Siren Song

Zipping open the gym bag, I found the lavender and white tracksuit my gran had bought me for my last birthday. Thinking of Gran made me sad. She was probably having a really hard time. God knows Mom has her flaws, but my gran loves her as only a mother can. Getting picked up again meant serious jail time. The good news, Mom might dry out, get into AA. But I’d gotten my siren blood through her. If Dr. Marloe was correct—and I was pretty sure she was—sirens do not get on well with other women. Locking my mother in jail with hundreds of other women would be a recipe for disaster, no matter how richly she might deserve it. I wondered if we could use the Americans with Disabilities Act to mitigate her sentence. I didn’t know, but I could at least mention it to my mother’s attorney. Once she had one.



Once I was presentable, I went into the office and ate. I was just finishing when I heard the gentle double whump of a walker on stairs. Damn it, Dottie!



“That had better not be Dawna’s new assistant coming up those steps. We have an agreement. No stairs,” I called out.



There was a pause and I was almost sure I heard soft laughter. “I’m going slow.”



I growled with the last bit of chocolate mocha in my mouth. “I’ll come down.”



Jumping out of my chair, I hurried out the door and down the hall. Dottie had stopped at the second-floor landing. Her walker could be used as sort of a chair when turned backward, and she was sitting comfortably, the light from the stained-glass window painting her with a vibrant rainbow of colors.



I sat on one of the steps facing her. “You said no more stairs.”



“No.” She smiled beatifically. “You said no more stairs. I simply didn’t argue.”



That wasn’t how I remembered it, but she might be right. Even if she was wrong, I knew she’d just blame the faulty memory of old age and do what she wanted. I was beginning to realize just how hardheaded she could be and wondered if hiring her had been the best idea after all.



“I’m the boss,” I reminded her.



“Yes, dear, you are,” she said in a tone that clearly said I wasn’t—or that even if I was, it really didn’t matter.



“I suppose you’ve already made this trip once, bringing up my breakfast?” I gave her a stern look.



“No, that was Bubba. He insisted that if he did it, nobody would notice. If Mr. Creede had known you were right next door, asleep on the floor—well, you know he’s quite taken with you.”



“John was here?” It was a stupid question. But I’d only just had my coffee. I didn’t know what to think about the rest of her comment. But it did make me think well of Bubba that he hadn’t said anything.



She nodded. “Along with the client and his bodyguard. They spent the night. Ron seemed to recognize the man with Mr. Creede. Bubba said he was gushing over the man, which I got the impression was unusual.”



I found myself chuckling. I couldn’t help it. I probably should’ve guessed that John would bring Ivan and the king back here. The wards are excellent. I make sure of that. If King Dahlmar had enough money for a decent hotel, he wouldn’t be running around in a souvenir T-shirt and a cheap pair of no-name-brand jeans. That this hadn’t occurred to me before meant that I’d been further off my game than I’d thought. I’d needed a good night’s sleep.



“You needed your rest. Are you feeling better? I’m so sorry about your beau, dear. I didn’t mean to snoop, but I did want to know how the court case was going—”



She looked like a softer version of Gran. I couldn’t help but offer her a sad smile. “That’s all right. I know you meant well.” Clairvoyants. You can’t stop ’em looking. At least with most of them there was a chance they’d be wrong. But in Dottie’s case, like Vicki’s, it was a damned small chance.



“Thank you for understanding.” She sighed. “So few people really do.” Her expression grew even sadder than mine. It made me wonder about her family. Were they dead, or did they just never get around to seeing her, like Vicki’s parents?



“I saw something just a few minutes ago, too.” She sounded mournful.



“Yes?”



“I’m not certain. It’s just an impression. But . . . I really think you need to check on your grandmother.”



My stomach tightened, but I kept my voice calm. “I’ll do that.” I rose to my feet. “Anything else?”



“Not right now.”



“All right. But Dottie, I mean it. No more stairs. Promise me, right here and now.”



She gave me an impatient look. “If you don’t want me taking the stairs, you’re going to need to move down to the first floor.” She stood, flipping up the little seat and turning the walker around. “There are too many secrets in your life and Ronald is far too interested in things that are none of his concern.”



I watched her go down the stairs. It was a slow, painful process, but she made it safely. Once I knew she was all right, I dashed up the stairs to my office to give my gran a call.



She didn’t answer on the house phone.



It could mean nothing at all. But I just couldn’t get over Dottie’s expression, the tone of her voice. I set the phone down, debated with myself what I should do. I was probably already in deep, deep trouble with Jeff for not being back at Birchwoods. But I had to know that Gran was all right.



Screw it. If he gets pissed, I’ll have to live with it.



I grabbed my purse, slipped on the jacket to the tracksuit. It was broad daylight and nowhere near the full moon, so I shouldn’t need weapons from my werewolf or vampire kits. But I slapped on some sunscreen and strapped on my knife sheath and the knives Bruno had given me. Just in case.



I didn’t speed on the way to Gran’s. I wanted to. But a cop car pulled behind me about a block away from my office and stayed there, obviously following me, all the way across town. When I pulled into Gran’s driveway, the cruiser drove off but not before I got a glimpse of the driver: Officer Clarke. Oh joy.



Gran’s house is a small two bedroom, painted gray with white trim. An old-fashioned wire mesh fence surrounded a pair of flower beds on either side of the steps leading up to the front porch. California poppies and Shasta daisies exploded from the beds and filled my nose with flowery goodness. Gran lives in a working-class neighborhood that’s not as good as it used to be when she and Grandpa first bought the place fifty or sixty years ago but is still not bad. The neighborhood population is aging because back then people bought houses with the intention of staying in them until they retired or died, whichever came first.



My gran was sitting on the front porch in the same old metal rocking chair she’d cradled me in through skinned knees and childhood heartbreaks. She didn’t rise when I drove up, didn’t call out a greeting, or react at all. Just stared into space. It reminded me forcibly of my own actions yesterday. As I climbed from the car I saw the track of tears on her cheeks.



“Gran.” I opened the gate and hurried up the walk to the house.



She looked up. “Hello, Celia.” She didn’t smile.



“Gran, what’s wrong?” I knelt down in front of her chair. “What’s the matter?”



“I met with your mother’s lawyer this morning.”



Oh, crap. “Gran—,” I started to say something, anything.



“You were right. All those times when you told me not to let her drive. You were right. They have pictures, taken by cameras at intersections for months. Even though they didn’t pull her over right then, they’re going to show them to the judge. The attorney said there’s no chance we can say this time was a mistake.”



I touched her shoulder, but even then she didn’t react. “Gran, it’s not your fault.”



“If I hadn’t let her use the car—” The tears were flowing hard now and she reached into the pocket of her sweater to pull out a damp clump of tissues.



Sometimes the truth, although harsh, can be comforting. I’m hoping she took it that way. “If you hadn’t let Mom use the car, she would’ve taken it anyway. You know that. I’ll bet she had her own secret set of keys made.” I gave her a wry smile. “Nothing ever stops Mom.”



Gran laughed, but it was more of a croak and it died as quickly as it had come. “He says she’ll go to prison. My poor baby . . . my Lana, in prison.”



I didn’t say a word. Any time my mother served would be richly deserved. She’d driven drunk and without a license or insurance more times than I could count. She’d wrecked cars, and while she swore to us that nobody had ever been hurt, she’d endangered herself and everybody else on the road. But my gran wouldn’t believe that and didn’t need to hear it. She needed comfort. Unfortunately, I had very little to give.



“Does she have a public defender?”



Gran squirmed in her chair and wouldn’t meet my eyes. I just knew what that meant. I sighed. “You hired an attorney.”



“I had to.” A little bit of her old ferocity returned. “I’ve heard terrible things about public defenders. They’re in all the papers and you know it. It’s my money. If I want to—”



Throw it away, I thought, but I bit my tongue. Instead, I said, “It’s your money and your choice, Gran.” I spoke softly. “But I had an idea last night and I want to call her attorney and see what he thinks of it. How do I get hold of him?”



She blushed and wouldn’t answer me. That was never a good sign. When she doesn’t want to tell me something, the news is always bad. Seeing the flush of embarrassment, the stubborn set of her chin, gave me an idea, a really, hideously, awful idea.



“Gran, you didn’t hire my attorney, did you?”



“Why not? He got you off—do you think he’s too good for your mother?” Her eyes flashed with renewed anger.



“Of course not,” I lied. My mom’s case was open-and-shut, no, not shut—slam the jailhouse door. Hiring Roberto would cost everything Gran had and the case was unwinnable. She might as well just flush the money down the toilet. “But Gran, you can’t afford him. It took all of my savings for me to afford him. All of my savings.”