Natalie didn’t want him to feel evicted but suspected he genuinely wanted to go. He’d been through enough lately without having to witness her dumping grief on Skyler. “Thank you for everything. Take some of that pizza with you.”
“I’ll leave it,” he said. “You can freeze it for later meals.” He nodded at Skyler and headed for the gate. After it closed behind him, Skyler pulled out a chair and sat next to Natalie.
“Wade Radcliffe’s son?” he whispered. “You have secrets, sister.”
Natalie’s laugh was abrupt and barky. She was glad Gideon wasn’t there to hear it.
“Sorry.” Skyler patted her shoulder. “None of my business.”
“Don’t apologize.” Natalie tilted her head back, looking up into the blue sky. How could such a beautiful day be such a terrible day? “He moved to Ohneka after his father died to help take care of things. We’re both worried about how Felicia’s coping, and he wanted my input; I invited him to lunch so we’d have a private place to discuss it. That plan . . . got derailed, obviously.”
“If you were having a lunch meeting with Gideon Radcliffe, how did you end up at Camille’s? Kirk said you went over there and got surprised by the police.”
“I didn’t get surprised by them. I got a call informing me of her death; that’s why I went over there. I . . . don’t want to say more. I’m too muddled to decide what’s ethical to say and what isn’t.”
Skyler winced. “You’re kidding me. Professional complications on top of this? Please tell me you don’t think a client—”
“I don’t.” Natalie touched the petals of a cream-colored snapdragon. “Thank you for the flowers. You guys broke the land-speed record for delivering a sympathy bouquet.”
“We’re good,” Skyler said. “Jeanne organizes everything, Kirk bellows orders, and I’m the public face of the gang. We’re here for you. We want you to know that.”
“I failed Camille,” Natalie said flatly. “She was afraid someone was following her, stalking her. I thought it was stress. Imagination.”
Skyler caught her hand with both of his and squeezed it. His warm fingers made her realize how cold her hand must be. “Someone was threatening her?”
Natalie couldn’t answer. A horrific yearning to go back and fix her mistake seized her—mind, soul, body—everything pushing backward, crashing against reality until hope and determination broke into rubble.
Camille was dead. She couldn’t fix that.
Chapter 14
Irritated with himself, Gideon exited the CAD program he’d been using to design his Lego model of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He couldn’t concentrate well enough to design a structure that intricate. Heck, he couldn’t concentrate well enough to design a simple house or a garden shed or a cardboard box. Creating a model of a thirteenth-century Irish cathedral was way beyond this evening’s brain capacity.
He pushed back from his computer and paced around his living room/kitchen area. Finally, he settled at the table and eyeballed the beginnings of a commercially produced Lego model of the Sydney Opera House that he’d started assembling last week. He couldn’t think through a design of his own at the moment, but he could follow simple instructions.
He hoped.
He flipped open the instruction booklet, found his spot, and started sorting through a heap of bricks. Lego models: the hobby Tamara had labeled “your break from adulthood.” He’d laughed when she’d first said it, but the more she’d used the phrase, the more he’d suspected that beneath what appeared to be affectionate teasing was embarrassment. She thought building Lego models was childish, designing them was only marginally more impressive, and displaying them in his office was immaturity on parade.
Why did his thoughts keep reverting to Tamara’s rejection? She hadn’t dumped him because he found it relaxing to design models and construct them in miniature plastic bricks. She’d dumped him because a guy who had the face of Thor and the magnetic charm of a vampire had slinked into the telecommunications company where she worked and she’d decided she was more interested in flirting with a mythical creature than in remaining loyal to a nerdy civil engineer.
Good thing he’d learned that before he married her. And weird how he could feel simultaneously hurt, humiliated, and relieved. He’d rather make wood-fired pizza with Natalie Marsh than accompany Tamara to that gourmet cooking class where all foods on the plate had to be stacked vertically and the plate decorated with sauce hieroglyphics. What kind of hobbies did Natalie—
You self-centered oaf. Natalie’s friend just got murdered, and you’re thinking of her in dating terms? And why would she be interested in you?
The sight of Natalie with Skyler Hudson should have hurtled logic back into the game. Was she dating him? She hadn’t tried to kick Gideon out before Skyler had arrived, but that might just mean she was too polite to evict him unfed . . .
He didn’t look annoyed that you were there. He didn’t kiss her. She didn’t try to explain your presence.
So? Maybe she’d forewarned Skyler about her appointment with him—
You have a problem. Stop making up scenarios. Why are Natalie’s relationships even your business?
Would Natalie want to date a coworker? Skyler hadn’t even been the one who’d called her; she’d addressed that guy as Kirk—
You definitely have a problem.
He examined the Lego he’d been about to stick on the Opera House. Dark gray; he needed light gray. He tossed it onto the table and picked up his phone.
He’d already looked up the address where he’d taken Natalie this afternoon so he could learn the name of her friend: Camille Moretti. He hadn’t sought any other information; he’d already felt guilty about searching for information Natalie hadn’t shared. But the name of the murder victim would be public soon anyway—the fact that Natalie’s colleagues already knew meant information was at peak flow. Camille’s murder and everything about her that the media could scrape up would be big news in Ohneka. It might have hit the news already.
Murder. He still hadn’t had a chance to confide in Natalie about Felicia’s obsessive belief that his dad’s accident was murder.
But there had been a murder in town now. How had Camille died?
He checked the local newspaper’s website. On their Twitter feed, he found a formal statement of Ohneka woman found dead in apparent homicide and a few statements about a police investigation led by Detective Jeffrey Turner of the OPD. Private citizens were already gossiping and speculating. A woman in Camille’s neighborhood had shared Camille’s name and was posting blow-by-blow reports of what she could see of the police activity at Camille’s house. Had this neighbor paused to wonder if Camille’s family had been notified before she’d flung the victim’s name onto the Internet? Apparently, the police hadn’t released any information about how she’d died, or this neighbor would have posted it.
And here you are reading her gossip, Saint Gideon. He fought the remnant of his compunctions for a few seconds, then surrendered and Googled Camille’s name. He found a picture of her: pretty face, blonde hair. He found her name in an article about lawyer Dante Moretti being killed in a car-pedestrian hit-and-run. Her husband. Poor lady, widowed as a newlywed. A couple of articles about the renovation of the Stoker Building mentioned her; she was the property manager in charge of leasing office space.
The Stoker Building. Owned by Chapman Development. Camille had worked for Robert Chapman?
Lots of people work for him. It doesn’t mean anything.
Felicia’s warning echoed in his head for the ten-thousandth time: “He does things his own way, and not all those ways are harmless . . . Be careful, and don’t let on that you suspect anything.”
He set his phone down and fiddled with a pile of Legos, arranging them in a line. He had no reason to believe Camille’s death had any link to Chapman. He had no reason to believe Felicia was right about his father’s death.
A murder of a woman with a Chapman connection . . .
&
nbsp; Nope. No more struggling to figure this out without facts. It was time to force a discussion with Felicia, demand specific evidence-rooted answers and not back down until he had them. No more trying to deal with Felicia’s fears in a roundabout way by seeking Natalie’s help. No more letting Felicia ignore his calls or make vague comments about “private matters.” If she wouldn’t share the rest of her information, he’d take her theories about sabotage and the nervous purse woman to the police—regardless of what excuses she gave about why she couldn’t talk to them.
He called her. No answer. He texted her. No answer.
Gideon stood. He’d drive over to her house. If she was home, he’d corner her. If she wasn’t home, he’d stake the place out until she arrived. Even sitting in his car waiting for her would be more productive than slouching at his kitchen table, sticking the wrong bricks on the Sydney Opera House.
Fifteen minutes later, he rang her doorbell. No answer. He stepped off the porch and went to punch in the code to raise the garage door. Two cars were parked in the garage: her Nissan and his father’s Camry. She was here. She just didn’t want to answer the door any more than she’d wanted to answer his calls. Tough. Feeling like his father was prodding him in the ribs to get him to hurry, Gideon trotted to the door that led from the garage to the house and opened it.
“Felicia?” he called, standing in the doorway. “It’s Gideon.”
Felicia’s voice—strained and angry—came from the direction of the living room. “I didn’t invite you in.”
“I didn’t ask permission.”
“Go home. I’m not feeling well.”
She wasn’t physically ill. A cold or a headache or the stomach flu might make her irritable, but it wouldn’t make her ignore his messages and snap orders to clear out. He stepped completely into the house and shut the door behind him. “I’m coming in. If you’re not dressed for visitors, throw a blanket over you or wrap yourself in the curtains because it’s time to talk.”
No response. Gideon marched into the living room.
Felicia was sitting on the couch. She was dressed, wearing jeans and a turtleneck, but her hair was uncharacteristically messy, and she had makeup smears around her eyes. He’d never seen her so disheveled, even after his father’s death.
Gideon lifted a blue gift bag from the cushion next to Felicia and set it on the floor. Was that the same bag Natalie had been holding when she’d found him raking leaves? “Sorry about storming the gates.” He sat. “But we’re done with secrets. I need to know what’s going on.”
Felicia touched her lips. They were pale and looked parched. “Nothing now,” she said. “Nothing anymore.”
Relieved—and feeling sheepish that he’d taken her odd warnings seriously, even momentarily—he said, “You realized you were mistaken?”
“No. I took care of it. I told you I would.”
Gideon’s relief backlashed. What had she done? She did look physically ill. Those weren’t only makeup smudges around her eyes; they were shadows. From exhaustion? From sickness? “How did you take care of it?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Nice try. I’m worrying. Did you . . . uh . . . figure out who . . . killed him?”
“Yes.”
This declaration startled him again. “Who?”
She shook her head.
Gideon tried another angle. “Have they been arrested?”
“It wasn’t that straightforward. But what I did worked. If it hadn’t worked, I’d know it by now. The rest is none of your business.”
“It is my business,” Gideon said. “We’re talking about my father’s death.”
“Parents don’t tell children everything.”
“Methuselah might call me a child. Nobody else could.”
“You’ll always be my child. All you need to know is that I took care of it.”
She hadn’t made eye contact once. Gideon studied her haggard profile. He didn’t want to threaten her with his ultimatum about calling the police until he couldn’t think of any other options for persuading her to confide in him.
“Did you hear about the woman who was murdered?” he asked.
“What woman?”
“A woman who worked for Robert Chapman. You told me to be leery of anyone with ties to Chapman. Now that one of his people has been killed, are you going to explain what’s going on and what Dad had to do with it?”
Finally, she faced him. Stared at him. The wrinkles in her skin were usually subtle, but today, deep creases marked the puffiness under her eyes. “Who is she?”
He didn’t want to mention Camille in context with Natalie. He wasn’t ready to confess he’d been talking to Natalie, intending to share Felicia’s warnings. “The property manager for that Victorian office building Chapman is renovating. Her name is Camille Moretti.”
Felicia’s eyelids slowly dropped and slowly rose. Dropped and rose again, a sluggish, trancelike blink.
“I don’t know how she died,” Gideon said. “No details have been released yet, but they say it was a homicide.”
“Camille Moretti is dead?”
“Yes.” Given the dazed way Felicia had spoken, they weren’t talking about a stranger. He made his tone kinder. “You knew her?”
“How did she die?”
He’d just told her he didn’t know. If she was forgetting information within a few seconds, he’d really shocked her with this news. Even though he’d wanted to say something that affected her, he still felt guilty. “I don’t know how she died,” he repeated. “They haven’t released that information yet.”
“When did she die?”
“I don’t know. Either last night or this morning, I guess.”
She leaned back, a remote, unfocused expression on her face. Gideon tried to think of what to do for her. He’d wanted to shake her into speaking, but instead he’d shaken her into a stupor. He touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“When did she die?” Felicia repeated her question.
Gideon scrutinized her. Did she need medical care? He’d never seen sharp Felicia go foggy like this. “Let me get you something to drink. And eat.”
In her kitchen, he opened the fridge. Milk, a pitcher of filtered water, a bottle of something greenish. That was one of the reusable glass bottles she used for different fresh concoctions. He popped the lid open and sniffed. Mint? Lemon? Maybe grapefruit? He poured a glassful of the drink. The cookie jar held oatmeal-almond cookies; he took three of them and put them on a plate.
He took the snack into the living room, set the plate on the lamp table, and held the glass out to Felicia. “Here you go. You could use some energy.” Second time today he’d pushed food on a grieving woman, unable to think of any other way to help.
Felicia accepted the drink and sipped. Gideon took a ceramic coaster out of the top drawer of the table and put it next to the cookie plate so Felicia would have a place to set her drink.
“I’m sorry to throw the news at you like that,” he said, sitting next to her. “I take it you knew Camille.”
Felicia took a bigger swallow, then set the glass aside. “A little.”
“How did you know her?”
Felicia picked up the glass again and guzzled most of what remained. When she lowered the glass, she said curtly, “I knew her when she was a child. She’s a friend of Natalie Marsh’s. I used to see her at Natalie’s house.”
He hadn’t realized Natalie had been friends with Camille since they were kids. No wonder Natalie was devastated. “I’m sorry.” His tongue kept adhering to the roof of his mouth, and he was suddenly thirsty. He should have poured himself a glass of mint-magic-energizing-lemon-whatever-it-was. “You realize Natalie has a Chapman connection too. She’s trying to talk him into funding a new mental health clinic.”
Felicia nodded.
“I hear you went with her to the annual Chapman party last night. Why were you warning me to avoid anything Chapman related when you’re partying with him?”
> “I didn’t want to go,” Felicia said. “It was necessary. I have been cautious around Natalie.”
She’d been avoiding Natalie, Gideon remembered. Why had she changed that pattern last night?
“How did you know she accompanied me to the party?” Felicia asked.
Gideon defeated an urge to lie. He couldn’t fib his way into coaxing Felicia to be forthright. “She told me. She was glad you came.” No lies, but he wasn’t above quickly changing the subject. “I know this hurts, and I’m sorry to press you, but I need you to tell me exactly why you think Dad was murdered. I need to know what you did to ‘take care of it’ and if you think his death has any link to Camille’s murder.”
“I’ve told you everything you need to know.”
“No, you haven’t. I’m not leaving until you give me that information. I’ll pitch a tent in your living room if I have to.”
“Stop pushing me! I have good reasons for not sharing details. I’m not changing my mind.”
His stepmother could dig her heels in so deeply that it would take a bulldozer to push her onto a different course. Time to bring on the bulldozer. “I know you think you’re doing the best thing,” he said. “But two people are dead. Dad’s death was ruled an accident. You disagree with that. Why? Whatever you know, you can’t hide it. You need to take it to the police.”
“I already told you I can’t do that.”
“I can. I’ll do it unless you give me convincing evidence why I shouldn’t.”
Felicia grabbed his wrist, her fingernails stabbing him. “Don’t.”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t.” Gideon jiggled his wrist. “And either let go of me, or get me some Band-Aids because I’m going to be bleeding soon.”
She loosened her grip enough to retract her nails from his flesh, but she didn’t release him. “Promise me you won’t go to the police.”
“I just promised you I would. Unless you can convince me not to. No more secrets. Start off with why you think Dad was murdered. What happened between him and Robert Chapman?”
Felicia averted her face. Her hand was sweaty on his wrist.
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