by Lisa Jackson
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, her mocha grew cold, and she smiled to herself at a particularly clever turn of phrase.
“Cissy?”
She nearly jumped, knocking over her drink then grabbing it before it tumbled to the floor. She glanced up to find her neighbor Sara standing by the table.
“Sara.” Cissy’s voice lacked enthusiasm.
Sara scraped a nearby chair toward the table. “Working?” she asked, then winced. “Sorry. Dumb question. Can you take a break?”
“I’ve been on a break all month,” Cissy said.
“I know, I know. I won’t keep you, but I had to track you down. I tried your cell, couldn’t get through, and called the house. Tanya told me where you were, and please,” she held up a hand, “don’t get mad at her; I had to pry the information from her.”
Oh, sure.
“Don’t you answer your cell phone? Or are you screening me out?”
“No, sorry, it’s lost. Got misplaced the day of the funeral, and I can’t find it because I turned it off for the service and never turned it back on.”
“That’s what ‘vibrate’ is for.”
“Yeah, I know. I was just so scattered. Anyway, if I don’t find it soon, I’ll have to get a new one.”
“I’d die without mine.”
Cissy didn’t doubt it. “So what was it you wanted?” she asked, but knew. In her heart of hearts, Cissy understood that Sara had tracked her down because of Gran’s house. She wanted to list it.
“I thought we should talk about your grandmother’s house,” she said, leaning back in her chair, and for the first time Cissy noticed that rain had begun to pepper the street and drip from the awnings.
“Sara—”
“Look, I’m serious. I have clients flying in from Philadelphia, and they want something with a view, something old, something authentic San Francisco, and something with room for live-in servants and an elevator. Am I describing Eugenia’s house or what?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
“I can’t sell it. I don’t own it. It’s part of Gran’s estate, and that might not be settled for a long time. The attorneys are working on it, but really, Sara, there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’ve talked with the attorneys,” she admitted just as the coffee grinder roared through a pound of fragrant beans.
“You what?” Cissy couldn’t believe her ears. “You went behind my back? After I told you that I didn’t want to sell it? Wait a sec—how do you even know which legal firm I’m dealing with?”
Sara gave that little girl smile and lifted a shoulder to acknowledge that she’d been naughty. “I saw their names when I looked at the house,” she said. “Right there on Eugenia’s writing desk.”
“So you called them?”
“I just left my name and phone number and the name of the company I work for. I said I’d love to represent the estate in selling the place. Was that so awful?”
Cissy was dumbfounded. “You should have talked to me.”
“I did. You showed me the house.”
“You begged to see it.”
“Okay, okay, I confess. I wanted to see it, yes.” She leaned closer and grabbed Cissy’s arm. “And I love the place. Love it. That house is one of the premier properties in the city. And get this, my clients, the ones flying in from Philly? They’re not only able to afford the house, well, just about any house in the city for that matter, but he’s a doctor, and his new job is at the medical school, which butts right up to your property. Look, I’ve got the plan.” She opened a sleek leather briefcase, pulled out legal documents and pictures of the house, digital images she’d taken the day after Gran had died. Gratefully, there were none of the blood-stained foyer.
“I can’t believe you did this. I told you then, and I’m telling you now, I’m not selling,” she said firmly. To her embarrassment, several people glanced in her direction. Cissy shrank away from the stares and snapped her computer closed. She wasn’t going to have this discussion here.
“Cissy, I’m sorry,” Sara said, and she actually looked mortified. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d be pleased…. Oh hell. I really am sorry. Hey,” she turned to Rachelle and waved at her. “Another drink, what is it you’re having, Cissy? Latte?”
“No.”
“Chai tea?”
“Mocha, but I don’t need another one.”
“Sure you do. Let me do this,” Sara barreled on. “Please. I’m going now. Go back to work.” She wiggled her fingers at the laptop. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m sorry,” she said again. “Really.” She pushed her chair back and, with a seemingly genuinely rueful expression, slid a few bills from her wallet and handed them to Rachelle. “Keep the change,” she said, hiking the collar of her coat around her neck and shouldering open the door. A gust of rain-washed air swept inside, along with two blond teenage girls, who, for some reason, weren’t in school. Noses red, they approached the counter and Diedre.
Cissy had lost the mood and her inspiration. The story was about finished. She could put the final touches on it tonight, after B.J. went to sleep, but she was finished for the time being.
“She’s a pain,” Rachelle said as she handed Cissy the new mocha.
“Amen,” Diedre said.
Rachelle picked up a few dishes and swabbed the table where the guy in the beret had been sitting just as a brown-haired girl bustled in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, peeling off her coat to reveal a Joltz apron over her slacks and a long-sleeved T-shirt.
“The cavalry has arrived!” Rachelle teased.
“If I’m the cavalry, do I have to do dishes?” the girl asked.
“What else?”
Cissy left, hiking the two blocks back to her car in the rain. She’d left her umbrella in the backseat of the car, so by the time she’d unlocked the door of her Acura, she was soaked to the skin. Only her laptop in its leather case had thwarted the elements. So much for jogging later or taking B.J. out in his stroller. She glanced at the dark sky and frowned.
Though she hadn’t planned it, she drove around the block and headed up the hill, turning on her headlights and wipers. It was late afternoon, and already, because of the cloud cover, the day was dark as dusk, the rain cold as winter.
It had been a week since she’d visited Gran’s house, and she thought it was about time to face her demons, maybe look at the place with new eyes…as Sara had.
Using her remote, she opened the gate, nosing the Acura into the parking area in front of the garage. Ducking her head against the chilly rain, Cissy ran up the walk to the front porch and let herself inside with her key.
No one was here. As she walked through the gloomy rooms snapping lights on and off, she could tell that Rosa and Paloma were keeping the place up: the floors and woodwork gleamed; the smell of pine and lemon was heavy in the air. Nothing was out of place, but the house seemed old and creaky, a cavernous tomb.
She mounted the stairs to the floor where she’d spent most of her waking hours, checking out the library and the family room, each seeming cold and dark without Gran’s vitality and strong personality. Snapping off lights, she climbed up another flight to the bedroom suites on the third floor. Almost feeling as if she were treading on the grave of her parents’ marriage, she opened the door to their suite and stepped inside. They’d each had a separate room linked by this shared sitting area complete with a fireplace and a private verandah, like their own private apartment within the massive old house.
Cissy felt a chill that cut deep to her soul.
Looking out the glass doors to the private garden, she realized how dark the day had become. Night was falling fast. She touched the back of her mother’s favorite Queen Anne chair and trembled inside.
It seemed like eons ago when they’d all lived here. She felt a pang of nostalgia, of regret, though she didn’t know why. Cissy had never thought of her family as loving, far from it. But it was her family. Or had been.
She left her parents’ living quart
ers and made her way around the staircase to her room. As she walked into the cozy space where she’d spent so many hours as a teenager, she felt a stab of loneliness for what now seemed a simpler life.
Before your mother turned into a psycho.
Refusing to dwell on Marla, she turned back to the hallway and started for the guest room.
Crrreeeeaaaak!
The sound swept up the dark staircase.
Cissy froze.
What was that? A door opening? Or something else?
What?
No one was here. She’d checked.
Goose bumps raised on her skin.
She waited, counting her heartbeats, then told herself it was nothing. Her mind playing tricks on her. She hadn’t heard anything. Still…maybe Rosa or Paloma or Lars had returned. They all had keys. For that matter, so did Elsa and Deborah and God only knew who else. Gran had gardeners and repairmen over all the time.
“Hello?” she called down the staircase to the second floor, where she’d left a single light burning in the library. “Anyone there?” Eerily, her own voice seemed to echo slightly, a hollow sound reverberating against the walls. “Hello?”
She waited.
All was quiet.
Your imagination, she told herself sternly.
Starting for the stairs, she heard a footfall, the quiet scrape of leather against hardwood.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Fear shot through her.
Someone was definitely in the house.
“Hey!” she called again, telling herself it had to be someone who worked here. Someone she knew. Someone with a key.
Why? Did you lock the door behind you?
Did you wait until the gate swung shut behind your car?
And why the hell aren’t they responding?
Cissy’s insides turned to water. “Who’s there?” she called. Please let it be one of the staff….
Again there was silence.
Deafening, paralyzing silence.
And darkness…. Why hadn’t she left on most of the lights? The house was so damned gloomy and still.
God Almighty, was she going crazy?
She knew she heard something.
Someone.
Swallowing her fear, she stepped back into the bedroom that had once been hers, the room her grandmother had never redecorated. As rain pelted the window, she looked around for a weapon, anything to ward off an attacker.
Who, Cissy? Who would be assaulting you? That’s nuts!
Or was it? Someone had killed Rory, hadn’t they? Someone had murdered Gran in this very house. Someone who hadn’t broken in.
She thought about using the phone…. She didn’t have her cell, but there was a landline.
And call whom?
The police?
And tell them you heard a noise?
Come on, Cissy.
Or would you call Jack?
Tell him you’re really scared, that you got freaked when you heard a noise while snooping around in your grandmother’s house?
He’d want to know why you came up here alone in the first place.
For God’s sake, deal with it.
Insides shaking, she quietly opened the closet door and found her old riding crop, a weapon she’d never used on the horse, but which might come in handy now. Feeling foolish, she carried the whip with her to the hallway.
Was it darker still?
She reached for a light switch, and the sconces surrounding the staircase offered a soft, warm glow. That was better. Maybe there was no one—
Clunk!
What?
Her heart nearly stopped as she recognized the sound of the elevator as it groaned into gear and started to whine as it rose upward.
Oh Jesus!
She nearly screamed.
She didn’t wait for it to reach the third floor, but scrambled for the stairs. Her feet nearly tripped over each other as she flew down, pausing briefly at the second floor landing.
What if the elevator stopped here?
Who said whoever was inside was getting out on the third floor?
Oh God, who was it? The killer?
Cissy, don’t freak out. Maybe the elevator’s malfunctioning.
LIKE HELL!
The house was so cold, so suddenly cold.
She paused long enough to hear the elevator car clunk to a stop on the second floor, the very level on which she was standing, the area where her grandmother was pushed over the railing to her death. Frozen, the stupid whip squeezed in her fingers, she felt another cold rush of air sweep up the stairs.
The elevator doors whispered open.
Fear clutched her heart.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She stared into the elevator.
The car was empty.
No one stepped out.
All she saw in the dim light of an old bulb was her own terrified expression caught in the mirror mounted on the back wall of the ancient car.
Every hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Someone had sent that car upward. It didn’t just rise on its own. A finger had pressed the button of the panel, choosing the second floor as its destination…almost as if whoever had done it had known she was here.
The car doors closed, and Cissy was left on the landing, her nerves stretched to the breaking point.
Someone was definitely in the house.
Someone who didn’t want to be known.
Someone who knew she was here and was hellbent on scaring the wits out of her. Well, it was working.
She swallowed hard, panic shooting through her as she stared at the closed doors of the elevator. If no one was in the elevator, then…She looked down the darkened staircase to the floor below.
A scream died on her lips.
In the open doorway, backlit by the barest of afternoon light, was the silhouette of a woman, a shadowy figure of a woman in a long coat with an upturned collar.
Cissy grabbed the handrail.
The woman’s features weren’t clear, but her hair was a deep red…. Oh dear Lord.
Cissy’s throat turned to sand.
The riding crop slid from her hands to tumble down the stairs.
“Mom?” she whispered, her heart in her throat, her brain screaming denials. “Mom? Is that you?”
Chapter 14
The door slammed shut.
Cutting off Cissy’s view of her mother.
It couldn’t be! Marla wouldn’t have risked coming here! No way.
So what then, Cissy? Are you imagining things? Pulling up her image when you know she can’t be anywhere near?
On rubbery legs she raced down the stairs and out the front door. Rain was pouring from the sky, gurgling in the downspouts, puddling on the ground. Cissy stepped off the porch. “Mom!” she yelled. “Damn it, Mom, where are you?”
But she was talking to the wind.
She saw no one, heard no running footsteps.
It was as if a ghost had appeared, only to fade again.
No!
She knew what she’d seen. Damn it, if she’d only had her cell phone. Following the path to the back of the house, she searched through the gardens and shrubbery, but in the ever-darkening gloom, she saw no one. Not near the trellis, nor the arbor, nor…She saw the swing, hanging from its rotting wooden frame, slowly shifting to and fro, the old chains barely rattling.
The wind?
Or a hand that had swiped it as Marla had fled?
“Mom!” she yelled again, but her only answer was the soft rush of traffic down the hill, the sweep of fir branches in the wind, the plop of raindrops.
She turned, eyeing the big house rising four stories above the ground, mullioned windows dark and ominous.
Determinedly, she trudged to the front of the house. No one was here. Lord, had it been her imagination? Had all the talk of her mother’s escape finally gotten to her? With the murder of Rory and Gran, had she, Cissy, snapped? She wasn’t afraid of her mother. Never would be.
Marla wasn’t the most loving mother on earth, that much was true, and Cissy had suffered from her share of neglect, but she didn’t fear her mother. Never would. Whoever had killed Gran and Rory was not Marla Amhurst Cahill. She wouldn’t believe it.
So what the hell had just happened?
With no answer, she locked the front door, pulled on the handle to make sure it latched, then walked along the brick path to her car. All the while she eyed the shadows and stygian umbras; the wet, shivering plants; the dark, sheltered nooks where the exterior corners of the house met.
But she caught no glimpse of a running woman, heard no frantic footsteps or rush of wild breathing.
Marla’s image was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Cissy was alone.
Trembling, she rubbed her arms, finally noticing the rain that was running down her neck. Had she seen her mother?
Or had her stupid, twisted mind hallucinated, creating an image she secretly wanted to see?
“You’re a basket case,” she said as she climbed into her car. Inside she noticed the scent, the faintest fragrance that she remembered from her childhood, the odor of the perfume that her mother had worn.
“No,” she said and fought tears, denied that she might be losing her mind. “You are not going to haunt me, you bitch, do you hear me? I won’t let you.” Her mother had not been in her car. And the gates to the estate were closed. Locked. Marla hadn’t opened them.
Cissy hit the button on the remote lock and shoved the Acura into reverse, waiting as the gate’s old gears groaned and clicked. But the gate didn’t move. She hit the button again. Heard the same clicks and groan of grinding gears. In the mirror’s reflection, she caught sight of the slightest movement of the massive wrought-iron gate, as if it were trying to open but couldn’t.
“What the hell?” Disgusted, Cissy climbed out of her car and examined the gate. Deep in the latch, crammed into the release mechanism, was a rusted screwdriver.