by Nancy Bush
“You’re mad at me? For trying to place why that redheaded girl looked so familiar?”
“I’m mad at you for a lot of things,” she snapped back. “How about that making love to me is such a chore!”
“Kate, it’s not you. . . .”
“Don’t you dare say ‘it’s me.’ If you do, I’ll scream until your eardrums split.”
He rolled his eyes and anger flared in their depths. “How about if I don’t say anything?” he ground out.
“Why, that would be just fine.”
The rest of the ride back to their house was made in cold, stony silence.
* * *
Layla got to the house on Cherry Street in the West Hills fifteen minutes early. She’d left on her “business attire” as a form of armor against all the rumors flying around about her. She didn’t plan for this to take long, although she was still uncertain which way she was going to jump on selling the painting. Yes, she should. Yes, she could use the money. Yes, there was no reason to hang on to a piece that seemed to be gathering bad mojo day by day.
But ... she just wasn’t sure. When she met Mary Jo’s buyer, that was when she would make her choice.
There was a builder’s lockbox on the outside of the house. Mary Jo had given her the code when she’d delivered the painting and other decorative pieces, so she punched in the four digits without waiting for the Realtor and the very personable buyer. Mary Jo had never mentioned anyone besides the woman, so maybe she was a single purchaser.
Layla extracted the key from inside the lockbox and threaded it into the front door lock. She twisted it and realized she’d ended up locking herself out. Mary Jo had already opened the house for them, or someone had forgotten to lock it back up.
She put the key back and snapped the box shut, then walked inside the house. Sunlight was filtering through the rim of firs and maples, and the huge laurel that turned the backyard into very private grounds, but also cut off any kind of view the lot would have toward the Willamette River and the east side of Portland. Mary Jo had told her the builder had seesawed about whether to take down the hedge when he razed the original house, sometimes thinking he should, other times backing off. Now, the thinking was: let the buyer decide. If they wanted the laurel removed and the backyard opened up, the builder would do it for them, no cost.
She set her purse down on a side table next to the couch. Her painting definitely drew the eye. It’s large size, and the pop of color it added to the tone-on-tone room, changed the feel of it. Layla could see why someone might think it needed to be with the house. Of course, that and the red pillows and other items she’d added: the heavy silver candlesticks with their orange candles on the mantel, the glass balls surrounded by hemp that had been arranged in a canoe-shaped piece on the coffee table, the brass mallard that sat atop a fanned-out stack of copies of Sunset Magazine.
Who wouldn’t want to live here now? Layla congratulated herself, feeling a tiny bit better.
Her cell phone rang, and she dug it out of her purse and looked at the screen: Mary Jo. “Hi, I’m already here,” she answered without waiting for Mary Jo to identify herself.
“Oh, Layla, I’m sorry. My buyer, Amy Neilson, just called and she can’t make it today. Are you available tomorrow?”
Wouldn’t you know? “I’m not even sure I want to sell. Maybe we should just forget it.”
“No, no. Just meet with her, please. Tomorrow. I’ll set it up. Oh, but ... well, never mind.”
“Oh, but what?” Layla asked.
“I’m leaving town in the afternoon until next Monday, after Easter? We might have to make it the morning, but I’m kind of squeezed.”
“Mary Jo, it’s fine. We’ll figure it out when you get back.”
“I really need to get this done before I leave.”
“Well, I can’t help you there.”
“You can meet her by yourself. You can go to the house anytime. I haven’t fully listed it yet, so no one else will bother you. I just think this sale is going through, and I don’t want to jinx it, so I’m waiting till after you and Amy meet. Can I give her your number?”
“Sure,” Layla said. She could always tell this Amy herself that she didn’t want to meet. It was probably easier than dealing with Mary Jo.
Delighted, Mary Jo quickly got off the phone to tell her client.
Layla walked through to the back flagstone patio. If the house didn’t sell, maybe she would suggest some outdoor furniture as the weather got better. Yeah, if it were up to her, she would get rid of the laurel hedge.
She wanted to call Naomi again and make sure they were still okay, that Naomi still believed in her, but she’d just talked to her. She just needed reassurance.
She walked back inside and gasped; there was a woman with bright red hair coming down the last step from upstairs. “Oh my God,” Layla said, startled.
“Hi,” the woman said, turning fully toward her.
Layla blinked, her lips parting in shock.
It was Courtney with red hair.
And she was holding a shiny, bluish gun, aimed right at Layla’s chest.
* * *
September wheeled into the sheriff’s department’s parking lot and racewalked to the front door. The woman at the desk recognized her and told her Sheriff Kingston was already interviewing Mr. Wolfe, but she could join Deputy Morant and watch through the two-way mirror.
“Thank you,” September said when she was shown to the right door. Morant was standing with his arms crossed, looking grave, staring into the room where Jerome Wolfe was seated across a table from a florid-faced man in uniform, about sixty with a gleaming pate and about fifty pounds too much body weight. Morant, being a friend of the Kilgores, had been relegated to bystander.
“How’s it going?” September asked.
“He swears he had nothing to do with it. Says his gun was stolen out of his vehicle about a week ago.”
“A week ago?”
“Says he remembers it before then. Keeps it in his glove box. Says he has a concealed weapon permit.”
Morant clearly wasn’t going to believe anything Wolfe said. September didn’t blame him, but . . . “Does he have any idea where this gun could have been taken from his car?”
“Yeah. Says it had to have happened when he was at the Kilgores.”
“Well, who would take it there? Mona doesn’t seem like a likely candidate.”
Morant slid his eyes toward September. “He says he thinks you did it.” September made a choking sound of disbelief, but Morant said, “Don’t worry, sheriff’s not buying it. Whatever Wolfe’s hiding, he’ll get it out of him.”
But maybe not for a long while. Jerome Wolfe was somewhat rattled, but he was too smart to incriminate himself at a first interview.
“I’ve got some questions for Mona, so I’m heading out,” September said. “Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
* * *
Dallas’s cell rang, and Lucy was glad for the distraction. At this rate, she would be a puddle. She’d never let herself even hope that DaIlas could be part of their family, that he would welcome Evie with open arms.
Her own cell jingled at the same time. She looked at the screen. Lyle. Well, they both had questions for him, so she took the call, aware Dallas was talking to Luke about something that had grabbed his attention.
“Speak of the devil,” she said to Lyle. “I was just talking to Dallas Denton about you.”
“Oh?” He sounded unsure about that. “Well, I’m just calling to tell you something.”
“Okay.” She prepared herself. When Lyle wanted to talk to her, it was generally something she didn’t want to hear.
“At the Denim and Diamonds dinner, I saw someone who looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. She was there with Neil Grassley, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
“Courtney Mayfield?”
“Yeah. I finally remembered. I saw her maybe ten years earlier, only she had red hair then. Really
red hair. Brianne’s hair was sort of red, but Courtney—I didn’t remember that was her name—her hair was bright red. Probably fake, I guess. Brianne was more auburn, like that detective who helped you get John in the car that night, although I heard Brianne’s really gone gray. I didn’t see her at Stonehenge, but I guess she was there that night, too.”
“Wait a minute. Why are you comparing Courtney to Brianne?”
“Because they’re cousins. I just saw her that one time. We were all out in the woods together. Brianne told her I was her boyfriend. It wasn’t long after that that ... Brianne and I got together. . . .”
Courtney was Brianne’s cousin.
She mumbled a good-bye to Lyle, even though he was still talking. She should have asked him about the sandwiches, but she was trying to process.
Dallas sensed her eyes on him and he realized something had happened. “I’ll call you back,” he said tersely, then asked, “What?”
“Lyle just told me that Courtney Mayfield is Brianne’s cousin.”
Dallas inhaled a sharp breath. “Luke just told me that besides being a data processor, Mayfield is an accomplished hacker. The police think she did a soft hack into Grassley’s computer, meaning she used passwords and information to breach his accounts rather than hack straight into the bank, but she’s capable of a lot more.”
“Like sending money into Layla’s account?” asked Lucy in alarm.
“Like breaching Layla’s accounts through a hard hack, getting the information, then sending the money through Neil’s computer, making it look like he sent the funds.”
“Why? What’s she doing?” Lucy was on her feet.
“Call Layla,” he ordered.
Her phone was still in her hand. Immediately, she scrolled to her favorites and pressed Layla’s name.
* * *
Layla’s cell jingled merrily in her purse.
Courtney had motioned Layla to move over to the couch and ordered her to sit down. Layla had complied, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off Courtney and the gun. She’d asked, “What . . . what are you doing?” and Courtney had said simply, “Finishing what I started.”
Now, Courtney, who was dressed in jeans, sneakers, a black shirt, and a black leather jacket, glanced at Layla’s purse. “I’m going to have to get rid of that thing,” she said.
“Why are you here? What ... what’s happening?” Layla felt like she’d walked through the looking glass. She couldn’t take her eyes off Courtney’s hair.
“You like it? It was my natural color before I went gray. My mom still dyes hers, but I thought it was too noticeable. When you’re tiptoeing through people’s personal files, it seems more prudent to be a mouse, not a toucan. But you like color, don’t you?” She waved the gun toward the painting, before immediately training it back on Layla. “Although today you look like your sister picked out your wardrobe.”
“I don’t understand,” Layla murmured.
“Of course you don’t.” She smirked.
Layla tried to process. This Courtney was completely different from the woman Neil had introduced her to at the benefit. That Courtney had blurted out that she was pregnant and then looked stricken. That Courtney, she realized, was a fake. This was the real Courtney.
“Let me enlighten you. My cousin Brianne—you remember her—had a ‘thing’ with your brother. She had him wrapped around her finger. I could never figure out why. And he wasn’t the only one. Now, it’s Jerome Wolfe sniffing around, though he’s got other aspirations. But, maybe, like your brother, he just got off on Brianne’s strangeness. Whatever it was, it’s over now. Brianne has left the building!”
“What?” Layla whispered.
“This gun was Jerome Wolfe’s, but I appropriated it. And it shot Brianne. Bang!”
Layla shrieked, and Courtney laughed. She’d lifted the gun at Layla but had only been playacting. “Nah, I’m not going to shoot you . . . I brought something else along.”
Her eyes and gun trained on Layla, she reached her free hand into her jacket pocket and brought out a vial of chopped-up mushrooms.
Layla’s blood ran cold. She didn’t have to be told that she was carrying around the angel of death.
* * *
“She’s not answering,” Lucy said. “Lots of times she doesn’t answer. It’s probably okay.”
“Luke was keeping tabs on Courtney, hoping to catch her on the street, ask some questions, but she sneaked by him. She apparently knew he was watching.”
“Where is she now?” Lucy asked in alarm.
“Luke is looking for her.”
“I can’t just sit here!” Lucy cried. “I need to go to her apartment!”
“Didn’t she say she had an appointment?”
“Yes! The cold house . . . in the West Hills ... on Cherry!”
“Do you have an address?”
“No, but that’s not a long street. She probably took Uber, so there’s no car. . . .”
“What about the real estate agent?”
“Mary Jo . . . yes . . . I can get that!”
She looked up Mary Jo’s real estate agency and placed a call to them. The receptionist answered, but when Lucy asked for Mary Jo, she learned that she was with a client and currently not taking calls.
Beside herself, Lucy cried, “I need the address of her Portland listing on Cherry, in the West Hills!”
Lucy counted the seconds as the receptionist said, “Ummm, okay, ummm, I’m going to have to put you on hold.”
“No!” Lucy fairly shrieked.
“Let’s get in my car and head that way,” Dallas said tersely.
She nodded, the phone to her ear, following Dallas, who was moving fast.
Finally, the receptionist came back on the line. “Mary Jo doesn’t have an active listing on Cherry. Are you sure you have the right area?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . did she have a listing? Has it already sold?”
“No . . .”
Lucy was in the elevator, silently counting to ten. “Is there a listing coming up soon?” she asked the receptionist with all the patience she could muster.
“Possibly. Let me transfer you to our broker.”
Click.
Another long wait.
She and Dallas were in his SUV and heading out of Portland city center toward the West Hills when the receptionist finally came back on the line. “Alice DeKamp, our broker, is on another call. If you give me your number, I’ll have her phone you back when she’s free.”
“You do that,” Lucy snapped, then rattled off her number before shutting off her phone and throwing it back in her purse.
* * *
September pulled up to the Kilgores’ home and hurried to the front porch. She banged hard on the door. Duke started howling mournfully again, but September couldn’t hear the thumping of Mona’s walker. She peered through the window at the side of the door and saw Duke was the only one who’d made his way toward her.
“Oh no . . .”
The back door she’d seen Brianne enter through.
She quickly circled the house and found the door. It was locked, but the gap between the door and the sash was wide, and it only took one kick to break it in. She’d left her gun in her Outback. Wasn’t used to carrying it again.
But it didn’t matter anyway. Mona was on the floor in the family room and she raced to her side. Her eyelids fluttered and her pulse was thready.
“Mona . . . Mona . . . I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“I fell. I just fell.... I wanted to call you and tell you, but I just fell . . .”
“Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher said in September’s ear.
September snapped out the address.
“. . . It’s Brianne’s cousin ... always been jealous . . . I know she did it ... I know she did. . . .”
Brianne’s cousin?
As soon as September hung up, a call came in. She looked at the screen. Luke Denton.
“It’s Courtney Mayf
ield,” he said. “She’s a hacker, hacked into Layla’s bank accounts. Dallas knows. He and Lucy are looking for Layla right now. . . .”
“Courtney . . .” Mona said. “I know she did it.... She shot my baby.”
* * *
Layla’s pulse was running fast. She’d believed she was going to die. She’d believed Courtney was going to shoot her straight out, but apparently, Courtney had other plans and was in no hurry to see them through. Time ... time was what Layla needed ... and a way to relay her predicament.
She purposely kept her eyes away from her purse and cell phone. If there was any chance, any moment ...
“Come on,” Courtney said, waving the blue nose of the gun at her. “Into the kitchen.”
Layla reluctantly complied, watching her purse recede from reach as she went past the two-sided fireplace into the large kitchen gleaming with stainless-steel appliances. A weapon ... she needed a weapon ... but where? How? This kitchen was empty.
Courtney began to twist open the top of the vial with one hand. The lid was barely closed.
“I’m not going to eat that,” Layla said.
“Neil did. I served it right up to him. Buried the little pieces in a lasagna with spicy Italian sausage. Yum. You were supposed to eat the sandwiches I brought to the Denim and Diamonds event, but your brother-in-law was kind of a pig that day. Kept eating everything. He didn’t even notice.”
“You set the tray down beside me . . . that was you.”
“A wig for every occasion,” she said with a smile and a shrug. “You didn’t even look at me, did you?”
“You meant it for me,” Layla realized with a distinct shock. “You meant for me to eat the poison.”
“Let me tell you something, Ms. Crissman, with all your money and all your prestige . . .”
“I don’t have any mon—”
“Shut the fuck up, dearie, and listen. I wanted to be you. All of you. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up poor. It sucks. I had to trade on my looks, which was okay, but there were a lot of men out there who only wanted to use me. You know what I mean?”