You Don't Want To Know

by Lisa Jackson

  Khloe’s cell phone went off and she answered, holding the phone to her ear as she walked out of the room for privacy.

  Ava had had it. Maybe Ian and Jacob were right. Maybe she was overreacting, making mountains out of molehills.

  Seeing shadows and evil when they didn’t exist.

  But she doubted it.

  Cheryl Reynolds’s murder was proof enough of that.

  CHAPTER 24

  Snyder climbed onto his bike, adjusted the strap of his helmet, and started peddling back to his apartment. He took a lot of crap for riding his ancient ten-speed, but because of it he’d dropped nearly thirty pounds and lowered his blood pressure and cholesterol levels. So he put up with the rain, cold, and bad jokes from his coworkers.

  On a whim this evening, he took a detour, riding down past the marina, smelling the brackish water and the underlying odor of diesel. He stopped to look across the whitecaps rising in the bay to Church Island, that bastion of the Church family.

  Fog was rolling in, a thick mist that obscured his view, just as all the bullshit swirling around Ava Church Garrison was clouding his mind, taking him away from the evidence in the Cheryl Reynolds case. It was already dark anyway, but on a clear night, he would be able to see the smattering of lights of Monroe, pick out the ferry dock, and even view patches of light from the windows of Neptune’s Gate, that behemoth of a house. He’d noted, though, that only the first two floors were ever illuminated. Never had he seen any lights in the upper floor; although, from Anchorville, he had only one view of the home—just the front.

  And it was a long ways away.

  Except for the time he’d gone to Church Island after the Garrison boy’s disappearance, he’d never given the house or its inhabitants much thought. He’d heard the rumors, of course, but for the most part he’d ignored them.

  Now he turned down a narrow side street and cut around an idling truck double-parked and belching exhaust as the driver tried to quickly unload beer kegs for the nearby tavern.

  Riding along a street that paralleled the water, Snyder kept his eye on traffic, but his mind was spinning, just as it always did when he biked. He decided what he really needed was a motive and the murder weapon. Both the barista at The Local Buzz and Butch Johansen confirmed Ava’s story, and he just couldn’t see her as a cold-blooded, violent killer.

  Then again, he’d been wrong before.

  Lester Reece was a prime example of that. He’d been the lead detective on that one.

  With a sigh, he looked at his watch. He was a firm believer in the “first forty-eight” theory, meaning that if the killer couldn’t be found in the first two days after the murder was committed, the chances of finding him or her and solving the homicide plummeted. Now, he felt the clock ticking; it had been twenty-four hours since someone had taken Cheryl Reynolds’s life.

  Stopping at Ahab’s, a small fish market that had existed for nearly a hundred years and looked like it, Snyder picked up the last of the fresh local oysters. The place, with its glass cases, shaved ice, and array of seafood, hadn’t changed since the last time it was remodeled, about the same time refrigeration came into vogue, it seemed. Faded signs from the thirties, forties, and fifties still hung on the thick wooden walls that once had been painted white, and more often than not, butcher paper taped to the windows announced the catch of the day. Large vats of running salt water held live razor clams, Dungeness crab, and oysters in their cold shimmery depths. Outside, in a converted carport, a blackened crab pot stood ready to cook whatever sea creature a patron chose while seagulls and seals patrolled the lapping waters of the bay for castoffs.

  Snyder made small talk with Lizzy, who had to be near ninety and had been a fixture at the market for as long as Snyder could remember. Her face was lined, her glasses thick, her hair wiry and snow-white beneath her ever-present net, but she was agile and sharp and knew most of what went on in town before it occurred.

  Scooping six oysters and ice into a plastic bag, she said, “You cracked Cheryl Reynolds’s murder yet?”

  “Still under investigation and no comment.”

  “No surprise there. Odd one, Cheryl was. Always dressed as if she was goin’ to one of them love-ins or something.”

  “I guess.”

  “She was kinda peace, love, dove, and all the sixties or seventies crap. If you ask me, it’s what happens when you fraternize with weirdos.”

  “You think Cheryl hung out with a bad sort?” He couldn’t help but look around her shack of a business situated on the wharf where all kinds of riffraff were known to hang out. Half the drug busts made in Anchorville occurred within fifty yards of the docks.

  Lizzy read his mind. “Oh, well . . . down here it’s different, and I don’t invite any of my customers into my house! Besides, I got Jimmy and his dogs right next door at the bait shop.”

  Snyder had met Jimmy, Lizzy’s grandson, who, in his fifties, always seemed stoned. He’d also petted George and Martha on their big heads when he was picking up bait or a fishing license next door, and he doubted either Labrador retriever could gather up the energy to scare off would-be assailants.

  “Here ya go!” Lizzy rang up his purchase, snapped up the twenty, and slammed it into the ancient register that still actually dinged as the drawer closed, then dropped his change into his hand.

  “If you ask me, you should be lookin’ at Lester Reece,” she said as Snyder zipped his plastic bag of oysters into his backpack.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Don’t believe it. Uh-uh.” She walked around the counter and switched off the glowing neon OPEN sign. “And Cheryl, you know, she knew him.”

  “She did?”

  “Sure. Well, actually she knew his mother. A client of hers. And another one who’s not all there, if y’know what I mean.” She rotated a long finger near the ear with her hearing aid. “Stuck with the judge even though he ran around all over the county. If it was me,” she said, grinning to display perfect dentures, “I would have shot the SOB.”

  “Then you’d be in trouble.”

  “No way. Justifiable homicide in my book!”

  Chuckling, he left just as another patron, head bent against a gust of wind, tried to enter.

  Lizzy blocked the door. “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”

  “But—” the man protested as the door was slammed in his face and the interior lights were doused. “Oh, man,” he said as much to himself as anyone else. “Stella is gonna kill me!”

  Snyder swung onto his bike and started heading uphill to his apartment, which was on the north end of town.

  By the time he’d cracked a beer, shucked the oysters, and turned on the big screen, his cell phone was ringing. Morgan Lyons’s name and number showed on the screen. “This had better be good,” he said as he answered.

  “I just finished going through Cheryl Reynolds’s list of clients. Found it on an old disk for her computer. Guess whose name came up?”

  “Not in the mood for games.” But he felt a small rush of adrenaline, a little taste of expectancy.

  “How about Jewel-Anne Church?” she said, and the rush in his blood died a quick death.

  “She’s a cripple. I don’t think she killed anyone.”

  “The correct term is handicapped or even handi-capable, but that’s not the point. She wasn’t always in that wheelchair, you know. And this was before the boating accident that caused her paralysis.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t think it’s important.”

  “Only in the fact that everyone Reynolds ever knew is a potential suspect, but, no, I don’t think just because she’s related to the last person known to see Cheryl alive and was her client a while back that Jewel-Anne’s in the running. Unless you have something else.”

  “Nah.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  But it did bother him that on the very day Ava Garrison had come to the department wanting to get more information on her son’s disappearance that she’d gon
e for a session with Cheryl. A coincidence? Probably. People from the island undoubtedly consolidated their trips. But Snyder always paid attention when something was out of the ordinary, a little out of sync. So he’d keep his eye on the rich lady who owned most of Church Island, and he’d keep on file the fact that the handicapped cousin had been a client of the hypnotherapist. Into the phone, he said, “Anyone else on the list who’s a little more interesting?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Do that,” he said, and stepped outside to his postage-stamp-sized deck, where he fired up the barbecue and cooked the oysters. He knew that the shellfish bathed in butter and sprinkled with a blend of Italian cheese wasn’t going to help his cholesterol numbers, but he figured he only lived once and he’d eaten enough rabbit food in the past week to satisfy himself, if not his doctor.

  Tonight, he was going to enjoy himself and watch some football, as the Seahawks were playing against the Steelers, and he loved it when the Hawks took it to Pittsburgh. During his eight-year marriage to wife number two, he’d inherited a brother-in-law from Pennsylvania. The guy was a bastard, one of those freaks who thought betting on the games was all there was to life, so Snyder took great pleasure in beating him. Tonight, the matchup promised to be a good one with the Seahawks favored by three. One lousy field goal.

  He found his favorite TV tray in the hall closet and set himself in front of the television with his beer and oysters and half a bag of chips, but even as Seattle pulled ahead in the fourth quarter, he found himself losing interest as he polished off the last of the chips. In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Cheryl Reynolds lying in a pool of her own blood, a herd of cats mewing and slinking around her.

  It was weird as hell.

  Dern finished with the livestock, patting each silky nose as he poured a ration of grain into their mangers. The horses snorted and shifted in their stalls, rustling the straw as they buried their noses into the oats.

  The stable was warm and dry, and aside from the odd light cast by the fluorescents, inviting. It smelled of horses, grain, dust, and oiled leather, all scents he remembered from his grandparents’ ranch where he’d grown up.

  Life had been simpler then, or maybe he was just being nostalgic; because that’s when it had all started, this restlessness, this need to change his own destiny.

  With Rover following after him, he snapped off the lights and turned his collar to the driving rain and wind. A squall had kicked up and would probably last most of the night. Glancing toward the main house, he wondered what was going on inside. Lights glowed from the windows on the lower level, and here and there a room on the second floor cast out a patch of gold as well. He’d avoided the house for most of the evening. After the detectives had departed and the Church family had gathered in the den, he’d made his excuses of work to be done and left.

  He couldn’t hang too closely. They’d question him and get suspicious, so he had to keep his distance. Though they treated most of the staff like family, he was the new kid on the block, and he didn’t want to raise any questions about himself or his past by appearing too interested.

  Climbing the stairs to his apartment, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in coming here. Yeah, it had seemed the perfect opportunity at the time, but now, after spending time with Ava Garrison, he couldn’t help but think he should get out now—before he was found out, before he got himself in too deep.

  She was intriguing. A basket case, yeah, but sexy as hell, and beneath her sadness was a sexy, smart woman to whom he was attracted whether he wanted to be or not.

  “Idiot,” he growled under his breath, and the dog gave off a soft “woof” as if in agreement. On the landing, he petted Rover’s head and gave himself a quick mental kick. He couldn’t get too comfortable here, and there was no time for second-guessing himself. He was on a mission and that was that. Ava Garrison and her huge eyes be damned.

  If she got hurt, well, that was all part and parcel of the business.

  “Damn it all to hell anyway.” After unlocking the door to his studio, he stepped inside and froze.

  Something was off.

  He felt it.

  But nothing appeared out of place. The book he’d been reading was still on the small table near the couch, two glasses and a dirty plate left in the sink had not been disturbed, there were toast crumbs on the counter, and his jacket was still hanging off the back of a kitchen chair just as he’d left it, and yet . . .

  It wasn’t so much what he saw as what he sensed . . . even a thin thready scent of something above the lingering odor of bacon and onion fried earlier in the day.

  Calm down. No one’s onto you.

  He thought about checking his hiding spot but decided against it for fear there was a camera hidden somewhere. Only after shedding his jacket and searching the place from stem to stern for microphones, cameras, or anything else that might have been planted did he relax a little and lift the picture from the wall to double-check that nothing had been taken or compromised.

  Assured that he wasn’t being monitored, he pulled out his unmarked cell and made the call.

  He was getting jumpy; that was it and it wouldn’t do.

  Not before his mission was accomplished.

  He punched a familiar number.

  A woman’s voice answered. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” she said.

  He nodded, as if she could see him. “Just want to let you know that everything’s going as planned.”

  “I heard that a woman was murdered in Anchorville.”

  “That’s right.” He didn’t dare say more.

  “Be careful,” she warned in her familiar tone that reminded him of warm summer nights and starry skies.

  “Always.”

  He clicked off before the conversation got too personal and wondered who the hell had been inside his apartment.

  More importantly: Why?

  Ava suffered through another private session with Dr. McPherson, and of course the psychologist was encouraging, even saying that she thought Ava could be making a breakthrough, that as her mind healed, Ava’s memory would return—the same old song and dance Ava had been hearing ever since she’d been released from St. Brendan’s.

  “I want to wean myself off my medication,” Ava told her, but the therapist hadn’t budged even though she suspected Ava wasn’t taking her meds.

  “That’s the ultimate goal, of course. But for now let’s not do anything drastic. You really do seem to be getting better.”

  “Am I? I saw my son and jumped into the bay the other night. And now everyone seems to think I’m gaslighting myself.”

  Ava hadn’t added that she’d snagged the damned key from the hearth and now kept it with her at all times. Foolish? Maybe. Paranoid? Most definitely. Obsessive? Yeah . . . really obsessive, but she kept the key with her anyway, could feel the thin metal in the pocket of her jeans right now. As for her son’s wet shoes, she knew someone had taken them from her closet, dipped them in seawater, and left them for her to find just to give her an emotional jolt. She’d returned them to the top shelf of her closet. For now.

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress,” Evelyn had said, leaning closer, “but I do think you’re improving, on the right path. I know you want off the medication and we’ll work toward that.” Her smile seemed sincere, but the worry in her eyes never quite disappeared. Probably because it was masked with guilt. “This is going to take some time. We all have to be patient.”

  Of course, she didn’t know that Ava wasn’t taking one damned pill, and the headaches she’d been warned would result from going cold turkey off the meds hadn’t been all that bad. She would survive.

  After the session, Ava quietly left the room even though inside she was running. She crossed through the kitchen where Virginia was still cleaning up after a meal and found some hot water for a cup of peach-flavored tea that claimed to be soothing. Since she was still supposed to be on the prescribed medication, which wasn’t supp
osed to be mixed with alcohol, Ava had gone along with the ruse, all the while thinking a glass of wine or even a margarita might be better for her anxiety.

  Nonetheless, she played her part, dipping the tea bag into a cup of hot water, watching as Graciela slipped her arms through the sleeves of a long jacket and tucked her hair into the collar. Virginia had the radio playing softly, some pop-rock song from the eighties barely audible over the running water as she rinsed a baking dish.

  “Need a ride?” Ian offered Graciela as he walked into the kitchen and set his glass on the counter. He and Trent had been playing pool. Ava had heard the faint click of billiard balls and laughter as she and the psychologist had talked in the den.

  “I’m fine.” Graciela flashed him a thankful smile.

  “I’m going into town anyway,” he said. “Out of cigarettes.”

  “Okay then,” Graciela acquiesced.

  “I thought you quit.” Ava tossed her tea bag into the trash under the sink as Khloe sauntered into the kitchen.

  His gaze was cool. “That’s why I’m ‘out.’ ” When she didn’t ask the question, he added, “I’m a big boy. I think I can decide what’s good for me.”

  Ava blew across her teacup. “Tar and nicotine?” she asked, unable to keep from ribbing him a little.

  “And arsenic and ammonia or whatever. Probably just about all the carcinogens you can think of.”

  “They’re your lungs,” Ava said, but Virginia, wiping her hands on her apron, snorted her disapproval.

  “Disgusting habit.”

  “Come on, Mom, you smoked for years.” Khloe set a few more cups into the sink, and when Virginia seemed about to argue, she added, “For years. Virginia Slims, I remember.”

  “That was years ago, before I knew better!” Virginia said, obviously in a bad mood at being called out.

  “Well, I still don’t.” Ian, placing a hand on the small of Graciela’s back to steer her toward the back porch, gave them all a quick wave. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Just gonna drop Graciela off and stop at the Food-O-Mart.”