by Lisa Jackson
Cade didn’t need to be thinking about Hattie.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
But there she was big as life, playing dangerous games in his mind as he drove through the snow to the hospital in Missoula. Lately, it seemed, everywhere he turned, she was there with her tangle of hair, mischievous eyes, and quick smile that, when her lips parted, showed off not-quite-perfect teeth.
He was a fool, he thought, taking his foot off the accelerator as he was coming up much too quickly on the tail of a Chevy Suburban whose driver had decided to creep fifteen miles under the speed limit with the snow. Easing behind it, he considered his chance meeting with Hattie in town, the way that little McKenzie had been barreling down the sidewalk and how frantic Hattie had been for her daughter’s safety.
No matter what else he might think of her, Hattie was a damned good mother; he wouldn’t argue that.
But that’s where it ended.
The Chevy turned off at the next light, taillights fading, and he was able to pick up speed again, his wipers slapping away the dry flakes as they tumbled from the sky. Traffic was thick, the glare of headlights steady as he tried, and failed, to forget about his sister-in-law. Ex-sister-in-law, he reminded himself. Seeing her again had kicked all the old memories back through his brain.
The turn lane for Northern General appeared, and he flipped on his signal and eased over. Ever since she’d married Bart, he’d tried like hell not to let her get to him. Not to remember how it had been with her.
Of course, it hadn’t worked, and though over the years he’d forced himself to keep his distance, these past few days it had proved impossible.
Even now his favorite radio station was playing a song from that summer when they’d had their fling.
“Shitfire,” he muttered and snapped the damned thing off. He’d tried to get her out of his blood, oh, hell yeah. Not only had he made a conscious effort to avoid her over the years, he’d also been with more than his share of women since the last time they’d been together, nearly a decade ago. However, none of those one-night stands and short relationships had cut into his soul the way she had. He’d told himself it was because she was off-limits, forbidden fruit, so to speak, and that the very notion of her being taboo had ignited that rebellious in-your-face attitude that had cursed him since the day he was born.
Or maybe it’s something deeper.
He yanked his keys from the ignition and cut the engine. He didn’t believe in soul-deep love and all that other for-the-movies crap that Hollywood fed the American public, and he wasn’t going to start now. Jamming his keys into the pocket of his jacket, he climbed out of his truck and started jogging toward the wide doors of the hospital. He was a fool, there was just no two ways about it, and he’d be damned if he’d fall for Hattie all over again.
Striding through the vestibule, he remembered he’d argued with her right between these glass doors. She seemed to think it was her mission to see to Dan. As she’d seen to Bart. As she’d seen to him, for Christ’s sakes! That was the trouble with Hattie, she couldn’t leave the Grayson men alone.
Just like you can’t seem to leave her alone.
His mind taunted him as he crossed the reception area. Just before she married Bart, remember? You knew she was engaged, but you couldn’t leave it alone. And no doubt Bart figured it out or she told him. Doesn’t matter how it happened, but he knew, Cade. Your brother knew you were sleeping with his fiancée just weeks before she finally broke it off.
If she hadn’t, you’d probably still be trying to get her into your bed. No wonder Bart was depressed. No wonder he decided to climb that ladder and toss a rope over the cross timbers of the barn.
It served you right to find him there.
He didn’t believe for a minute that he was to blame for his brother’s death, but he knew he wasn’t completely innocent. Nor was Hattie.
His jaw so tight it ached, Cade pounded on the elevator keypad and strode inside as the doors opened.
He wasn’t alone. The car was already occupied with a beleaguered-looking couple and their children. A boy of five or six was holding a smiley-face balloon that said, “Get well,” and a girl who was a couple of years older was balancing a tray of homemade cookies that looked leftover from Christmas, judging from the shapes and colors.
“Can we just go home?” the little boy, tugging on his mother’s coat, asked.
“Not yet, Andy. First we have to visit Grandpa.”
“But I don’t like it here,” the kid complained petulantly as he leaned against the back of the car and did his best to look miserable. “I hate the hospital!”
You and me both, Cade thought as the car stopped on his floor and he strode off the elevator.
Winston Piquard didn’t look a thing like his mother.
While she’d been big-boned and fair, with fiery red hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing in her courtroom, he was dark, tall, and thin, his eyes a deep brown, maybe accented with contact lenses.
Her tongue had been razor sharp, her demeanor all business, and no matter how much taller you were than she, Samuels-Piquard had been able to somehow look down her nose at you. But this man, a junior accountant with a small firm in Missoula, Pescoli knew, was a little hunched, his demeanor defeated despite the fact that he was in his early thirties. Then again, it hadn’t been a good day for him.
Standing in the doorway of his house in his stockinged feet, he blocked Pescoli’s entrance as well as any view inside. Wearing khakis, a pressed dress shirt, and down vest, he was more than a little perturbed to find the officers at his door.
“I already got the bad news,” he said, after Pescoli and Alvarez had introduced themselves. He stood beneath the overhang of the porch where a Christmas tree, needles drying, one forgotten ornament winking between the branches, had already been propped outside against the house.
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Piquard,” Alvarez said. “We don’t want to intrude, but we do have some questions.”
“I figured.” A muscle worked at his temple. “I just don’t know what I can tell you.”
“You have no idea who could be behind this?”
“It could be anyone, couldn’t it? She didn’t make a lot of friends on the bench.” He ran both his hands through his close-cropped hair. “I told her to retire. But did she listen? She never listens . . . listened to anyone. Man, I just can’t believe . . .” His voice trailed off and for a second, he looked at the step, down at his feet, shaking his head as he remembered something. “She didn’t have to work, you know. She was set, but . . .” He lifted his shoulders and glared down at the welcome mat. “She loved it.” When he glanced up again, his eyes shone. Clearing his throat, he added, “I’m sorry. We’ve . . . My wife and I have been worried sick ever since she didn’t come back to town or return our calls.” He closed his eyes for a second, gathering himself.
“If we could come in,” Alvarez suggested when he seemed to have pulled himself together. “It won’t take too long.”
He was shifting from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. My wife is pregnant and . . .”
“We just want to find whoever did this to your mother and put him away forever,” Pescoli told him.
“Yeah, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder to the door that was still cracked just a bit, then nodded. “Okay. Fine. Sure, why not? My daughter’s about to go down for the night so it would be a good time . . . oh, hell, Lily loves Mom. They used to . . .” Again his voice trailed off as he led them inside a cookie-cutter house that looked nearly identical to the others in the cul-de-sac. He closed the door behind them, then hesitated, and Pescoli saw him take a swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand.
Moving boxes in various sizes had been stacked in the hallway and den, and toys of every shape and color littered the living areas. The sharp aromas of garlic and tomato sauce caused Pescoli’s stomach to rumble. How long had it been since she’d eaten? It seemed like forever. She stepped around
a toddler’s plastic ride-’em toy, an orange van with a seat that opened and created a small storage space.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, “we’re moving. Right after the first of the year, so everything’s kind of crazy right now.”
“Where are you moving?” Alvarez asked as they found their way to the kitchen where a pot of tomato sauce was cooling, pasta draining in a sieve in the sink. A toddler was seated in a high chair, busy finger-painting the tray with what was left of her spaghetti sauce. The rest, it seemed, was smeared across the lower half of her face.
“Across town, to Ranch Hills Estates.” Pescoli had heard of it, a newer upscale neighborhood with large lots, views of the mountains, and golf course memberships included. “This is my daughter, Lily. Can you say ‘Hi,’ Lil?”
“Hi!” the little girl echoed excitedly, obviously glad for the distraction from her meal-cum-artwork. Her eyes were round and blue, her hair a tuft of light brown, and a handful of teeth were visible as her grin stretched wide.
“Cee-Cee?” Winston called toward a short hallway while Lily pounded on her tray. Seconds later a very pregnant woman carrying a laundry basket appeared. “This is Detective Pescoli and Detective Alvarez. They’re here with some questions about Mom.”
“Oh,” she said somberly, dropping the basket onto a kitchen table already littered with empty boxes, tape dispenser, and marking pens. “Can you just give me a minute to change her and put her to bed?” she asked, then found a baby wipe and started cleaning her daughter’s face and hands. “We’re already running late with dinner. It’s almost bedtime. For her, I mean.”
“We can start with your husband,” Alvarez suggested.
By the time Winston had unburied chairs in the living area and they were finally seated, the cries of “Mommy! Mommy! Oooouuut!” echoed down the hallway.
“Every night we go through this . . . it’s normal.” Then added, “About the only thing that is, lately.”
A few minutes later, Cee-Cee reappeared.
“Sorry. Duty first,” she said as she pushed a bag of toys out of the rocker and sat down wearily. “I think we’ll just have to ignore her.” She sent a look down the hall where the child’s cries were already slowing down. “I’m sorry.” She forced a smile, “I’m Cecilia. Cee-Cee. This is just so awful. I mean, I can’t imagine anyone . . .” Clasping her hands together, she shuddered. “If only she hadn’t gone to the cabin.”
“If someone followed her up there to kill her, she wasn’t safe here either,” Winston said.
“I suppose.” To Pescoli, she asked, “Do you have any idea who would do this to Kathy?”
“We’re working on it,” Pescoli told her. “And we’re hoping you can help. You were all close, as a family?”
Cee-Cee was nodding. “Kathryn and I got off to a rocky start, I guess. Two strong women, you know, and I’m sure she didn’t think anyone was good enough for her only boy.” She threw Winston a smile.
“This is old news,” he responded.
“It is,” his wife agreed equably. “We were always civil and then Lily came along and Kathryn was just so good with her, so into the baby. Nothing was ever said, but from the minute Winston’s mother laid eyes on the baby, all the hard feelings just evaporated.”
“You agree?” Alvarez asked Winston.
He lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t see it happening so instantaneously, but Mom did seem to let go a little once Lily arrived.”
Cee-Cee said, “This is just so horrid.”
“What about boyfriends?” Alvarez asked.
Winston looked uncomfortable. “I think she may have dated, but we never met any of them.” He thought for a second. “Since Dad died she never got involved seriously, as far as I know.”
“No one recently?” Pescoli asked.
“I really couldn’t tell you,” Winston said stiffly. “My mother’s personal life was just that: personal.”
“Any other family problems?” Pescoli tried.
“No.” Winston was firm.
Cee-Cee glanced across the room to her husband, who rather than sit in another side chair was standing in the archway to the foyer. “There’s Vincent . . .”
Winston froze for just a second and Pescoli asked, “What do you mean?”
Cee-Cee went on when it was clear Winston wasn’t going to respond, “Kathryn and her brother never got along. Vince never amounted to much. He’s just one of those guys always looking for the big score. Bright enough, but never held a job for more than a year. Winston’s dad loaned him some money and it pissed Kathryn off because he never paid it back.”
“How much money?” Pescoli asked.
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
Pescoli inwardly whistled while Winston muttered, “Damn it, Cee-Cee.”
“Why would Georges loan his brother-in-law money if he was such a bad risk?” Alvarez asked.
“They were friends. Army buddies,” Cee-Cee responded, awkwardly pushing herself to her feet and walking to a shelf where she pulled down a huge box.
“Wait!” Winston sprang to his feet, but Cee-Cee was already digging around inside the box. She pulled out a long package encased in bubble wrap.
“He gave this to Winston years ago, right, honey?” she asked Winston, exposing a long, military sword.
“When I graduated from high school,” Winston acknowledged, his gaze shooting darts at his wife. “He and my dad both had one.”
Pescoli looked at the sword, noticing the detail on the pommel, guard, and grip. There was some fine etching in the guard and the weapon seemed familiar.
Cee-Cee settled back into the rocker. “Now I have to keep it away from Lily.”
“I’m going to mount it on the wall in the new house,” he snapped. “Up high, above the foyer. It’ll be fine.”
Alvarez asked, “Where’s Vincent now?”
“He has a place up on Spruce Creek, but I’m not sure he’s there. We haven’t heard from him in a couple years,” Winston said.
“He’s never even met Lily,” Cee-Cee said with a sniff.
“Does he know Sheriff Grayson?” Alvarez asked.
Winston stared at his wife. “You and I both know Vincent isn’t capable of killing anyone!”
“We’re just trying to get a clear picture here and find out who killed your mother,” Pescoli reminded him.
He opened his mouth, shut it, then on the brink of breaking down suddenly sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I don’t know who Vincent knows. Maybe he knew Grayson.”
“Do you have Vincent’s phone number?” Alvarez asked.
“A cell number that’s maybe still good. We haven’t heard from him since a card last Christmas . . . huh . . .” His skin paled. “He didn’t send one this year.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved his own cell phone, scrolled through the list, then gave Alvarez and Pescoli the number.
“It can’t be Vincent.”
“Why do you say that?” Alvarez asked.
He shook his head. Reaction seemed to be settling in and the sword in his hands began to wobble.
“Win!” Cee-Cee admonished and he snapped out of it, reaching for the bubble wrap to cover the blade once again.
“I was afraid of this, you know,” he said.
“What?” Pescoli asked.
“That some nutcase she sentenced would take it out on her. That’s what happened. It wasn’t Vincent or any of her family or friends. It was somebody she put away.”
“We’re looking at everyone,” Alvarez said.
“You think it’s any nutcase in particular?” Pescoli asked him as he stuffed the sword back in its box, closed the lid, and put it back on the shelf.
“She’s gotten threatening letters from a bunch of those jerk-wads and their families. One woman even came to Mom’s door once, called her a bitch and all sorts of names. Mom just had her arrested and got a restraining order against her.”
Pescoli asked, “Who was that?”
“Edie Gardener. She came over to Mom’s house around Halloween, I think, maybe just after. Went on a real tirade. Mom shut the door, called the police, and got a restraining order, but it kinda freaked me out when she told me about it.” He found a bare spot on a bench near the window, sat down, and clasped his hands between his knees. “This is just so . . . fucking unbelievable!”
“Win! Please. Language. We don’t talk that way. Now that we have Lily—”
“Mom is dead, Cee-Cee,” he snapped, his face suddenly flushing a deep, angry red, for the first time showing some of his mother’s fire. “Today, I think I can talk any fucking way I want.”
“But—” She was about to argue, then backed off, rubbing her protruding belly as she leaned back into her chair. “Fine, Winston. Fine.” Still slightly ruffled, with her daughter still calling to her from a bedroom down the hallway, she turned to the detectives. “It’s just such a stressful time for us right now.”
Pescoli understood. “We’ll try to make it as short and painless as possible. Anyone else beside Edie Gardener that you know threatened your mother?” she asked Winston.
Dan was the same.
Still in ICU.
Still in a coma.
Still under guard.
Still hooked up to machines, monitors, and tubes, his head bandaged.
Come on, brother, you can pull through this.
Cade stared down at the man he’d looked up to all of his life and willed him to get better.
He’d been here for nearly an hour, but if he’d hoped to see any small sign of improvement, he’d been disappointed. There was one more bed occupied now, a teenaged girl who, he’d heard, had been in a car accident that had taken the life of her boyfriend. She, too, was comatose, didn’t even know yet that he was dead.
The place was depressing and Cade was struggling to be patient. When he’d first asked, and then demanded, answers of the nursing staff and a doctor who the nurse had called in, he’d found out little more.
The platitudes hadn’t helped. No soft smiles or understanding looks could make him feel the slightest bit better.
He’d heard: “Your brother is doing as well as can be expected.” “He hasn’t been under care all that long.” “We’ll know more in the next few days.”