Free The Expected One by Kathleen McGowan Page A

Your father?” Peter queried. “What do you suppose that’s about, then?”
    “No clue.” Maureen was trying to take it all in. The mention of her father had unsettled her, but she didn’t want Peter to know that. Her reply was flip.
    “You know about my father’s family. From the backwoods and swamps of Louisiana. Nothing exalted about them, unless insanity equals greatness.”
    Peter said nothing and waited for her to continue. Maureen rarely spoke of her father, and he was curious to see if she would elaborate. He was slightly disappointed when she shrugged it off.
    Maureen took the letter from Peter and read it again. “Weird. What answers do you suppose he’s talking about? He couldn’t possibly know about my dreams. Nobody does but you and me.” She ran her finger along the letter as she mused.
    Peter looked around the room at the opulent display of flowers and the towering piece of art. “Whoever he is, this whole scenario smacks of two things — fanaticism and big money. In my experience, that’s a bad combination.”
    Maureen was only half listening.
    “Look at the quality of this stationery, it’s gorgeous. Very French. And this design embossed along the edges here…what are they? Grapes?” Something about the pattern on the stationery was ringing bells in her brain. “Blue apples?”
    Adjusting the glasses on his nose, Peter peered at the bottom of the letter. “Blue apples? Hmm, I think you may be right. Look at this; there appears to be an address here at the bottom of the page. Le Château des Pommes Bleues.”
    “My French isn’t flawless by any means, but isn’t that something about blue apples?”
    Peter nodded. “Castle — or house — of the Blue Apples. Does that mean something to you?”
    Maureen nodded slowly, thinking. “Damn, I can’t put my finger on it. I know I came across references to blue apples in my research. It’s a code of some kind, I think. It had something to do with the religious groups in France who worshiped Mary Magdalene.”
    “The ones who believed that she went to France after the crucifixion?”
    Maureen nodded. “The Church persecuted them as heretics because they claimed their teachings came directly from Christ. They were forced underground and evolved into secret societies, one of which was symbolized by blue apples.”
    “Okay, but what is the specific significance of blue apples?”
    “I don’t remember the answer to that.” Maureen was thinking hard, but couldn’t come up with it. “But I know somebody who will.”
    Marina del Rey, California

April 2005
    M AUREEN STROLLED along the harbor in Marina del Rey. Luxury sailing craft, the perks of the Hollywood overprivileged, gleamed in the southern California sun. A surfer wearing a ripped T-shirt and the motto “Just Another Shitty Day in Paradise” waved to her from the deck of a small yacht. His skin was suntanned and his hair bleached by the relentless rays. Maureen didn’t know him, but the beatific smile combined with the beer bottle in his hand indicated that he was in a friendly mood.
    Maureen waved back and walked on, headed for a complex of restaurants and touristy boutiques. She turned in to El Burrito, a Mexican restaurant with a patio on the water.
    “Reenie! I’m over here!”
    Maureen heard Tammy before she saw her, which was most often the case. She turned in the direction of the voice and found her friend sipping a mango margarita at an outdoor table.
    Tamara Wisdom was a study in contrast to Maureen Paschal. Statuesque and olive-skinned, she was beautiful in an exotic way. She wore straight black hair to her waist, and streaked it with various vibrant colors that were determined by her mood. Today it was laced with shiny violet highlights. Her nose was pierced and decorated with a surprisingly large diamond — the gift of a former boyfriend, who happened to be a successful independent film director. Her ears were stacked with multiple piercings, and she wore several