Chapter 11
“Let me guess, Marla didn’t show up at the funeral,” Quinn said when Paterno, after long hours at Eugenia Cahill’s funeral and grave-site service, returned to the station.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Paterno grumbled. He’d spent two days doing surveillance at the funerals—yesterday Rory Amhurst’s, a small, private affair for the family, and today the larger, grander event held at the Presbyterian church Eugenia had attended, followed by the interment at the cemetery. He’d attended all of the events. Of course, he hadn’t really expected that Marla would show her face, but with that woman, who knew? He wasn’t going to take the chance that she might appear and that he wouldn’t be there to nab her. He scanned each crowd, searching for anyone who resembled her, or the composite sketch of Mary Smith. The artist had interviewed everyone at the Harborside Assisted Living Center and come up with a composite drawing as well as a computer-enhanced picture, but no one who had attended Eugenia’s or Rory’s services looked like the chubby woman in the print dress. Nor had any other Mary Smith who attended the church shown up.
An alias.
A disguise.
But not Marla.
Paterno walked to his desk and tried not to notice that his feet were cold from standing in the rain. He shook the water from his coat, hung it on the peg near his desk, then grabbed a cup of coffee and tried to connect Marla Cahill’s escape to the killings. Who was her accomplice? One of the people he’d seen at the services?
The autopsy report on Eugenia Cahill confirmed that she’d had some Valium in her bloodstream, but she’d also been prescribed the drug.
Valium was also found in Rory Amhurst’s veins, but he hadn’t had a prescription. Traces of Valium were in the soda can left in his room, a soda can that had no fingerprints other than his own. The ME decided he had died from asphyxiation, the result of anaphylactic shock, a reaction to what he’d ingested. An examination of his stomach contents showed chocolate laced with some kind of seafood.
Paterno’s bad stomach acted up just thinking about it. He reached into his drawer for an antacid and frowned. The two murders were different—the old lady pitched to her death, the handicapped man poisoned. But in both cases the killer knew where they would be, was brazen about killing them, had the murder planned. Why not poison Eugenia? he thought, picking up his pencil and tapping the eraser on the desk. Because the murderer had to get in and out fast and didn’t know if she had any allergies that would kill her. Hence, whoever had iced Rory Amhurst had an intimate knowledge of him. Either a nurse or family member. And someone no one at the facility recognized.
He took a swallow of his coffee.
It had to be someone linked to Marla.
But who?
Who the hell was close enough to want to spring her, then help systematically kill people related to her? He thought of her daughter, but as sharp-tongued as Cissy Holt was, she didn’t strike him as a killer.
Who stood to gain from the killings?
Once again Cissy Holt’s name loomed front and center.
He couldn’t scratch her from the list of potential suspects, but he would be surprised if she were the actual murderer.
But Marla Amhurst Cahill…She would be in the money, if she could ever retrieve it. That would prove to be quite a trick, considering she was a fugitive.
No, Cissy would be the more likely candidate. Unless the will and insurance policies weren’t the reason Rory and Eugenia had been killed. Maybe there was another motive, one he just hadn’t yet uncovered, one so strong it would force someone to help Marla escape and kill the people close to her.
So if Cissy wasn’t the killer, and Marla too hadn’t actually murdered her brother and mother-in-law, then who?
He spread the autopsy reports on the desk with Marla Cahill’s case file. Pictures of Eugenia’s broken body, Rory’s corpse, and Marla’s mug shot stared back at him.
How were they connected?
Eugenia and Rory are connected to each other THROUGH Marla.
So what?
He tapped his fingers and shook his head. He’d scoured Eugenia’s date book, looked into the woman who couldn’t drive her to church the day of her death, Marcia Mantello. Marcia’s story was legit as far as he could tell. He’d also checked through everyone else listed in Eugenia’s book. And he’d gone through the logs at the care facility and interviewed the staff and residents as he had with all of Eugenia’s friends and relatives. So far he’d come up with a great big goose egg. Nada.
His stomach was really roiling now, and he hoped the antacid would kick in soon.
Looking out the window to the building across the street, he tried to figure it all out.
He knew he was missing something. He just didn’t know what.
Cissy finished another glass of wine and told herself she’d probably consumed enough for the day. She was feeling a little light-headed as it was and still needed to keep it together. At least for a little while longer.
The crowd was thinning, and though Lars tried vainly to get each person’s coat as he or she left, people were going up and down the stairs, retrieving their own wraps. She could hear them walking around upstairs. Doors opening and closing. Snooping. Peering into her life. Two women from Cahill House had come down the stairs and declared the baby’s room “adorable,” as if they had a free pass to take a tour of the upstairs.
Soon it would be over.
Fewer and fewer guests were talking, visiting, noshing, or making noises of sympathy.
Unfortunately some of the people who were still hanging around weren’t her favorites. Though most of Eugenia’s friends had left, the remaining mourners were either tied more closely to Cissy than to Gran, or were unlikely attendees whose appearance had been a total surprise. Selma, for instance. What the hell was the woman from Joltz doing here? She’d come up, said she was sorry, hung out in the kitchen with Diedre and Rachelle, and was finally getting ready to leave. Cissy didn’t even know her last name.
As if feeling Cissy’s eyes on her, Selma turned, tucking her scarf around her neck. “’Bye. I’ll see you at the coffee shop.”
Cissy lifted her hand in acknowledgment. She was glad to see the woman go. Now if some the others would take the hint.
Her second cousin Cherise and her preacher husband, the Reverend Donald Favier, were still in the dining room, picking at the remaining food, the little sandwiches and cookies arranged on silver trays on the table. Cissy had avoided them at all costs. She didn’t know them well and decided to keep it that way. From the way Gran had talked, and from what she remembered growing up, Cherise’s pro-football player husband turned preacher was a large, handsome man and a master manipulator, the puppeteer who pulled Cherise’s strings. Both he and his wife always had one eye on the Cahill money.
According to Gran, Cherise thought, and her husband agreed, that Cherise’s father, Fenton, had been screwed out of the family fortune by Cissy’s grandfather, and Fenton’s brother, Samuel. The alleged shady financial double-cross had all taken place many years earlier, but the bad feelings and envy had seemed to grow over the generations rather than diminish.
Blond, forever-tanned, Cherise was always looking for a gift or handout, a piece of what she thought was rightfully hers. Gran had always refused to loan her even a dime, and there was no love lost between them, yet here Cherise was, paying her last respects and scarfing up another shrimp canape.
Jack’s family, probably under the insistence of his father, hadn’t left yet either. Jannelle spent most of her time on the back patio, smoking cigarettes and looking miserable. Jack’s brother, the usually reticent J.J., was in his element in a group of strangers. He, like his father, was never without female company. Cissy’s neighbor Sara had zeroed in on him. Even Jonathan had, after a few drinks, let his facade of formality and respect for the dead disintegrate as he flirted with women half his age.
From the corner of her eye, Cissy had seen him turn the Holt charm on to everyone from her college friend Heather, to Rachelle, to Diedre, and even Paloma. The man had no shame and even less good judgment.
Heather, of course, had eaten it up. She’d beamed up at Jonathan as she’d sipped wine, then had the nerve to tell Cissy that her father-in-law was “adorable for an older guy.”
Cissy’s high school buddy Tracy had disagreed. “If you ask me, he’s just another old lech. Sorry, Cissy, but it’s the truth.”
Cissy hadn’t argued. She’d noticed when Jonathan had tried to flirt with Tracy, she’d said something sharp that Cissy hadn’t been able to overhear, then turned her back on him and stalked away, her whole body seeming to tense in revulsion. Good for you, Cissy had thought.
Jack too had witnessed the confrontation. “Jesus, Dad,” he’d muttered under his breath so that no one but Cissy could hear, “give it a rest.”
“He can’t,” Cissy had said. “It’s in his blood.”
“That’s a cop-out. It just takes a little self-control.”
Now Jack was surveying his father as Diedre, carrying a tray of wineglasses, walked past. She offered Jack’s father a glass. He responded by flashing her his most disarming smile and winking.
To Cissy’s horror, Jonathan appeared about to touch Diedre’s butt.
She’d kill him. Cissy had witnessed Diedre’s temper in the coffee shop when a regular customer had gotten too fresh with her. The tongue lashing had been swift and cutting. Cissy had never seen the guy in the shop again.
“Uh-oh.” Jack anticipated what was about to happen. “I’d better see if someone can take him home before he embarrasses himself.”
And everyone else, Cissy thought. She couldn’t face another scene.
Before Jonathan could put his wayward hand on Diedre’s rump, she moved deftly away, doing a quick step to the side, as if she were used to dodging unwanted advances. She didn’t give him a tongue-lashing like Tracy had, just sent him a sharp are-you-out-of-your-mind glare as she turned away and almost bumped into Jack.
She stopped short, and somehow, by the grace of God, the teetering platter didn’t fall. Diedre managed to right the platter. Some wine sloshed over the rims of the glasses, but the damage was slight, as the glasses remained upright.
Jack said a quick apology and then escorted his dad outside, where Jannelle was cradling another cigarette from the wind, huddling with two men Cissy thought had once worked for Cahill Limited, the family’s company before it downsized.
Shaking her head, Diedre returned to the kitchen. “Men,” she muttered under her breath, then, spying Cissy, said, “I thought you said something about divorcing your husband.”
“It’s in the works.”
Diedre seemed to want to say something, hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, maybe this isn’t the time to hand out advice.”
“Diedre,” Rachelle warned. She was already covering some of the extra food with plastic wrap and wiping off empty trays with a towel.
“What kind of advice?” Cissy asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Rachelle said, but Diedre ignored her.
“I was married for a few years. We had a house, and when we got divorced, because the snake was cheating on me, I couldn’t afford to keep the place and he bought me out. I ended up with a few thousand dollars, and now he’s moved in with the girlfriend and the house has gone up nearly a hundred grand. So I got screwed. Whatever you do, keep the house.” Diedre glanced at Rachelle, who, as far as Cissy could tell, was happily married. “Okay, there, I said it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cissy told her. At least Diedre wasn’t telling her what a hunk her husband was.
Cissy rubbed the back of her neck and glanced through the glass doors to the patio, where Jack was still lobbying for someone, presumably Jannelle, to haul his father home. Geez, she was tired. She glanced at the clock and hoped everyone would leave soon. “Cissy?” Cherise’s voice was right in her ear.
Inwardly Cissy groaned. She’d taken her eyes off her father’s cousin for less than five minutes, and the woman had taken the opportunity to approach her. “Can I talk to you a second?”
No! Cissy thought but pasted a smile on her face. “Sure. What’s up?”
As if she didn’t know.
“Well, this is a little awkward, it being Auntie Genie’s funeral and all.”
Auntie Genie? Gran was probably rolling over in her newly turned grave.
Cherise inched away from the kitchen to a quieter spot at the base of the stairs, and reluctantly Cissy followed, only to discover Cherise’s big husband waiting near the hall tree. Six five or six, the Reverend Donald in his clerical collar, black shirt, and leather jacket offered a smile that hinted he and God were tight. “I’m so sorry for your, for our, loss,” he said. “Eugenia was a wonderful woman.”
Oh, really? Cissy thought. As far as she knew, Gran had never given Cherise or any of her husbands the time of day. And now, after she was dead, she was wonderful?
“I’ll miss her,” Cissy said.
“We all will.” The Reverend Donald’s voice was smooth as ice.
Cherise touched Cissy’s arm. “Maybe we could go to lunch somewhere later in the week or,” she added quickly, seeing the denial forming on Cissy’s lips, “if that doesn’t work for you, how about dinner?”
“What is it you want to talk about?” Cissy asked, stepping out of the way as Rosa, carrying a few dirty dishes, aimed for the kitchen.
“The family, of course. There’s been such a rift, and I absolutely hate it. I’ve talked to Nick. He knows how I feel.” She motioned toward the dining room, where Uncle Nick and his wife were speaking with a man Cissy had met, but couldn’t quite place…maybe an insurance agent or a banker who’d worked with Eugenia? Her brother James was scavenging at the table of desserts, and she felt a tug on her heart. She should have been closer to him. Gran would have wanted that. A part of her wanted it as well. Their family was so small, and shrinking by the day, it seemed.
Because of Marla. Somehow, she’d orchestrated Gran’s death, and Rory’s as well.
Cissy’s stomach burned, as it always did lately whenever she thought of the woman who had borne her. Could she be so different from the psycho? Her own mother?
But she couldn’t think of her now.
Not today.
Cissy turned back to Cherise with her big, pleading eyes. “So, what do you want to do to mend this, uh, ‘rift’?” Cissy asked, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice and wishing there was some way to get out of the conversation.
“First, we should have a family get-together,” Cherise said, glancing at her husband as if for confirmation. That was the problem with Cherise. She wasn’t a bad person. Just weak. Always leaning on her husband, looking at him as if he might just be the embodiment of the Second Coming of Christ.
She couldn’t remember all the details, but there was something unsavory in Donald Favier’s past, something that had less to do with football and more to do with underage girls. Wasn’t that right? It didn’t matter to Cherise, obviously, as she was gazing adoringly at Reverend Donald, entwining her arm through his.
Donald was nodding. “Afterward we can hold a more formal meeting with family attorneys involved. There are still a few issues that haven’t been settled.”
“What issues?” Cissy asked cautiously.
“Oh.” Cherise lifted her shoulder. “You know, the family trust, that sort of thing. Now that you’re in charge.”
“I’m in charge?”
“Well, you’re the primary beneficiary of Aunt Genie’s estate.”
“I am?” Cissy asked. “And you know this…how?”
Donald smiled and held out his hands, his fingers open, several gold rings catching the light. “Of course we’ve talked to the attorneys.”
“Ahh…”
His thousand-watt smile was nearly contagious. “We’re family.”
Cissy turned her gaze back on Cherise’s near-desperate face, a face that was aging despite what Cissy guessed was the latest in plastic surgery. “You know, you were right when you said this was awkward and you thought maybe we shouldn’t discuss it now.”
“But we have to.”
“I don’t think so.” The more she thought about it, the less she liked it. “And no, I don’t think we’re going to have lunch or dinner. I’m not comfortable discussing any of it. Not now, and probably not at any other time.”
Dumbfounded, Cherise took hold of her arm. “Cissy, please, be reasonable. We both know things aren’t right. They haven’t been in a long, long while. I thought that you were different and that you would—”
“Would what? Write you a check? For how much? Ten thousand? Fifty? A hundred? Or maybe a million?” Her voice was rising at the audacity of the woman and her supposedly God-fearing husband. “Gran was just buried today, and here you are at the gathering after her funeral and you’re already bringing up the will and money and picking at Gran’s bones!”
“Oh, Cissy, no—”
“And you know why you’re doing it? Because you think you can steamroll right over me, and I’m too young to stand up to you and to you,” she said, turning her furious eyes on the reverend. “Well, you were both wrong.”
Cherise’s hand flew to her mouth, and Heather, who had been walking by, stopped in her tracks. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Just peachy,” Cissy muttered.
“You’re sure?” Heather asked, her smooth brow knitting.
“We’re fine,” Cherise’s husband said tightly, then, “Thanks for asking, Heather.”
Cissy’s gaze swung between them. “Do you know each other?”
Heather looked like the quintessential “California girl” with her blue eyes, deep tan, and blond hair streaked platinum, not an ounce of fat daring to show on her toned body. She and Cissy had met at USC, and now Heather taught third grade at a private elementary school in the Bay Area.
“Didn’t you know?” Heather asked, surprised. “I belong to the Holy Trinity of God Church. It’s just a few blocks from my apartment.”
“In Sausalito?” Cissy said, putting two and two together. She knew that Heather lived on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge, but she didn’t have any idea that she was one of the Reverend Donald’s flock.
“I thought I’d mentioned it.”
“I think I would have remembered,” Cissy said and told herself it wasn’t a big deal. So what? The church had hundreds of parishioners, but Heather? One more odd connection.
“Heather doesn’t just belong to the church,” Reverend Donald said as he rained one of his charismatic smiles on Cissy’s college friend. “She’s being modest. She works with the church secretary, helps with the computers, makes sure there are no broken links in the prayer chain.”
“Is that right?” Cissy said, trying to think what she did know about Heather since they’d graduated from college. Other than hearing that she’d broken up with her long-time boyfriend, taught school, and liked green apple martinis, it wasn’t much. They hadn’t kept in close touch. Hadn’t Heather been involved in drugs during their four years at USC? Hadn’t there been ecstasy and cocaine use? But that had been years ago, and then there was something about Campus Crusade. Come to think of it, Cissy had known that Heather usually wore a gold cross on a chain around her neck, but she’d never been vocal about her religious views.
“Heather’s a big help to us.” Cherise nodded, her smile a bit less enthusiastic than her husband’s.
“So,” Heather said brightly, “are we all okay now?”
Before Cissy could respond, she heard a noise she recognized. Over the hum of the surrounding conversation, she heard B.J.’s distant voice. “Mom-mee! Get up! I get up now! Mom-mee!”
Thank God!
“Oh, gotta run,” she said without looking anyone directly in the eye. “My little guy’s awake.” Before Cherise or Reverend Donald or Heather could stop her, she bolted up the stairs. She was not going to lunch or dinner with her father’s cousin or her husband. Not ever. If Heather wanted to cozy up to them, fine. But as far as Cissy was concerned, if she never saw either Cherise or her husband again, it would be just fine. “Vultures,” she muttered softly, then, at the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, cleared her head, and shoved all her negative thoughts aside.
She pushed open the door of B.J.’s room. He was standing in his crib and pounding on the top rail. “Mom-mee!” he said, grinning widely at the sight of her.
“Hey, Beej!” Her bad mood disappeared in an instant. “How’s my guy?” Pulling him out of the crib, she hugged him so fiercely, he giggled. “Not a Grumpy Gus today?”
“Not grumpy!”
“Good.”
“Dad-dee downstairs?”
“That he is,” Cissy said. “So let’s get you changed, and we’ll go down and see him. But I gotta warn ya, he’s not alone. There are tons of people down there, and they’re going to fawn all over you.”
“Tons of people,” he repeated.
“That’s right.” She carried him to the changing table, and switched out his wet diaper for a dry one. He kicked and scooted, all part of the game, but eventually he was clean and dry, the new diaper in place. Once he was dressed and she’d finger-combed his curls, she carried him downstairs, where, it seemed, even fewer guests were mingling.
Good!
The Reverend Donald and Cherise were nowhere in sight.
Talk about a blessing!
“Is this the infamous B.J.?” Heather asked, grinning, her eyes sparkling. “You know, I haven’t seen him since he was a couple of months old.” To the child she said, “Come see Auntie Heather.”
“Auntie Heather?” Cissy repeated.
“Well, you know, I’m just trying to connect with the little guy. Come here, pumpkin.”
Connect with the little guy? Everything Heather said was hitting Cissy wrong today. Was it her? The funeral? Or was Heather being a little weird?
Beej grinned shyly, but allowed himself to be hugged and cuddled by first Heather, then Tracy, who declared him “more handsome than his father.”
Even Sara was beguiled. “What a cutie!” she said and touched his button nose with a manicured finger before lifting another glass of wine from a passing tray.
Rosa was already helping clean up, but she took the time to coo over the baby, and Paloma offered a stiff smile to a child she’d seen often enough but had never warmed to.
B.J. put up with the attention and was eventually passed back to Cissy, but when he saw his father, he went nuts. “Dad-dee!” he cried, wriggling in Cissy’s arms again and struggling to get down. She set him on his feet, and he took off like a shot, running through people’s legs until he reached his father, who swept him into his arms.
“There he is!” Jonathan crowed, standing next to Jack. “I wondered when you were going to wake up.”
Cissy saw Jannelle and J.J. exchange glances and realized that not all members of the Holt family were as thrilled with Jack’s son as their father was. The look that passed between them was more than just boredom or irritation that their father was too into his grandson. It was darker than that, an acknowledgment between allies that there was an enemy in their midst.
Cissy experienced a chill as cold as all of December, but when Jannelle looked up and spied her sister-in-law staring at her, she just lifted a shoulder. “Never was a kid person,” she admitted. “Look, Jack talked to me. I’m going to take ‘Poppa’ home. He’s been hitting the booze pretty hard, even dipped into your stash of whiskey. Apparently he knows where it’s kept.”
“Maybe I’ll have to put it under lock and key.”
“Not a bad idea,” Jannelle said, then, “Okay, Poppa, you’ve had your fun, time to go home.”
“So soon?” Jonathan seemed distressed.
“It’s been a long day. Cissy needs to chill out for a while.” She linked arms with her father while Jack retrieved his son and J.J., spying Gwen standing alone, grabbed another glass of wine and zeroed in on the trainer. He was obviously looking for another score.
Would the day never end?
Jannelle anticipated what was going on and cut him off at the pass. “Don’t even think about it, bro. You and me, we need to get the old man home.”
“I’m not an old man,” their father protested, and, it was true, he looked no more than ten years older than his oldest son. “And, damn it, I want to be with my grandson.”
Jannelle sent J.J. another warning glance.
Or did she?
There was more than a small chance that Cissy was overthinking it all, letting paranoia creep in, observing nuances that didn’t exist.
Telling herself that she was imagining things, she suffered through the next hour as the last of the mourners eventually said their final good-byes, leaving only Rosa, Deborah, Diedre, Rachelle, and Jack to finish cleaning up. Beej was in his element, tearing around the rooms, playing with anything he could find. When, eventually, the house was back to some semblance of order, the sympathy cards and donations had been picked up, the extra food either meted out to friends or stored, the candles extinguished, and all the pieces of furniture returned to their original positions, Cissy set down her wineglass, feeling as if she might collapse. She promised the tearful Deborah, the last person out the door, that she would write her a letter of recommendation. Then, as the door closed behind Eugenia’s “companion,” she turned the lock. “No more,” she whispered, shoving her hair from her eyes. She was so exhausted she couldn’t even summon up the heart or energy to suggest that Jack leave.
“Go upstairs, have a bath, go to bed,” he said as he and B.J. settled onto the couch. “I’ll watch Beej; we’ll hang out, and then I’ll get him to bed. You just take it easy.”
It sounded like heaven. “And then what about you?”
“I’ll be around.” He gave her a smile, and she felt the ice around her heart thaw a bit.
“That would be great. I owe you.” Leaning over, she kissed her son’s head and then headed upstairs. She didn’t bother with the bath, just washed her face, changed into her favorite pajamas, and tumbled into bed.
She was asleep before her head hit the pillow, and, dead to the world, she never noticed when, hours later, Jack slid into the bed next to her.