About time she dialed back the attitude and amped up the gratitude.
“Good plan. Worry causes wrinkles, and no one’s attracted to those. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I still have to invest a good half hour in keeping my husband content with my body. Oh, and you’re welcome.”
Kayla takes her leave, most likely to make Eli breakfast. I return to my music, refocus my workout. By the time I finish and go inside, they have retreated downstairs to do whatever it is they need to do before they take off. I can only imagine.
Cavin’s still asleep when I shower, but the hard splashing of water against tile wakes him soon enough, and I invite him in for some seriously sexy back (and other, more relevant, body parts) washing, careful not to forget about the risk involved with wet tile. Despite the clear—and slippery—danger, we manage second-round-in-a-single-morning orgasms, and I feel a little better about his imminent departure.
Said bon voyage doesn’t happen until early afternoon. It’s a lovely Sunday, and we both delay the inevitable, but finally I chase him out, a couple of hours after the kids leave. “I sent you a text with the door code. Let me know once the movers have all the furniture out and I’ll change it from here, then send Carol the new one to give to the Bairds. They’ll have to contact the security company going forward. Unless, of course, they trust me not to mess with them once that horrible woman redecorates my house.”
“ Her house,” corrects Cavin.
“Okay, I only hate you a little for that.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else that you want me to bring back?”
“Just what Charlie already boxed. It’s mostly some of my favorite cookware, Riedel glasses, etc. You should have plenty of room in the back of the Escalade, but if not, let the movers take it to storage. I can go through it whenever. I figure if I haven’t missed something in six or eight months, I don’t really need it and I’ll just send it all to Goodwill.”
“I thought you had it on your mind to buy another house somewhere, and might want it for that.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I arrive at the river. Besides, it would be more fun to go ahead and furnish a new house with no-memories-attached stuff.” Come to think of it, that really would be better. But I’ve paid for storage for a year up front. I’ve got plenty of time to decide. “Oh. Charlie is supposed to leave the key for the storage lock on the desk in my old office. You’ll have to go over and unlock it for the movers. I’ll text you the address and unit number.”
“I’ve got a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and I’ve got quite a drive ahead of me now. I’d better hit the highway.”
I hand him the keys to the Cadillac, reward him with a lingering, smoldering kiss.
“Thank you again for doing this. I’ll be breathlessly awaiting your return.”
He smiles. “I love it when you’re breathless. And I love you, milady.”
After he’s gone, I spend a couple of hours researching Fresh for Families, the nonprofit I’m to meet with tomorrow. The organization delivers bimonthly bins of fresh foodstuffs to families in need, partnering with fruit and vegetable growers, as well as nearby ranchers. They also donate ugly-but-edible produce to local food pantries. Having experienced hunger myself as a child, it’s a cause I can enthusiastically fund-raise for and one donors will eagerly embrace. I learn everything I can about the organization’s history, its GuideStar data, board member information, etc. It’s vital to know exactly who and what you’re representing when you dive into a major fund-raising effort, and I want to arrive at the meeting primed.
Once my brain is stuffed, my stomach demands equal attention. I whip up a veggie-heavy stir-fry with produce purchased yesterday from the farmers’ market. On the heels of my Fresh for Families research, I feel very good about what I’m consuming, even if I do chase everything with a sulfite-laden cabernet.
I eat in front of the evening news, feeling little distress over the lineup of stories: the latest crisis in the Middle East; the surge in hate group membership; a federal court overturning voter ID laws; the peppy new electric car that can travel an average of two-hundred-plus miles without recharging.
I’m still sipping my wine when the newscast gives way to an entertainment news program, tonight featuring Genevieve Lennon’s funeral, one I would’ve avoided even if it wasn’t almost five hundred miles to the south. Considering I’ve attended two in my lifetime, a pair in one month would be way over quota. Death celebrated? Not my cup of poison. In lieu, I lift my glass. “Here’s to you, my friend.”
Genevieve would doubtless not be surprised at the huge turnout—starring fashion industry gurus; movie, television, and music headliners; her regular entourage; and various others—overflowing the confines of some tony Los Angeles cathedral. Each one, at least everyone the camera lands on, is dressed to the nines, in true fashionista tribute.
I’d say all that’s missing is the red carpet, but the center aisle boasts one that’s the approximate color of blood. The cameraman pans to the front, where the insanely ornate casket rests, closed. Genevieve would not have wanted to be seen the way the accident left her, a fact that is deftly pointed out by the program’s hostess, who would likely feel the same way if her perky, blond good looks were ruined by a two-ton truck.
I have to wonder what pertinent factors contributed to the accident. Alcohol? The evening was young, unless she’d been drinking all day. Simple speed? No one’s in that big of a hurry to get to a party. Surely she wouldn’t have been texting? Or did something else distract her attention?
Suddenly I remember the last time I spoke to her. “There’s something you need to know. . . .” What could have been so important that she would only tell me face-to-face?
Now we leave the funeral and return to the studio, where Ms. Perky continues, “A fight is apparently brewing over the Lennon estate, which by all estimates is quite large. Though the model’s will names her manager as her sole heir, her brother, a criminal attorney, has filed suit, questioning the veracity of the document. . . .”
Enough with gossip TV. Grateful I’ve got my own estate safely tucked away in a trust, I hit the power button, refill my wineglass, and carry it out to the hot tub to enjoy a good, long soak, one hundred percent in the nude. I flip off the lights, not because I care if anyone sees me naked, but because it’s easier to see the stars, and the summer sky swarms with them tonight.
Both neighboring houses are also dark, I notice. The one to the south hasn’t been occupied since we got back from our honeymoon. The other belongs to the Littlefields, who generally keep their windows lit at night as a way, Steve told Cavin, to ward off nosy bears. The big animals are famous raiders, sometimes going right through doors to get to the goodies beyond them. But Cavin claims he’s seen only a couple, and they haven’t stayed long in the neighborhood.
Regardless, when I get out of the tub, I circle the house, making sure every door is locked on the off chance dead bolts will deter any bears that happen by. I’m glad I check downstairs because I discover Eli neglected to secure either of the exits. Plus, he and Kayla managed to leave lots of snack trash littering both the game room and his bedroom: a pizza box, with a half a piece left; chip and candy wrappers; cans and bottles, with varying amounts of leftover sodas. Okay, this is a definite discussion when he gets home. Next thing you know we’ll be invaded by rats.
Fuming, I take the time to dispose of the garbage properly and am clicking off the lights, trash bag in hand, when I hear something rustling around outside. I pause to listen. Nothing. Count to ten. Still nothing. Just my overactive imagination projecting a rodent army at the back door, or maybe a grizzly though I’m told only black bears frequent these woods.
Back upstairs, I haul the garbage on out to our bear- and rat-proof trash receptacle and toss Eli and Kayla’s detritus, and when I turn back toward the house, note the play of shadows where treetops shimmy beneath the moon. A warm wind has risen to rattle the boughs. That’s probably what I heard before.
Inside again, I decide a small taste of tawny port is in order. I pour from a favored bottle, settle on the couch to read. After finishing the last Henry Miller, I decided to try some of the classics I avoided in college and am working on Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The writing is lush, if a little sluggish. But tonight I’ve got nothing but time, and I’m not quite ready to give up on it yet.
After a while, between the wine and the book, I fall into a nice lull and am starting to doze when one of the downstairs doors shakes violently, jolting me into total awareness. The wind? No, it couldn’t be. I listen intently, nerves prickling, but whatever that was seems to have vacated the stoop. Suddenly, the far door below me quakes. What the hell?
I bolt from the couch. Did I lock the front door? I reach it in record time, damn the injury, and find the dead bolt thrown, so I switch on the upper floodlights, then turn back to the slider to throw the lower-level floods. Harsh white illumination envelops the property, and as I scan the landscape, a silhouette—human, not ursine—dashes into the woods. Down the hill, a dog starts to bark.
This I can’t dismiss.
twenty-seven
D ON’T PANIC,” SAYS THE 911 dispatcher, reacting to my near-hysterical call for help. “A deputy is on the way. You’re all alone there?”
I assure her that is the case. “What if this guy comes back?”
“Try to remain calm. Deputy Cross is less than ten minutes out.”
More than enough time for some dedicated felon to do me a fair amount of damage. But I take a couple of deep breaths. “I’m okay.” I don’t mention the handy-dandy, and recently sharpened, butcher knife I’ve armed myself with.
“I can stay on the phone with you if you want.”
Not like that would do a whole lot of good, but I keep her on the line anyway. She can listen to my dying screams as I’m murdered. “I really wish you would. Oh, hey. I think I see the deputy coming now.”
I’ve been pacing between the sliding glass door and the front entrance, and, peering out the windows adjacent the latter, I notice the sweep of a spotlight. Soon enough, the squad car pulls up in front of the house. The brawny cop who gets out could successfully arm wrestle a bear, and his expression befits his name. He looks pissed.
Still, in his unassuming tan uniform, he plays the consummate professional, pausing to assess the house. His head swings side to side and back toward the road, and I think he must be measuring distances, as well as the building’s relationship to its neighbors, and its orientation on the hillside. Now he continues to the door, which I open before he reaches it.
“Deputy Cross?”
Up come his hands, into a defensive posture. “Hey now, put down the knife. I’m not the bad guy.”
I didn’t even notice I’d raised it. “Sorry. I forgot I had it.” I lower it to a nonthreatening position at my side.
“I sure hope you’re trained in dagger wielding.” His smile mitigates his consternated look. “May I come inside?”
Sure, if he can fit through the door. “Of course.”
He manages the requisite squeeze and follows me into the living room, where I deposit the knife on top of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. That does not escape the deputy’s notice. “I tried to read that book once. Didn’t make it very far.”
“It is a bit of a slog. You just have to get to the good parts.”
Discomfiture blooms in his cheeks. “Ahem. Yes, well, let’s get down to business, okay? Tell me what happened.”
I fill him in and about halfway through he starts nodding his head.
“We’ve had a string of B and Es—that’s breaking and enterings—in the area. Mostly vacation cabins, but not all of them, and this house has the appearance of a place that would have good stuff to burgle.”
“So, you think that’s what this was?”
He shrugs. “Could be, unless you’ve got another reason for someone trying to get inside. You have a stalker?”
At the moment, no. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Not much of a point to stalking if the victim isn’t cognizant of the activity. I mean, where’s the fun in that?”
The man is blunt. I suppose that’s a good thing in a cop.
“Now, do you want to show me where the break-in attempt occurred?”
“Downstairs.”
He follows my deliberate descent, and I gesture to the doors on each end of the hall. Outside, the floodlights reveal footprints in the soft dirt, and traces of soil on both cement landings. Deputy Cross tracks them with his flashlight while I wait in the game room. Eventually, he returns, carrying a crime scene kit. “Looks like he came down that exterior staircase to the eastern door first, then circled the house to the back. I’ll dust for prints, but odds are good I won’t find any.”
“Oh, you definitely will find some. My husband’s son, Eli, lives down here, and until today, so did my niece. They both use these doors regularly.”
“It would be good to have their prints for comparison, and yours and your husband’s, too. Any chance of that?”
“Everyone’s gone for a couple of days, I’m afraid. My husband and stepson will be home Tuesday evening. Kayla’s starting college in the Bay Area so she won’t be back for a while. But that’s Eli’s room. You could probably get whatever you need in there, including . . .” My nose wrinkles. “DNA evidence, if you get my drift.”
He laughs. “I see. Well, I won’t require that, so I’ll leave the sheets alone. In fact, I’ll probably come back and do the fingerprinting once your family gets home. It’s more reliable that way. Right now I’ll be tied up for maybe twenty minutes, and I’ll need you to fill out a police report. You can take it upstairs, if you’ll be more comfortable there.” He hands me a clipboard with the required statement attached.
I can’t think of a good reason to stay and watch, so I agree to meet him in the living room once he’s finished. “Be sure and lock up?”
“Cross my heart.”
I’m just wrapping up my statement of facts when Deputy Cross lumbers up the steps and into the room. “All done.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Several partials. We’ll run them through the database and see what turns up.”
“Was I in danger?”
“Hard to say. Some intruders do arm themselves. It’s always possible a confrontation could lead to bodily harm. And unless you’re really good with that”—he points to the knife, still sitting atop the book—“I wouldn’t suggest trying to use it for protection. Too many ways things could go wrong.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Other than investing in a good alarm system, if you were my wife, I’d make sure you had a gun and that you knew how to use it. Do you happen to own a firearm?”
“If I did, would I be running around with a butcher knife instead?”
“Good point. Are you at all familiar with guns?”
“Some. I grew up in rural Idaho, where pretty much everyone had one. My sister and I used to target shoot with one of my mother’s boyfriends. Barney insisted the apocalypse was imminent, and we had better know how to aim straight.”
“Have you ever owned one?”
“My first husband did.” Raul collected guns, and often brought special models home when they found their way into one of the pawnshops. “Ironically, they were stolen in a break-in, not long after he died.”
“You never replaced them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My second husband. He had a rotten temper and corrupt friends. I felt safer not having deadly weapons around.”
“What was he, a career criminal?” The deputy grins.
I return his smile. “In a manner of speaking. A politician.”
“Ah. Well, sounds like he’s past tense. What about now? You’re not afraid of your current husband, are you?”
“Only of catching whatever germs he might bring home from the hospital. He’s a doctor at Barton. But other than that, no, not
at all.”
“What about your son? Or your niece?”
“Eli is my stepson,” I correct. “He’s almost eighteen, with the commensurate lack of sound judgment. And Kayla takes medication for some mental health issues. But I’ve never seen either of them act out violently toward themselves or anyone else.”
“Then you might take my suggestion seriously. Just be sure to acquaint yourself well with your weapon. Guns are like people. They all have their quirks. Okay, let me see that police report.”
He skims it, nods. “This should do. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days. Meanwhile, we’ll increase patrols in the neighborhood. And don’t be afraid to call if you notice anything unusual.”
“Can I keep the butcher knife handy?”
“If it makes you feel better. But please leave it there until I’m gone. If there’s a problem on the front step, I’ll take care of it.”
I walk Deputy Cross to the door, noting the size of the firearm holstered on his ample hip. I don’t think I’d need something that big, but remembering how helpless I felt hobbling around after my last surgery, I am definitely considering the idea of handgun ownership. “What kind of gun would you recommend?”
He turns back to me. “Keep it simple. You want a small, reliable semiautomatic. Something you could tuck in your purse, but also something you can count on finding its target clear across a big room. Smith and Wesson has some excellent options, but personally, I prefer Glocks. There are several reputable gun shops in Reno and Carson City, but you might consider one that holds personal-protection and concealed-carry classes. They’re a bit pricey but worth your time. No use carrying if you have no real idea how to use a gun when you need it, and if you want to stash the weapon in your bag you’ll need the permit.”
True enough, and I doubt plinking cans with a .22 rifle thirty years ago qualifies. “Thank you for your time and advice. I’ll conduct some diligent research.”
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