by Nancy Bush
“Could you stop that?” Harley muttered.
“Duchess,” Emma said sharply.
The dog exhaled one long doggy sigh but managed to stop the whining.
Emma could almost remember driving herself, but the steps kind of got messed up in her brain whenever she tried to put them in a line. “Processing is difficult for Emma,” one doctor had told Mom when she was still alive. Emma had been sitting right there, but no one had paid attention to her.
Mom had nodded, looking kind of mad. “Not mad,” Mom had assured her later, when they were out of the doctor’s office and on the way home. “Grim. You know what that is.”
“Grim,” Emma had repeated. She knew the word but sometimes the letters seemed to separate and float away in front of her eyes.
“It’s how I feel when I get hard news,” was Mom’s explanation.
She knew she couldn’t drive, but she sorely wished that Jamie had been the one to take her home. Or Cooper.
Harley made the last turn and Emma released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
At that moment the skies opened up and rain poured down on them, peppering the roof of Harley’s car and making Duchess bark at the noise. Emma waited to open her door and by the time the rain had passed, Harley said, “So long, nice weather. We gotta make a run for it.”
They dashed into Ridge Pointe together with Duchess on their heels. After walking the dog back to Emma’s room they headed into the main dining area.
* * *
“That looks good,” Harley said, eyeing the ice cream cart set up in a corner of the room near the kitchen.
“Every Friday. Sometimes they have pink peppermint.”
“Is that your favorite?” asked Harley.
“No.”
Harley choked on a laugh. Sometimes Aunt Emma just cracked her up.
A woman bent over a walker thumped her way into the room. She spied Harley and Emma seating themselves at a table and worked her way to one next to them.
“Old Darla’s deaf,” said Emma.
“She doesn’t sit at your table?”
“No, she waits for Mrs. Throckmorton.” She picked up the menu that one of the young women who worked there had dropped at their table. “Mrs. Throckmorton has bad breath.”
Harley took her at her word. “Point her out so I can avoid her.”
“She’s not here. She’s having some trouble. Jewell says she’s a gossip.”
“Ah, Jewell.” Harley’s gaze flicked to Jewell Caldwell. She’d met a lot of the Ridge Pointe residents since Emma had moved in. Some were adorable and some . . . not so much.
“Jewell gossips, too,” said Emma.
“No shit.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Sorry,” Harley said automatically.
That was the rule in the Whelan-Woodward household. No swearing, but Harley had never been known to follow the rules very well. She tried, sort of, but well, sometimes nothing but a good swear word would suffice.
They ordered dinner, Emma choosing spaghetti, which was always on the menu, with Harley going for the taco salad with chicken. She was trying to be a vegetarian, but it was really hard. Fast-food outlets called to her.
Emma pointed out different residents, some of whom Harley knew already. Like the gossipy Jewell, who had a penchant for blaming others for faults she possessed herself. And deaf Old Darla, along with the halitosis-afflicted Mrs. Throckmorton, who had entered late and seated herself at Old Darla’s table. Old Darla didn’t seem to mind the other lady’s breath, so it appeared all was well.
“Who are they?” Harley asked, pointing her fork at a rectangular table filled with women who looked to be their mid-to-late seventies, chatting away like BFFs. One woman with thick, short silver hair and sculpted cheekbones was staring blankly while the conversation flowed around her.
“That’s Jewell’s table. Those are her friends.”
Harley belatedly saw Jewell. She had a long gray bob and sharp eyes that roved the room. “Who is the pretty woman staring off into space?”
“She doesn’t talk.”
“Ever?”
“She’s a listener.”
Harley wasn’t sure Emma was right on that. It didn’t appear that she was living in the same galaxy as the rest of them.
Emma said, “Sometimes one of them invites a guy to come and eat with them. He’s a nice guy. He’s nice to me, but I’m not interested in a relationship.”
Harley shot Emma a sharp look. Sometimes she wondered if her aunt was putting her on, but Emma was, as ever, completely sincere. She didn’t know how to do sarcasm or irony or any kind of snarkiness. She just told it like it was, always.
When they were finished with their meal the waitress appeared to take their plates, and Harley followed Emma as she eagerly led the way to the ice cream cart. Mrs. Throckmorton was in front of them, as was Old Darla.
Old Darla was saying, “—my grandson visits me more than yours.”
Mrs. Throckmorton responded, “You don’t have a grandson,” to which Old Darla reared back and looked like she was going to spit in Mrs. Throckmorton’s eye.
The guy from the kitchen came out with a tub of more pink peppermint and plunked it down into one of the circular slots in the stainless-steel counter, his attention on Old Darla and Mrs. Throckmorton. “Whoa, ladies. You gonna throw down right here?” he asked as he settled the carton into one of the slots behind the cart. He looked up and saw Harley, and his expression brightened. He sketched a quick bow. “Greetings, young person. What’ll it be?”
Harley smiled a little. He looked like a slacker, but she kinda liked that look. She was with . . . well, had been, with Greer, but he’d gone off to college and their close rapport wasn’t so close anymore. Harley still really liked him, but things were different now. Her mom had sensed things had changed and had said she was there if Harley wanted to talk about it. Harley had blown her off. She would never let anyone know how deeply she was hurt by the whole thing.
“Pink peppermint,” said Emma.
“I thought you didn’t like it,” Harley reminded her.
She shrugged. “It’s not my favorite but I like it.”
“And you?” the guy asked Harley, holding up his ice cream scoop.
“Um, chocolate.”
“Comin’ right up.”
A scream and clatter sounded from behind them. Both Harley and Emma turned around and saw that Old Darla had spaghetti in her white hair. Mrs. Throckmorton’s plate was on the industrial carpet beside her. At the surprised and fearful look on Old Darla’s face, Mrs. Throckmorton burst into tears.
“Whoa,” said Harley.
The guy behind the ice cream cart had set down his scoop and was already on his way to help, but an efficient-looking woman with streaked blond hair said, “I’ve got it, Ian,” and went to Old Darla and guided her away from the table, while one of the younger women squatted down beside Mrs. Throckmorton’s chair, offering a tissue.
“Mrs. Throckmorton threw her spaghetti at Old Darla and then dropped her plate,” said Emma in her flat monotone.
“Emotional trauma at Ridge Pointe Assisted Living,” observed Harley.
Emma said sagely, “That’s been coming for weeks.”
A middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses and an expanding waistline hurried into the room wearing an “all’s well” fake smile and tried to talk to Mrs. Throckmorton, but she covered her face with her hands and shook her head.
“That’s Bob,” said Emma as Ian quickly made her a cone of pink peppermint and one of chocolate for Harley. They walked out of the restaurant to an alcove along one of the hallway wings with two chairs and a table. Old Darla had resisted being pulled away, apparently, and had made her way back to the table. Mrs. Throckmorton put her hands over her ears to the blond woman and Bob, who walked out of the dining room together, having a pretty intense confab as they headed toward the Ridge Pointe offices.
“Somebody’s in trouble,” said Harley.
“Who?” asked Emma, her tongue circling the ball of ice cream she was molding into a perfect sphere.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t look good for these ladies.”
One of the girls helping out overheard Harley and shook her head and smiled. “They have the same old arguments about their grandsons, all the time, but they get over it.” She moved back toward the kitchen.
“They do this a lot?” asked Harley.
Emma said, “They just get mixed up about their grandsons. It’s very confusing, like your mom and the tattoos.”
“What?”
“Jamie likes your baby skin. She doesn’t want you to have tattoos on it.”
“She told you that?”
Emma nodded. “Mrs. Throckmorton saw her grandson kissing Rayne under the portico and she didn’t like it. Old Darla says it’s her grandson, but he wasn’t kissing Rayne. I don’t know Old Darla’s grandson. I think they’re sharing one.”
“I’m not sure it works that way.” Harley’s mind had snagged on the name: Rayne. She knew that was the name of the girl they’d found on the banks of the East Glen River.
Now Emma said, as if she’d followed Harley’s train of thought with her own, “Cooper will tell Jamie about that dead body someday.” She then girded her sphere of ice cream with the tip of her tongue.
Everyone was trying to shield that information from Emma, as Rayne had been working at Ridge Pointe when Emma first moved in. Harley wasn’t so sure that was the answer. Emma could handle more than people believed.
Harley said, “I’d kind of like to work for the police. A detective, like Cooper. I wouldn’t want to be a traffic cop or anything. I don’t want to hassle people or give them tickets, but I’d like to catch some serious criminals and put ’em away. That would be cool.”
“Maybe you could help Cooper.”
Harley doubted Cooper would think that was a good idea. “I need a job to make some money, but I don’t think the police department would hire me.”
“You could work here,” said Emma. “There’s a lot going on here.”
Harley looked over at the black cat with the white toes who sat at the edge of the room, tail twitching.
“She knows not to come into the dining room,” said Emma, following Harley’s gaze.
“Smart cat.”
“She lets us know when someone’s about to check out.”
“Check out?” Harley repeated.
“Ian smells like skunk but he said the cat knows when someone’s about to check out. That’s when it sneaks in their room and gets in bed with them. Then they’re dead.”
Harley felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. “You serious?”
“Duchess won’t let it in my room.”
“Jesus . . . I know, no swearing.” Harley’s stomach clenched, though Emma kept on eating her ice cream. “What’s its name, the cat?”
The look on Emma’s face was indescribable, somewhere between pain, disgust, and horror. “It doesn’t have a name.”
“Maybe you should name it?” Harley suggested.
“Twinkletoes,” she burst out.
“That’s good. Because of its white feet? Makes sense.”
“Stupid name,” said Emma with feeling.
Harley wasn’t quite following which way Emma was landing on this, but that’s the way it was with her aunt sometimes. “It really knows when someone’s going to die?”
“It sleeps with them.”
Through the window to the dining room Harley saw Mrs. Throckmorton rise from the table, looking a bit wild. Her hair was standing on end in places and her eyes rolled around in her head. She lurched away from the table, heading for the dining room doorway.
“Sara!” a woman’s voice called to her.
Mrs. Throckmorton looked back, but she kept moving out of the room, walking unevenly as if she couldn’t quite move her feet right. She stepped outside the dining room and into the hallway where Harley and Emma sat. The cat moved away from the door, watching her.
Emma said, “Hi, Mrs. Throckmorton.”
The woman whipped around and stared at Emma. Harley looked from her to Emma, then back again.
“My granddaughter’s dead,” she said.
“What?” Emma’s mouth dropped open.
“They killed her.”
“Who?” Harley asked before Emma could. She gazed at Mrs. Throckmorton with trepidation.
“I thought you had a grandson,” said Emma.
“She was lying on a bed of rice,” said Mrs. Throckmorton.
“Rice?” Harley questioned.
“You have a daughter named Lorena,” Emma reminded. “And a grandson.”
“Lorena . . .” the woman whispered.
“I don’t think Old Darla has a grandson. You guys get it wrong all the time.” Emma went on in her monotone way. She licked off the rest of her ice cream from the cone as Mrs. Throckmorton stared at her.
Harley happened to glance over to the menu, which was displayed on an easel and printed in bright colors, with tonight’s special: chicken and gravy on a bed of rice.
As Mrs. Throckmorton moved off, Emma said in a stage whisper, “She isn’t reliable.”
“Maybe she had a bad dream . . . or she didn’t like the menu.” Harley motioned her head toward the easel.
Emma’s eyes moved to the easel and she read the menu. “You could be a detective, Harley!” For once her voice lifted out of its deadpan delivery.
“Thanks.” The idea made her feel good.
Emma leaned into her and whispered, “Old Darla likes Mrs. Throckmorton’s grandson more than Mrs. Throckmorton does.”
“That’s . . . too bad.”
“It’s a secret, but Old Darla knows how Mrs. Throckmorton feels. I think she wants to have Mrs. Throckmorton’s grandson. Unless she has a grandson, too.” She frowned then and looked down at her feet. “It’s very confusing.”
“Why doesn’t Mrs. Throckmorton like her grandson?”
Emma shrugged, biting into the bottom of her cone. Harley’s chocolate was starting to drip over her fingers, so she got up and went back inside the dining room to throw the rest of her cone away. She grabbed a napkin and wiped her hands, then returned to Emma.
“Why doesn’t she like him?” she tried again.
“His name is Thaddeus. Mrs. Throckmorton’s daughter is Lorena and Thaddeus is her son.”
“You don’t like him, either.” Emma’s unusually cold tone was a giveaway.
“I only met him once.”
“But you don’t like him,” she pressed. She was still basking a little in the thought that maybe she could be a detective. Maybe she could work with the police, for Cooper. Why not? She was capable. There must be something she could do there.
“If you can’t say anything nice about somebody, don’t say anything at all.”
“And you can’t say anything nice about him.”
Emma thought that one over. “No,” she finally admitted, biting into the bottom of her ice cream cone.
* * *
Thaddeus Charles Jenkins sat in his car, actually his grandmother’s sun-damaged blue Cadillac Seville. The old cow hadn’t driven it in years. Thad had preferred BMWs in his youth, the Ultimate Driving Machine, if you could ever believe advertising bullshit, cars he really couldn’t afford at the time. But life had changed and his needs had changed. And well, the old cow’s Caddy filled the bill.
He was parked outside Goldie Burger. He’d spent a lot of time here as a kid. He hadn’t been on his regimen at that time. Just ate fries and burgers and milkshakes and pizza and all that kid stuff. Now he was heavy into exercise and a balanced diet with supplements. He was as fit as he’d ever been.
But today’s trip to the burger spot was because he was on a mission. He’d killed Rayne in a fit of anger. Sick of her. Sick of the mean girl she’d once been, and the needy, grasping woman she’d become. He’d grabbed up the cup that had flown out of her hand, luckily it hadn’t gone over the si
de of the cliff, an error in his plan that could have had disastrous consequences since his prints were on that cup. Then he’d stuffed all the paraphernalia from their lovers’ meeting into her woven purse and left the “crime scene” in a kind of mad euphoria.
Now he had to kill her friend.
Things have to be in the right order.
Through the windshield he watched Bibi Engstrom head to her car, white bag in hand, shoulders hunched, despondent and miserable. He almost felt sorry for her. He had no beef with Bibi. She was like millions of people who led unimportant lives. Unhappy. Going nowhere. Looking for love in all the wrong places . . .
He snorted, thinking of the loser husband who’d left her. She was better off without him. Too bad her life, such as it was, was about to be shortened. He was going to have to take her out because he couldn’t trust that Rayne hadn’t told her about “Chas,” his alter ego, the persona that lived in the alternate reality that was Thad’s life outside of his safe room.
He sighed. He’d enjoyed throwing Rayne over the railing, been filled with energy and excitement at watching her bounce down the cliffside. It was unexpected. He’d never done anything like it before and it had been fucking fantastic. He’d run the tape of that scene in his mind over and over again. It never got old. He’d sort of known he was going to have to get rid of her, somehow, but he hadn’t really thought of killing her. When the reality happened, he’d been shocked at how good it felt.
The memory even now made his cock stir.
But he had to stay in the moment. He watched Bibi pull out of the lot of Mexicali Rose and turn in the direction of her rental, and pulled out behind her. He knew she was late on the rent and if she paid it, she wouldn’t have much left. Her husband had taken half their cash when he’d moved in with his new girlfriend. Nice of him to leave her something, Thad supposed, but neither of them had enough money to last but a few months. He’d been able to hack into their accounts and peek.
He smiled, thinking about his own wealth. He was good with technology. Really good. Especially computers and the Internet and hacking code and the like. He wasn’t a braggart by nature, but hey, when you had the goods, you had the goods. His smile tensed. Bitcoin was a capricious bitch. But he’d make it back . . . and then there was the old cow’s assets . . .