Love Thy Sister (Mina's Adventures Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  CHAPTER 14

  Tired of sitting at the boarding gate, Mina decided to make a final trip to the restroom before getting on the plane. The toilets on the aircraft gave her the creeps; she was sure she’d be sucked out or something.

  “Mina Calvi, paging Miss Mina Calvi to the white courtesy telephone.” Mina Calvi. Wow, she was being paged.

  She got up, and hoisted the carry-on over her shoulder. Wearing the new coat had been a mistake—she should have packed it. Instead, she sweated her way over to the ticket desk. Who could possibly be paging her?

  Maybe Patrick had missed his flight.

  The airline’s customer service rep told her to pick up any of the white phones against the wall.

  “One moment, please.” The operator said. There was a click and some buzzing.

  “Hello? Goddammit, is anyone there?”

  “Michael?”

  “Mina, is that you? They’ve been jacking me around for half an hour.”

  “Sorry, I just heard the page. I got here as fast as I could. What is it?”

  “You’ve got to come home right away.”

  “Are you nuts? They’re gonna call my flight any minute.”

  “Cancel the damn flight and get your ass home right now.”

  “What’s the matter? Did something happen to Paco?”

  “Paco’s been released.”

  “Don’t tell me De Fiore arrested Paola. Where is my sister? Put her on the line.”

  “I won’t talk about this on the phone. Just trust me, and get home right away.”

  “Check my bank account, Michael. I don’t have enough money to trust you. Please, put Paola on the phone.”

  “Goddammit, Mina, your sister is dead.” Michael’s voice, full of rage and tears, pierced her ear like a hot wire. “Now are you happy? I said it, dead.” The line clicked and went blank.

  Mina didn’t remember hanging up the phone or leaving the airport or driving down Century Boulevard, yet she found herself southbound on the 405 freeway. Her brain went in circles, dizzying her until she wanted to throw up. She tried to concentrate on one thing at a time.

  The signal, clicking so slowly she thought it was broken. Merging into traffic. Anything, just so she didn’t have to think about what Michael had said.

  Could this be his idea of a joke? Could anyone be that sick?

  Nothing moved on the freeway, in either direction. Michael had to be lying. Paola was fine; she was at the office, working, fine. Michael hated Patrick. He didn’t want her to see him. He wanted to scare her.

  Peeking from the pocket of her leather coat was the lavender envelope her plane ticket had come in. She checked her watch; her flight to Kennedy airport left thirty-five minutes ago. Somewhere, high over the Atlantic, another plane was bringing Patrick to their rendezvous, and she wouldn’t be there to meet him. All because her brother-in-law, that bastard, played sick games.

  Her fingers on the steering wheel looked bloodless.

  The car behind her honked and made her jump. Releasing her foot from the brake pedal, she let the Bug inch forward. A siren howled in the northbound lanes while the southbound traffic was at a standstill. A car accident? Could that be what had happened to Paola? She didn’t want to think about it. She couldn’t think about it. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Driving in the slow lane was new to her, but then, all the lanes were slow right now. Better play it safe, anyway—she had to get home. Paola might need her.

  Behind her, the Toyota was tailgating again. Looking up, she saw a huge billboard on the side of the freeway. It depicted blue skies, turquoise waters, and happy people aboard a sailboat. “The California Promise,” the ad said. “Live it in Mission Viejo.”

  Not my sister, please God, you can’t let this happen. She can’t be dead, she’s too young and she’s all I have. Dio, Dio mio. You can’t do that, God, not now, oh, please.

  The driver behind her rolled down his window and yelled an obscenity. She turned her head and glared at him, a wall of tears obstructing her vision. Not Paola, dear God. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Mina tried to focus on the slow road taking her home.

  * * * * *

  Clusters of people stood across the street, loitered by the driveway. When Mina opened her car door, they all became still, like a freeze-frame. No one spoke, even though she recognized some of the neighbors.

  Avoiding their eyes, she walked toward the open front door.

  Hushed voices came from the dining room. When she reached the arched doorway, silence fell.

  Where is Paola? The words assembled themselves in her mind, but her lips wouldn’t move.

  Dr Martin sat next to Michael at the dining table. De Fiore stood next to the tall, silent cop she remembered from Rachel’s case. Everyone but Michael seemed surprised to see her. Closing the folder he was holding, De Fiore took a step toward her.

  She said it now, “Where is Paola? Michael...”

  Michael’s bowed head didn’t move. He rubbed his hands repeatedly, without looking up.

  He was responsible for whatever had happened to Paola; it had to be his fault. Mina walked around the ivory marble table and, before anyone could stop her, she grabbed his shirt collar, forcing his head backward.

  “Where is my sister? What have you done to her? Answer me, you bastard,” she sobbed.

  “Mina, don’t. Michael couldn’t help it.” The hands holding her back with gentle strength were those of Dr. Martin, Paola’s doctor and an old friend of the family. He pulled her close, caressing her hair.

  Not caring that her tears soaked the lapels of his dark suit, Mina clung to him. A faint smell of mothballs made her sneeze, and he handed her a tissue.

  Mina looked at her brother-in-law, his unshaven face, his dazed eyes. “Paula is dead,” he said, raising his hollow eyes to her. “She’s dead, Mina. What will I do?”

  She wanted to hit him, but Dr. Martin kept his arm around her shoulders and walked her to a chair opposite Michael. Sinking into the chair, her strength left her suddenly—as if some secret valve opened and let her life pour out of her body. She put her head down on the cold tabletop and wept.

  Doctor Martin’s hand was warm and heavy on her shoulder. “Mina, this isn’t going to be easy for you to hear.” His voice was low, his speech deliberate. “Your sister committed suicide.”

  “No. That’s impossible.”

  “It’s true.” His eyes followed her stare across the table. She couldn’t stop staring at Michael.

  “You’ve known me for a long time, Mina,” the doctor said “You know how much I loved Paula. Why would I lie to you?”

  Mina didn’t answer. Doctor Martin ran bony fingers through his silver hair. “Detective, may I talk to her alone?”

  De Fiore’s answer must have been yes, because she saw Michael get up and walk out of the room with the other two men. Somewhere in the house, the phone rang. Doctor Martin took Michael’s seat across from Mina.

  “Your sister was under a great deal of stress.”

  Mina started sobbing. “Michael.” It seemed to be all she could say.

  “He was part of the problem, I agree. But he never would have harmed your sister—not intentionally. He loved her. Besides, he was unconscious, almost comatose until this morning. He had enough alcohol in him to kill a horse.”

  He handed Mina the box of tissues, and she blew her nose.

  “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “There’s no need. Michael identified the body. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “I should have stayed home. How could I be so selfish when she was in so much pain? My own sister. Oh God, how did...” She couldn’t say it. “Did she leave a note?” She looked up at him, sensing his hesitation.

  “Pills,” he said, his voice choked.

  “What pills?”

  “She called my office for a refill. I should have talked to her myself, but it was late in the afternoon. The prescription was just routine.”

  “I want t
o see her. I won’t believe it until I see her. Where is she?”

  “The morgue. They have to perform an autopsy.”

  “No, not on Paola,” she cried. “I won’t let them desecrate her body.”

  “It’s necessary, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Why? You said it was the pills. What else do they want? Tell them to leave my sister alone. Michael can stop them; he just won’t sign the papers. I’ll talk to him.” She tried to get up from the chair, but Martin reached across and held her arm. “No one needs Michael’s approval; it’s standard practice in cases of questionable death.”

  In case of what?” You’re not telling me something.”

  Dr. Martin shook his head as if debating with himself. “There was a peculiarity. The people from the Coroner’s office noticed it, too.”

  Mina held her breath.

  “When Paula called the office, she said she didn’t have any more tablets left and her back was causing her great discomfort. The refill calls for a full container.”

  “So?”

  “The Soma Compound was on her night table next to an empty glass. The man gathering the evidence remarked that the container was almost full.”

  “What are you trying to say? Did Paola take the pills, or didn’t she?”

  For the first time since she’d arrived, he looked straight into her eyes. “We’re asking ourselves the same question.”

  Silence fell over them. After a while Mina said, “How did you find out?”

  “Michael called me, panicked. He’d already called nine one one.” Martin paused. “The police arrived first. They wouldn’t let me in until I told them I was her doctor. When De Fiore arrived—”

  She knew her thinking was fuzzy, because it just occurred to her to wonder why De Fiore was there. “He works for the Santa Ana Police, he has no jurisdiction here.”

  “It’s because of something in the letter that has to do with the Fernandez murder.”

  “You didn’t tell me there was a letter. Where is it? I want to see it.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. The police took everything. Evidence. I’m sorry.” De Fiore and Michael entered the dining room together.

  “Michael!” She jumped to her feet and ran to him. He backed away, fear in his bloodshot eyes, and she stopped.

  “Michael, what did the letter say?”

  De Fiore stepped in front of her. “It’s being examined and will be returned when the police are done with it.”

  She pushed him aside, her eyes on Michael. “You read the letter, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  They looked at each other. She took another step, but Michael didn’t move this time. De Fiore held her arm.

  “Yes, I read the letter,” Michael said. “Paola confessed to Rachel’s murder.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Late afternoon light sifted through the blinds, giving an alien look to her bedroom’s most familiar things. Mina’s tongue lay thick and coarse in the dryness of her mouth. What had Dr. Martin given her? A tranquilizer? Tranquility hardly justified the way she felt. Sluggish and spent, not tranquil. So sluggish that getting her eyes open seemed a complicated task.

  Too bad it didn’t affect her emotions. Inside, her mind performed somersaults.

  Paola had killed Rachel, and then committed suicide? No way, not her Paola.

  When Mina first arrived in the United States, she had hardly known her older sister. Her first impression of Paola was—intimidating. Paola was everything Mina wanted to be: tall, statuesque, and beautiful. Following in her sister’s wake, she’d watched the heads turn as Paola parted the LAX crowd with her feline stride.

  On the drive back from the airport, Mina had wished she could be sucked into the plush seat of her sister’s large American car. Paola tried her best to make conversation, in her Americanized Italian, but it was apparent they had little in common. Glancing sideways at the perfect profile, Mina couldn’t help wondering why her sister asked—begged—her to come to America.

  During the first few months, Mina had often felt Paola’s stare. Her mother had stared at her like that. More than once, as she turned to meet her sister’s eyes, Paola would smile and say, “I love you.” After a while, their relationship got easier. Paola taught her how to drive at sixteen! Back in Italy, her friends had to wait two more years before they could even get a learner’s permit. Paola took her to Disneyland, bought Mina her first hamburger and fries at a drive-through. They talked about the Pill, and the same sister who rode the Matterhorn four times running took her to the dreaded gynecologist.

  Hardly memories of a killer.

  There must be an explanation. When she’d left for the airport, Adams had been busy with Paco’s case. She should call him, have him get a copy of the letter from the police. She had to read it—maybe then she’d understand.

  The thought hit her. Oh God, had anyone told Adams? And Paco, poor Paco, first jail, now this. She squeezed her eyes shut, the eyelids still puffy and tender from all the crying.

  The silence of the big house filled her head with wants. She needed to hear a human voice. She craved words of assurance, words of love. Paola, Paola, Paola.

  What time would it be in Italy?

  Did it matter? There wasn’t anyone left there to mourn her sister. Her beloved sister, lying dead in the morgue, where the indifferent hands of a stranger would cut into the softness of her body.

  No, no more. She couldn’t think about that. She had to stop the hurt.

  Patrick was in New York, waiting for her. The realization hit her so hard that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Where was he? He should have called by now to ask what had gone wrong, why she didn’t make the flight.

  Moaning, she craned her neck to see the digital clock on her nightstand. Four-thirty p.m. Seven-thirty in New York. Stretching to reach the lamp, she heard engine noise on the street outside and stopped cold. Paola’s Thunderbird. Breathless, she waited. The car hummed past the house and silence reigned again.

  The emptiness inside her became unbearable. How long would every car sound like Paola’s, every step in the hall be her sister’s step?

  With shaking hands, she turned on the light. She needed Patrick. The company he worked for had an office in New York. They should know how to reach him.

  Damn. Her address book was in the car. That meant going down to get it, walking past Paola’s empty room. She didn’t think she could, not now, not yet.

  Information, maybe. If she could remember the name of the company—Gourmand? No. Gourmandises, that was it; Gourmandises Internationalles.

  Lifting the receiver, she waited for the dial tone. Nothing. She pounded the small bar. Click, click, silence. One of the other phones must be off the hook. When had that happened?

  What if Patrick had tried to call her?

  Mina couldn’t remember how she got into bed—Dr. Martin, probably—but she was wearing her faithful oversized sweatshirt. It didn’t really matter, not now.

  Barefoot, she opened the bedroom door and tripped over her luggage. Someone had brought her belongings in from the car, including her new coat. She edged her way around it and went down the stairs without looking at Paola’s door.

  In the foyer, shadows crept from every corner. Mina walked across the cold marble, into the kitchen.

  Flipping on the light, she hoped to see the receiver lying on the kitchen counter.

  No such luck.

  The only other phone in the house was in Paola’s bedroom.

  She climbed the stairs, her legs quivering. What if the pills were still lying by the bed? The police would have cleaned that up, wouldn’t they? She stopped outside the big double door, her hand trembling on the knob.

  Control yourself; you can do this. Mina turned the knob, pushed the door back.

  The sun’s last hurrah filtered through the open blinds, drawing long, trembling stripes across the bed. She couldn’t get herself over the threshold, and grasped the doorframe as nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
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  The white princess phone beckoned from the night table, the receiver lying on its back like an upended turtle. She stepped into the room. Was that Boucheron, Paola’s perfume, floating in the air?

  Tears started in her eyes. Wobbling over to the phone, Mina picked up the receiver and placed it on its cradle.

  Someone had removed the linens from Paola’s bed. In evening’s half-light, two down pillows seemed to float like useless life buoys on the blue damask that covered the mattress. Mina turned, stumbling, and fled.

  Before she reached her room, the phone began ringing. She sobbed in relief. Patrick. He must be so worried.

  Grabbing the telephone, she fell onto the bed. “Patrick?”

  “Miss Davies? I heard about your sister. I’m so sorry,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, sorry, my name is Betty. I live two houses down from you. I am—was—a good friend of your sister’s.”

  Mina closed her eyes. Betty. Blonde, petite, a back-fence snooper. Paola couldn’t stand her.

  “Thank you for your sympathy, Betty. I’d love to talk to you, but I need to keep the line free.”

  “I understand, of course. I’ll just be a minute. You know, your sister and I used to do things together, like shopping. I was with her when she bought that great car of hers—you know, the Thunderbird? She practically stole that automobile from the dealer. We got a real good price.”

  “Betty, what do you want?”

  “Well, I was wondering what your brother-in-law is planning to do with the car? I’m in the market for transportation and I...”

  Mina slammed the receiver down. Now she understood why the phone had been left off the hook. She retrieved her suitcase and pulled the address book from her carry-on.

  The number in New York was a recording. “You have reached the Gourmandises Internationalles automated attendant. All our offices will be closed until Monday morning in celebration of Thanksgiving. Thank you for calling Gour...” Mina hung up.