by Lisa Jackson
Ravinia knew about the bones as she’d been instrumental in helping dig them up from the Siren Song graveyard, at Aunt Catherine’s request. But the casket and bones were missing. Creepy, that. Ravinia didn’t understand completely what it was all about, but she was careful not to ask too many questions as she’d never before been privy to any of Aunt Catherine’s thoughts and plans, and she didn’t want to blow things.
“Why would Silas burn the bones?” she managed to ask, to which Aunt Catherine replied, “It’s how you kill the Hydra. Burn it, so it doesn’t grow another head.”
Ravinia sat up. Mysteries within mysteries . . . Her brother Declan Jr. was still alive and likely still focused on his mission of indiscriminate death and destruction; psychos like him didn’t just give up and change course. Like Justice, Declan Jr.’s ultimate target seemed to be the women of Siren Song, Ravinia’s sisters and aunt, but he’d taken a more circuitous route to them and had been thwarted in the process.
It seemed that her brother Silas was following Declan Jr. When Ravinia had met him on the road, he’d been heading north while she was going south because her mission was to find Elizabeth, who was unaware of who she was and the threat Declan Jr. represented to her.
Maybe Declan Jr. had gone north initially, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go south eventually and then Elizabeth was a sitting duck. Not exactly Aunt Catherine’s words, but close enough. Ravinia was to find her and warn her, although that was bound to be one tricky conversation.
Unless she has a gift, too, and why wouldn’t she?
Ravinia thought about laying her whole story on Rex Kingston, but decided against it. He was already balking at the bits and pieces she’d tried out on him. No surprise there. It was best to keep him in the dark, just like everyone else outside of her family.
She exhaled heavily and climbed back to her feet. Aunt Catherine had infected her with urgency and she’d taken off on her quest to find Elizabeth. Not long into the journey she’d seen the wolf. For one wild moment, she’d thought the shaggy animal was Silas in lupine form, but that really was crazy. Still, she’d thought the beast had meant her no harm, and these long weeks later, she wondered if he might have been a figment of her imagination.
Shaking her head, she dug into her backpack for her phone. Oh, to hell with it. She was tired of waiting. Quickly stabbing out Rex Kingston’s number, she held the phone to her ear, looking out the window and watching the motel manager trudge her way across the parking lot toward the outside stairway that led to Ravinia’s room.
“Pick up,” Ravinia said aloud into the phone. “Pick up, pick up, pick up. . . .”
Chapter 15
Peter Bellhard’s handshake was firm and quick. He dropped her hand almost immediately. “I follow local real estate and saw that you were putting on an open house.”
Elizabeth hung onto her smile with an effort even as her pulse sped up. She wasn’t sure what Whitney’s husband wanted, but she didn’t want to find out. Not here. Not now. Not while she was working.
Besides, she really didn’t know what to say to the man.
“You’re with Suncrest.” He walked over to the counter and picked up one of her cards, even though he’d probably seen the Suncrest Realty sign hanging from a post planted into the front yard.
“That’s right.”
He was tall, taller than Court, and wore a black dress shirt and gray slacks. His legs were long and his body lean and his hair was thick and dark with just the beginnings of salt amongst the pepper. He was nice-looking, in a plain sort of way, but she sensed he was on some kind of mission.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry for your loss,” she said and he scowled.
“Our loss.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Our loss.”
When he didn’t say anything further, just thoughtfully fingered the card, the silence stretched awkwardly.
Finally she asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”
His head snapped up as if she’d brought him out of some kind of reverie. “I just thought we should meet,” he explained, focusing on her again. “After what happened, I wanted to . . . you know, see how you were doing.” He attempted a smile, but it fell away immediately.
“As good as can be expected, I guess. It’s a shock.”
“Did you know?” he asked suddenly. “About your husband and Whitney?”
She shook her head. “Not until the last couple days before he died.”
“How did you find out? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He sounded merely curious, but Elizabeth really didn’t want to talk about Court. “A friend saw them together and told me.”
“Saw them where?”
“At a restaurant.” Elizabeth felt herself shutting down. Guilt and sorrow were trying to take over again. “I heard you followed them to Rosarito Beach.”
He frowned. “Who told you that?”
“The woman detective. Thronson.”
He seemed surprised by that. “I thought cops were supposed to ask for information, not dole it out,” he said, his lips tight. “Yeah, I followed Whitney. Not that it was some cloak-and-dagger mission. Believe me, she and your husband were blatant about their affair. Maybe not at first. I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. But by the end, they sure were. I’d gotten sick of waiting around for her to come home and when she did show up, she’d start in with the lying. I called her on it a number of times, but she always acted like it was my problem. The jealousy.” His smile never reached his eyes. “A good defense is a strong offense, but I knew I wasn’t wrong. I figured there was another guy in the picture. All of a sudden she’s wearing perfume and has sacks of new clothes and lingerie. Black lace bras and panties. I even found a red teddy underneath the ratty pajamas she wore to bed with me.”
Elizabeth’s mouth was dry. She didn’t really know what to say, but out of curiosity asked, “How long did you know before . . . ?”
“A while. I confronted them in Rosarito Beach. Did you know that?”
“I knew you’d followed them.”
“More courtesy of Detective Thronson?” He gave a derisive snort. “She’s a pretty big blabbermouth for an investigator.”
“It wasn’t really like that.” Elizabeth didn’t know why she was defending the detective. “It was when I first learned about the accident. I was trying to take it all in and she said you’d told her that. She’d seen you first.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but she could tell it did, at some level. “Better to lay all the cards on the table. I didn’t want the police learning from the hotel staff that I’d been there.”
There’s a girl who looked like you . . . blond hair in a loose bun. . . .
“Have you talked to the detective recently?”
“Not really.” Bellhard’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Why? Have you?”
“She’s called a few times,” Elizabeth admitted, wishing that she hadn’t brought the subject up. She’d counted on the fact that Thronson was keeping in close contact with both of them. After all, Bellhard had admitted to following his wife and Court to Tres Brisas. He’d known about the affair longer and had actively stalked them to their love nest in Mexico. Apparently, he had the nerve to actually face his wife and Court.
But it was a woman who played a dangerous game of tag on the freeway.
“You confronted both of them together?” Elizabeth made herself ask, though every instinct told her not to poke the bear in the cage. She might not like the reaction.
“Well, your husband was there, but he saw me and peeled off and ran away. I told Whitney he was a fucking coward.” He pinned Elizabeth with a look, almost daring her to defend her indefensible husband.
The front door opened at that moment and a young couple came inside. Relieved, Elizabeth shot them a smile as they read the sign to remove their shoes and immediately slipped out of their flip-flops.
“It’s so weird this house is selling,” the girl said brightly.
“I grew up in this neighborhood, over on Royce”—she waved in the direction of the front of the house—“so I knew the people who lived here.”
“Take a look around,” Elizabeth invited.
The twentysomething boy moved toward the kitchen to glance up and down the long counter. “You said there’d be cookies,” he said in a stage whisper.
The girl elbowed him in the side and they quickly walked down the hallway, giggling together.
Bellhard continued as if there’d been no interruption. “I told Whitney, ‘You’d better hope that loser business of yours finally turns a profit ’cause you’re getting nothing from me.’ You know what she said?” Bellhard’s anger, hidden in the beginning, had surfaced with a vengeance. “She said, ‘Court and I are getting married and he’s got tons of money. Lots more than you’ll ever make.’” He was staring at Elizabeth as if somehow she were to blame.
“It’s not true,” Elizabeth blurted, thinking of the disaster that was her finances. “I mean about the money.”
“Whitney always had a nose for cash,” he argued, “but hey, if you don’t want to talk about your finances with me, I get it. Just don’t hide anything from the police. They’ll find out.”
“There is no money.” She didn’t want to tell him anything, but she couldn’t help herself. Bellhard was ramping up her anxiety level.
Arching a disbelieving eyebrow, he said, “Take it from me. Full disclosure is your only ticket out.”
“I’ve been completely honest.”
He clearly didn’t believe her. The look he sent her asked, Have you?
Awash with anxiety, Elizabeth swallowed hard. You didn’t tell her about wishing Court harm. And Mazie . . . and Officer Unfriendly.
None of that is relevant, she reminded herself. It was all just . . . coincidence.
The young couple had gone upstairs. Elizabeth heard their clambering footsteps overhead as they moved from room to room. Wracked with conflicting emotions, Elizabeth stepped away from Peter Bellhard.
“Listen, I don’t mean to scare you,” he said a little more gently. “But take my advice. The police haven’t stopped digging around and if Thronson’s still calling you, she’s not satisfied.” The smile he sent her was more genuine. “Maybe we could get together sometime, for coffee or something? I think we should talk some more. You know, hash things out. Like it or not, we’re in this together.”
Spending more time with Bellhard was about the last thing Elizabeth wanted to do, but before she could even consider declining his suggestion, two middle-aged women entered the house, opening the door and hesitating only a second in the foyer before picking up some of the blue shoe covers, then slipping them over their shoes.
“Excuse me,” she said, thankful for the distraction. “I’m kind of busy.”
“I’ll let you go.” He examined her card again. “Is that your mobile number?”
“Yes.” Inwardly, she groaned.
Holding up the card, he said, “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
As soon as he was gone, Elizabeth sighed in relief. She hadn’t realized her palms were sweating until the moment the door thudded softly shut behind him.
One of the women cocked an ear toward the ceiling. “Is someone upstairs? Using the bathroom?”
Elizabeth heard the flushing at the same moment and decided it was time to move the lookie-loos along. “I’ll check and oh, the flyers are on the counter,” she told the two women before heading up the stairs.
Starving, Rex glanced at his watch as he drove slowly through the strip mall that housed Harper Insurance Agency. As expected, the sign on the door indicated that the agency opened at nine Monday through Friday and was closed on the weekends.
Doesn’t help much today, he thought, cruising through the near-empty lot, his stomach growling and reminding him it had been hours since The Breakfast Plate. Somehow he’d missed lunch.
At least he had some time to devote to finding Elizabeth Gaines for Ravinia.
Ravinia.
Sheer trouble.
She’d called him right after he’d broken it off with Pamela and had badgered him until he’d finally told her that Joy and Ralph Gaines had been the previous owners of the insurance agency. When she’d learned it was located in Costa Mesa, she’d said suspiciously, “That’s the same place you live.”
“Lucky,” he admitted. “I know. I’ll check with them in the morning.”
“I want to go, too.”
“Well, that’s a little tough as I’m already here and you’re in Santa Monica. Just sit tight and I’ll give you the information when I get it.”
“How far is it from where you live?”
“The agency? A few miles. Not too far.”
“What’s your address?”
“I’m not giving you my home address,” he’d stated firmly, seeing where this was going. She still surprised him with her frankness and her bold questions. “I’ll interview the owner and hopefully there’ll be some information on the Gaineses.”
“I’m coming that way.”
“No. Ravinia, stay put.”
Click! She’d hung up, probably before she’d heard his last command, which, of course, she would ignore, anyway.
He’d actually stared at his cell phone in disbelief. “Idiot,” he’d muttered, not sure if he’d aimed the barb at her or himself, before jamming the cell into his pocket.
As he drove away from the strip mall toward the two-bedroom ranch he called home, he squinted through the windshield of his Nissan and considered his life. He was renting to buy the house from an elderly couple, but was having second thoughts about putting down roots in Costa Mesa. He’d lived here more years than he’d intended already, but then if not here, where? Since he’d begun his private investigation business, he’d played things by ear and it had worked out fine. But maybe it was time for a change. His relationship with Pamela, such as it was, had come to an end and he knew he’d been feeling restless for a while, though he’d tried to ignore the symptoms.
Ear bud in his ear, he drove through the familiar streets and tried calling Ravinia, but she wasn’t picking up. Maybe she was actually on her way south or maybe her phone had died since their last quick call. Earlier, she’d said she needed to purchase more minutes, but he didn’t know if she’d gotten around to it.
Or she could just be avoiding you.
With Ravinia, who knew?
Was she really on her way to Costa Mesa? he wondered. She could probably catch a bus, or would she dare to hitchhike? That thought made him uneasy.
She’s not your problem.
“Yeah, then why does it feel like she is?” he muttered aloud while rounding a final corner near his house and determinedly pushing all thoughts of the girl with the blond braid, backpack, and tough attitude out of his mind.
Chapter 16
“You’re late,” Misty stated flatly as Elizabeth hurried through the garage door into the house. Chloe and Misty were parked in front of the television where one of Chloe’s favorite animated shows—a hive of bees that solved mysteries—was playing.
“It’s four ten. I said I’d be back after four,” Elizabeth told her a bit testily. She slung her jacket over the back of the couch and dropped her bag into a chair at the bar.
Misty shrugged. “Well, okay,” she finally allowed. She dropped her attitude completely and admitted, “I don’t really want to study anyway, but my mom’s been calling and calling.” With a roll of her expressive eyes, Misty added, “She’s going to drive me insane.”
“Insane,” Chloe repeated. “That means crazy,” she informed Elizabeth.
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed and she found her wallet and pulled out a few bills. “It does.”
Quickly she paid the teenager and followed her to the door. The skies were already starting to darken. Misty lifted a desultory hand in good-bye, then trudged off. Standing in the doorway, Elizabeth watched for a while and made sure Misty turned the corner to her own street. As she waited, arms f
olded across her chest, Elizabeth heard little footsteps in the foyer and from the corner of her eye she spied Chloe, barefoot hurrying into the foyer.
“You’re making sure she gets home?” she said, standing next to her mother.
“That’s right,” Elizabeth said.
“She played with me today and wasn’t so mean.”
“Good.” Elizabeth gave her daughter a quick hug as Misty disappeared. She herded Chloe inside and closed and locked the door behind them. “So, pumpkin, what do you want for dinner?”
“Cheese quesadillas!” Chloe declared.
“I think I’ve got that.” Flour tortillas and grated cheese was all Chloe required. Good enough.
“And chocolate milk!” Chloe said, skipping back toward the kitchen.
“Uh-uh.” Shaking her head, Elizabeth made her way to the refrigerator. “Regular milk or water. Your choice.”
“Yech,” was Chloe’s response, though she liked milk well enough most days. But she was as changeable as the weather and Elizabeth had learned never to take her daughter’s word as gospel. Not on anything.
As Elizabeth sprinkled grated cheese over the tortillas, Chloe plopped down in front of the television again, absorbed by an animated show about farm animals. A black shepherd dog was the main character. “Can we get a dog?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the set.
This—the campaign for a puppy—was her mantra these days.
“Not right now, honey.”
“A hamster?”
Elizabeth slid the quesadilla into the microwave and hit the QUICK MINUTE button. “God, no.”
“What?” Chloe turned to frown at her.
“Nothing in a cage,” Elizabeth said, ignoring Chloe’s protruding lower lip. “I think we’ve had this discussion.”
“Oh . . .” Chloe’s shoulders slumped. “I want a dog, anyway. A big dog with a black nose and a fluffy tail.”
Since this was similar to the animated dog she’d just been watching, Elizabeth smiled to herself. “Someday.”
“That means never.”
“No, it means someday, just not today.” Elizabeth had nothing against adopting a pet, but the timing was off. Currently, her ability and interest in taking care of another being felt about as reachable as the moon. She was struggling with warring emotions in the aftermath of her husband’s death, while battling with a newfound fear for her future. Their future, she mentally corrected, glancing again at her daughter as the microwave dinged. Using a hot pad, she pulled the plate of hot bubbling cheese escaping from a folded tortilla from the oven.