The Witness

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Fiona poured big glasses of ice water for the three of them. Olivia took a sip of hers, thirsty all of a sudden. “Can I ask you both a question?”

  “Of course,” Fiona and Elodie said at the same time.

  “Ebby told me there was an alarm back then, thirty years ago. Whoever murdered Cynthia knew the code. There was no sign of forced entry or a struggle, at least according to Ebby.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Which is why the police thought one of us did it,” Elodie said. “But we all had alibis.”

  “What do you think?” Olivia persisted. “I won’t repeat what you tell me. I just want your honest opinions.”

  Once again, the sisters looked at each other conspiratorially, communicating in that silent way that sisters do. Fiona was the one to speak. “We think it was a burglar. My brother had a fortune in gold coins in a duffel bag behind his desk, if you can believe that, and they went missing that night.”

  “But the alarm wasn’t tripped,” Olivia reminded them.

  “Oh, come now, Olivia,” Fiona said, her tone imperious and a wee bit condescending. “A professional thief can get past any security system. After Elliot died, collectors came out of the woodwork wanting to buy his coins. He was known for his collection. It wouldn’t surprise me if he told everyone that he kept the coins in the house. He certainly liked to look at them. If a sophisticated thief got wind of that, they could easily get past our alarm.”

  “Good point,” Olivia said.

  “And now we should go to my party,” Elodie said.

  While they got ready to walk through the woods to the main house, Olivia replayed her conversation with the aunts in her mind, unable to shake the feeling that the old women were holding something back.

  Chapter 6

  Ebby

  Sunday, January 4

  Ebby slept in on the day of Elodie’s party. Waking up with the sheets tangled around his ankles, he gazed out the window at Mt. Tam and the wispy tendrils of fog that curled around her peaks and valleys. Maybe he could pretend he was coming down with the flu and skip the party altogether. No. That wouldn’t do. The aunts would come over and make a fuss over him. As he put his feet on the cold floor and then dressed in his running clothes, he decided he would rather smile and pretend all was well than be fussed over by Elodie and Fiona.

  Taking his coffee out on the deck, Ebby thought about the time in the near future when he would walk away from this house, with its gorgeous view and easily accessible trails. He’d be losing his backyard paradise, but he would be gaining freedom from the shackles of his family. Ebby didn’t know where he would go after his house was sold, but he knew in his heart it was time to be on his own. Grown men didn’t need to live on their family’s property.

  As Ebby thought about his family, he realized that when he moved, he probably would lose contact with Mark. Would he miss the brother who had made a career of bullying him? Not even a little. When Ebby had first taken over The No Name Diner, he had sought his brother’s business advice, hoping to build a relationship and earn his brother’s respect. Mark had encouraged Ebby to turn a quick profit by exploiting his labor force and making his staff work long hours with as little pay as possible. When Ebby had ignored that advice and hired friends he knew and trusted, paying them a good wage and supplementing their income with cash bonuses when he could afford it, Mark hadn’t been happy. “You’ll fail within a year,” Mark had promised.

  His prediction, of course, had been wrong. With one exception – a dishwasher who had to stay home and care for his ailing sister – Ebby still had the same employees he’d started with on the day he opened. They didn’t steal from him, and since they were paid a decent wage and given bonuses when the restaurant did well, they took their jobs seriously.

  Despite the vivid flashbacks and the unresolved issues around his mother’s murder, his life was pretty good. Changes were afoot, as Ebby embraced the idea of writing cookbooks, a logical next step to his career as a chef and restauranteur. He’d deliberately kept the project a secret, only confiding in Felicity. As the process got underway, Ebby found he liked writing, liked translating his love of cooking into words on a page. The first book, which featured the recipes from The No Name Diner, was nearly finished. One of his regular customers was a literary agent. She had encouraged Ebby to write the story of the diner and share his recipes. Ebby had enlisted Felicity’s help, and the two of them had worked side by side, Ebby handwriting the recipes, Felicity typing them up and editing them.

  The book had been a work of joy. The agent was thrilled with the end result, and several publishers were interested. The future, despite his unresolved family issues, was opening her doors to him.

  And then the flashbacks and dreams had started. Now it was all Ebby could do to get out of bed in the morning. Felicity had taken over the cookbook, testing the recipes while Ebby had told the agent he needed more time.

  I need to get my head straight. After he finished his coffee, he dressed in warm clothes and headed out his back door directly onto the trail that led up King Mountain. He’d linger over his hike, and plan it so he arrived at the party just as the luncheon was ending.

  ***

  Four hours later, Ebby arrived home. The sound of dance music filtered through the trees, an indication the party was in full swing. He showered and dressed, taking pains to wear the blazer Fiona had bought him for Christmas and the tie that Elodie had given him for his birthday. Today he would put a smile on his face and celebrate the aunt he loved so dearly. Since Ebby had little interest in the requisite mingling and small talk, he’d arrive just as the guests were finishing lunch, and stay for the cake and the speeches. As soon as he could, he would leave, claiming an issue at the restaurant.

  Since he was skipping the food at the party, Ebby made himself a spinach and mushroom omelet, along with another coffee with steamed milk. He had just sat down to eat, when the hand that held his fork started to shake uncontrollably. White flashes of light cascaded out of the corner of his eyes and the floor beneath him started to roll.

  “Damn it,” Ebby cried out. Helpless to do anything, he grabbed on to the seat of his chair and prepared for the inevitable flashback. This time, he wouldn’t panic. When his vision started, he’d face it with courage and try to see what really happened. For the first time, Ebby didn’t resist when he felt himself slump in his chair and slip to the floor.

  He came to in the familiar fog and malaise of his visions. This is so real, surely I’m losing my mind. Casting his eyes down, he recognized his young body, his favorite Levi’s, his San Francisco Giants sweatshirt, the black Converse Allstars that were nearly worn out but were so comfortable he didn’t have the heart to throw them away. He was tucked into the alcove of the hallway, his favorite hiding place as a young boy and a safe place to eavesdrop.

  The scenario repeated itself, his mother arguing with a mysterious stranger. Voices raised, angry shouting. Taking a deep breath, Ebby pushed away from the alcove and forced himself to step into the office. He was dreaming, wasn’t he? But why did it feel so real? How could he feel the thick carpet under the soles of his shoes, smell the lemon oil Allegra used to polish the furniture, if he was just dreaming? In the office, his mother’s voice was becoming louder, but he still couldn’t make out what she was saying. The person standing across from her was shouting too, but the words sounded like they were being spoken in slow motion. Try as he might, Ebby couldn’t understand what they were.

  Ebby closed his eyes, suddenly scared. When he opened them, he was standing across from his mother. She was mocking him, telling him how Lucy had died an excruciating death and only a weak little boy would sob over the loss of a dog. She told him she hated him, regretted the day he was born. Ebby tried to pinch himself. But he couldn’t because there was something in his hands – the sterling silver dagger with the jewel-encrusted hilt. Unable to control himself, he saw his arm raised high in the air, to his horror, he felt the cold hilt of the knife in his hand as he plunge
d it into his mother’s chest. Her blood, hot and thick, flowed in waves. The floor rolled beneath his feet as Ebby opened his mouth to scream.

  When he woke up, Ebby was lying on the floor in his kitchen, curled up in the fetal position. He jumped up, only to find that he was covered in sweat. The realization of what he had seen, what he might have done, pushed away all of his reason. Ebby was sure now: he didn’t merely witness his mother’s murder. Tears streaming down his face, Ebby bolted out his kitchen door into the cold January afternoon.

  Chapter 7

  Olivia

  Sunday, January 4

  The sounds of a jazz trio filtered through the woods as Elodie, Fiona, and Olivia set out in the afternoon chill toward the party. They had stopped by Ebby’s cottage and knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

  When Elodie had reached for the doorknob, Fiona had stopped her. “Leave him be. He might be in the shower getting ready for the party. If so, he won’t appreciate you fussing. Come on, ladies, chins up. It’s Elodie’s birthday party. Let’s get into the spirit of things.”

  Ebby and Elodie’s properties were separated from the main house and grounds by a grove of old redwood trees. As the path led them through the woods, the air grew damp and sweet-smelling, with droplets of water glistening on the undergrowth of ferns.

  “We love these woods, don’t we, Fiona?” Elodie said.

  “Remember when we used to play here as children?” Fiona reminisced. “My father built us a treehouse, Olivia. We used to play in it for hours and hours. Once we took a picnic up there and used the family china. Mother was furious.”

  “Remember when I fell out of it and broke my arm?” Elodie said. Both women laughed.

  The trail was wide enough for a car to drive on, and consisted of compacted dirt and duff from the pine trees. The aunts each took one of Olivia’s arms and they walked side by side, arms entwined, a united front.

  The guests were arriving in throngs as the three women stepped out of the woods and onto the lawn surrounding the main house. A large tent had been set up in the corner, one side of it open to allow plenty of fresh air and sunshine. Inside, people mingled and sipped champagne while the jazz trio played the standards that Olivia’s parents had listened to and that she still loved. Ten round tables had been situated throughout the tent. White-coated waiters moved among them, setting out silverware and filling up water glasses.

  “Dear God,” Fiona said. “Melinda’s really outdone herself for you.”

  “Not for me, I’m afraid.” Elodie sighed. “But she did a lovely job, so I’m going to be grateful and enjoy myself. Look, there’s Fred and Maryanne.”

  “And they’ve brought Ruth with them.”

  As Fiona and Elodie let go of Olivia’s arms and headed to meet their friends, Olivia scanned the crowd looking for Ebby. Nervous after hearing Elodie and Fiona’s story, she wanted to lay eyes on her client, but Ebby was nowhere to be seen. Felicity came bursting around the corner, carrying a clipboard and looking harried as she walked rapidly toward the buffet table, where the chef was setting up a meat carving station. Olivia had always been impressed by Felicity and had wondered over the years why the competent, educated young woman had chosen to remain a servant. Elodie had mentioned more than once that Felicity was a talented painter, whose artwork had won awards.

  “Hello, Olivia,” Felicity said.

  “This looks lovely, Felicity. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “Melinda, not me,” Felicity said, her eyes plastered to her clipboard.

  “Come on, everyone knows you do the bulk of the work,” Olivia teased.

  “Right. Don’t let Melinda hear you say that. Off I go. Enjoy yourself.”

  As Felicity hurried off, the guests continued to arrive, breaking into groups, while Elodie’s gang stayed outside among the trees, laughing and talking. Olivia moved into the tent. She recognized the chef, Robin Silver, who owned the eponymous catering company that had catered her daughter Denny’s wedding, and a handful of parties that Olivia had hosted when she was married and obligated to entertain her bastard ex-husband’s clients. Now Robin stood before what looked like an entire cow, sharpening a knife.

  “Hello, Robin,” she said. “Contemplating that first cut?”

  Robin looked up from the slab of meat and smiled when he saw Olivia. “Olivia. I’d hug you, but my hands are full.”

  “No worries. Quite a party.”

  “Indeed. It’s good to see you. We were going to call last October, but Marcie thought you probably wanted to be left alone. Seems you’re doing well?”

  “I’m fine,” Olivia said. Robin was referring to last October, when Olivia had been wrongly accused and arrested for the murder of her idiot ex-husband’s mistress. In a twisted series of events, she had ended up diving into the freezing San Francisco Bay to save the very same police officer who had arrested her for the crime. The irony of this scenario was not lost on the half dozen bystanders who filmed the rescue and posted it on social media. Fifteen minutes after Olivia dragged the half-drowned policewoman to shore, she was an internet sensation. With her five minutes of fame came the journalists, bloggers, and television hosts from various true crime shows, who hounded her, begging for an interview, a picture, a quote. In the spirit of their long-standing friendship, Lauren Ridley, a multi-Grammy-winning, platinum-record-holding rock star, had taken Olivia under her wing and showed her how to outmaneuver the press and navigate the uncertain waters of her short-lived notoriety.

  On Lauren’s advice, Olivia had taken her landline off the hook and had also got a new cell phone, only giving her number to a handful of people, effectively creating a self-imposed cocoon of isolation. As the weeks went by, interest in her story faded. Now she was tentatively stepping back out into the world, eager to pick up the pieces of her life and move into the future.

  “I went into seclusion,” Olivia said by way of explanation. “And I have a new number. Can I give it to you?”

  Robin put the knife down and plugged Olivia’s number into his phone. “Got it,” he said.

  “I’m glad to see you, Robin. Tell Marcie to call me.”

  “I will. I’m glad to see you looking so well and that all that nonsense with Richard’s behind you.”

  Robin sliced his first cut of meat, revealing its tender juicy inside.

  “That looks really tasty,” Olivia said.

  “Thanks,” Robin said, expertly cutting the meat into thin slices and arranging them on a platter. “So you’re divorced now? My cousin’s a lawyer. Very successful. He’s divorced—”

  Olivia laughed out loud. “Not ready to be set up yet. But thanks.”

  A girl in a chef’s coat approached them. “Chef, we have a couple of issues.” She cast an apologetic glance at Olivia.

  “I’ll let you get back to it. Take care, Robin. Good to see you.” Olivia meandered through the tent, coming to rest in front of a wooden planter, which held a bushy star jasmine in full bloom. Four chairs had been arranged on either side, a clever way to provide two separate conversation areas. Two women sat on one side, their heads close as they surveyed the crowd. Olivia didn’t think anything of them as she sat down on one of the chairs on the opposite side. Her feet hurt and she had a headache from the champagne and not enough food.

  “Why is she here?”

  “I heard Ebby hired her to find out what happened the night Cynthia was murdered.”

  Are they gossiping about me? Olivia moved the chair closer to the plant. Across the room, Felicity walked up to the band, waiting to speak to them. Once the music stopped, Olivia could hear the women speaking as clearly as if she were sitting with them.

  “Ironic that he hired an accused murderer, right?”

  “Hey, she was innocent. You saw the video, right? She saved that policewoman.”

  “I saw the video. Who didn’t? And yeah, she’s got guts. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of murder. I think she did it. I think she got away with it.”

&n
bsp; “That’s ridiculous. She didn’t murder anyone. Her husband’s to blame. I wonder what happened to him?”

  “I heard he got some cushy job in DC, lobbying or something like that.”

  “Wonder why she let herself go. The gray hair makes her look so old …”

  Olivia had heard this before. After she let her hair go gray, she was amazed at the number of people who thought it was their right to express their feelings about her natural hair. Most people liked it, many complimented her. Many said they thought she was courageous, which was a joke in Olivia’s mind. Why did it take courage for a woman to embrace the changes in her body? Men went gray every day and no one cared. Olivia hated double standards. And then there were the women and men who thought they were obligated to remind her, as if she weren’t aware, that her hair was gray. Olivia had heard it all.

  She headed out of the tent but paused for a moment in front of the two gossips and reached up to touch her hair. “Letting my hair go natural was one of the most freeing things I’ve ever done. Enjoy the party.”

  The women’s eyes opened in surprise. Olivia smiled. She could feel them staring at her as she walked away.

  Back outside, party guests were arriving en masse. Many walked in groups toward the tent, while the electric cart drove those who couldn’t walk. The group of Elodie’s friends had grown to ten people, by Olivia’s count. They stood around Elodie and Fiona, carrying on in that unique way of old friends. Two of them leaned on canes, and one was in a wheelchair, specially tricked out with knobby tires like a mountain bike. Despite their age, Elodie’s gang were all dressed in warm clothes and shoes that were appropriate for the outdoors. Olivia appreciated the lack of pretense. She went to join them just as Mark stepped out of the main house and onto the porch, Melinda at his side.

  Although Olivia had known the Engstrom family for as long as she could remember, she had only known Melinda peripherally. Today Melinda looked the part of the elegant wife of an influential man. Mark stood next to her, dressed for a board meeting rather than an outdoor party, surveying the gathering crowd like a king amongst his courtiers. When he leaned into Melinda and whispered something in her ear, Melinda’s body tensed for the briefest second, before she plastered a tight smile on her face and allowed Mark to escort her down the stairs, toward the waiting party guests. As Olivia watched, she wondered if anyone noticed Melinda’s wince as Mark dug his fingers into her arm. After spending twenty-five-plus years dealing with the most brutal divorces, Olivia recognized a battered spouse when she saw one.