Chapter 7
“So what do we know about what happened to Eugenia Cahill?” Paterno asked the next morning as Janet Quinn, ever efficient, dropped a cup of black coffee onto the corner of his desk while she sipped from a similar cup that held all kinds of goop. Milk, sugar, caramel, foam, everything but coffee.
“Not much,” she said. “There was no sign of forced entry on any of the doors or windows, though one window, near the back stairs leading to the basement, was open just a fraction, probably to air out the old staircase, but we couldn’t find prints beneath it, and it’s pretty high, five feet off the ground. There was a stepladder in an outbuilding, but it looks like it hasn’t been moved in months, cobwebs all over it. The electronic locks on the garage and main gate were working.”
“Someone could have known the code. All the servants have to have a way to get inside. Same with friends and workmen. I’ll check. What else?”
“Phone records have been requested. Autopsy’s scheduled in a couple of days, and the lab will be working on her tox screens, to see what’s in her blood.” She took a sip and then had to lick a little foam from her lip. If another woman had taken the same action, it would have been sexy. With Quinn, it barely registered in the male side of his brain. “Nothing seems to be missing. She had jewelry in a box in her bathroom, looks like the real thing—diamonds, rubies, you name it—and we found the safe, had it opened. More jewelry, a little cash, and I did come across a couple of insurance policies and her will.”
Paterno looked up, interested, as a phone in the department started ringing and a fax machine began sputtering out pages just around the corner.
“A little money thrown at charities here and there and to loyal members of her staff, but the inheritance falls to three: Cissy Cahill Holt, her brother, and uncle.”
“Who are still in Oregon. Never left. I checked. So far, I think the last person to see Eugenia alive was Deborah Kropft, who usually has Sundays off but stopped by to take Eugenia to church services. She walked Mrs. Cahill into the house, offered to fix her something to eat, but Eugenia had said she was fine. Deborah claims she left her very much alive in the living room.” Paterno leaned back in his chair and sipped some of the hot coffee.
“You think she’s lying?”
Paterno shrugged. “I think we should interview her in person.”
Quinn was nodding. “I don’t like changes in any routine. Why did she call Deborah?”
“They both go to the same Methodist church, and Eugenia usually rides with her friend, a widow, Marcia Mantello, but Marcia was ill. I’m checking it out.” He took another swallow of his coffee. Despite what he said, he didn’t like the change in Eugenia’s routine either. “So what about the insurance policies?”
“Originally the beneficiaries were split between the same three—Cissy, her brother, her uncle—but eighteen months ago, about the time Cissy had the baby, Eugenia changed the beneficiaries. Only Cissy and her child are listed. Cissy for a million, her child for two.”
“Millions? The old lady had that much life insurance?” Paterno asked, whistling through his teeth.
“Yeah, it looks like she took the policies out about ten years ago.”
“Oh.” Paterno picked up a yellowed file on Marla Cahill, flipped it open, and found his notes. “Let’s see…Yeah, now I get it. There was a time when Cahill International was in financial trouble. I didn’t think the old lady knew about it, but it could be that she’s smarter than we all gave her credit for. She might have figured that if she kicked off, everything the family owned would be gone.” He scowled, studying his own chicken scratchings. “That’s probably it. She was the matriarch of the family, felt responsible.”
“And then, when the company turned around and Cissy gave her this new great-grandson, she changed the policies.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Holt knows?” Paterno said.
“Doesn’t matter. The estate is worth so much that if she were greedy and needed money, she’d inherit a fortune without the insurance benefits.”
Paterno drummed his fingers on the cluttered desk. He didn’t figure Cissy for a killer. He’d already talked to a couple of members of the staff. Deborah Kropft and Elsa Johanssen, who both had solid alibis, told the same story of familial devotion, of Cissy Holt visiting her grandmother like clockwork on Sundays. He glanced at the list of names Cissy had given him and frowned. He hadn’t been able to get through to the chauffeur or either of the maids.
And there was still the matter of Marla Cahill, he thought, spying her mug shot in the folder. A cold-hearted bitch if there ever was one, but beautiful and bewitching as well, a woman who had a history of twisting men around her little finger. There had been sightings reported, to the state police, to the FBI, and to the station. None of the “leads” had led authorities to anyone resembling Marla Amhurst Cahill.
He scratched at his chin while another detective dragged a reluctant suspect or witness toward an interrogation room. The man was protesting all over the place.
Paterno barely noticed as he studied Marla’s file.
Where the hell was she?
Who was her accomplice?
The state police were looking into that angle of the investigation, and, in truth, Marla’s whereabouts weren’t a part of his caseload. Yeah, he was the cop who had nailed her, but now she was someone else’s problem.
Except that her mother-in-law was killed within days of Marla’s escape.
Paterno took another swallow of the coffee, felt a case of heartburn coming on. He opened the second drawer in his desk, where he found a bottle of antacids, and popped a few, washing them down with the coffee.
“Did you drop off the dog?” Janet asked.
“I was glad to get rid of that yappin’ thing.”
“She’s sweet.”
“My ass.”
Quinn was an animal lover. All animals. Period. If it had two legs or four; hard shell, fur, or feathers; beak, wings, scales, or webbed feet, she loved it. She’d even gone so far as to give up meat, becoming a vegan, which, when they were on the road together, was a royal pain.
“I bet Cissy was glad to see her.” Quinn’s eyes lit up behind her glasses. She’d probably wanted to adopt the damned thing and add it to her already swarming brood of five cats.
Paterno snorted derisively.
“Oh yeah,” Quinn said, finishing her drink. “You’re so tough.”
“That’s just the kind of guy I am,” he said as his cell phone rang and Quinn took her leave. He made some notes to himself as he heard the frustration in the voice on the other end of the line. Oscar Benowitz worked with the California State Patrol. A good friend, lousy poker player, and ace golfer, Oscar and he traded information between the two agencies, especially when cases overlapped.
“I saw you called,” Oscar said. “I figured it was about Marla Cahill. Well, the truth of the matter is we got squat. Unbelievable. It’s like the woman literally vanished into thin air.”
“Someone on the outside helped her.”
“That we got figured,” he snapped, then added: “We’re checking all the phone calls and visitors who came by to say ‘hi.’ Her cell mate claims she didn’t know a thing, which is what we’re hearing from all the inmates. We’re still looking, working with the prison, but so far we’ve got nothing.”
Paterno glanced over at the open file on his desk to Marla Cahill’s mug shot. Her damned eyes seemed to stare back at him, taunting, as if she were thinking, You’ll never get me.
“Anyone talking inside the first place she was locked away in? The real prison?”
“She hasn’t been there in a while.”
“My guess is she’s been planning this for years.”
Oscar seemed to want to argue, but said simply, “I’ll keep you posted.”
Paterno hung up and finished his coffee. He wasn’t surprised that Marla Cahill hadn’t left any clues. He suspected she’d planned this a long, long time ago, and the truth of the matter was, from Marla friggin’ Cahill, he expected no less.
“A dog?” Tanya said, stepping backward at the sight of Coco. She was a short, frail-seeming woman whose looks were deceptive as she spent hours rowing on the bay or running to keep in shape. “You got a dog when you know I’m allergic to all animals, including dogs!”
“She was my grandmother’s, and she’ll be staying with us.”
“Permanently?” Tanya asked, her brown eyes round and wide beneath shaggy bangs. “I’m serious about the allergies.”
“I don’t know how long she’ll be here,” Cissy said tightly, fighting back her annoyance. “She’s an old dog. She’ll just sleep in her basket…. Look, if she bothers you, put her in the crate, with a pillow or blanket or towel. That—detective—just brought her over here without any of her things. But I’ll pick them up and bring them back.”
“You’re seriously thinking of leaving me and Beej with it?” Tanya said, recoiling as if Coco were a ferocious wolf, snarling in the darkness, blood dripping from her snout. As if sensing Tanya’s abhorrence, Coco growled and yapped.
“Give me a break, will ya, Tanya?” Cissy snapped. “My grandmother died last night. I found her body. She might have been murdered, so deal with the dog, okay?”
Tanya’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…. That’s too bad, but really, I’m allergic.” To prove the point, and too much on cue for Cissy to fully believe her, the girl sneezed.
“I’ll take care of it,” Cissy said through clenched teeth. She marched across the room, found a towel in the upper hallway, a small dish in the kitchen, filled the bowl with water, and stuffed the towel, dish, and Coco into the carrier. “If she drives you nuts with her whining and scratching, just take B.J. for a walk in his stroller.”
“It’s supposed to rain.” Tanya glanced through the patio windows. Cissy wanted to scream. Tanya was trustworthy enough, but the girl would rather whine about something than do it, which was weird because, as far as Cissy could see, Tanya could do about anything she wanted. She was artistic and smart and, at times, clever. Cissy believed that Tanya would never do B.J. any harm, nor neglect him, and if spurred, as in a crisis, would ultimately do the right thing, but Tanya was forever grumbling, and it was a total pain. Nothing was ever right, and that less-than-sunny disposition bothered the hell out of Cissy. She didn’t want her kid being partially raised by a downer. As soon as she dealt with Gran’s funeral and found a replacement, Tanya would be history.
“Perhaps the dog could go outside,” the girl ventured, as if it was a new, incredible thought.
“You just said it was going to rain.”
“The garage?”
“Believe me, this animal has never spent one minute in a garage. You’ll be okay. I’ll be back in about three hours at the latest, it all depends.” She didn’t wait for any more complaints, just told Tanya that Beej had already had breakfast and been bathed, then, using her cell, called Sara.
She was out the door before Tanya could muster up another complaint and crossed the yard quickly. Sara was backing out of her driveway. She stopped, and Cissy climbed into the new Lexus, buckled up, and started pointing the way to her grandmother’s house.
“Oh, I know where it is,” Sara said. “On Mt. Sutro, backs up to the college’s medical school, right?”
“You’ve been by?”
“Half a dozen times since I met you.” Her eyes were on the road as she wove through traffic that was still thick from the morning rush hour. “It’s a great place. I would love to see it. Never been inside, you know, but it has to have a fantastic view.”
“It does,” Cissy said carefully. She knew where Sara was going with this.
Sara flipped on her blinker as they reached Golden Gate Park, and Cissy gazed out the window. Bikers, joggers, and people walking their dogs were already on the paths cutting through the trees and grass. Normal people who didn’t have to worry about psychotic escapee mothers and dead grandmothers. They rode up the hill to the house, and Cissy glanced at Sara, who was practically salivating as she parked on the street. The gate was left open, thankfully, as Cissy’s remote was in the car. “Mind if I take a peek?” Sara asked, and Cissy decided it really didn’t matter.
“Sure, why not. But remember, the police were here. They searched the place for evidence, dusted for prints. I don’t know what it’s going to look like.”
She and Sara walked up the brick path, Sara eyeing the exterior, obviously calculating the home and property’s worth.
Cissy unlocked the front door, steeled herself, then pushed it open.
“Oh God!” Sara gasped, spying the bloodstains on the foyer floor, the black powder covering everything, and the cold, certain feeling of death that seemed to settle throughout the old house’s bones. “Oh, I didn’t know….” Sara, to her credit, swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Cissy.”
“It’s all right.”
Sara’s eyes were drawn to the marble tile floor and the dark stains. “This house…this house is worth a fortune…if, um, if you ever want to sell….”
“Sell the family home,” Cissy responded flatly. She couldn’t think about it.
“I figure you’ll inherit, right? You might want to unload the property, what with the bad memories and all. I’m telling you, it’s worth millions. Exactly how much, I’m not certain yet. But I’ll walk around, and when I get back to my computer, I’ll pull up some comparables. However, I’m sure they’ll be few and far between. This place is almost one of a kind.” She was on a roll now, looking beyond the black dust and blood, eyeing the woodwork, the floors, the wainscoting, as she traipsed from room to room. Her mental abacus going into overdrive, Sara mounted the stairs to the next story.
Cissy let her go. Selling the house was the furthest thing from her mind. She strolled slowly through the cold, empty rooms and felt as if the estate had somehow lost its heart with her grandmother’s death. It just felt different.
She could hear Sara walking upward to the third story, so Cissy climbed to the second. She paused on the landing, envisioning her grandmother, who had probably been in the library, walking across this strip of hardwood toward the elevator and stopping about…here. Cissy positioned herself over the spot and wondered what had happened. Gran had to have gone over the railing right here, but who would push her? How would the killer get into the house? And why? For God’s sake, who would hate Eugenia enough to want to kill her? She’d made her share of enemies over the course of her seventy-plus years, but for someone to come in and murder her?
Could it be Marla? Could it?
Cissy shook her head. If she had arrived in time, could she have saved her grandmother’s life? Or would she and B.J. have been attacked as well? Killed?
She swallowed hard, then walked into the living area, where she and Beej had hung out with the older woman. Cissy felt a new sadness when she noticed the knitting bags now turned over at the foot of her grandmother’s favorite wing-backed chair, the remote control for the television aimed at her twenty-year-old TV. In her room, she saw her outfits, sorted by color, shoes and handbags in cubbies, at the ready near the appropriate jackets, slacks, and skirts.
“Oh, Gran,” Cissy said, her heart breaking all over again.
Before she could become too grief-stricken, she gathered up Coco’s multiple dog beds, leashes, bowls, grooming kits, and blankets, then carried them out to the car. She also found two bags of dog food and a tiny little sweater, which, she was certain, she would never put on the dog.
On her way back inside the house, she nearly collided with Sara, who was smiling. “This is a wonderful, wonderful property,” she enthused. “Really, Cissy, if you want to sell, I have clients who have been looking for nearly three years for a house as unique and ‘San Francisco’ as this one. It would be perfect for them. Perfect.”
“It’s not mine to sell, Sara.”
“Then who’s the legal owner?”
“Maybe my uncle or brother…. I don’t know.” She tried to hide her irritation. “Gran just died. Let’s not even speculate.”
“You’re right, of course.” Sara pulled a face. “I tend to get ahead of myself sometimes. I don’t mean to be insensitive.” She actually appeared sympathetic. “I’ve got to go. You okay?”
“Sure. Thanks for the ride.”
Sara hugged her without pressing a business card into her palm; about as sincere as she could get. She then marched back to her Lexus, climbed inside, yanked out her cell phone, and was already talking a blue streak as she backed out of the driveway.
The minute the sleek car was out of range, Cissy reached into her own car and pushed the remote button to close the gates. With a grind and whir, the old iron behemoth swung into position. “Fortress secure,” she told herself, but paused before heading into the house again. If someone had killed Eugenia, how did they get in? The front door had been locked, the gate closed when she arrived. True, there was a code everyone employed at the estate knew, the code that electronically released the locks and swung open the gate. Punch the same numbers on the way out, and the gate would close. The same was true of the garage. Her grandmother changed the codes every two or three months, just to keep the house more secure, but someone must have learned them. How else had they gotten in?
As she was looking at the gates, they clicked and began to open, groaning with the effort. She whipped around. Her heart nearly stopped.
Paloma was walking toward her, pocketing her remote control for the gates. Cissy released a shaky breath and tried to smile at the newcomer. Tall, almost regal looking, with shiny black hair clipped away from her face, sporting a long, spy-type trench coat, she walked up the street smartly in high-heeled boots. She seemed unconcerned, on her way to work as normal, earbuds plugged into her ears from the iPod hidden in her pocket. She was humming, her voice right on key, but when she caught a glimpse of Cissy through the opening gate, her face immediately crumpled, the humming stopped, and she yanked the earbuds from her ears. Her demeanor changed in an instant. “Miss Cissy, I’m so sorry,” she said, one hand splaying over her heart. “Even though a policeman called me, and you called me, too, I…I still can’t believe it!” She wasn’t crying but was shaking her head sadly.
“I can’t either.”
“And the authorities, they think it could be murder?”
Cissy saw Eugenia’s neighbors, Dr. and Mrs. Yang, in their town car as it backed onto the street. Their grand house was a little lower on the hillside, on the other side of the street. She’d met them before; he was a retired dentist, his wife was a quiet woman who had regularly beaten Gran at mahjong.
“I should speak to them,” she said to Paloma. “Just give me a minute.”
She crossed the street, and as she approached the Lincoln, Mrs. Yang rolled down her window. “Cissy,” she said softly. “This is so awful. Are you okay?” Concern etched a face that had few natural wrinkles. Her hair was short, its black now shot with silver, her glasses small and dark-rimmed.
“I’m fine,” Cissy lied. Then, while Dr. Yang let the car idle, she gave them a quick report, promising to let them know when the services were. Mrs. Yang sympathetically patted her hand, which was resting on the open window.
By the time Cissy recrossed the street, Paloma was finishing a cigarette. As Cissy approached, she tossed the remains of her filter tip onto the driveway, crushed it with the toe of her leather boot, then picked up the butt.
Cissy said, “Let’s go inside before I have to talk to any more of the neighbors.”
They went through the garage.
Paloma discarded the cigarette into a trash can as they waited for the elevator. Then they rode up in silence while the old car ground its way to the main floor before stopping with a bit of a bump.
Bracing herself, Cissy stepped into the house again.
Once again, the place felt empty.
Lifeless.
Almost tomblike.
Then there was the foyer.
Paloma’s hand jumped to her mouth. She swallowed hard and paled, her gaze moving from the landing to the stairs and then once again settling on the dark near-purple stain on the floor. “This is horrible.”
Cissy couldn’t agree more, and when Rosa arrived five minutes later, the plump little woman began sobbing and making the sign of the cross over her chest and speaking rapid-fire Spanish to Paloma. Cissy caught some of the phrases, though she didn’t need an interpreter to realize that Rosa was upset and grieving.
“Dios! Oh Dios!” she sobbed into several tissues, her face red, her dark eyes watery and full of misery. She shook her head over and over, as if in her vehement denial she could change what had happened. Then, just when she had nearly controlled herself, she glanced at the stain on the floor and wailed even louder.
Paloma, calmer, spoke softly to her and hugged her, but the woman was inconsolable.
“Coco? Where is my little Coco?” Rosa asked around a hiccup.
“I’ve got her.”
“Thank God. I thought…Oh, never mind what I thought,” she said in her thick accent. “What’re we going to do?”
“We’re going to clean up the mess,” Cissy said with renewed determination. They could all grieve, all feel a little bit of guilt somehow for living when Gran was dead, just as she did, but life had to go on. “Can you handle it?”
“Sí…no…yes, yes, I can,” Rosa said, nodding her head emphatically. “Miss Eugenia, she would not like this mess.” Despite the tears streaking her face, Rosa’s nostrils flared as she spied the offensive dirt tracked across the floor: the blood, of course, and all the black dust. “It’s a pigsty in here!” Again she sputtered out Spanish, but this time she was more angry than sad. “Look at this!” she said, spying a potted plant that had been accidentally toppled. “And this!” The rug at the bottom of the stairs had been tracked upon. “My God!”
Armed with new purpose, Rosa began the therapeutic task of putting the house back together. Paloma too went about cleaning up. Cissy braced herself to deal with Lars, Elsa, and Deborah as each one arrived. Each was grim, but each found a way to assist, Deborah showing up to offer a hand despite the fact that Cissy had basically given her her walking papers.
Cissy was grateful to all of them. She helped where she could as Elsa set about straightening the kitchen, throwing out food that wouldn’t be eaten, cleaning and polishing all the small appliances, counters, and utensils. Lars headed to the cars and the garage, and Deborah tackled Eugenia’s calendar and engagements, canceling appointments and explaining a little about what had happened, referring Eugenia’s closest friends to Cissy. She said she would e-mail Cissy all of the important phone numbers and names of contacts such as accountants, lawyers, and, of course, the prepaid funeral arrangements that Eugenia, years ago, had compiled. She promised to help Cissy with the arrangements and also to start on the obituary.
As they went about their business, Cissy, satisfied that the house and some of the affairs were being overseen, was finally able to leave.
She’d just pulled out of the drive and was heading down the steep, fog-shrouded road when her cell phone jangled. Driving with one hand, she fished it out of her purse and slid it open. “Hello?”
“Cissy, hi. It’s Nick.”
“Nick.” Her uncle’s voice was like something from a distant past.
“We heard about Mother,” he said, then launched into a spate of “we’re worried about you, we’ll be there for the funeral, if there’s anything you need, please call…” All the same crap she’d heard for ten years. Nick, her father’s brother, was okay; she kind of liked him, but she wasn’t sure about his wife, the bad girl gone good, or some such nonsense. Cissy had tried living with them in their podunk, nowhere town on the Oregon coast and had jettisoned herself out of there ASAP! Talk about boring! She’d hightailed it back home, then lived with Gran for the last few months before high school graduation. After that it was southern California and USC all the way. Uncle Nick, his wife, and even her small brother were fine, just not what she considered her immediate family.
Like Jack? her mind taunted. He’s your immediate family, isn’t he? Or he was supposed to be.
It was a little sad, she thought, maneuvering down the hill, still listening to Nick. She wasn’t even that close to her brother, who seemed to be thriving with all of that backwoods stuff. Uncle Nick flew down every other week or so, as he still had his hand in the company business, but most times he’d shown up Cissy was able to duck out of their “family” dinners. She just couldn’t make herself join in the happy family stuff. Not with her mother’s crimes hovering over everything like a bad smell, even if she had been locked away in prison.
Which she wasn’t now.
“So we just thought you might need us. We know you’ve got Jack and B.J., but thought, oh hell, you know.”
“I’m fine, Nick,” Cissy assured him, just as she had when he’d called about Marla a few days earlier. But she felt tears touch the back of her eyes. She hadn’t told him about the impending divorce, didn’t want him or his wife involved, didn’t need to hear their opinions one way or the other. “I’m grown up now. I guess I should be saying ‘I’m sorry’ to you. Gran was your mother.”
He hesitated just a beat, which said volumes about his relationship with Gran. “That she was.”
“Look, I’m sure the attorneys and all will be calling you, and I’m driving and have another call coming in.”
“Okay, Cissy. Take care.”
Her throat tightened just a fraction. “You too, and say hi to James for me.” She clicked off, feeling slightly guilty. She’d lied about another call coming in, but she did not want or need Uncle Nick and his wife putting their noses into her business.
The phone rang again, and this time she looked. Her friend Tracy. From high school. Oh great…the word about Gran and her mother had hit the street. She didn’t pick up. Wasn’t ready to face the onslaught. Tracy would be just the first.
Before driving home, she stopped by Joltz, the local coffee shop and deli where she sometimes set up her laptop for a few hours of uninterrupted work, parking in a spot that still had a little time on the meter.
Joltz offered tables, couches, and free wireless, and there were days when Cissy had been surrounded by the warm scent of roasting coffee, the gentle buzz of conversation, and the sputter of the espresso machines. She didn’t mind the occasional burst of laughter or the whine of the coffee grinder. Sometimes the little table she always used as a work area was a respite from the office, where she shared a cubicle with three other freelance writers, or home, where she was always distracted, knowing her baby was nearby. Here, in relative anonymity, she had found it surprisingly easy to work, drink coffee, or even choose lunch from the array of sandwiches and salads in the deli case.
“The usual?” one of the baristas asked. “No-fat double-mocha with whipped cream?”
“I owe it to myself,” Cissy said and reminded herself to climb on the elliptical machine tucked into the extra bedroom when she got home.
“You got it.”
The workers behind the counter didn’t wear name tags, but Cissy was in here often enough to recognize Diedre, with her quick smile and sharp wit. She was slender, blond, and friendly, whereas the woman who worked with her, Rachelle, was a little quieter, not quite as outgoing, and was always rotating the colors of her hair. Today’s hue of choice was a rich mahogany shimmering with deep purple highlights. Modest by Rachelle’s standards. Both baristas were attractive and witty enough to keep the regulars coming back.
Rachelle saw her in line and said, “I heard about your grandmother.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Diedre asked as she took Cissy’s credit card. “Oh…wait.” She glanced back at Rachelle. “It was on the news, wasn’t it? The old woman in the mansion. Found dead.”
By me, Cissy thought. “Yeah,” she said, slightly uncomfortable as there were two other people in line, staring at the offerings in the bakery case while waiting to order.
“And all that business about your mother,” Rachelle added. “That’s gotta be tough.”
Cissy didn’t know how to respond. Yes, these women knew a little bit about her; she’d gladly offered up a few details, as she’d been virtually alone with them in the early afternoons when business was slow. Obviously, she should have kept her mouth shut. She knew she was blanching but managed to force a thin smile. “You have no idea.”
“What?” Diedre said again, and Cissy groaned inside.
Rachelle caught Cissy’s mortification. “Sorry,” she mouthed, whispered something to Diedre, then turned her attention to the next woman, a jogger with beads of sweat still sliding down her face. Fortunately the woman, panting from her exercise, hadn’t heard the exchange. Only Selma, a regular positioned in her favorite reading chair near the corner window, seemed to be paying attention. She took a long swallow from her cup, then buried her nose in her paperback again.
Diedre brought Cissy the mocha as Rachelle hit the grinder. A hard whir roared through the room. In a soft tone, Diedre said, “Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know about your mother, and believe me, I understand. My family”—she rolled her eyes—“they’re the worst.”
Not even close, Cissy thought as she signed the receipt and tucked it, as well as the card, back into her wallet. Deciding not to stay, Cissy headed outside. She pushed the heavy door open with her shoulder and stepped into the late-morning chill, nearly running into a man in a long, dark coat, a frustrated expression etched into his narrow, pissed-off face. He stepped around her, his briefcase hitting her on the thigh. She reacted, the lid came off her drink, and hot chocolate, coffee, and whipped cream sloshed all over her jacket.
“Hey!” she called, but he never turned around, just walked as if wherever he was going was more important than stopping long enough for a quick “Excuse me.”
“Damn it all,” she grumbled to herself. After picking up the now-dirty lid, she walked into the shop again.
“What a jerk,” Rachelle said. “I saw what happened.” She had already plucked a stack of napkins from behind the counter and handed them to Cissy.
“It’s okay. I just need a new lid.”
Rachelle offered, “I can refill the mocha.” The line waiting for service was already stacking up, Diedre taking orders.
“I’m fine,” Cissy told her as she wiped her hands and refitted her drink with a lid. Once again, she took a sip of the hot mocha and, more carefully this time, stepped onto the street.
After that, the walk to the car was uneventful, but as Cissy reached the Acura, she noticed the parking meter had expired. After everything else she’d gone through, a stupid parking ticket might just send her over the edge.
Fortunately, she’d lucked out. The meter reader hadn’t been by, but, as she pulled out of the tight spot, she nearly hit the car in front of her, missing it by inches.
She drew in a couple of slow breaths, taking her time, searching for her own equilibrium. “Count your blessings,” she told herself, whispering one of Gran’s favorite sayings. She’d gotten no ticket. There was no fender bender.
But it was still morning.
God only knew what the rest of the day would bring.
Lost in thought, she drove down the hill. She stopped for a red light at a crosswalk near the park. As her engine idled, a brightly colored bus belched clouds of exhaust her way, the smelly smoke mingling with the bits of fog still trailing through the city.
Cissy waited, foot on the brake, fingers tapping the wheel.
Several pedestrians crossed in front of her. An old man walked his impossibly tiny dog, a young couple held hands, lost in their own world, a teenager on a skateboard with a stocking cap pulled down to frame his face rolled past, skating around a businessman in a long, dark coat.
Cissy snapped to attention.
She focused on the man in black.
Sure enough, it was the same creep who’d nearly knocked her down. As she contemplated blasting him with her horn, he turned to look straight at her. She froze. Had she seen him somewhere before, not just on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop? He never stopped walking to the bus stop, but he stared at her long and hard with eyes that seemed to have no soul. And then, before he stepped onto the curb where the bus was waiting, he smiled. A cold, toothy grin that quietly promised they would meet again. Though no word was spoken, Cissy understood the silent message.
The bump on the sidewalk at Joltz had been no accident.
This appearance in front of her car had been planned.
She thought of the figure she’d seen just the night before staring at her bedroom window. At B.J.’s window.
Her heart jackhammered.
Her blood froze in her veins.
What the hell was this all about?
She needed to pull over and accost the man, right here, in broad daylight, with witnesses.
And what?
Accuse him of hitting her with his briefcase on purpose?
Of walking in a crosswalk and grinning evilly?
She, the daughter of Marla Cahill?
Impotently, she watched him disappear behind the idling bus, then heard the honk of an angry horn. The light had turned green, and the guy in the Range Rover behind her was in a hurry. “Get a life,” she muttered, stepping on the gas, but as she drove through the intersection, she kept one eye on her rearview mirror, where fog was clouding her view and the bus bullied its way into traffic.
The man in the black coat with the frighteningly cold grin was gone. Like a scary-looking marionette yanked quickly off the stage by unseen hands, he’d vanished.