by Lisa Jackson
Better yet, her mother was in a cheerful, almost festive mood, so unlike the times she’d either sulked or just “gotten through the day” at her in-laws’ farm, the very spot Kacey now called home.
Tonight her mother smiled and kept up the conversation, regaling her with humorous little anecdotes of “senior living.” As long as they talked about Maribelle, everything seemed fine.
Little did Kacey know that she was being set up, though she should have seen it coming.
After the main course was finished, Maribelle asked the question that had probably been on her mind all evening, or quite possibly the last three years. “So,” she said pleasantly as she stared across the table at her daughter, “what have you heard from Jeffrey?”
Ahhh, Kacey thought. The ambush. “Nothing.”
Maribelle’s eyebrows pulled together in concern. “Maybe you should give him a call.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To be friendly,” Maribelle said, lifting her shoulders innocently. “It’s the holidays.”
“We’re divorced, Mom. Have been for three years.”
“Oh, darling, don’t you think I know that, but ... sometimes a couple can get past whatever it was that kept them apart.” Maribelle’s smile disappeared slowly, and she set her fork on her plate. “I always liked him, you know.”
Oh, yeah. She knew. “It didn’t work out.”
“You didn’t give it enough time. Three years? My God, that’s barely a sneeze in life. I was married to your father for over thirty-five years! And trust me, not all of those times were rosy.”
Kacey did believe her.
“You should just contact him.”
“Not gonna happen, Mom,” Kacey said and pushed her plate aside.
Her mother let out a long-suffering sigh as the waitress came with offers of dessert and coffee.
“I’ll try the pumpkin cheesecake with the caramel sauce and decaf, Loni,” Maribelle said familiarly.
Kacey said, “Just regular coffee with cream.”
“You have to try some dessert. It comes with the meal, no extra expense, and it’s . . . out. Of. This. World!” her mother insisted, then turned to the waitress again. “By any chance did Mitch make crème brûlée today?”
“Espresso-flavored,” the waitress said with a knowing smile.
Maribelle’s eyes brightened. “My favorite, but I think I really should sample his cheesecake.” To Kacey she added, “Order the brûlée and we’ll swap bites. I’m not kidding you when I say it’s scrumptious. If I weren’t so stuck on tradition with the pumpkin, I’d order it myself.”
“I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on, Acacia! It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake!” To Loni, she said, “Please bring us a bit of each. It’s a holiday, and we’re not together that often.” She placed a thin, cool hand over Kacey’s, as if sharing dessert would actually be a bonding experience.
“Okay,” Kacey said, surrending.
“You won’t be disappointed.” Her mother actually patted her hand. What was this? Maribelle wasn’t known for any public displays of affection.
The waitress disappeared through double doors leading to the kitchen.
“I wish you’d give Jeffrey another chance.” Maribelle was nothing if not single-minded.
“I’m not interested, and I think he’s engaged.”
“Seriously?” Maribelle’s dark eyebrows shot skyward.
“I don’t know it for certain, and really, I don’t care, but one of my friends in Seattle, Joanna . . . You met her, I think, once or twice. Anyway, she called the other day and mentioned that Jeffrey was going to get married next year sometime.”
“Well . . .” She played with the napkin in her lap, and the shadows from the candle on the table played against her face, aging her a bit. “It’s just that I . . . I would so love a grandchild.”
“Really?” Kacey was surprised. She had been an only child and had been told often enough that she hadn’t been planned. Though she was certain her mother loved her, Maribelle had never been one to fawn over children or even show an interest in becoming a grandmother. Until today.
“Are you seeing anyone?” her mother asked hopefully.
Kacey’s wayward mind flitted to Trace O’Halleran before she brought herself back to reality. “No.”
“No one at the hospital? Another doctor?”
“I said—”
“What about online dating? I see all sorts of sites advertised on the television, and Judy Keller’s daughter found the love of her life on some Christian matchmaking Web site. I’m sure there’s one for professionals. In fact, I checked.”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Of course you do. It’s a matter of priorities, that’s all! And if I were you, I wouldn’t give up on Jeffrey so soon. He’s a well-respected surgeon, and he’s even written a book and has speaking engagements all over the country.”
“And you know this ... how?” Kacey asked.
Maribelle didn’t bat an eye. “I have the Internet, darling. It’s a wonderful tool. And nowhere on Jeffrey’s Web site did he mention a fiancée.”
The desserts and coffee appeared at that second, but Kacey caught the look of disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Maribelle had loved Jeffrey Lambert from the second she’d met him. “A heart surgeon,” she’d whispered to her daughter, her eyes alight. “And handsome, too.”
Never mind that Kacey herself would soon be a doctor in her own right. Or that Jeffrey had an ego that would rival Napoleon’s.
The bottom line with her mother was Jeffrey Lambert, MD, was one helluva catch and her daughter had let him slip away. Now, as she bit into the crème brûlée, Kacey wondered what her mother would think if she admitted that the man she found most interesting these days was a hardscrabble rancher with a seven-year-old son.
Finally, as her mother was in her own private heaven, sampling her cheesecake and moaning softly in ecstasy, Kacey brought up the subject that had been weighing on her mind. “So, Mom, did Aunt Helen have any kids?”
“Of course not.” Maribelle glanced up quickly. “She and Bill couldn’t. You know that.”
“What about on Dad’s side?”
“No. Neither of his brothers married. Again, you already know this.”
“Maybe not married ... but had some kids they didn’t talk about? Or maybe know about?”
Her mother was shaking her head as if the idea were impossible. “As far as I recall, they never dated much.”
“So, you’re saying I don’t have any ... cousins that I was never told about? Since you and Helen have been estranged, I thought—”
“What? That I lied? Why would I do that?” Her mother looked perturbed again and straightened her napkin. “I’m telling you, no cousins. You know that. I don’t understand why you’re asking now.”
“Okay, okay. I know it sounds a little crazy, but remember that patient I was telling you about, the one who fell while jogging and ended up in the ER?”
“Yes. At Boxer Bluff.” So Maribelle had been listening.
“Unfortunately, she didn’t make it. Her name was Jocelyn Wallis, and she was a schoolteacher, who, as it turns out, was born around here. And she looked a lot like me. Enough to freak out some of the nurses I work with.”
Her mother grew deathly quiet for the first time since they’d sat down as Kacey explained the details. She refolded the napkin twice before Kacey launched into her resemblance to Shelly Bonaventure, another woman who looked like her and was born in the area.
“I saw that she’d died. Not much of an actress, if you ask me,” Maribelle said. “And I suppose she might look a little like you, but so what?” She was shaking her head. “What are you suggesting? That those women were fathered by your uncles?” She rolled her eyes. “And then what? Adopted to other families and we never heard about it?”
“Or maybe Dad, before he met you . . .”
“Oh, Acacia, stop it! Right now! If Stanley had any
other children, don’t you think I’d know about it?” she demanded.
“Maybe he didn’t know.”
“We’re talking about your father! Remember him?” She shot her daughter a withering glance. “He would be mortified if he were here, Acacia! As it is, he’s probably rolling over in his damned grave!” She shuddered theatrically. “Your friends have overactive imaginations, or some need to put some drama into their lives.” Leaning back in her chair, she glared at Kacey and shook her head. “Come on, Acacia! How many long-lost cousins do you think the family’s hidden from you?”
“Maybe none. I don’t know. I’m just saying it’s strange.”
“So many things in life are ‘strange’ or ‘odd’ or ‘coincidence. ’ ” After making air quotes, she waved her hand as if to dismiss the entire topic, as if it were inconsequential claptrap. But her cavalier attitude didn’t quite match the sliver of concern that Kacey noticed in her mother’s eyes as she added, “You know, people see resemblances with each other all the time. People make entire careers out of being celebrity lookalikes. Now, that’s the end of this inane conversation!” She turned her attention back to her pumpkin cheesecake. “Mitch really outdid himself with this. Try a little, and don’t forget to get a bit of the whipped cream.”
“Nice dodge, Mother,” she said.
“Taste it, and drop this ridiculous inquisition—”
“It’s not an inquisition. I’m just asking about the family.”
“And I’ve answered, so that’s that.”
Her mother transformed into the Maribelle Collins Kacey recognized best: the set, jutted jaw; the pursed lips; the narrowed eyes. Her neck was nearly bowed, and Kacey knew she would learn nothing else. Tonight. Not from her mother.
What Maribelle didn’t realize was that, rather than turn Kacey’s attention away, she’d practically ensured her daughter was going to keep digging. There were other ways to check birth records, and she had access as a doctor. For now, she couldn’t nudge her mother any further and there was no reason to antagonize her, but she was not giving up.
She’d learned while growing up that she could push her mother only so far. So now, Kacey didn’t argue. It wouldn’t make any difference, anyway. If Maribelle didn’t want to talk about something, she just didn’t.
So, it was time to feign the peace, if not make it. “Okay,” Kacey said, lifting her spoon. “Let’s see if Mitch’s cheesecake is all that it’s cracked up to be.” Reaching across the small table, she plunged her spoon into the dessert and noticed her mother’s shoulder muscles, beneath the shimmering silver silk, relax a bit.
“Mmmm, that is good,” Kacey said, as if savoring the sweet taste of caramel. But the words were rote as she wondered why her mother was determined to change the subject away from her father or uncle or cousins or anyone associated with the family. If she hadn’t felt so before, Kacey was pretty certain now that there were more than a few skeletons in the family closet.
CHAPTER 12
“ What’re you still doing here?”
The sheriff’s voice almost echoed down the empty hallway.
Seated at her desk, her gaze drawn to the computer monitor, Alvarez glanced over her shoulder just as Dan Grayson actually stepped into her office area.
Her insides tensed slightly, just as they always did whenever she was alone with him. The weird thing was that it wasn’t because he was her boss; she had worked for different overseers since she was fifteen and had never experienced this reaction, but there was something about Grayson that put her just a little on edge. And she didn’t like it. “I was just catching up on some things.” Rolling the chair around, she found him looming above her.
He filled the doorway, a tall man with broad shoulders and a mustache going gray. Sturgis, his dog, a black Lab who was a washout with the K-9 unit, was right behind him.
“You do know it’s a holiday.”
“Thanksgiving. I heard.”
He chuckled deep in his throat, and she hated that she found the sound pleasing, that she, too, wanted to smile. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“I haven’t authorized any overtime.”
“And I haven’t asked for any, have I?”
“Or comp time.”
She nodded. “As I said, just tying up some loose ends.”
“Go home. It’s a holiday,” he repeated.
She lifted a shoulder. The truth was that she never made a big deal of holidays. Most of her family was in Woodburn, Oregon, and her studio apartment was really just a place to crash, not exactly homey or a place she’d want to invite the few friends she felt close enough to have over. Besides, they all had families and, holiday traditions. Pescoli had dropped by earlier and, upon learning that Alvarez had no plans for the day, had offered a halfhearted invitation for Alvarez to join her. Though she had declined, Alvarez had felt a stupid pang of regret that she was entirely alone, especially when Pescoli had hurried out the back door on her way to meet Santana. Alvarez, glancing out the window and watching Pescoli’s Jeep drive off through the falling snow, had sighed. She could imagine Pescoli and Nate Santana enjoying a quiet meal alone, in front of a crackling fire, a turkey roasting in the oven of Santana’s rustic cabin, making love until long into the night.
The thought had jolted her.
Time to get a pet, she’d told herself and gone back to work, here at her desk in the department offices.
Now, with Grayson watching her, she said, “It’s quiet here. I get a lot done when no one’s around. No distractions.”
“What about later? What’re you doing?”
“I was thinking Chinese takeout.”
He actually smiled, his lips twitching beneath the mustache. “Great as that sounds, and, y’know, it does, why don’t you stop by my place?” Her stupid heart nearly skipped a beat. “Got a few friends comin’ by. Around six. Real casual.”
So they wouldn’t be alone. Good. “Maybe I will.”
He chuckled again. “That sounds like a thinly disguised ‘No, thanks.’”
“A bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool maybe.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” His eyes, as brown as her own, pinned her and silently accused her of trying to placate him. “And get the hell outta here.” With a nod, as if he were agreeing with himself, he whistled to the dog, then made his way toward the back door, the sound of his boot heels and the click of claws fading away.
She leaned back in her chair and reminded herself that Grayson was her boss. Yeah, she found him attractive in that grizzled ranch-hand way. With his long legs, slim hips, and broad shoulders, he was built like a cowboy, tough as leather, and, as far as she knew, had lived all of his life in the area. He’d been married once, and she didn’t really know all the details there; Grayson kept a lot of his personal life close to the vest, which was another reason she admired him. She did the same.
Today, though, she hadn’t been lying. The offices, for once, were nearly silent, aside from the hum of the furnace as it forced warm air through the vents. She was able to get a lot of work done without coworkers, ringing phones, fax machines, and e-mail blasting at her every ten seconds. But she wasn’t playing catch-up, as she’d told Grayson.
Instead she was reviewing Jocelyn Wallis’s autopsy and tox screen.
The autopsy indicated that the victim had heart disease, more advanced than she might have known. According to the ME, Jocelyn’s arteries were partially blocked and could have been from a woman twice her age, the result probably of bad genes and a hard lifestyle. She probably would have suffered a heart attack if her condition was left untreated and might have died young. There was no sign of recent sexual activity, but along with evidence of the over-the-counter meds she’d been taking, there were traces of arsenic in her blood.
She looked through the report that listed the contents of the victim’s stomach and found nothing out of the ordinary. It looked like chicken vegetable soup and coffee and little else.
Odd. Rather than the evidence absolvin
g her of her suspicions, just the opposite had proved true. Glancing at a photo of the victim, she said, “So what happened to you?”
And more importantly, who did it?
Jocelyn had two ex-husbands, one living outside of Laramie, Wyoming, the other in Edmonton, Alberta, in Canada. Both had ironclad alibis and, it seemed, had had little contact with their ex-wife. Without children or custody issues or jointly held businesses, there had been no reason for them to keep in contact with her.
Also, Jocelyn had next to no life insurance, just enough to bury her. The beneficiaries listed were her parents. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She still owed on her car, so no one would end up with a vehicle. However, her phone records were more interesting. Aside from her girlfriends, she had called Trace O’Halleran a couple of times, though it seemed as if she’d just left messages; the calls were short.
Something? Alvarez wondered. He had gone into Jocelyn’s place, admitted to doing so; his fingerprints would probably match several latents they’d collected. He was one of the only persons they’d found who knew where she hid her spare key, though anyone could have found it.
Still ... Trace O’Halleran was the last man she’d dated with any kind of interest. And he was the one person someone at the school had called when they were worried about her.
He seemed normal enough, but even calm, even-keeled people could be pushed into violence given the right situation.
He was worth checking out.
Clicking off her computer, she decided it was time for a little more investigation. Even though it was Thanksgiving, a skeleton crew was working in the crime lab, so she made a quick call and asked Mikhail Slatkin, the investigator on duty, to meet her at Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment. Now that she had proof that Ms. Wallis didn’t just die of a misstep, she needed to take another, deeper look at her home, life, and job.
He dressed in dark slacks, a crisp shirt, and a casual sweater, then checked his hair in the mirror and decided his look for the command performance on Thanksgiving Day was perfect. Impeccable.
Truth be known, he detested the holidays, all of them, but he put on a good front, pinning on a smile and driving through the snow to his sister’s home, a lakeside manor always in some phase of reconstruction.