by Lisa Jackson
“I won’t.” Geez, her sister-in-law was a workout. “But have it your way.” She slapped a hanger into Barbara’s outstretched palm then watched as her sister-in-law carefully hung her coat in the closet and placed her hat on the shelf.
Perfect.
She nearly slammed the door to the closet shut, then reminded herself to be cool, not get emotional, not to lose control. “So, Barbara,” she said, forcing a calm she didn’t feel, “How about a glass of wine?”
“What? No, I don’t . . .” Barbara lifted a hand in frustration and dropped it back down as Elizabeth walked to the kitchen, her sister-in-law following and still jabbering at her. “Elizabeth, we haven’t really talked about what happened to Court. I know he was in an accident, a horrible accident, but not much more. With all the arrangements for the funeral, you and I haven’t really had a chance to talk. But now . . . Do you know how that damned accident occurred?” She paused for a moment. “Or do you not want to talk about that, either?” An undercurrent of accusation ran through the question . . . as if Elizabeth were somehow holding out on her sister-in-law.
Elizabeth forced herself to ignore Barbara’s tone.
“Well, just so you know, I’m in the dark here because no one’s telling me what the hell happened!”
“It was a single car accident. But that’s all I really know, too.” Elizabeth glanced out the window again. The rain was letting up a bit.
“What about that woman detective?” Barbara said, standing on the other side of the island and snapping her fingers in frustration. “Oh, what’s her name?”
“Detective Thronson.”
“That’s it.” The finger-snapping stopped. “Hasn’t she said anything. She knows what’s going on. She has to.”
“I’m sure she has a better idea than I do, but—” Elizabeth lifted her shoulders and tried to ignore the headache that had been threatening her since the funeral. The truth was, the police had been pretty tight-lipped about the accident and the circumstances surrounding Court’s death.
Even while escorting her to the viewing room in the morgue, Detective Thronson had been quiet, regarding her solemnly. It had been a traumatic day. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to go, and she still remembered how it had felt.
She walked along the shiny tile floors of the hospital’s basement and was led to a window. On the other side of the glass, an attendant stood over a draped gurney. With a nod from Thronson who stood next to her—ready to catch her should she swoon, she supposed—the coroner’s assistant pulled down the sheet.
She mustered all her strength to gaze down on Court’s face after the coroner’s assistant lifted the sheet. Surprisingly, Court just looked like he was asleep, except for his skin tone—a mottled grayish color. The damage to his crushed chest was kept under the sheet, thank God, but it was still an effort for her to strangle out, “Yes, that’s my husband. Court Ellis.”
She felt a painful squeeze in her heart.
Until that very moment when she saw her husband’s lifeless face, the accident and his death had held a dreamlike, unreal quality. Yes, he hadn’t come home, but that hadn’t been abnormal and yes, she understood what everyone said, but the reality that Court was gone forever hadn’t really pierced deep into her soul until she identified his body.
Her knees did not give out, though she felt sorrow for the demise of the man whom she’d married, whom she’d once believed, fleetingly, was her soul mate. But as the attendant drew the sheet over Court’s head, hiding him, a small, wayward thought skittered through Elizabeth’s brain surprising her. I’m free. No, wait, Chloe and I are both free.
Her throat tightened at the notion and she told herself she was an awful person, but the idea lodged deep.
“So you’ve talked to her? Thronson?” Barbara said, breaking into Elizabeth’s reverie. “She’s phoned?”
A day after the viewing, Detective Thronson had phoned. And another time or two since. Oh, yes, Elizabeth had taken several calls from the police and none of them had been comfortable.
Barbara was glaring at her, her lips twisted again in disapproval.
“Why don’t you call the police yourself?” Elizabeth suggested and took another sip of wine. She was tired of the badgering and second-guessing. “Talk to Detective Thronson.”
Barbara considered, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I will.”
“Good.”
Unfortunately, the conversation wasn’t finished. Barbara asked, “So who was the woman Court was with again?”
“Her name was Whitney Bellhard.”
“Why was she in the car?”
Elizabeth lifted a shoulder and finished off the wine. She didn’t want to talk about this. Not now and probably not ever, at least not with Barbara.
“Well, it’s all very suspicious and didn’t I hear something about them racing?”
“I mentioned it.” Elizabeth had already relayed everything Detective Thronson had told her about the accident to her sister-in-law, but Barbara had been so focused on the funeral, she clearly hadn’t paid attention to the details.
Elizabeth told her again, “The detective said that several other drivers thought Court was in some kind of car race, that several witnesses reported a dark SUV weaving in and out of traffic about the same time Court’s BMW was doing the same thing. It’s just a theory.”
“What kind of SUV was it?”
“Barbara, I really don’t know.”
“Well, was it a big one, or smaller, like your black Ford?”
Elizabeth felt a shiver slide down her spine and she gave Barbara a long look. “I said I don’t know,” she repeated.
“Did this car hit Court’s, maybe?”
“Or Court just lost control.”
“He didn’t just lose control,” Barbara snapped. “That wasn’t Court.”
Like you knew him so well, Elizabeth thought. But then, neither had she, apparently. “All I know is the investigation’s ongoing and no one’s located the driver of the SUV that was supposedly involved.” She leaned a hip against the counter and let out a sigh. “That’s all I know, Barbara. Really.”
“When you learn something, call me,” Barbara ordered. “Better yet, give me that detective’s number. She’s with the Irvine Police Department, right? Maybe I will call her.”
“Good idea.” Elizabeth found Detective Thronson’s private number and scribbled it onto a sticky pad she kept in the junk drawer, then ripped the page off and handed it to her sister-in-law. Have at it, she thought.
Barbara glanced at the number, then folded the paper and stuffed it into an outside pocket of her purse. “I’d better get going. My flight’s tomorrow. I should get back to the hotel and frankly I don’t see that there’s anything else I can do here.” She walked to the closet and grabbed her coat and hat.
Elizabeth, trying not to appear too relieved at her departure, opened the front door.
After shrugging into her coat, Barbara started to step across the threshold, but stopped midway and slowly pivoted on one heel until she was facing her sister-in-law again.
Elizabeth automatically braced herself and gripped the edge of the door more tightly.
Barbara didn’t disappoint. “Let me give you some advice,” she said as she adjusted the brim on her black hat. “You might try acting like you care more, or someone could get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Of course she did. Elizabeth leaned against the open door. “I wish he were still alive, Barbara,” she said as a breath of wind rushed through the palm fronds high overhead. “Believe me.”
“Right.” Barbara slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Lips pursed in disbelief, she added, “You know, you’re going to have to be a hell of a lot more convincing than that.” With one last condemning glance at Elizabeth, she stepped through the doorway.
Good.
Elizabeth let the door slam shut behind her. A second later, she twisted the lock, secu
ring the dead bolt. Only then did she let go. Sagging against the door and squeezing her eyes shut, she fought tears, not only of sadness but indignation and yes, anger. With an effort, she pushed back her battling emotions, refusing to cry, attempting to quiet her slow-burning rage, ignoring the pain. Her fists balled at her sides, but she wouldn’t let the flood of emotions consume her; she didn’t dare allow the passion within her free. It was just too dangerous.
She heard the sound of an engine sparking to life and slowly let out her breath as she stretched her fingers and counted to ten, then twenty. The storm within her passed, thank God, though she knew it was only for the moment.
After peering through the window to see that her sister-in-law truly was gone, she headed back to the kitchen and the bottle of wine still sitting on the end table near her chair. Without a second thought, she poured herself the last glass from the bottle. After taking a calming sip, she rinsed and recycled the bottle, then walked to the wine rack and drew out another of chardonnay, which she intended to place in the refrigerator to chill. As her fingers curled over the neck her gaze fell onto the bottle of red wine Court had purchased several years earlier. He’d told her he wanted to save it for a special night. “When we have something to celebrate,” he’d said with a smile. She’d agreed, glad for his good mood, which had become exceedingly rare in those days.
“Why not?” she asked herself.
Sliding the chardonnay back into the rack, she pulled out the merlot, uncorked it and poured herself a healthy glassful. She then dumped out the glass of chardonnay and took the merlot to the couch, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Holding her glass, staring at the bloodlike color of the wine, she thought about the past few months and the changes those months had wrought. A lot of changes. Despite telling herself she wouldn’t slide into the dangerous territory that surrounded the death of Mazie Ferguson, Elizabeth again mulled over the woman’s death. So sudden. Like Court’s.
Don’t go there.
Taking a swallow of the merlot, she tried to corral those wayward notions. It was not the day—especially after Court’s funeral—to run through those disturbing memories again, but she failed, as she always did.
“It’s not your fault,” she said aloud, her fingers clamped around the glass. “It’s not your fault.”
But her mind and fearful heart refused to listen.
Chapter 4
Mazie Ferguson’s memorial service had been three months earlier and Elizabeth had felt nearly as dissociated, shocked, and afraid then as she did now. The circumstances of Mazie’s death and Court’s were different, yet surprisingly similar. They’d both died in car accidents, though Mazie had apparently been driving while under the influence and Court had lost control of his car while stone-cold sober.
Elizabeth’s throat grew tight and she gulped at the wine, remembering.
As she stood around silent and motionless at the reception afterward, her hand gripped around a glass of club soda and lime like it was life-giving elixir. She suddenly recognized that she was willing people to die. That it was her fault Mazie was dead, and also Officer Daniels—dubbed Officer Unfriendly—before her. It was impossible, of course. Elizabeth knew it was impossible. But Mazie had died and so had the police officer. Both times it was after Elizabeth had wished them dead.
A couple sales associates in her office and other realty agencies had tried to poach Mazie’s clients away even before her body was cold. Though Elizabeth had worked with most of the clients as Mazie’s assistant, she was too shattered to put up much of a fight. All she could think about was that somehow, some way, it had been her fault that Mazie had died. At night, she dreamed of the accident, the nightmare crawling through her subconscious. During the day, she struggled with the doubts that plagued her, so profiting from her boss’ death was the farthest thing from her mind.
But as it turned out, Mazie’s clients were unwilling to give up Elizabeth. They knew her. They trusted her. She worked with them before and after she’d obtained her own real estate license, helping out whenever Mazie needed her, which was fairly often since “Crazy Mazie” as she was dubbed by some of the more envious agents, always seemed to have a million things going at once. So Mazie’s clients gravitated to Elizabeth.
She backed away from them, unable to profit from a tragic situation she felt was somehow her fault. She explained that she didn’t think it was right for her to be their agent. They doubled and redoubled their efforts to keep her. Maybe they sensed how upset she was and wanted to save her, make her feel better. Maybe they appreciated that she was just generally a nicer person than Mazie. Or, maybe they just didn’t want to be fobbed off. Whatever the case, Elizabeth found herself with a plethora of new clients and she was busier than she’d ever been.
The memorial service was on a sunny October day. Elizabeth felt like a Judas and didn’t want to go, but there was no way she could say no. She felt physically sick but made herself attend all the same, even though she was certain everyone could read the guilt on her face.
Everyone treated her like she was Mazie’s good friend because she’d been her assistant, when in truth, Mazie hadn’t even really liked her any more than she liked anyone else. The feeling had been mutual.
At the service, Elizabeth smiled and nodded and accepted condolences she felt she didn’t deserve. Eventually, she escaped the claustrophobic hall where the service took place to the reception room at Lemon Tree, an airy restaurant near to the Suncrest Realty offices, a spot where Mazie often met her clients for lunch.
Elizabeth tried to tuck herself into an out of the way corner where she hoped to hide out until she could politely and unobtrusively leave. The only place available was near the back end of the bar, which ended up being right in the middle of the action.
A server plopped down a tray loaded with mini-croissants, wedges of cheddar and Havarti, and wheels of brie cheese right beside her, and the appetizers served as a siren’s call to the milling crowd. Elizabeth found herself a reluctant focal point as people moved closer to order drinks and grab a small bite. Suncrest’s owner had wisely rejected the idea of a hosted bar suggested by one of the dumbest sales associates—dumb because Mazie’s blood alcohol had been enough to kill her on its own—and offered food and soft drinks instead. If anyone wanted a drink, they could buy it themselves.
Elizabeth held onto her club soda and tried to move out of her spot, but she was trapped by the crush of people mingling around the bar. Paddle fans swirled overhead, but still the room, filled as it was, seemed close. Stuffy. People dressed in black swarmed around the bar, keeping their voices low. Though Elizabeth would have preferred a glass of wine or two to help dull her senses, she stuck with her soft drink and silently counted the minutes that dragged by until she felt comfortable saying her good-byes.
Elizabeth shook her head at the memories, realizing how similar her feelings were at both services. At Mazie’s, she had counted the minutes till she could leave just as she had at Court’s funeral. Unwillingly, her thoughts returned to what had happened next at Lemon Tree.
In her corner, she sipped slowly, waiting and trying not to think too hard about how angry she’d been at Mazie, but her mind worried the problem like a dog with a bone. Her last confrontation with her boss had been at the office with the owner of the company. Mazie had cut off a suggestion that Elizabeth had been making and had sneered at it, acting as if Elizabeth were a moron. During the awkward silence that had followed, a malicious gleam had appeared in Mazie’s eyes and a slightly satisfied curve had appeared on her full lips. She’d put her underling in her place. Along with a hot wash of embarrassment, Elizabeth had seen red, anger streaming through her bloodstream as she returned to her desk.
You didn’t ply her with drinks, she reminded herself from the corner. All you did was wish her dead. She drank too much and got behind the wheel. That’s what killed her.
But that didn’t make sense. Although Mazie certainly liked her vodka tonics, Elizabeth had never seen her have
more than one or two at any event, had never witnessed Mazie more than faintly buzzed. The woman was always selling, selling, selling. Inebriation was simply not part of her real estate game plan.
So, how had she gotten so drunk? Elizabeth asked herself. How? Mazie had apparently been at home before she took off on the wild drive that ended her life. Had someone been with her, drinking with her? No one seemed to think so, or at least Elizabeth had never heard that Mazie had been with a companion before her ill-fated launch off the freeway.
You did it, her mind accused once more. Elizabeth shook her head, set her drink on the bar, and tried to force her way through the crowd in search of air and elbow room.
Connie Berker, one of the sharks who’d tried to grab Mazie’s clients from the moment of her death, caught her before she could reach the door and escape. “Elizabeth,” she called, holding up a hand to stop her as she wended past a crush of bodies. “You’re not leaving?”
“I am.” Elizabeth kept moving. “I’ve got a daughter at home.”
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Connie said, ignoring the fact that Elizabeth had one hand ready to push open the restaurant’s side door. “Mazie going airborne like that.” She gave a full body shudder.
“Yes, it really is.”
“Seems so un-Mazie-like, though, doesn’t it? She was always so rigid about everything.” Connie scowled into her own glass. “You know, I just can’t see her getting sloshy drunk.”
“I guess she did, though,” Elizabeth said, forcing herself not to steal a glance at the oversized watch on Connie’s wrist. She just wanted to leave.
“We’re all sorry she’s gone. I mean, it’s terrible. Truly terrible.” Connie made a face, then looked slyly at Elizabeth and whispered, “But, let’s face it. We all know Mazie was a total bitch.”
Elizabeth’s heart started pounding a heavy beat. “Well . . .”