiting guests, it looked like tonight was a tiki party.
She’d run home after, hoping against hope there was something trashy and tropical at the back of her closet. When she emerged an hour later, she was wearing a skintight red sarong dress, purchased more than a decade earlier for the pep squad’s annual luau-themed fund-raiser. She’d curled her hair in bouncy Marilyn ringlets and, as an afterthought, picked one of her dad’s plumeria blossoms and pinned it behind her ear. When her father caught sight of her he did a double take.
“Hot date at the Tonga Room, dear?” Keith sat on the sofa, a battered paperback copy of
Get Shorty
in one hand. Veronica kissed him on the forehead.
“Don’t wait up,” she said, looping her arm through the straw tote bag she’d traded for her studded leather purse, then leaving to pick up Wallace.
Now they were waiting in the house’s gated driveway behind a RAV4 full of college kids. Beyond the gate, through a copse of palm trees, she could make out the pulsing glow of a mansion. Laughter, shrieks, and the steady thump of bass reverberated in the cool night air. She angled the rearview mirror toward her and reapplied her lipstick.
“Think I can pass for a coed?” she asked, blowing a red kiss at Wallace.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” He was wearing an aloha shirt that belonged to Keith, procured on a Maui vacation a few years earlier. It hung off him, two sizes too big. He caught her grinning and narrowed his eyes. “I
know
you’re just marveling that I can look this good in a Don Ho shirt.”
“Hell yeah, I am,” she said, rolling the car forward as the line moved up.
She
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