by Nancy Bush
Coby felt a frisson slide down her back. Nicholette was echoing how she still felt about Lucas’s death. “I thought you turned around and went home,” Coby said.
“No, we got through the damn mudslide as it was happening, ended up on the west side of it. But the whole road was so unstable that they closed it for hours and we were stuck. Cal was totally frustrated. We had to fight for a room at Halfway There ’cause a lot of people had the same idea we did. It was hours before they opened the road to the beach and even longer till they cleared the mudslide itself.” She made a face. “I just told my dad we were turning around because Cal was . . . done.”
Coby had met Nicholette’s boyfriend, Cal Eckhardt, on several occasions and had found him silent and unsmiling. She could imagine what it would be like if he were “done.”
“I might stop by the hotel at lunch,” Coby said. “See how they’re doing.” She’d promised her father she’d pop in sometime. She just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
“Good,” Nicholette said. “I hear you got through to Shannon Pontifica. Nice job.”
“The figures were there in black and white.”
“Don’t be humble. They could’ve been printed on the insides of Shannon’s eyelids and she still wouldn’t have seen them without your help. What do you think about Mr. Webber?” she asked, referring to the file Coby had splayed on her desk.
As diplomatically as she could, Coby said, “I’m not sure he’s being entirely truthful about his economic situation.”
“His wife’s out for blood.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got one woman claiming she was his mistress and another who’s been calling the office,” Coby reminded her. Nicholette grimaced, as she’d been ducking the woman’s calls. “He needs to settle with the wife unless he wants a Tiger Woods debacle on his hands. It might not be the same media sensation, but it’s going to play pretty ugly in the courtroom.”
“You’re right.” Nicholette pressed her lips together. “I wanted to believe him. He seemed so genuine.”
“I know.”
“I’ll talk to him.” She placed her hands on the arms of the chair and resolutely pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll probably be sending him to you for a consultation.”
Coby nodded. Terrific, she thought as Nicholette left.
Three hours later Coby was just grabbing her purse and getting ready to go to Lovejoy’s when her cell phone rang. Normally, she didn’t answer it during office hours, but this time she shot the screen a glance. It was her father.
“Hi, Dad,” she answered. “I was coming—”
“She was murdered! My God! She was murdered, Coby! They’ve ruled it a homicide,” he broke in. “Someone held her head underwater and deliberately killed her! They killed her.”
Coby was stunned to have her fears suddenly turned to reality. “Oh, Dad,” she murmured.
“Who? Who would do that?” he asked, lost. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I’m coming to Lovejoy’s. Wait for me. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She hurried to the elevator and slammed her palm on the Down button, waiting for the car that would take her to the building’s parking lot. She could scarcely think. She felt disembodied, somehow. Removed from the truth that she’d feared deep in her soul.
Her father’s voice circled her brain: Someone held her head underwater and deliberately killed her.
Lieutenant Draden stepped into the squad room and glanced around at the desks slammed up against each other, ignoring the buzz of telephone conversation and the grumbles and odors of the two perps currently being booked. He caught Danner’s eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Danner nodded back to indicate he’d received the message and would be heading to the lieutenant’s office soon.
Detective Joshua Celek, cherubic, perpetually cheery and still somewhat naive, was saying, “There’s just no evidence. Nobody to pin it on.”
Danner had been sitting at his desk, lost in thought, listening to Celek with half an ear about the home invasion and homicide case they were working on. Even though Celek had been with the department for almost five years, he wasn’t really the critical thinker Danner would have liked. Nor was he particularly intuitive, another quality that elevated the department drones to higher levels. He’d been with robbery, moved up to homicide, and was now kind of straddling both, as were most of the detectives given the current cutbacks, but in Danner’s opinion, he wasn’t up to homicide yet. The job required something more than Celek possessed, and though the man wore slacks and open-necked shirts, Danner always visualized him in high-water pants and horizontal striped T-shirts, like a kid from the fifties. Celek was over thirty but you’d never know it.
Danner longed for Elaine to get back from vacation. He could use a heavy dose of her acerbic wit and an even heavier one of her unflinching look at the seedy side of life. She could pick up a rock and look at the slime beneath without the slightest queasiness or need to look away. She was tough, but also intuitive, and her determination and persistence tended to open up cases and create results.
Celek was a nice guy and, well, that was about it.
Pushing back his chair, Danner headed toward Draden’s glass-walled office, ignoring Celek’s, “Hey, where you going?” figuring the answer would be self-evident.
One more minute of listening to his stumped review of the ugly home invasion and homicide might send Danner over the edge.
Draden was seated at his desk as Danner closed the door behind him. The lieutenant was affectionately known as Drano because of his craggy face and hangdog expression, as if he were drained of life, which was a complete misnomer as the man was savvy and acute and filled with more energy than his persona revealed.
“Sheriff O’Halloran called from Tillamook County,” the lieutenant informed him. “Your drowning accident now looks like homicide.”
Danner stood stock still. He’d known it. There were just times you could tell. “I’d like to talk to the sheriff.”
“He wants to talk to you, too, since you were friends with the victim.”
“Acquaintances.”
“Give O’Halloran a call. Sounds like he wants an in-depth interview.”
“Maybe I could help in the investigation,” Danner suggested, his mind already churning ahead.
Lieutenant Draden gave him a look. “First, I think you gotta clear yourself off the suspect list,” he said dryly. “O’Halloran sounded—tense.”
“Yeah?”
“A lot of people at that party, and nobody saw anything? O’Halloran didn’t say it, but there’s bound to be someone holding something back. Someone you probably know personally.”
Danner nodded.
“Can Celek handle the Lloyd case by himself?” Drano asked, referring to the home invasion. Danner’s hesitation prompted the lieutenant to add, “Okay. No surprise. Just don’t give this Tillamook County case all your time, Lockwood.”
“I won’t.”
“When’s Metzger returning?”
“The end of next week,” Danner said.
The lieutenant swore softly under his breath, looked through the glass walls of his office at Celek, then shot a glance at Danner’s shuttered face. “Keep in close contact,” he said, basically giving Danner carte blanche to investigate on his own.
“Got it.” But his attention had already moved on to Annette’s homicide, and as he walked back to his desk and telephone, it was Coby Rendell who was on his mind. He planned to see her. Directly after he took a trip to Tillamook for a face-to-face with Sheriff O’Halloran.
Genevieve stood at her kitchen window, staring out at her rhododendrons, their brilliant fuchsia blossoms being hammered by the rain. Water was pooling in the yard; the grass was practically underwater. Only a few extra-long blades were pointed up through the brown, dirty flood of precipitation.
Genevieve sighed, her thoughts dark. Why was she the only one who thought Annette had been murdered? Even Jarrod acted like she was half crazy, infur
iating her. And this place—this house! It wasn’t even really her house. It was her mother’s. After her father’s heart attack Kathy Knapp sold the family home and bought a house that was smaller and more affordable. She was a real estate agent who’d weathered the economic downturn better than some, and only by the timing of Genevieve’s father’s death; if he’d lived a few more years her mother would have probably taken a loss on the sale. Of course, Lawrence’s death hadn’t saved Gen and Jarrod from losing their own home. They’d kept their place with its exorbitant interest rate and had taken out a home equity loan to boot. They hadn’t meant to borrow up on the second, but they had, and then boom. Everything went to shit. Gone. Their house underwater. No equity. Owing more than the home’s worth and letting it go back to the bank. They’d moved in with Kathy while they got back on their feet, whatever that meant, since the way things were going, there was no way to get back on their feet. Jarrod needed a real job for that, not some menial inventory checking that earned him a pauper’s paycheck.
Genevieve liked nice things. She could admit that . . . had no problem admitting that . . . was proud of it, in point of fact. That was just one of the things she and Annette had in common, an appreciation of the finer things. It was why she’d chosen Jarrod Lockwood, who was a business major with winning ways and therefore a bright future. How was she supposed to know he was never going to give up that damn guitar? He’d cut his hair and put on a dress shirt and tie, but the guitar held him in a grip as strong as a drug addiction.
It wasn’t fair, the way things had turned out. She’d really thought that Jarrod’s job at Our House was a temporary position, a stepping stone to something bigger. But all he still did was make sure the candlesticks, and settees, and crystal, and bedroom sets, and bath linens, and mixers and every other goddamn thing was in its rightful place or sold. Still! That’s all he did.
And play that fucking guitar.
After her father’s death Genevieve began feeling anxious; she’d always thought there was something there for her, something he’d put aside for her. But it turned out Lawrence Knapp wasn’t the investor everyone thought he was, apparently. When Jarrod lost his parents in quick succession— his father of lung cancer, his mother to basic inattention to her own health after her husband’s death—Gen kind of expected something financial to come their way, but again, no such luck. The Lockwoods were part of the vast middle-income group that was currently slip-sliding into lower-income and maybe even downright poor. There was no money left for Jarrod and Danner after their deaths, and therefore, certainly nothing for Genevieve.
She thought now about her father, feeling ambivalent, if she were kind to herself. In reality she was hurt and pissed off. How could he leave her like this? How could he?
Her father had been a lawyer and she’d grown up an overindulged only child; she could admit that. But she’d done everything right, hadn’t she? She’d gone to college, married a good guy, and started a real estate career of her own. Her mom had always wanted her daughter to join her in the business, and Genevieve had. Her mother had then planned to start their own real estate firm, Knapp and Knapp; Kathy never seemed to accept Lockwood as Genevieve’s last name.
But, of course, about the time they were making plans for their company, the real estate market tanked. Forget the new business, Genevieve couldn’t make a single sale to save her soul after that. She started looking around for other work and found nothing. Annette, bless her well-meaning but deluded soul, had offered Gen a job at Lovejoy’s in the tearoom, somewhere in the menial range of Suzette and Juliet’s jobs, and Gen had told her politely, but firmly, “No, thank you.”
So Jarrod worked at Our House and Genevieve tried to get a job in marketing until she’d been turned down enough times to be completely disheartened. Besides, she didn’t really want to work, though she pretended to be pounding the pavement every day. Jarrod played with his band, Split Decision, whenever they could get a gig, but the economic downturn had taken its toll there, too: they hadn’t been getting as many gigs as before, and the ones they did involved long-distance traveling for not much cash.
Money was tight.
It just wasn’t fair.
Now Genevieve heard her mother on the phone in the third bedroom, her office, sounding cheery and upbeat to some potential client. It made her angry, her mother’s positive attitude. What the fuck was she thinking? Everything was shit, shit, shit.
As if determined to make Genevieve’s mood darker, Kathy appeared a few moments later and gave her daughter a big smile. At sixty, she was still slim and attractive, with blond-gray hair, bleached a bit but natural-looking. She could pass for fifty, easily, but didn’t seem to care, which also pissed Genevieve off.
“So, what did the doctor say?” Kathy asked, pulling a mug down from the cupboard, pouring herself a cup of cold decaf coffee that was still sitting in the pot, and sticking the mug in the microwave.
“What do you think he said?”
“Oh, honey. What are you going to do?”
Genevieve stared at her mother in frustration. Kathy knew Genevieve was having trouble conceiving, and her concern grated on Gen’s nerves. “What can I do? I can’t afford IVF. You know that. And it doesn’t look like I can have a baby any other way, although other women seem to barely brush up against a penis and they get pregnant. Why can’t I?”
“You’re sure it’s not Jarrod?” Kathy asked, blowing across the top of her coffee cup to cool the now nearly boiling liquid.
It was all Genevieve could do to keep from blowing her top. “It’s me, Mom. Me. I’m the one whose parts aren’t working. It’s my uterus. My ovaries. My goddamn cervix! I’m flawed. Broken. I don’t know if in vitro would work even if I had the money. Probably not!”
“But if you had the money, you’d try, right?”
“Jesus, Mom. Yes!”
Kathy nodded and wisely walked away before Gen could bite her head off further. She felt a small pang of guilt. Her mom just wanted to help, but there was no helping this situation.
If only her father had lived . . . if only Jarrod had a decent-paying job . . . if only there were a pot of gold delivered to her front door. . . .
She thought about Annette again and felt a pang of grief mixed with envy. Her husband had given her that sapphire pendant necklace for her birthday. What had Jarrod gotten her when she turned twenty-nine? He’d taken her to a special restaurant on her special night. It was sweet, she could admit it, and they’d made passionate love later that night, giddy with the hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon he’d splurged on. But then they’d got in a big fight where she’d begged him to grow his hair out again and he’d accused her of trying to turn him into Lucas Moore.
Well . . . that had certainly stopped the breath in her throat.
Lucas Moore . . .
Now Genevieve tilted her head back, closing her eyes, remembering. Lucas . . . lovely, lovely Lucas. She’d lain right down on the sand with him atop her that night. They’d made out furiously earlier, standing up, and had been seen by the likes of Coby Rendell. Lucas had made out with some of the other girls, too. It was kind of his way. Like he liked having a Lothario rep. But he’d met Genevieve later and she’d let him lie atop her on the sand. It was cold as hell but she wanted him. In fact, she begged him to hurry in case Rhiannon or someone else came looking for them. He’d been almost reluctant, which had surprised her because he was the kind of lazy, sexy guy who took whatever came his way. But called to task, at the moment of true desire, he’d paused, poised above her, unwilling to enter her completely though she was raking her hands along his back, grabbing his buttocks and squirming like a bitch in heat beneath him.
“Come on,” she’d urged in his ear, biting delicately.
She’d done it before, once, with that college guy who’d so impressed her dad, a law student with a huge ego and roving hands. He’d pressed Gen up against the door to her father’s den, then held his hand over her mouth as he pushed inside her hard, gro
aning like a wild man while she was half-smothered. Her dad and mom had been out to dinner, briefly, and he’d practically slammed her up against the wall as soon as their car turned out of the driveway. Gen had thought about using it as her secret the night of the campout but she’d been a little embarrassed. She’d just hated it, the way his tongue nearly strangled her and he flopped around on her and shoved himself inside too fast, hurting her. But it wasn’t cool to hate sex. No self-respecting high school girl hated sex.
And anyway, she knew she wouldn’t hate sex with Lucas. She wanted him. Wanted him with that kind of hot, wet desire they talked about in the male magazines she’d purchased from the Plaid Pantry down the street in a desperate attempt to connect with her inner slut.
But Lucas Moore made her feel that way by just looking at him. That chest . . . those abs . . . that back . . . that hair! That night she ran her hands through it, reveling in the long, silky strands. When she kept thrusting her hips up at him, arching her back, and moaning like she was going to die, he couldn’t hold back and finally drove into her, gasping her name, and Genevieve finally got what the big deal about sex was. She felt thrilled, thrilled to her core, that he was inside her.
But it was over way too soon. He suddenly stiffened, groaned, “God . . . no,” and spilled his seed inside her. As cold as it was outside on the beach, as uncomfortable as the sand was that crept around her own clothes, which she’d thrown down for a blanket, she was warm inside. Glowing. Hot.
Afterward, she was afraid she might be pregnant. Kinda hoping, too. But that night she brushed back his hair and soothed, “It’s all right. It’s all right. All right . . .”
They were both kinda drunk, but not that drunk. “Jesus, it’s not all right,” Lucas muttered. He pulled out of her quickly and she gasped with the cold, groping for her underwear, dragging them on and feeling sand. But she didn’t care. She really just wanted him to make love to her again, and she tried to hold on to him but he was on his feet, pulling on his jeans, which he’d worn commando style, something she found wildly sexy, something she still tried to get Jarrod to do upon occasion, though he seldom did.