by Lis Wiehl
“That’s not Rick,” Nic said. In fact, she couldn’t think of a single guy Cassidy had dated who met the description. “Why didn’t you come forward when you heard she’d been murdered?”
“Do you think the police are going to listen to me? And going to them couldn’t bring her back.”
“But when they arrested Rick McEwan, you could have said you saw her with someone else,” Allison said.
Roland shook his head. “I figured that Rick guy hurt her before and didn’t get in trouble then, so this was only fair. And meanwhile, I decided to join Cassidy. Or I was going to, until you stopped me.”
Nic heard his words, but she had stopped paying attention.
They had an eyewitness who might have seen the beginning of Cassidy’s murder.
Only the killer hadn’t been Rick McEwan.
CHAPTER 19
What are you doing in here?” a voice behind them demanded. Allison turned. It was a middle-aged nurse dressed in pink scrubs, her hands on her ample hips. “This man is not allowed any visitors. He needs to rest.”
“Sorry,” Leif said, and jerked his head for the other two to follow him. “We made a mistake.” He pressed past her, with Allison and Nicole right on his heels.
“A mistake is right,” Allison said when they were safely around the corner. She was still in shock. “Whoever Roland saw, it wasn’t Rick.”
Nicole made a huffing noise. She was walking so fast that Allison had to hurry to keep up with her. “That’s just what Roland says. But think about it. What are the chances what he said is true? We don’t even know if he was really there. Maybe he only wishes he had been so he could still be central to the story. After all, this is the same guy who thinks he and Cassidy are soul mates and that she sends him messages by what she wears on the air. Just because Roland Baxter thinks he saw some guy with his hands around Cassidy’s throat doesn’t mean that he did.”
“He may be crazy,” Allison said as she pushed the elevator button with a shaking hand, “but even crazy people sometimes tell the truth.”
“But who will believe him?” Nicole said. The elevator doors opened, and the three of them got on. “Not when it’s obvious to anyone how mentally ill he is.”
Allison pushed the button for the ground floor. The truth was getting complicated. “Rick says he doesn’t remember being there that night. And now we have someone who saw a different man with her. Who maybe even saw Cassidy being attacked. We have to find out the truth.”
“There’s one thing you two are overlooking,” Leif said. “You both have been warned to stay out of this. If you keep asking questions, you’re putting your careers on the line.”
Nicole stepped out on the ground floor, then whipped around to face him with eyes blazing. “Are you saying we just let this go? Don’t we owe it to Cassidy to figure out what really happened?”
Allison was glad she wasn’t on the other side of that look, but Leif’s words were as mild as Nicole’s were fraught.
“I’m not saying you should let it go. I’m saying you need to get someone else to put the pieces together.”
Nicole put her hands on her hips. “And just who would that be?”
Allison held the elevator door for a couple in their midsixties. The woman had wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. After they stepped inside, Allison followed Nicole and Leif down the hall.
“I’ve been thinking about that PI I was telling you about, Nic,” Leif said. He turned to Allison. “Her name’s Ophelia Moyer. I met her when we were tracking a girl we thought might be a kidnapping victim. It turned out she was really on the run from her father, and for good reason. Ophelia helped her stay gone and safe. Ophelia’s a little odd, a little intense, but she’s also very competent and very discreet. And she can do things that the three of us couldn’t do.”
“So . . . what?” Allison asked. “We just ask this Ophelia to take this on? Even assuming she says yes, how much would it cost?” She imagined trying to explain the sudden expense to Marshall. She was already risking their finances by cosigning Lindsay’s loan.
“That’s the thing,” Leif said. “Ophelia doesn’t charge.” He held up a hand as both Allison and Nicole began to speak. “I know it sounds crazy, but she doesn’t need the money. She came into a trust fund from her grandmother when she turned twenty-one, and in three years she’s made a killing in the stock market. But she only takes on cases she wants.”
“Wait a minute. She’s twenty-four?” Nicole’s voice and expression left no doubt as to what she thought of Leif’s suggestion. “She’s just a baby.”
“Well, even babies can bite.” Leif grinned. “And they have sharp little teeth.”
Leif made arrangements for the three women to meet for brunch the next day. When Allison got to Mother’s Bistro, she found Nicole pacing on the sidewalk out front.
Nicole said fiercely, “I don’t know about this. I just don’t know.”
“We have to wait and see,” Allison said, although she had her own doubts. “If she doesn’t seem like she can get to the bottom of things, then we’ll walk away and keep looking into it ourselves.”
A young woman walked up to them. “Allison Pierce? Nicole Hedges?”
When they nodded, she said, “I’m Ophelia Moyer.” She winced when they shook her hand.
For Allison, the name Ophelia had conjured up an image of a girl dressed in white, flowers twined in her hair. Not this skinny girl wearing black-framed glasses, a tank top, and cargo shorts. Her dark-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“Ophelia, huh?” Nicole said. “Didn’t Ophelia fall in love with Hamlet and drown herself?”
This Ophelia’s response was flat, her face expressionless. “Ophelia is Greek for ‘aid’ or ‘help.’ And that’s what I am. As for the Ophelia in Hamlet, a witness said that she was in a tree when a branch broke and she fell into the water. Does that sound like the action of a woman who wanted to kill herself?”
“Good point,” Nicole said, her face deadpan. When Ophelia turned to go in the restaurant, she shot Allison a look.
In the high-ceilinged restaurant, the hostess showed them to their table. Ophelia chose the chair that would keep her back to the room. She licked her fingers and then pinched the flame of the tea candle that had been flickering in the middle of the table. “Sorry. That smell is nauseating.”
“No problem,” Allison said, thinking that Leif’s description of Ophelia as “a little odd, a little intense” hadn’t exactly covered it.
Before she opened her menu, Ophelia took a moment to straighten her silverware, nudging the spoon until it lined up exactly with the knife. When the waitress came, she ordered biscuits and gravy, while Nicole got the pork sausage and cheddar cheese scramble, and Allison went with the Greek frittata.
As Allison looked at the brick walls, the white gauzy curtains, the clear glass chandeliers hanging from long cords, she tried to remember when they had last eaten here with Cassidy. It had been at least a couple of years, and she was pretty sure it had been dinner, not brunch. Still, she could picture Cassidy laughing, her head tilted back to expose the long column of her throat. Allison didn’t know if it was a real memory or one she had assembled from the thousands of hours of memories she had stored up over the last six years. Sadness washed over her. Would it have been better to pick a place with no history, or was it okay to be reminded afresh of what they had lost?
She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the here and now. “So Leif Larson told us you might be able to help us figure out what really happened to Cassidy Shaw.”
“Leif said the three of you were friends in high school?” Ophelia’s question was direct, but her eyes slid away from Allison’s gaze as though their eyes were magnets of the same polarity, repelling instead of attracting.
Something about Ophelia inspired a reciprocal blunt honesty. “Not then, actually, no,” Allison said. “We were too different. But at our ten-year high school reunion we realized we were all involved in bringing c
riminals to justice.”
“And that’s when we started to be friends,” Nicole added. “I was still working at the Denver field office then.”
Allison picked up the story. “Then Nicole got transferred back to Portland, and the three of us got together for dinner at Jake’s.” She remembered the way Cassidy had squealed when she spied a particular dish on the dessert menu. “We ended up splitting this dessert called Triple Threat Chocolate Cake. The first time we did it, it was to save on calories. But we started joking about it, and we ended up calling ourselves the Triple Threat. And after a while we realized it was true. Each one of us has—had—resources the others didn’t. And from that first night on, we always split the richest dessert on the menu.”
Ophelia hunched her shoulders. “Did you all use the same fork?”
“What?” Allison said, thrown off her stride and out of her memory. “No. Different forks.”
Ophelia still looked troubled. “That kind of communal eating would challenge the immune system. What if one of you had a cold? What did you do then?”
Nicole made an exasperated noise. “Look, don’t get fixated on the details. That story isn’t about the forks, it’s about the friendship. Cassidy Shaw was our friend, and she was murdered, and we want to be sure that her killer is brought to justice.”
Ophelia nodded, then said, “I’ve been reading about what happened. Which is why I don’t understand why you are concerned.” She held up one finger. “Number one. The accused, Rick McEwan, used to date Cassidy Shaw.” She added a second finger. “Number two. Their relationship became abusive. Number three. She broke up with him and charged him with assault, and even though questions were raised, he was never punished. Number four. Now, a year later, she has been murdered, and McEwan’s prints are on the murder weapon. And most recently, number five. He’s been arrested.” She closed her fingers and made a fist. “So what is there to investigate?”
Allison and Nicole looked at each other. How could they best explain things to this girl who only seemed to see things in black and white? Their food came, and for a moment they were quiet as they lifted their forks and took their first bites.
Then Allison said, “Rick claims that he has been having blackouts. He told us that he has no memory of being there that night. I’ve never liked Rick, but there was something about the way he said it that made me believe it. We’ve also found an eyewitness who saw Cassidy in her condo with a different man—an unknown man—that night.” She didn’t mention that the witness was mentally ill. No need to bring that up yet. “It’s possible this witness even saw Cassidy being attacked. We need to know if someone else other than Rick killed Cassidy.”
Ophelia waited an uncomfortably long time before she finally said, “My stepfather beat my mother and he beat me. Beat us and worse.” She paused. “She’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry,” Allison said.
“I’m not,” Ophelia said flatly.
Nicole blinked.
Ophelia shrugged, her face impassive. “My mother wouldn’t leave him. He did terrible things to her. If she wouldn’t leave, then death was a better option.” She held out her left hand, which until now had been tucked under the table. “See my pinky finger?”
It was crooked, splayed out from the others.
“One summer my stepfather broke it, and then he wouldn’t allow my mother to take me to the doctor. He was afraid people would ask questions. All she could do was tape my fingers together. It didn’t heal correctly.” She put her hand back in her lap. “I could get it broken and reset now, but I won’t. It reminds me that there is evil in the world.” Ophelia leaned forward. “So why should I care about a man who beat his girlfriend?”
“Beating is one thing,” Nicole said. “Killing is another.”
“Is it?” Ophelia asked. “Is it really?”
Had her stepfather killed something in Ophelia? It would explain why her affect was so flat and emotionless.
“Besides . . .” Allison leaned forward, trying to catch Ophelia’s blue eyes. “If Rick goes to prison for a murder he didn’t commit while the real killer roams around free, that’s not justice.”
At the word justice, something in Ophelia’s expression shifted. “I have three special interests,” she said, which at first seemed a non sequitur. “They are cats, the stock market, and helping other women get justice. Do you know what a skip tracer is?”
“Skip tracers find people who don’t want to be found,” Allison said, trying to keep up.
Nicole was watching Ophelia, with her head tilted and one eyebrow raised. “Usually people who owe money,” she said.
“Correct. I’m like a skip tracer in reverse. I often help women get lost and stay lost. Only it’s not women who owe money. Well, I should be honest and say not usually. I did help a woman once who owed money to the mob. But to generalize, I help women and girls who are in untenable situations make new lives for themselves. I’m very interested in helping them find justice that may not be available under the traditional court system.”
“You do know that’s what we represent, right?” Nicole said. “The traditional court system?”
“So? It’s not perfect,” Ophelia countered. “Nothing is. If it were, then I wouldn’t have people seeking me out for help. And if it were, something would have been done about Rick McEwan assaulting your friend. Instead he got away with it.”
“But if Rick goes to prison—or is even executed—for a crime he didn’t commit, then that’s not justice either,” Allison said passionately. “Justice has to be fair for it to be justice. That’s why we need to be sure that Rick is really the one who killed Cassidy.”
Ophelia closed her eyes and was silent for a long time. Finally she sighed and said, “Okay.”
Allison wasn’t sure exactly what the girl was agreeing to, but she wasn’t about to interrupt.
Ophelia opened her eyes. “Tell me exactly what happened the night that Cassidy Shaw died,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out.”
CHAPTER 20
Allison’s head ached as she drove home from the meeting with Ophelia. Were they making a mistake by asking her to help? Ophelia had listened closely to every word she and Nicole spoke, asked a thousand questions, then finally said that she would try to uncover the truth.
As she pulled into her driveway, Allison couldn’t wait to go upstairs, kick off her shoes, turn on the air conditioner, and lie on the floor directly in front of it. Maybe the white noise would block out everything that had happened in the last day, the last week. She wanted to stop thinking. Stop remembering what Cassidy had looked like. Stop wondering if Rick had really killed her and why. Stop reliving the awful scene at the funeral. Stop speculating what Roland had actually seen.
But as soon as Allison opened the door, Lindsay hurried into the living room. She was wearing a navy tank top and shorts, an outfit that had once belonged to Allison. Now that Lindsay had finally stopped smoking, the sisters were about the same weight. The yellow nicotine stains were gone from Lindsay’s fingers, although Allison had noticed her inhaling wistfully whenever they passed through a cloud of cigarette smoke outside a shopping mall or restaurant.
In the months she had spent with Allison and Marshall, Lindsay had seemed to shed years as well as bad habits. With her face filled out and a healthy color in her cheeks, people no longer looked surprised when Allison introduced Lindsay as her younger sister. But today something else was different about her, something new.
“Are you ready?” Lindsay asked.
Allison didn’t answer. She was still trying to figure out what had changed. Then she realized it wasn’t something new, but something old. Lindsay’s hair was once again dark brown all over, without a single pink shock.
“Lindsay!” She put her hand up to her own hair. “Your streaks! They’re gone.”
Lindsay ducked her head and shrugged one shoulder. “I figured it was time for me to start looking like a grown-up.” She suddenly looked very young. “I di
d it while you were at brunch. I’ve also been practicing making flowers and hearts in my lattes. Everything has to be just the right temperature, and the milk has to be poured just the right distance from the cup. It felt wasteful to dump the mistakes. So I drank them.” Her words came out rapid-fire. “Only I think I drank way too much. Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you use decaf?” Sometimes it seemed that Lindsay had just exchanged one addiction for another. Maybe once you were an addict, you always were.
“Oh.” Lindsay’s smile was rueful. “You’re right, I should have thought of that. I can’t wait until I can get my real machine. I mean, yours is cool, but the professional models are so much more powerful.” She bounced on her toes. “So are you ready?” she asked again.
Allison rubbed her temple. “Ready for what?”
“You said we could practice.” Seeing Allison’s blank look, Lindsay added, “For the meeting tomorrow with the loan officer?”
“What? Ohhh.” Comprehension dawned. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but Lindsay was right, she had promised. “Okay.”
Lindsay had tried for months to get a job, but in the down economy no one wanted to hire someone who had dropped out of high school. Not to mention someone who had a criminal record that included arrests for theft, prostitution, drug dealing, and drunken driving. The only alternative was to create her own job.
“All right, now just sit at the dining room table,” Lindsay directed. “We’ll pretend that’s the desk.” She went over to the coffee table and picked up a stack of printouts.
When was the last time they had played pretend? It had probably been twenty-five years.
Allison sat in a chair, straightened imaginary papers in front of her, then half rose from her seat, leaning forward and extending her hand. “I’m Annie Botinelli,” she said, using the name of the loan officer they were to meet with the next day.
“Lindsay Mitchell.” Her hand was slightly sweaty. She squeezed Allison’s hand firmly. Breaking character, she whispered, “Is that the right amount of pressure?”