Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  Camille twitched one eyebrow up and down. “Do you seriously think I’m imagining my stalker?”

  “I wasn’t there for any of it. I don’t know. But frankly—you said be frank—none of it seems conclusive enough to be worth worrying about. How about we bring your stress level down and then see if someone is still playing the bongos on your storage boxes?”

  “You are a brat and a punk.” Camille stood up. “Bring those chocolate gingerbread squares; I’m craving them.”

  “Deal.” Natalie rose to walk Camille out. One young friend, one older friend, both widowed and grieving. And Natalie offered calls and texts and chocolate and Netflix parties, hoping that would help. You’re offering friendship. Love. You’re doing what you can. You can’t wipe the pain out of their lives.

  You ought to know that.

  Chapter 3

  “You make the best cinnamon apples.” Jonas spread another spoonful on his waffle.

  “Thank you.” Lacey smiled at him. Eight years of cinnamon apples twice a week. This was the morning she’d change things. She’d tell Jonas that on Saturday when she made waffles again, she wasn’t making cinnamon apples. She was making raspberry sauce. Camille wouldn’t keep making cinnamon apples if she were so sick of them she’d rather eat a bowl of cement, and Lacey could be strong like Camille. She’d even spooked strong Camille with only a small noise; Lacey wasn’t powerless.

  She cut off a corner of her waffle that she hadn’t contaminated with the apples. Scaring Camille hadn’t been nice. She wouldn’t do it again.

  “You should finish that milk.” Jonas forked another waffle onto his plate. “Calcium for those pretty bones.”

  Lacey lifted her glass and took a gulp of milk. She’d take three swallows of milk, two more bites of waffle, and then she’d tell him about the raspberry sauce. If he said to do the apples instead, she’d refuse and give him that smile she’d practiced, the smile Camille had given them when Jonas and Lacey were leaving her office and Jonas had asked her to call him as soon as she had a decision. “Jonas, I’ll be blunt. Don’t wait by the phone. I like the samples of Lacey’s work, but the odds of Mr. Chapman commissioning one of her mosaics aren’t high. He loves personally finding original art for his properties, which is good news for Lacey, but every artist in the country knows it and pushes their work at him, so that’s the bad news. He has unlimited choices. I’ll make sure to show him her portfolio, but that’s the only promise I can make.”

  Jonas’s response had been calm and respectful: “I understand. Thank you for taking the time to talk with us. It’s good to see you again.”

  Calm and respectful. Lacey would give him that firm smile and friendly refusal, and he’d be calm and respectful like he’d been with Camille. She would make the raspberry sauce. He would love it. Maybe he’d compliment her for branching out.

  She took her third swallow of milk and set the glass down, readying herself.

  Jonas reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. Her fingers felt squashed under his, and she wanted to wriggle her hand free, but she didn’t move.

  “There’s something I want you to do this morning,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I’m so slow,” Lacey said. “I am working on ideas for the Stoker project in case they’re interested. I’ll work hard to finish one of the designs this morning.”

  “Not that,” Jonas said. “Baby, you’re keeping secrets.”

  Sweat broke out under her shirt, tiny, hot drops of confession. “I . . . I did want to tell you I found this recipe for raspberry sauce . . .”

  With his free hand, he touched her chin where she’d painted foundation makeup over the scrape from the fence. “How did you hurt yourself?”

  Lacey pressed herself together: ankles joined, knees pushing against each other, elbows squeezing her sides. In a light voice, she recited the lie she’d prepared in case Jonas noticed the scrape. “The phone rang while I was working, and it made me jump. I hit myself in the chin with a tile scorer. Silly.”

  Jonas scrutinized her. His eyes were two shades of brown, lighter in the center, darker on the edges. They reminded her of stained wood. The polished walnut stock of her father’s rifle.

  “What really happened?” he asked.

  “That’s what happened.” She pushed her feet harder against the tile floor, but the fabric soles of her slippers skidded. She imagined Jonas knocking his chair over, smashing his plate to the floor. Ramming his fist into her face.

  She tried to breathe slowly. Jonas had never hit her. Why did she fear he’d start today?

  Because she’d never lied to him before, but she was lying to him now. And he knew it.

  His hand constricted around her wrist. “What’s wrong? What are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding anything! What do I have to hide? You know everything about me.”

  “Baby, you’re jumpy. You toss and turn and wake up at night. You aren’t eating enough, and you’re already too thin. How much weight have you lost?”

  “I don’t know. None, I think. I haven’t stepped on the scale in a while.”

  “I checked the scale log this morning. You weighed yourself three days ago, and you’re down 6.2 pounds.”

  Lacey focused on the iridescent blue tiles of the fruit bowl she’d made to accent the kitchen decor. “I’m fine. I . . . think I’m wound up about the possibility of a commission for Robert Chapman. That would be a huge break for me.”

  “I ran into Camille the other day. She said your portfolio is on Chapman’s desk now.”

  The sharp, fast pounding in her chest made her feel her heart might crack. “Thank you so much for introducing my work to her. You’re always looking out for me.”

  “Is that all that’s on your mind? Stress over your work?”

  “Yes, that’s all.” I’m not cheating on you. I swear I’m not cheating on you. Lacey pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, squashing the defensive words before she could speak them. Jonas hadn’t directly accused her of infidelity, and if she brought it up first, it would sound suspicious. He must be thinking it though. Cheating, mangy cat in heat, prowling the neighborhood.

  Jonas released her wrist, reached into his shirt pocket, and took out a folded piece of paper. He opened it and set it on the table in front of Lacey.

  In Jonas’s handwriting was a local phone number and two names: Kirk Valdez and Natalie Marsh.

  “They’re psychologists,” Jonas said. “I got a personal recommendation to make sure I found someone good. Both are great therapists.”

  Therapists? Psychologists? Lacey tried to sort her jumbled thoughts and arrange them into a picture that made sense. “I’m not crazy!”

  “I never said you were crazy, baby. You don’t have to be crazy to talk to a pro.”

  “I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m fine.”

  “I know you don’t like making phone calls, so I tried to make an appointment for you, but the receptionist said you’d have to call the office yourself.” Jonas reached into his pocket again and pulled out his phone—no, that was her phone. Why did he have her phone? He set it in front of her. “Call now,” he said.

  Lacey’s tongue was a piece of broken glass. “It’s . . . it’s . . . too early.”

  “The office opens at eight thirty. It’s eight thirty-four now.”

  Lacey pictured herself lying on a couch, observed by a man in a high-backed armchair. “Your husband tells me you are disturbed, Mrs. Egan, and I see he’s right. An ambulance is coming to take you to the hospital. Please cooperate; this is for your own good.”

  “I don’t need a shrink,” she said.

  “Baby, you have a multimillionaire art aficionado reviewing your work, but instead of stepping up your game, you’re unfocused and unproductive, and you look worried all the time. I ask you what’s wrong, and you tell me lies.”

  She let the words loose. “I’m not . . . I’m not cheating on you.”

  “I never said you were. But something�
��s wrong inside of you, and it’s my job to see that it gets fixed.” He tapped the paper with his index finger. “Call now. I’ll sit here with you so you won’t be so nervous.”

  Lacey edged her still-full plate away, nauseated by the smell of butter and cinnamon. She didn’t have to call. He couldn’t make her call. He couldn’t make her go. She didn’t have to talk to anyone.

  Firm smile. Use that firm smile. She tried, but her lips squiggled into a mushy curve. “I need to think about this.”

  “Call now. Lacey, the other night you were saying you thought it was time to try for a baby. I want kids as much as you do, but I can’t bring them into a situation where their mother can’t handle her own issues. Let’s get your head straightened out before you end up like the rest of your family.”

  Lacey’s face was so hot she felt his gaze had sunburned her. I don’t want to do this. You can’t force me to do this.

  “I’ll dial for you.” Jonas took the piece of paper and the phone and tapped the number onto the screen. He passed the ringing phone to Lacey.

  “What am I supposed to say?” she rasped.

  “Just that you want to make an appointment.” He rested a hand on her arm, as heavy and cold as cast iron. “I’ll stay right here with you.”

  * * *

  Gideon Radcliffe grinned at his stepmother. She smiled back, to his relief. She looked better tonight—not as pale, not as tormented, and she met his gaze as though glad to see him instead of just wishing he were his father. “Hey, Mama Felicia,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Come in, Gideon. Have you eaten dinner?”

  “Not yet, but don’t worry about it. I’ll throw something in the microwave when I get home.” He stepped into the entryway and removed his loafers.

  “I have leftover beef and barley soup in the fridge. Would you like some?”

  Nothing he could microwave would be anywhere near the quality of Felicia’s soup. “Heck yeah, I would.” He followed her to the kitchen. Felicia poured the soup into a saucepan and ignited the gas burner. “Can I help with anything?” he asked.

  “No. Sit down and relax. Are you coming straight from work?”

  “Yeah.” He settled into a kitchen chair. “The city wants to redo the medians on Main Street and make some changes in traffic flow, so I was downtown today. I passed MaryLisa’s a bunch of times. Kept hoping I’d see Dad through the window.”

  A slight silent smile was Felicia’s reply, but Gideon could read it: she kept hoping she’d see his father not only at his store but everywhere.

  “That sweater’s a good color on you,” she said, stirring the soup. “The cadet blue matches your eyes.”

  Gideon lifted an arm and admired one of the wool, cable-knit sleeves he’d pushed up on the drive over here—the evening was warmer than he’d anticipated. “Thanks. You gave it to me.”

  “Because I knew it would look good on you.” The motherly approval in her voice made Gideon want to sit with good posture, run his hand over his dark hair to make sure it wasn’t sticking up, and share everything he’d done at work today in a quest for her praise. If he gave her a printout of the Main Street layout, maybe she’d stick it on the fridge.

  Felicia cut two slices of oatmeal bread and put them on a plate. She set the plate on the table along with the butter dish.

  “Thank you.” Gideon picked up the knife. “Sit with me while the soup heats.”

  She filled a glass with water, set it in front of him, and sat down. “The autopsy results are back,” she said. “Finally.”

  The load of grief inside Gideon increased. “And?”

  “Acute subdural hematoma, resulting from a fall.”

  “So no surprises.”

  Despondency in her eyes, Felicia didn’t answer. Had he guessed wrong in thinking she was doing better tonight? No, she definitely looked more grounded than she had in the first weeks after his father’s death. Less lost inside her grief, more engaged with reality.

  “It must be rough, seeing it in clinical terms,” Gideon said. “Even though we knew from the start what killed him.”

  Felicia spoke quietly. “I don’t think we do know.”

  “Do you think the autopsy missed something?” he asked.

  No answer.

  “Felicia, we know exactly what happened. He was up on the ladder in his storage room, getting a box down. The old ladder broke, he fell, and he struck his head. Second traumatic brain injury in the past three years, after getting slammed with that softball. This time it was too much.” His voice was getting choky; Gideon paused and inhaled, hoping his throat would relax. It had shaken him, seeing his father in the hospital after that first concussion, then on bed rest, slowly struggling back to health with the aid of physical therapy. This time Gideon had had no time to be shaken—he’d vaulted straight to devastated. No sight of his father in a hospital bed. Just in a coffin. “What could the autopsy have missed?” Gideon asked.

  Her fingertips tapped the tabletop—touched more than tapped—in repeated, silent motions. “That the injury was deliberately inflicted.”

  “What? Like . . . he fell on purpose? He wouldn’t—”

  “No. No. That someone caused it to happen.”

  “Who else was responsible for the ladder? Dad had had it forever; it was old. He probably never thought to check the rungs or the bolts.” Guilt kicked Gideon, a blow he’d felt so many times that he didn’t bother trying to parry it. His father had had a multitude of skills; he’d been adept at running a business, and his clothing boutique had been the delight of Ohneka’s wealthier women. But his abilities hadn’t included any handyman skills more advanced than jiggling the handle to make the toilet stop running. “I should have told him he needed to check—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Felicia interrupted. “Not your fault at all. The ladder didn’t collapse due to neglect.”

  Gideon studied her, trying to process what she’d told him. Her expression was stoic, but her cheeks were red.

  “You said someone caused the ladder to collapse,” he said. “Are you saying someone sabotaged it?”

  She ran her pinky across her forehead, lifting her bangs and letting them settle again as though wanting a breeze on her skin. Her prematurely silver-gray hair was so smooth and shiny it always reminded Gideon of cold-rolled steel.

  “That doesn’t make sense.” He spoke the dismissive words as gently as he could. “Who would sabotage the ladder? Nobody had a reason to hurt Dad.”

  “There . . . is a reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “That’s not for your ears.”

  Boggled and irritated, Gideon fought to respond like this was a sensible conversation. “He’s my father. Everything about his death is for my ears. If you suspected sabotage, why didn’t you tell the police? They never said anything about foul play. Why didn’t you tell me? I threw the ladder away, hauled it to the dump. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it. If the police knew you had reason to suspect sabotage, they would have examined it more closely.”

  “It took me a little while to realize . . . It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m sure the saboteur was clever enough not to leave evidence.”

  Evidence of murder? This was ridiculous. Who would want to kill—or injure—Wade Radcliffe?

  No one.

  Gideon looked down and occupied himself by buttering his bread. Felicia had always been a reasonable person. If he stayed calm and spoke rationally, whatever grief-warped theory she’d erected in her mind would collapse before he’d finished his soup.

  “Why would someone hurt Dad?” Gideon started buttering the second slice of bread. “Clearly robbery wasn’t a motive—nothing was missing from the store. And he wasn’t a guy to get mixed up in anything dangerous. He loved his family, he loved his store, and he loved kicking my trash in one-on-one basketball. He didn’t like drama, any kind of drama. You know that. You guys were married for . . . was it eleven years?”

  “I know he didn’t like drama,
” Felicia said. “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be hurt by someone who does like drama.”

  “Who? You suspect someone.”

  “I don’t know her name. A woman bought an expensive purse at MaryLisa’s not long before Wade died.” Felicia’s tone was grim but so composed that Gideon felt he was the only one rattled by the suggestion that his father’s death was a homicide. “When he called me at closing, he mentioned this woman and the transaction.”

  “What did he say about her?”

  “She acted strange. Both pushy and nervous, and at one point, she asked if she could use his restroom. He got busy with another customer, he said, but when the woman finally returned to the front, he realized she’d been gone a long time. He was joking about it with me, saying he hoped she hadn’t gotten trapped in the bathroom because sometimes the lock sticks, and she’d seemed so edgy that she’d probably be traumatized by the experience and sue him.”

  “You think she was back there tinkering with the ladder?” Gideon pulled down the sleeves of his sweater. He was colder in here than he’d been outside. “Okay, let’s talk about this woman. I know Dad didn’t have security cameras, but can’t the police track her down with her credit card information? If you think she set up Dad’s accident, that’s a police matter.”

  “She paid cash,” Felicia said. “For a royal-blue silk evening clutch that cost nearly seven hundred dollars.”

  “Seven hundred dollars! For a purse? That’s nuts!”

  “It was rare for your father to have a cash transaction that large. Why would this woman have been carrying such a large sum? Maybe she’d recently been paid in cash for an illegal transaction? Maybe she didn’t want to leave traceable evidence?”

  “That’s a leap to assume the cash means something shady. She could have sold a couch on Craigslist.”

  “On its own, it doesn’t mean much. It’s the timing that makes it suspicious. The purse is one-of-a-kind, handmade by a local mosaic artist.”

  “Mosaic?”

  “Decorated on both sides with winter landscapes made of tiny glass tiles. It was a foolish purchase for her to make.”