by Lisa Jackson
“Anytime would be great. Let me know.” Finally, the big boat of a car lumbered off and she hit the gas to zip into the oversized space.
“You know,” Cara admitted, “I’ve thought about going and seeing Dan, but . . . he’s in intensive care and I don’t think he ever really forgave me for Nolan and . . . since we’re divorced . . . I mean, I’m not even his most recent wife. Has Akina seen him? Wait. Stop. Sorry. What she does isn’t the issue, is it?” Again a long-suffering sigh as Hattie slid her Camry into Park. “I suppose you’ve seen him.”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to pull through?”
“I hope so. You’ll have to ask his doctors.”
“They won’t tell me anything,” Cara complained. “With you it’s different. You’ve always had the real connection to the family, to Dan or Bart or Cade or whomever,” she said with enough irony to make Hattie cringe a little. “I don’t know what you find so fascinating about that family, but . . . oh, well. Look, I’m not going to call the hospital. You can just update me, okay? Hey, I’ve got to go; Alli’s calling me on the other line.”
Before Hattie could say “good-bye,” her sister had ended the call.
“Great,” she said to the empty airspace as she yanked off her headset and cut the engine. The girls were already working their seat belts to get out of their booster seats, which as Mallory had mentioned time and time again, they were nearly too big for. “Becky Davis doesn’t have to sit in one,” she’d argued just this afternoon when Hattie had insisted the girls climb into the boosters.
“Becky Davis sits in the seat without a booster,” Mallory had complained.
“She must be older than you.”
“Nuh-uh, she’s in our grade,” Mallory had said as she’d reluctantly plopped into the dreaded booster seat. For once McKenzie had been nodding in complete agreement with her twin. “And Stacy Kendall and Lena, they don’t have to either.”
“Or Charlie or Robert,” McKenzie chimed in.
“Well, they don’t live with me and until you’re eighty pounds and Dr. Lambert says it’s okay, you’ll use them.”
“It’s not fair,” Mallory pouted, her lower lip protruding as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“You know, that’s right: life isn’t fair,” Hattie declared as they’d each reluctantly strapped in. “But for now, this is the law. Mine. And the state of Montana’s, so it’s no use arguing.”
“I hate booster seats!” Mallory declared and McKenzie echoed the sentiment.
“I know. Oh, do I know,” Hattie said.
Mallory had maintained her bad mood for the entire ride while McKenzie, after pointing out which classmates had escaped their booster seat regulations, had seemed to forget the discussion and looked out the window and drawn on the condensation collecting on the glass.
Now, they were unbuckling their restraints and scrambling to get out of the car. The girls loved going to Wild Wills, not for the food, which they both assured her was far less appetizing than the menu at McDonald’s, but because of the decorations.
“I’m gonna see Grizz first,” McKenzie claimed, mentioning the gigantic stuffed grizzly bear that stood near the door of the restaurant and was always dressed for the season. She took off, pink cowboy boots flashing, unzipped coat billowing like a cape, dark curls bouncing as she ran down the snowy sidewalk. Like a shot, she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
“Hey! Wait!” Grabbing Mallory’s hand, Hattie, the strap of her purse slung over her shoulder, ran to keep up with her daughter. “Slow down! We hold hands at the street! Remember? McKenzie!” Attempting not to panic, cutting through pedestrians wrapped in their winter coats, she was running, dragging Mallory, worried that McKenzie, in her need to always be “the first,” would forget the rules and barrel headlong into the street where traffic was bottlenecked, but still moving, still dangerous. “McKenzie Grayson! Stop right there!”
McKenzie looked over her shoulder. Damn it, she knew better! And really, she probably wouldn’t run into the street, but she could slip and fall, and the whole idea of her running off was a worry.
Hattie nearly tripped over the leash of a fortyish woman walking a greyhound who was currently straining to sniff the base of a lamppost.
“Watch out!” the woman snapped, her nose red with the cold, her eyes accusing behind fogging glasses.
Hattie ignored the warning and kept running through the throng. “McKenzie!”
She’d just about reached her, when McKenzie, realizing she was getting near the crosswalk, tried to slow down and slipped, her boots sliding over a thin patch of ice.
Down she went, legs flying, hair whipping around her face, skidding toward the street where snow and slush were piled and dirty vehicles rolled past, their tires spraying water.
Hattie leaped forward just as a big, gloved hand grabbed hold of one of McKenzie’s flailing arms. A half second later, she was pulled to her feet.
“Whoa there, cowgirl,” Cade said to his niece as he hauled her into his arms and Hattie, still dragging Mallory, almost slammed into him.
“Thank God,” she whispered as McKenzie, surprised to be rescued by her uncle, began to sob, probably more out of embarrassment than pain.
“Hey, it’s all right,” he said, more tenderly than Hattie would have ever expected. His jacket had seen better days, his jeans were faded, and he hadn’t shaved since she’d last seen him, and still he exuded that sexy confidence she’d always found irritatingly attractive. And yet he seemed at ease holding his niece.
“Are you okay?” Hattie asked her daughter, fighting back the urge to scream at her. Her heart was tattooing with fear.
McKenzie sniffed and nodded as she blinked against tears, but she didn’t break down. “My leg hurts.”
“Bad?” Cade asked.
“Kinda. No . . . it’s okay.”
Where Mallory would have been screaming bloody murder, McKenzie, stoic like the Graysons, seemed to have a high threshold for pain.
“Will ice cream help?” Hattie asked.
She brightened immediately. “Yes!” Then, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Okay, we’ll go up to the ice-cream parlor, but it has to be after dinner and you can’t just go running off like you’re three years old again, okay?” Hattie said.
“I wasn’t going to go into the street,” she said, wiggling to the ground.
McKenzie was fearless and more than a little bullheaded. Though she seemed to be growing out of her impulsiveness, every once in a while she reverted, as she had today.
As the stoplight changed, the woman with the greyhound walked past. Her lips were pinched as if she’d just sucked on a lemon, and the look she sent Hattie was meant to remind her that she’d lost control, bothered the woman and her dog, and quite possibly was a horrid excuse for a mother.
So what else was new?
Hattie chose to ignore her some more along with the other passersby who sent them curious looks.
“That was stupid!” Mallory announced.
“It wasn’t stupid,” Hattie disagreed. “It was . . . rash.”
“Stupid.” Mallory lifted her little chin up a notch and confided in her uncle, “She knows better.”
Cade barked out a laugh. “Well, if she didn’t before, I’d bet she does now.” He winked at McKenzie, who, now embarrassed, turned away.
“I want to see Grizz!” she insisted.
Mallory rolled her expressive eyes. “Oh, brother.”
“Maybe I want to see him, too,” Cade said.
Hattie held up a hand. “You don’t have to—”
“Do anything. I know. But I’m thinking I haven’t seen how the big boy’s been decked out this year.”
Before she could protest, he took Mallory’s hand and, when the light changed again, crossed the street with her in tow. McKenzie, still embarrassed and slightly petulant, held her mother’s fingers and followed after.
By the time they’d wended through a few other pedestrians
and had stepped on the sidewalk, McKenzie’s mood had shifted back to her usual effervescence. “Come on!” she cried, pulling Hattie, obviously not wanting her twin to get to the bear first.
Too late. Cade held the door open and Mallory shot through, McKenzie three steps behind.
“Wow!” Mallory cried, clapping her hands at the sight. The massive grizzly bear, teeth exposed in a frightening snarl, stood tall on his hind legs. This year he was dressed in a long white nightshirt and cap, glasses perched upon his black nose. In one of his huge, outstretched paws was a copy of The Night Before Christmas, his long claws visible beneath the opened pages. Behind the enormous bear, half hidden on fake stairs, a smaller bear was hiding.
“He’s beautiful,” McKenzie whispered.
“Beautiful?” Cade cast a glance in Hattie’s direction and their eyes locked for a heartbeat. In that split second, she was reminded of happier times.
Before the lies.
Before her marriage.
Before the accusations.
Before Bart had died.
She swallowed hard and looked away. Those were times she’d be better off forgetting.
“I don’t know if beautiful is the word I’d use,” Cade said, eyeing the bear again. “Comical maybe, still kind of scary, but beautiful? Sorry, cowgirl, that’s a stretch.”
“You’re being silly, Uncle Cade,” McKenzie said.
“Or worse,” he agreed, and again he hazarded a look Hattie’s way.
The silence stretched between them, awkward and embarrassing. A bit softly, she said, “The girls and I are having an early dinner here and, as you heard, ice cream later. If you want to join us, you’re certainly welcome.”
“Yessss!” Mallory said enthusiastically.
“Sorry, princess.” He shook his head. “I can’t. Not today. I’ve got to see your Uncle Dan at the hospital.” Then to Hattie, “The sheriff’s department is holding a press conference tonight. I want to be there.” He leaned down to Mallory’s level and said, “So I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner.”
“What’s a rain check?” She skewered him with her suspicious gaze.
“It just means that Uncle Cade will have dinner with us another time,” Hattie explained, though she realized she was probably lying.
“No!” McKenzie protested.
As was her most recent custom, Mallory, again, crossed her arms over her chest in defiance. “When?” Mallory asked. “When is he coming over to dinner?”
Hattie shrugged. “Up to him.”
“Soon,” Cade promised and was already backing toward the door. “You girls”—he waggled a gloved finger at his two nieces—“don’t you give your mother any trouble. Okay?”
“ ’Kay,” McKenzie agreed, but Mallory didn’t acquiesce. She’d heard empty promises before and recognized this one for what it was.
“He’s never coming over,” she complained as Hattie herded her daughters past the board listing the day’s specials. They walked into a cavernous dining area filled with tables and booths. Mounted high overhead, above the wagon-wheel chandeliers, were stuffed heads of animals indigenous to the region. As Mallory climbed into a booth beneath the glassy eyes of a bighorn sheep, she said, “Uncle Cade’s a big liar.”
If you only knew, Hattie thought, sliding onto the bench across the table from both girls. But then no one’s a bigger liar than I am. No one.
Chapter 17
The judge’s house had been built over a hundred years earlier. Constructed high on a hill overlooking the Grizzly River, the two-storied Victorian sat across a broad avenue from the park. Though the official street name was Hillside, the locals referred to these eight blocks across from the park as “King’s Row.” With a view of the falls, the judge’s manor, like all of the other homes along King’s Row, was decorated with strings of clear Christmas lights, some of which were already aglow as twilight had settled in.
The house was two-toned, its upper story a darker green, typical, Pescoli thought, of the era in which it was constructed. Just like the other homes facing the park. The wide porch led to a pair of double doors that were inset with oval windows and crowned by a small balcony above. A plaque mounted near the door told them this was a historic residence, built in 1916 by John Adams Thompson, one of the founding fathers of the town.
The house was locked tight, of course, but Pescoli entered using a key from the ring they’d found in the Lexus parked in the judge’s cabin’s garage.
Inside, the Victorian was as neat as the cabin had been, though the house in town was more cluttered, holding a lifetime of paraphernalia and memories.
Through an archway was what had once been a parlor and now was a den, the old tiled fireplace the focal point in the room, a stack of kindling and logs in a carrier on the hearth. A writing table was pushed beneath the windows, and a small television was hidden among the books lining shelves built to the ceiling. She could see everything from atlases and tomes on the law, to paperbacks with broken backs and dog-eared pages.
And yet there was a feeling that this room hadn’t been used in a long while, that the lingering scent of old fires and forgotten cigars was little more than a memory.
“Her husband’s den,” Alvarez said as she walked to a back wall where pictures of a dark-haired man in uniform was prominently displayed among artifacts of wars throughout the ages, everything from crossed swords mounted near the ceiling to medals pinned to velvet and kept under glass at eye level. George Piquard, his name originally Georges, according to his dog tags, which, along with his medals, were on display.
Pescoli said, “Like a shrine.”
Alvarez was already walking through the rest of the house, where an artificial Christmas tree, its lights connected to a timer and shining brightly, stood in the living room, unopened packages spread around its base. Antique chairs and a leather couch with an oversized ottoman were positioned around an ornate marble fireplace edged with decorative tile and currently covered with a hood as it wasn’t in use.
Tiffany lamps were interspersed with more modern pieces, and holiday candles and bowls of colorful glass balls reminded them that, for the owner of this home, Christmas was far from over. Pescoli felt a jab of sadness as she looked at the packages with their big bows and surprises tucked inside. Yes, Kathryn Samuels-Piquard had been a hard-nosed judge who took it as her personal mission to mete out justice, but she was a person, too, a woman with friends and family.
“You okay?” Alvarez asked.
“Fine.” She walked up the stairs to the bedrooms and cursed her newfound sensitivity. She hadn’t even liked the judge and now she was getting all maudlin. The attack on Grayson had really laid her low, but she needed to be tough and strong. It didn’t help that Santana had delivered her an ultimatum, or that Bianca was starving herself, or that Jeremy wanted to be a cop. No wonder she was stressed and having nightmares that set her hair on end. In some ways, it was a wonder she was functioning at all.
She looked around the first bedroom, then stepped back into the hall and called down the open stairs, “Found another computer. Desktop.” Then she stepped back into the room and to the walk-in closet where the judge’s clothes were pressed and hung, similar colors kept together. Neat and tidy, just like the rest of the house.
She looked through three other bedrooms, then met Alvarez downstairs in the kitchen.
“Anything interesting?”
“Just this calendar,” she said. “I would have thought the judge with all her electronics would have a virtual calendar, you know, hooked up to all her devices.”
“Me too.”
“Then why have this?” she asked, pointing to a slick, printed calendar hanging on the wall near her phone. “See, there’re even entries on it.” She indicated the fifteenth of the month, where a time and the name of a local dentist had been scratched.
“The only entry.”
Alvarez rifled through the pages. “Uh-huh.”
“Maybe she’s old school. Keeps this fr
om habit,” Pescoli said.
“Should be more dates filled in. Kathryn Samuels-Piquard was one busy lady.”
“Maybe she hadn’t gotten to it yet, hadn’t transferred anything from her electronic one . . . or maybe she happened to call the dentist from this phone, or took the call if it was a reminder for her appointment, and her phone or electronic notepad wasn’t handy, so she jotted the info down here.”
“So, where’s this year’s calendar? The year isn’t over yet and this one starts January first,” Alvarez said.
“Which is almost here.”
“Could be she cleaned house before she left and filed it away or pitched it. She’s pretty neat.”
“Anal,” Pescoli agreed, carefully opening a drawer and seeing each piece of flatware nestled tightly into its mates—forks separated from salad forks, soup spoons in a different slot than teaspoons. She pulled open the door to the pantry with a gloved finger and saw all of the cans and boxes were kept together by brand in tidy rows. Next the refrigerator, where there was no food aside from half-empty bottles of salad dressing and mayonnaise. The glass shelves and white drawers were gleaming under the glare of the refrigerator’s bulb.
“It’s not anal, it’s organized. Not everyone is a slob, you know,” Alvarez pointed out. “This is how I keep my kitchen.”
Pescoli made a sound in her throat and thought of her own crammed pantry, her jammed closet with clothes she hadn’t worn or thrown out in years. Part of it was because of lack of time, and the other part was because she just didn’t care. “Are your clothes hung according to color?”
“Type of clothing, like pants or shirts, then color, then style.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey. It’s not that unusual. Come on, you’ve poked your nose in more than your share of closets. A lot of them were very organized.”
“Okay, fine.”
“So why throw a calendar out prematurely? An organized person wouldn’t.”
“Let’s find the damned thing, if we can.” Pescoli didn’t think the missing pages of the last year were a big deal, but she also didn’t like anything that seemed the least bit out of the ordinary. “If this was her routine, and the year isn’t over yet, and she was planning to return before the thirty-first, it should be around.”