I checked his water and food dishes in the kitchen—both were full. After lapping at the water for a few seconds, he followed me around the cottage. We searched downstairs with Beau pressed close to my side, his cold nose occasionally bumping my hand.
“Callie?”
We climbed the bare wood stairs and checked her bedroom. There, on the bed, lay Sky’s upended backpack. I picked it up and shook it. Out plopped the Shakespeare volume, but no little bag of emeralds, no hemp necklace with the bottle attached, and no amber crystal. Maybe she’d hidden them? After an unsuccessful sweep of the other bedrooms and bathroom, I returned to her room.
The pale pink wallpaper reminded me of our days in elementary school. We’d watched as her daddy pasted and smoothed it onto the walls, picking up sticky scraps to paste onto our cardboard house on the lawn by the lake. Up and down the stairs we’d run, carrying strips of extra paper to our playhouse. We’d carefully cut out windows and doors, colored pictures and curtains on the walls, and lined up our dolls on one side with some of their cradles and blankets. I wanted to bring over my little child-sized wooden table and chairs, but my mother had said no. Little had we known her father would succumb to an early heart attack the following winter. It had been a hard time at the Lissoneaus. Dark and scary and just plain unfair.
I sank onto the bed and sighed. Callie never went out, so what happened to her? Had Willow called the cops again when she spied her sister on her way back in the pontoon boat? Had they come and picked her up and dragged her off to jail?
I peeked out the bedroom window and looked toward Willow’s house. Trees obscured the view. Was she gloating now? Happy to have hurt her baby sister once again?
Righteous anger welled inside me. I slid the book of sonnets into Sky’s pack and brought it outside to drop into my boat. Instinct told me I might need it, and if Callie was in jail and Willow came snooping around, I didn’t want her to find it. It would just be…wrong. A car roared and squealed outside, streaking up the road as if it was in the Indy 500.
I pictured idiotic teenagers turning the corner on two wheels, but the roar soon subsided and was replaced by a roar of my own. My anger built. Now I was convinced. Willow had turned her sister in again, and this time she’d flushed her out of the house. Probably what she’d wanted all along. Having to ride in a car out in the open, facing dozens of people at the station, being thrown in a holding cell with other people she didn’t know…that would really hurt Callie.
Shutting Beau securely inside, I stomped toward her house, stepping over the picket fence and crossing the long grass of the empty cottage between the two homes. The little house had been Sky’s inheritance—when their mother died, each child had been left one house from the original cluster of three—but since he’d gone missing, the sisters had let it go to ruin. Too much work was needed on it, and the town taxes were ridiculously high. Last year it had been condemned, and now the town was trying to claim it as their own.
A siren screamed in the distance, growing louder with each step that I took. I hurried across the yard and turned the corner around the hedge that separated Sky’s house from Willow’s. Red lights blinked from an ambulance that had just pulled up to the curb. A cop car screeched to a stop beside it. And a coroner’s van rolled up behind them both. Cold fear swirled in my stomach.
Oh my God. Willow killed Callie. She finally did it.
Chapter 5
I ran harder and pulled open the sliding glass door on the side of the house at the same time a male and female cop entered from the back. Skidding to a stop, I froze. They aimed their guns in my general direction.
The woman held her partner back with one hand and lowered her weapon. A striking figure, she stood at nearly six feet with cobalt black skin, short-cropped hair, and an all-business expression. “You the one who called it in?”
I panicked. “No! I just got here. I’m looking for my friend. I think something happened to her.”
She seemed to dismiss me and pointed to a kitchen chair. “Sit there and don’t move.” I plopped down on a straight-backed chair while they separated and started the search. The male cop took the upstairs and the woman disappeared into Willow’s bedroom. I glanced toward the sun porch and froze.
A slim foot protruded behind an armchair. A pink flip-flop lay beside it. As if in a trance, I stood and walked toward it. Bile rose in my throat. “Callie! No.” I hadn’t realized I’d screamed until I felt the rush of the female cop’s breeze pass me. I followed her, stiff-legged, my legs mired in molasses. The other foot of the victim came into view, followed by the hem of a denim skirt.
Callie hadn’t been wearing a skirt that morning. As I minced toward it, a faint ripple of hope surged through me, coupled with the horror of what I knew waited beyond the chair.
She lay on her stomach with her head turned sideways, a shocked expression on her face. Hands splayed out, as if she’d fallen and tried to catch herself. Her black hair covered most of her neck, but it was apparent she’d been throttled. A ring of dark blue bruises circled her neck.
Willow Matilde Lissoneau would no longer torture her little sister. Her face, pinched on one side and saggy from the stroke on the other, looked pasty. Spittle covered blue lips. Her eyes bulged open, as if whoever strangled her had almost pushed them out of their sockets.
I gagged and ran to the bathroom, sobbing with relief and filled with horror.
***
When I came out, the house was full of officials. A gurney had been wheeled in, and someone kneeled by the body taking pictures. Before I could escape out the side door, a strong arm slammed me to a stop. The lady cop cleared her throat. Her nametag read Officer Runyon. “Going somewhere, miss?”
“Please, I have to find Callie.” I sagged against her outstretched arm, then grimaced and turned to squeeze her hand. “Please help me. Something’s really wrong.”
Officer Runyon narrowed her eyes. “You think?”
I tried to plead with her and my words tumbled out in a rush. “Listen. I just checked Callie’s house.” I pointed to the porch that showed beyond the curve of the cove. “That’s her place, right over there, the yellow house. She’s Willow’s sister.”
“And who the hell are you?”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but controlled myself. “I am Marcella Hollister. My husband and I run the antique shop, The Barn.” When she looked blankly at me, I tried harder. “You know it, it’s up on Cratsley Hill Road, just after the final dip in the road.” For some reason, getting her to recognize that we were solid citizens suddenly seemed incredibly important.
“Okay. Yeah. I know it.”
“I just saw Callie, the, er, deceased’s sister, this morning. But now she’s missing.” My voice had taken on that whiny quality I hated, but I couldn’t help it and felt the panic rise. “And maybe the guy who killed Willow has hurt Callie, too.”
Runyon’s left eyebrow rose. “We’ll check into it.” As if talking to a slow student, Runyon peered at me intently. “Meanwhile, Mrs. Hollister. You’re traipsing all over a murder scene. And I need to talk to you about what you heard and saw.”
“I know. I’ll wait at Callie’s in case she shows up. I won’t budge. I promise. Woman to woman.” After I said it, I realized it was stupid. Especially considering she was a female cop who’d had to prove that being a woman didn’t make her inferior or weaker. She’d probably taken loads of crap from the men in her unit.
She frowned at me, then as if she were granting me a huge favor, sighed and rolled her eyes. “Listen. Your friend Callie called in the murder. She’s probably just gone somewhere to pull herself together.”
I shook my head. “No, she wouldn’t just walk away. She’s got agoraphobia, real bad. What did she say?”
As if telling tales out of school, she lowered her voice. “She said her sister had been killed, gave us the address, and then hung up abruptly. We tried to call her back, but couldn’t reach her.”
My eyes widened and I pointed to the phon
e cord that had been ripped out of the wall beside the refrigerator. “Look.”
She followed my line of sight. Deep frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.
“Wait for me. I’ll be over shortly.”
***
I sat on Callie’s lumpy old couch with Beau’s head on my lap and my hands wrapped around a bottle of cold green tea I’d found in her fridge. Jumping at every sound, I watched out the window and waited for Runyon. Memories of years gone by assaulted me. My eyes played over the kitschy living room, filled with odd antiques I’d given her over the years. She loved anything weird and unusual. Like the carved trio of see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil monkeys on her mantle, or the six-foot long hand-woven afghan over the couch, depicting clowns and kittens frolicking in a field. Or the fifteen potted plants with weird and exotic flowers dripping from them.
I sat on my hands, hoping to stop them from shaking. Had Callie seen something suspicious at Willow’s place? Had she gone over there, found her murdered sister, and called the cops while the villain lurked in a closet? Maybe he pounced on her and ripped the phone line from the wall?
What if he killed her, too? Maybe he threw her body in the lake. Maybe it would wash up on my beach tomorrow morning, all swollen and pruned.
I pushed the ghastly image out of my mind and watched the yellow tape go up around Willow’s yard. A few more cars arrived, disgorging men in suits. After an hour, the coroner’s van and ambulance drove away.
I sighed and waited some more.
Callie’s wall shelves were packed with movies and books. There were hundreds of videos and DVDs, and twice as many romance novels. For fear of going crazy with worry, I dislodged Beau and started to browse through them. Some I remembered from our teen years, when we’d shared the more salacious novels and dreamed about love together. The newer section was on the shelf to the right of her fireplace. Mostly romances, I noticed the bottom two shelves featured books with gay protagonists. Callie had always been fascinated by the gay crowd, and had dragged me to a number of drag queen shows over the years.
I hadn’t minded; it had been fun. But sometimes I wondered if the real reason she’d never settled down with a man had been because of an inclination she’d hidden. Not that I’d care. I loved her for who she was, not who she was supposed to be.
And who wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry Doc West? He’d proposed to her three years ago, and she’d turned him down, albeit gently. “Just friends,” was how she put it. “Good friends.” And even though Doc was ten years her senior, the man was gorgeous. Curly gray hair, fit, with ocean blue eyes that would drown you if you stared into them too long. Best of all was his sterling heart. He was good through and through, and considered a great catch by the local women. He obviously had it bad for Callie, and kept coming around. But something told me she’d never end up with her legs wrapped around his waist. No, Callie would probably be a loner ‘til the day she died.
Did these books mean she didn’t like men? A part of me bristled, angry at her for not sharing the whole story with me. After all, we were best friends. Why wouldn’t she tell me?
I sighed. Unless she hadn’t admitted it to herself yet. And after that horrible night where her virginity had been ripped from her by those men, why would she ever want to consider sex again, anyway?
My wandering thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a still-frowning Runyon at the front door. Beau left my side to jump all over her. I called him back and motioned her inside. “Come on in, officer. Callie hasn’t come back yet.”
“She’ll be back soon.”
I wasn’t convinced.
I sat in the armchair across from the couch, and Beau immediately pushed his big body against my legs, laying his head on my knees. “Officer Runyon. Callie never goes anywhere. She doesn’t drive. And she’s scared to leave the house.”
Runyon’s head jerked up. “Scared? Why? Is someone after her, too?”
I hadn’t considered that option. Could she have been hiding out all these years because of something bigger than I’d imagined? “I don’t know. Like I said, she’s got agoraphobia, really bad. I mean, she won’t even step outside to get the mail unless it’s nightfall. And she hires a boy to do her yard work. That’s why it was so weird when she actually drove the boat over to my side of the lake this morning.”
“What time?”
I thought back. “Around nine.”
“Did she have a fight with her sister? Is that what drove her to go see you? You are her best friend, right?”
I looked up suddenly. “Why, no. She, er—”
Runyon interrupted me. “Because I just found out that a Miss Willow Lissoneau called the cops on her a few hours ago. Wanted them to arrest her for driving that boat without a license.” She pointed outside to the pontoon boat.
I stuttered. “Well, yes. She did. But—”
Runyon’s face tightened. “Seems to me, your friend Callie got pissed at her sister. Maybe they had a fight. Maybe she got mad. Real mad.”
I bristled and sat up, dislodging Beau’s heavy head from my lap. He repositioned himself and plopped it down on me again. “No. There’s no way. Callie’s not like that. She’s gentle. A real sweet soul. She’d never—”
Runyon stared me down. “Never what?”
My eyes narrowed. “Hurt anyone. Kill anyone. Never.”
“Well, way it looks to us is she did it, and she’s on the run.”
“No! Like I said, she doesn’t even own a car.”
“A car just down the road was stolen an hour ago.”
Her steely gaze wore me down. “No. I don’t believe it.”
“Doesn’t matter what you believe, hon. We have to find her. And when we do, we may charge her for the murder of her sister.”
I slumped back against the cushions. Hot tears scalded my cheeks. “Impossible,” I said. “Callie wouldn’t.”
“So, what’s your theory, Detective Hollister?”
“Somebody took her. They stole that car, killed Willow, and took Callie. I heard a car squealing its tires a few minutes before I got to Willow’s house. It must have been those guys that killed her and took Callie. I don’t know why,” I gulped tears, “but I’m going to find out.” I stood and walked to the window, facing the lake with my arms crossed across my chest. I could feel Runyon’s eyes glaring at my back. “I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 6
When Quinn returned from the shop, I’d been home an hour. I still sat on the couch, with Beau curled up on the rug beneath me. He couldn’t be left alone, not with a mid-July heat wave that was expected. We had AC, and he’d need to be comfortable. I’d brought his bag of dog food and his dishes, called the little girl who walked him every day, and made him a bed on the floor in our bedroom.
At first he’d sniffed all over the house, as if looking for Callie. Then he whimpered at me, pushing his cold nose into my hand, over and over again. Finally, he circled the floor and settled on the rug at my feet. His big sides heaved a few times, and he fell asleep.
I sat with the knapsack and sonnet book on my lap. I’d spread the oil bottles out on the coffee table, each standing upright like a little soldier. The heavy reference book lay behind them. Somehow, having these things next to me made me feel closer to Callie and Sky.
Both missing. Dead, like Willow? Or alive? The questions haunted me until Quinn came through the door and dropped down beside me on the couch. I lay my head against his shoulder. He rearranged all the oil bottles in perfectly straight lines while I told him the whole story.
I told you, he likes things even.
After I’d cried it out, he finally turned me toward him, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Shh. Stop now. You don’t know that she’s dead. You don’t know anything yet. You need to relax.”
“I know. I know! I just can’t seem to stop my brain from running on overdrive.”
He hugged me to him, and a thoughtful expression relaxed his features. He r
eached over me to select a green-labeled oil bottle. “What about this? Peace & Calming. Wanna try it? It’s a blend of tangerine, orange, ylang ylang, patchouli, and blue tansy.”
I wanted to roll my eyes in my usual skeptic fashion, but I was too damned tired to play that game. Instead, I held out my hand and took the bottle. “I guess. It can’t hurt to try it.” I twisted off the cap and poured a few drops on my palm. Rubbing both hands together, I lifted them to my face and inhaled deeply. I smelled citrus and other sweet, heady aromas. I breathed in, focusing on the amazing fragrance. In seconds, a sense of tranquility passed through me. Whether I’d willed it into being or had been truly influenced by the aroma, I didn’t know. But I felt better and just slumped against him while he plopped the heavy Essential Oils Reference Book on his lap and researched ailments. From the back, he pulled out a new-looking brochure published by Young Living Essential Oils, describing their basic oil kit. He studied it while I rested against him, trying to forget the horrified look on Willow’s face.
“Look at this.” He turned the booklet toward me. “Tons of these oils have antiseptic properties. Lemon. Cloves. Lavender. And some are antiviral and antifungal, as well. I remember my aunt particularly mentioned one of the blends as being good to kill germs and mold. I think it was this one.” He held up a brown-labeled bottle named Thieves. He flipped through the booklet. “Look here, it’s based on an old recipe passed down from families who survived the plague.”
“What was that, the fifteen hundreds?” I asked, my eyes half-closed and my mind still brewing over Callie and Willow.
“I don’t know, but a long time ago. It says here ‘fifteenth century thieves and grave robbers rubbed cloves, rosemary, and other aromatics on their bodies to avoid contracting the deadly black plague.’ Wow. And some people use it to stop colds, prevent viruses. My God.” Totally in his element now, he opened the bottle and dripped some onto his palm. The air filled with the spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves. I sat up and smiled. “It makes me think of Christmas. And cookies. And…just good stuff.”
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