by Lisa Jackson
A crumpled bumper on one side, a few scratches, and a small dent were all that had happened. Easily fixed. And she was lucky to have survived. The accident could have been so much worse. Telling herself to deal with everything in the morning, she locked the garage behind her and started for the back door. The night was still, snow gently falling, the path she’d broken earlier already partially filled with new snow. Yet she had no trouble following it, her boots stepping in the large prints she’d left earlier. On the porch she paused and looked around the yard. Why, she didn’t know, just an uneasy feeling that had been with her all night. The accident hadn’t helped, nor had the other driver’s quick exit.
What had Grace said? That the driver was “evil,” that he meant Kacey harm?
That’s ridiculous. Don’t go there! He was just another driver in a hurry. And yet she felt a chill deep in her soul and remembered thinking fleetingly that she’d seen the driver somewhere before. “Now you’re imagining things.” She let herself inside and made certain the dead bolt was secure behind her.
Snapping on lights, she had the ludicrous sensation that someone had been inside. “Oh, for the love of God.” Still, she eyed each room, stepping through the archways and doors as she unwound her scarf, then hung it and her coat on the hall tree near the front door.
No knife-wielding, masked boogeyman leaped out at her.
No dark shadow crossed her path.
No pairs of eyes glowed from behind the curtains.
Muttering beneath her breath, she headed up the stairs. One step down from the landing, she paused, certain she smelled something out of the ordinary lingering in the small alcove where a portrait of her grandparents was mounted on the faded wallpaper Kacey had sworn she would take it down. She hadn’t. The pale pink rose pattern had been Grannie’s favorite, and Kacey had had neither the time nor the heart to strip it from the walls.
She touched her finger to her lips, then brushed it over her smiling grandparents’ faces and wondered what they knew about the women who looked like her. Jocelyn Wallis and Shelly Bonaventure, “dead ringers” for her who had lived in the area.
She continued to climb the stairs. The third step from the top creaked as it always did, and Kacey smiled, remembering how she’d avoided stepping on that particular plank as a child, first considering it “bad luck” and later so as not to wake her snoring grandfather and light-sleeping grandmother as she snuck out of the house during those blissful, hot Montana summers, when the smell of cut hay and dust filled her nostrils and she rode her horse bareback through the moonlit fields.
It seemed an eternity ago, part of a childhood disconnected from the woman she’d become, the driven medical student who had been attacked by a madman and had nearly given up her career before it had gotten started.
Who was she kidding?
She’d never been the same since the maniac had leapt out at her in the parking garage.
Gone was any vestige of the girl who had raced her horse at midnight, or swung on a rope to drop into the river that cut through these mountains in summer, or hiked fearlessly through the surrounding hills.... No, between her mother’s constant criticism and that horrific attack, Kacey’s self-confidence had eroded.
She’d gotten some of it back over the years, even handling the failure of divorce with more spine than she would have expected, but still, deep inside, in a place she rarely acknowledged, there was a frightened shell of a woman, and right now she was rearing her scared, trembling head.
Don’t let it happen. Don’t let some weirdo derail you. Grace Perchant thinks she can talk to ghosts, for crying out loud!
Giving herself a silent pep talk and a hard mental shake, Kacey walked to the room she’d always occupied, never having moved into her grandparents’ bedroom. That had seemed sacrilegious somehow. Rather than turn on the light, she walked to the window in the dark and stared across the moonlit fields.
Again she felt an unlikely, malicious wind rush through her insides, though the room was perfectly still. She thought about the driver of the pickup that had hit her car, remembered seeing his fleeting face. Did she know him? Or had she, in that heart-stopping instant, been mistaken?
All in your mind, she told herself but didn’t believe it for an instant.
CHAPTER 16
“ Okay...no . . . wait . . .” Pescoli, seated across from Alvarez in a booth at Wild Will’s held up both hands and cocked her head. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and they’d agreed to meet at the local restaurant and bar located in downtown Grizzly Falls. “You had your fortune read in a teacup by a woman who wears matching sweaters with her dog, and then you stole the victim’s cat?”
“Adopted. Maybe temporarily.”
Pescoli stared at her as if she’d just sprouted horns. “Who are you, and where’s my partner?” she demanded, grabbing the ketchup bottle and pouring a huge glob on her plate. “The next thing I know, you’ll be claiming to be beamed up into a spaceship to face Crytor, or whoever he was, the alien lizard general who Ivor Hicks thinks captured him years ago.”
Alvarez played around with the remains of her tuna salad and decided she had to confess. If she didn’t, Pescoli might hear it from someone else. So she admitted going to Dan Grayson’s for Thanksgiving.
“For the love of God,” Pescoli said, stunned. “You barged in on his family Thanksgiving and—”
“I was invited, okay?”
“Out of pity.”
Alvarez glared at her partner. “It was a mistake, okay? I get that now. I only told you so that if the sheriff said anything, you wouldn’t be blindsided.” She jabbed her fork into a bit of lettuce. “So, what did you do?”
To her surprise, Pescoli actually blushed as she grabbed her Reuben and dredged it through the ketchup before taking a bite.
“Thought so.” Alvarez tried not to sound envious.
“So, you find anything interesting at the neighbor’s besides the cat?” she asked as she swallowed and washed the bite down with Diet Coke.
“Could be that we’re on the lookout for a dark pickup.”
Pescoli sent her a glance. “When aren’t we on the lookout for one?”
Alvarez lifted a shoulder.
“So does this pickup have plates? Distinguishing marks? Maybe a camper or toolbox?”
“Possibly, but Lois didn’t see or remember.”
“Lois is the dachshund-walking, sweater-matching, tea-leaf-reading, charter-member-of-PETA neighbor?”
“Yes,” Alvarez answered patiently.
“Huh. Not exactly the most credible witness.” Pescoli drained her soda, and before she could decline, Sandi, the waitress and owner of the establishment, slid another drink in front of her. “Thanks. That’s enough.”
“Free refills.” Sandi, tall and a little on the gaunt side, grinned widely. She never stopped selling. She’d ended up with the establishment in a bitter divorce from her husband, William Aldridge, for whom the restaurant, had been named, and she’d poured her heart and soul into the place changing up the once-boring menu with local fare that included huckleberries, venison, and trout, then redecorating the restaurant to look like a hunting lodge. The chandeliers were wagon wheels with lanterns affixed to their rims. Mounted on the rough plank walls, high overhead, the stuffed heads of bighorn sheep, antelope, deer, and even a moose stared through glassy eyes at those who occupied the tables and booths below. It was eerie, weird, and kind of macabre to Alvarez’s way of thinking, but totally in step with the Grizzly Falls way of life.
With a wink of an overly shadowed eye, Sandi hurried off to a table where a couple were trying to deal with three loud kids who looked as if they ranged in age from two to six. Mom and Dad were obviously frazzled as they tried to sort out drinks, juggle their bags, and answer questions from the squirming trio of sons. Sandi whipped out tiny coloring books from her apron, found a glass filled with crayons on a nearby table, and, once the kiddies were into their newfound art, took the couple’s order.
�
�So tell me again about the poison.” Pescoli took another bite as Alvarez repeated what she’d discovered in Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment and how it all added up to murder.
They discussed the case and, after paying the bill, put on their jackets and headed through the front doors and past Grizz, the stuffed grizzly bear that greeted customers as they entered Wild Will’s. Grizz, frozen in time, his mouth a perpetual snarl that bared his long teeth, was usually dressed for the season. Today was no exception, as he wore a white bonnet and collar over his shaggy coat, as if he were a Pilgrim woman. Gourds, squash, and an overflowing cornucopia were situated at his long, clawed feet, and a stuffed turkey peeked around the dry stalks of corn that surrounded him.
“Cute,” Pescoli muttered under her breath.
Alvarez shouldered open the glass doors, and a blast of winter air hit her full in the face. The sidewalk had been shoveled and salted, concrete peeking through, and the roar of the falls was audible over the traffic rolling along the street. The pedestrians were bundled in a variety of jackets and coats, most with scarves wound around their necks, boots covering their feet and stocking caps pulled over their ears. Some juggled packages, while others held tight on to the mitten-clad hands of their children. A few idled and smoked while huddled in doorways of the shops already decorated with cedar wreaths, red bows, and glittering lights, all heralding the Christmas season. The snow had quit for the day, but the cloud cover hung low, hugging the earth, blocking the sun.
They had arrived in this part of town in different vehicles. Alvarez had been at the department’s offices before daylight. She’d called Pescoli, who had agreed to meet her. “You know this is supposed to be my day off,” Pescoli said as they reached her Jeep.
“Just thought you’d want to be kept up to speed.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Lucky’s got the kids, so it isn’t a big deal. It’s Black Friday, you know. Michelle’s taking Bianca shopping.”
“I thought you said she was fighting some bug.”
“Did you not hear me? It’s Black Friday, the sacred day of holy shopping. There’ll be no stopping of the laying down of the credit cards.” Pausing before she unlocked the Jeep’s door, she said, “I suppose you’re going to make a workday of it.”
“Yeah.”
“And probably a night.”
“The holidays, always more domestic issues.” That was a trend that seemed to have no end. Get a few relatives together, offer them food and drink, and pretty soon all the old wounds were opened again. Fueled by a little booze and a handy weapon, things could get out of control pretty fast. Hadn’t she witnessed it often enough in her own family? “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”
Pescoli opened the door, then hesitated. “Keep me in the loop.”
“Will do.”
As Pescoli pulled out of the parking spot and drove off, Alvarez walked to a side street near the river where her own vehicle was parked. Even in the cold, there were fishermen leaning against the railing, their lines disappearing into the dark, swirling water far below, while a few pedestrians bustled along the sidewalk. Moving away from the river, she turned a full one-eighty and stared upward, over the facades and rooftops of the storefronts, to the crest of Boxer Bluff. Without really understanding her motives, she forced her gaze along the darkened hillside and the railing to the park. Unwittingly she focused on the crumbling wall where Jocelyn Wallis had fallen to her death.
Or been pushed.
Was the killer so anxious for her to be dead that he couldn’t wait for the poison he’d put in her coffee to work? There was a chance he might not have known about her heart condition. For that matter, even Jocelyn herself might not have realized her heart had been compromised. But the killer certainly understood that given enough time and having gone undetected, the toxins he’d laced her food with would eventually steal her life.
“Who the hell are you?” she thought aloud, her breath fogging in the air.
Drawing her gaze from the bluff, she unlocked her car. Maybe the bastard was afraid her symptoms would force her to the doctor before she died. If she’d acted quickly enough, her life might have been spared.
Was he just antsy, unwilling to wait for her death, or was there a reason he’d altered his original plan of letting her die slowly?
If Jocelyn had been pushed, Alvarez reminded herself. That important fact hadn’t been established.
“Yet,” she reminded herself as she climbed into her Jeep, flicked on the engine, and glanced once more at the crest of the ridge. She could almost picture Jocelyn Wallis tumbling over the edge, arms and legs flailing, fear and pain twisting her features. And all the while a shadowy figure had watched her fall. Gloating. Mentally praising himself for his slyness.
Her stomach turned sour.
“I’ll get you, you son of a bitch,” she vowed under her breath, even though she wasn’t even sure that he’d been on the ridge.
But she’d find out.
One way or another.
“Your mother on line two,” Heather told Kacey as she walked out of the examination room where the seventh flu case of the day had just been diagnosed. “Hey, are you okay?”
The answer was no because the truth was that she hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a stretch the night before. After thinking someone had been in the house, she’d woken up at every moaning joist, or branch hitting a window, or rush of the wind. She’d had dreams of the attack and woken up sweating. Twice, chiding herself for being a ninny, she’d gone downstairs and checked to see that the doors and windows had been bolted and latched. She’d even double-checked to see that her grandfather’s shotgun was where it was supposed to be, tucked in the attic space under the eves, accessed by a short door in the hallway outside her bedroom.
The night had been fitful, and when the alarm had blared at 5:00 a.m., she’d had to drag herself from the bed.
Even the two cups of coffee she’d swilled before work hadn’t given her the jolt she’d been looking for, and she’d been dragging all day. And it had been a bitch. Along with her regularly scheduled patients, there had been the seven extras squeezed into examination rooms. They’d all exhibited flu symptoms, one elderly lady sick enough that Kacey had sent her directly to the hospital.
The office had been a madhouse; the waiting room overflowing; tempers short. Added to the tension of the extra work, the computers had gone down for nearly two hours, and Martin had been held up at the hospital.
“I’m fine. Just tired,” she lied, because her stomach had been slightly sour all day. “Tell Mom I’ll call her back.”
Heather pulled a face. “I tried that. You know, ‘The doctor’s just finishing up with patients and will call you in an hour or two,’ but”—she shook her head, her straight blond hair catching in the light—“it didn’t fly.”
“I’ll take it,” Kacey said, wondering at the sudden interest from her mother. They’d seen each other just last night, and sometimes they didn’t speak for a week or two.
Once in her office, she slid into her desk chair, pushed the button on the phone of her antiquated system, and said, “Hey, Mom. Happy Black Friday.”
“As if I’d be in the malls with the rest of America today!” There wasn’t so much as a chuckle from the other end of the line. “Acacia, I’ve been thinking . . . ,” she said, and Kacey bit her tongue to keep from saying something snide about her mother’s thinking process. She could tell Maribelle wasn’t in the mood for a joke of any kind.
“About?”
“Our conversation last night.”
Kacey leaned back in her chair and stared out the window, where the snow, which had stopped earlier, was beginning to fall again, adding another frosty layer to the bushes surrounding the clinic. “What about it?” She was willing to bet it wasn’t about the Commander or, for once, Kacey’s love life. Last night Kacey had hit a nerve.
“Well, it bothered me that you seemed to think your father could have ... you know, fathered other children, or tha
t some other relative had done something similar. I didn’t get the impression that you understood how preposterous that idea was.” She was dead serious. “I know you’re all worked up about these women who died and resembled you, and so I wanted to make sure that you were all right.”
Translation: That you aren’t digging any further.
“Thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”
“So . . . everything’s back to normal?”
Nope. “As normal as it is around here.”
“Good.” An audible sigh. “I’m so glad.”
Translation: I’m glad you’re going to cease and desist.
Maribelle, who didn’t seem to really believe her daughter but wasn’t going to call her on the lie, added, “Well, it was wonderful seeing you last night. I’m off to dinner soon. The Commander and I have a date. Can you believe that? At my age?”
“I think it’s great, Mom.”
“Really?”
“Really.” That much was true. If Maribelle could find a man to make her happy, all the better.
“Me, too. So I’d better run and put on my feminine armor.”
Translation: Makeup and slimming, smoothing undergarments. “You do that, Mom.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Bye.” Kacey hung up and stared out the window, feeling empty inside. Why, she wondered, when there were so many women who had close, loving relationships with their mothers, had she ended up at the very most coldly affectionate with hers? They were just such strangers, and it seemed wrong. Not that there weren’t much worse, antagonistic, even violent relationships, but that knowledge didn’t dull the ache that still lingered from her childhood. No siblings. A distant mother. A father who cared but was too busy. If it hadn’t been for her grandparents . . .
Disgusted at the turn of her thoughts, she looked to the positive. Maybe being somewhat distant from her mother wasn’t so bad. She could do all the investigating in her family’s past that she wanted. She didn’t have all those hang-ups about family name and honor, nor did she worry about tarnishing her mother’s or father’s reputation. “It is what it is,” she said aloud and wondered about how easily she had lied to her mother. The truth was, she’d already started the ball rolling. Before the first case had walked through the door this morning, she’d e-mailed the appropriate state offices and hospitals. She intended to see how many of the women—so far, just women—born within three years of her birth date in Helena had come to unfortunate, possibly suspicious, ends. She glanced at the newer celebrity magazine she’d picked up in the grocery store, another one with Shelly Bonaventure on the cover. In the article, she’d found the name of the lead detective on the Bonaventure case, a man by the name of Jonas Hayes of the LAPD. Once she began connecting the dots, if there were indeed dots to be connected, she’d contact him. Even if Shelly Bonaventure’s death had been ruled a suicide.