by Linda Grimes
“Good,” Billy said. “Then you’ll have time to research Christmas gift ideas for your brother online. Think gadgets. Or toiletries. I’m almost out of bubble bath”—he gave me a knowing look—“and I could use a new loofah, so you might start there.”
“Okay. What’s your favorite bubble bath, Ciel?” she asked, without missing a beat. My cheeks heated, much to Billy’s amusement. Honestly, the kid was way too savvy for her own good.
* * *
Billy, Mark, and I sat in a booth at the back corner of my favorite dive of a deli, Billy and me on one side, Mark across from us. My immediate fear for Billy having been alleviated, I was starving. Sure, I was upset about Mason, but that didn’t make my stomach any less empty. Same with the guys, so we’d ordered huge Reubens all around, a pile of greasy onion rings and another of fries, and giant kosher dills. Beer for the guys, lemonade for me. Billy had looked at me oddly when I’d ordered it instead of my usual brew, but hadn’t commented on it.
Mark had told Billy, along with Auntie Mo and Uncle Liam, about Mason when we’d dropped Molly off, once the munchkin had run off to the study to begin her Internet research on Christmas presents for Billy. They were all shocked, of course. Mark said there was no way to know if there was a connection to Aunt Helen’s murder at this point, but that it wouldn’t hurt for everyone to be extra cautious.
“So,” Mark said after we’d all taken the edge off our appetites. “What happened with you? I’ve told you everything we know so far about Mason Pickering. Your turn.”
Billy wiped his mouth and took a long swallow from his pint glass. “Well, after I succeeded in my mission to get Ciel into the simulator with Molly, I was preparing to take what I assumed would be a highly entertaining video of their faces on the monitor.”
“You rat!” I said, and elbowed him in the ribs. He was ready for it, so it didn’t faze him. I really had to learn some better moves.
“It was for your own good. I knew worrying about Molly would distract you from your own fears. Anyway, after watching some”—he glanced down at me, laughter dancing a jig in his eyes—“interesting, shall we say, sign language from our tiny friend here, I realized she wanted me to see something—”
“I thought I saw Loughlin as the simulator door was closing,” I explained. “And you try signing while you’re being spun around like a freaking gyroscope,” I added to Billy. “We’ll see who’s laughing at whom then.”
He nudged me with his shoulder apologetically. “You were adorable, as always. Anyway, when I finally figured out I wasn’t watching some weird new form of performance art, I turned around and there he was, the photographer from the funeral. He bolted like a jackrabbit on crack when he saw I’d spotted him. I took off after him. Someone jostled my arm, and I dropped my phone. Couldn’t take the time to pick it up, or I’d have lost him for sure.”
Mark chewed quietly, not saying anything, knowing Billy would give him all the pertinent information without prompting.
“He caught a cab on Twelfth. I flagged another one down. Thought for a minute I’d be able to keep him in sight, but for some reason my cabbie was averse to breaking a few measly laws, no matter how much money I waved under his nose.”
Billy turned to me. “I would have called you, cuz, but…”
“Yeah, no phone. I’m glad you’re all right.” And I was. I wasn’t even mad about the simulator. He was right—I needed to get over my fears about crap like that, if only to keep up with Molly.
Billy kissed the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a slippery son of a bitch. Ask Mark if you don’t believe me.”
The corner of Mark’s mouth lifted ruefully. “He is. Billy can take care of himself. Listen, you look beat. You staying at your folks’ place?”
I automatically adjusted my aura to remove any traces of tiredness. “No, Thomas and Laura are using my room there while they’re in town. Mom wants them right under her nose as much as possible. I’m at Billy’s. Well, officially—as far as Mom and Dad know—I’m at James’s, but really I’m at Billy’s.”
The guys exchanged a look, and Billy said, “Maybe you should stay with your parents tonight, cuz. I have an early meeting with one of my clients in D.C. tomorrow, so I’m leaving in a little while. And James and Devon are out with Devon’s family.”
“So?” I said.
“So maybe it would be good for you to stay with family, that’s all,” Billy said.
I threw down my napkin. “Oh, come on. Are you serious? You think I can’t handle being alone? You know I can take care of myself, Mark. Hell, I almost kicked your ass. Jet-lagged.”
To his credit, Mark kept his amusement confined to his eyes. “You did fine, Howdy. But kicking ass doesn’t help much against a stun gun and a knife.”
“What are you saying? You think Loughlin killed Aunt Helen? And Mason? But that doesn’t make any sense. Heck, we don’t even know if Mason’s murder is connected to Aunt Helen’s.”
“It makes as much sense as anything else right now, cuz. And Loughlin is here in New York. We know that from the funeral.”
I sucked more too-sweet lemonade through my bendy straw, thinking. “Right. Okay. I can help you find him, Mark. With Billy gone, you’ll need me.”
Mark shook his head. “I gave the police his picture. They’re looking for him as a ‘person of interest,’ and will let me know when they have him. I’m going to get some much-needed sleep.” He punctuated his statement with a huge yawn, covered by the back of his hand.
Billy hit me with the Doyle eyes, full power. “Look, will you please stay with your parents tonight? As a favor to me?”
I divided a glare between the two them. “Okay. But I’ll have to sleep on the couch in the basement. And I’m not happy about it.”
* * *
Mom and Dad already knew about Mason’s murder, of course. Auntie Mo had probably called Mom within seconds of our dropping off Molly. They were upset, of course. Ditto Thomas and Laura, but they agreed it was pointless to assume there was a connection to Aunt Helen until Mark found out more. Still, they all seemed happy I was staying under the same roof with them.
I pleaded exhaustion as soon as Billy and Mark left, and decamped to the lowest reaches of the house, suddenly longing for the oblivion of sleep with a passion I normally reserve for hot fudge sundaes.
Contrary to what I had implied to Billy and Mark at the diner, the couch in Mom and Dad’s basement is exceedingly comfortable. I used to fall asleep on it all the time when I was a teenager, watching fascinating shows on cable stations my parents didn’t know I knew they had. I could have slept in one of the bunk beds in James and Bri’s old bedroom, but Mom would’ve had to clear out a bunch of as-yet unwrapped presents. Thomas’s old room was now Mom’s office, so that wasn’t an option either.
Besides, the basement was the warmest, most welcoming place I knew, especially during the holidays. Nobody could decorate like Mom. (Well, except maybe Auntie Mo. There was a friendly rivalry between them.) The day after Thanksgiving, Mom always mobilized all her kids, along with Dad, and we transformed the house from top to bottom, turning it into a place it was easy to imagine St. Nick living with Mrs. Claus and a passel of cheerful elves. There was no getting out of the forced labor either. If any of us tried to opt out on the grounds of, say, having to work at our paying jobs, she merely said fine, we’d have to clear the turkey off the table and work all night on Thanksgiving to get it done. Yeah, right. Like any of us could even move then.
The real reason I didn’t want to stay there was Laura. Don’t get me wrong—I loved her as much as ever. But the whole pregnancy thing was needling its way into me. As long as I stayed away from her, I could mostly keep myself from thinking about—
Yeah. That.
Sleep, the elusive bitch, decided to play hard to get. Of course.
I pulled the pillow over my head and balled myself up under the plush comforter, for the first time in my life willing myself to feel something starting up in
my nether regions. A cramp. A backache. A twinge. Anything indicating an impending visit from my good friend Flo, as Mom so euphemistically called it. (I’d include cravings for excessive amounts of salty snacks and chocolate, but I pretty much always had those.) I mean, I’d never been regular, so lack of a timely period wasn’t unusual. Then again, I’d never had any reason to worry about the reason behind its absence before either.
After tossing and turning most of the night, my head whirling through twisted dreams of a hugely pregnant me sitting in an interrogation room, with either Billy or Mark—I couldn’t tell which; probably some combination of the two of them—behind the blinding light shining in my eyes, I gave up on rest. Apparently my superstitious avoidance of alcohol and pregnancy tests was not enough to let my subconscious relax. Never in my life had I been so relieved to wake up at the butt-crack of dawn.
Screw this shit, I thought, my hand firmly pressed against my belly, seeking reassurance from its flatness. I’m outta here.
I’d have to take a damn test, of course. If I could figure out a private place to do it, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring one back here.
But first I was going to hit my brother James’s gym and subdue my stupid mind with extreme physical activity. I knew it was open, because when James worked out, he liked to get it over with early. Said it cleared his head and made tackling scientific conundrums easier. (I suspected keeping in shape for his gorgeous boyfriend might have had something to do with it, too.) I wasn’t sure how well strenuous exercise worked with emotional conundrums, but it couldn’t hurt. At least it would keep me from having to make happy baby talk around the breakfast table.
Yeah, right. Like I could be so lucky. I smelled food in progress as soon as I got up the stairs.
Mom and Dad were in full-on breakfast mode, with Mom (festively dressed in a cashmere sweater with a big Rudolph face, complete with battery-powered blinking nose—nobody could marry expensive and tacky quite like Mom) whipping up eggs for omelets, and Dad (topped with a Santa hat I knew he only wore for Mom’s sake) manning the griddle for his famous buttermilk pancakes.
There was bacon sizzling in a big cast iron skillet, and—I sniffed the air, sorting and organizing the various delectable aromas in my head—Mother of God, was that Moravian sugar cake heating in the oven? Mom always ordered it from Dewey’s down in North Carolina this time of year, but she usually made us wait until Christmas morning to eat it. Too bad none of it smelled appetizing in the least. (Well, possibly the sugar cake.)
So much for sneaking out.
Thomas and Laura sat at the kitchen table, Thomas sipping strong black coffee, Laura with what looked to be some sort of weak herbal tea. Yikes. You had to give up coffee, too?
Laura was the first to see me, and greeted me much too cheerfully for the early hour. “Hey there, sugar. Sorry we bumped you out of your bed last night.”
Thomas looked up from the headlines he was reading on his latest tablet. “Hi, sis. Laura may be sorry, but I’m not. Your bed is comfortable.”
Dad abandoned the griddle briefly to give me a hug. “Good morning, sweetie pie. Hope you slept well.”
“I did, thanks,” I lied.
Mom crossed to give me a kiss over the bowl she held between us, still stirring the eggs. “You’re up early.”
“Not as early as all of you. What’s up?” I said, wrapping it around a yawn.
“I need to get started on some casseroles for poor Mason’s family. His mother—you remember Miss Alice, the nice lady who used to make her own pickles?—I spoke to her a little while ago. She’s always been an early riser, and I knew she wouldn’t be sleeping anyway, so I took a chance and called. She said Mason’s will stated explicitly that there was to be no funeral service. I don’t understand it, but if that’s what he wanted…” Mom paused for a breath and stopped stirring long enough to dab at her eyes with a dish towel. “And your brother has an appointment with one of his clients who’s up here for the holidays. Laura and I”—the tears turned to a happy glow as she looked at the mother-to-be—“are taking the opportunity to go shopping for maternity clothes. It’s never too early to start stocking up. You’re welcome to join us, of course.”
I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder, and hoped Mom would take it as nothing more than my loathing of shopping in general. “Um, no thanks.”
“All right, sweetie. What kind of omelet do you want? Plain, cheese, or Western?”
Gah. If I stayed to eat, they’d notice if I didn’t drink my usual half a pot of coffee. But if I did drink it, and it turned out I was—don’t go there. Leave. Leave now.
“No omelet for me. I have to get going. I’m meeting James at the gym for an early workout.” It wasn’t a complete untruth. He went most mornings, and just because he didn’t know I was coming didn’t mean I wouldn’t meet him there.
Supremely skeptical looks were lobbed at me from everyone except my sister-in-law. She didn’t know me well enough yet to realize how out of character my excuse was.
“Hey, it’s Laura’s fault. I have to keep in shape for her lessons,” I said.
She smiled encouragingly at me (not one bit green around the gills, in spite of her confirmed pregnancy—how was that fair?) and said, “You’re doing great, Ciel. All your hard work is really paying off.”
“You have time to eat,” Mom said. “I’ll make your omelet first.”
“Sorry, but I’m already late. I’ll take some coffee in a travel mug.” They’d be all over me with questions if I didn’t have coffee. Mom would probably drag me to the doctor, thinking I had the plague or something.
“That’s not enough to start your day.”
I sniffed the air again. “Maybe I can eat a piece of sugar cake on the way.” That had better be okay. If it turned out I had to give up sweets on top of booze and coffee, I might as well shoot myself and be done with it. It would be easier.
“Well, all right,” Mom said. Reluctantly. “It’s done. I’ll cut you a piece while you pour your coffee. But you better promise me you’ll eat a healthy breakfast after your workout.” She bustled as she spoke. Her culinary creations might not always turn out, but she was a champion kitchen bustler.
“I’ll make James take me out for breakfast before he goes to work.” Again, not necessarily a lie. If I happened to run into James at the gym, I would wheedle him into taking me to breakfast. He’d expect it. And he, at least, was absentminded enough not to notice if I didn’t drink coffee.
I snapped the lid on and pretended to take a sip. Gah. One tiny taste and I had to fight my impulse to drain it dry.
What the hell are you doing, Ciel? This is stupid. You can’t possibly be …
I lifted the mug again, determined to take a real sip. Because, now that I considered it in the light of day, there was no way I was pregnant.
Yeah, but what if? the troublemaking little fearmonger in my head said. And think of all the coffee you’ve had in the past few months. The Big Guy Upstairs can’t hold you responsible for what you drank before you knew, but …
I tore the mug away from my mouth. Coughed to cover the jerky motion. Big mistake to cough around Mom. Her hand was on my forehead before I could inhale.
“Are you coming down with something? Should you go back to bed? You do look kind of peaky—have you been getting enough rest? Maybe I should call the doctor.”
“No! Mom, I’m fine. I, um, swallowed wrong. Relax, okay?”
“Open your mouth. I want to look at your tonsils.” She stood eye to eye with me (she’s short, like me), pinched my chin, and tugged my mouth open.
I dutifully stuck my tongue out at her. I’d learned from long experience it was faster to let her examine me and get it over with. Besides, it was the only time I could get away with sticking my tongue out at her without her calling down the wrath of God on me. Not seeing anything to alarm her in my mouth, she double-checked for fever on both sides of my neck. Finally, she seemed satisfied.
“Okay,
then. Remember, sweetie, breathe first, then swallow. It never works well when you try to do it at the same time”—she raised one eyebrow at me—“no matter how big a hurry you’re in.”
“Yeah, yeah. Got it.” I was in a hurry, so I didn’t take time to give her an exaggerated eye roll. “See you guys later,” I called over my shoulder.
“You be careful! Do you need money for a taxi?” Mom hollered after me.
I waited until the door was safely closed behind me to roll my eyes.
* * *
As it happened, I had plenty of money for a taxi. Sure, only because Billy had pulled me aside and slipped a roll of twenties into my pocket before he’d left the evening before, but whatever. When I’d told him I didn’t need it, he’d asked me how much cash I had on me. Checking, I’d been forced to admit I was down to seventy-three cents and a fuzzy Life Saver.
“But I have plenty,” I’d told him. “Really. As soon as I get to an ATM.”
“Ciel, I don’t want you going anyplace without ready cab money in your pocket. You never know when you might need to get somewhere—or away from somewhere—fast.”
“Cabs take plastic nowadays, you know. And I almost never forget my credit card anymore,” I’d pointed out.
“Very good, sweetheart. I’m proud of you”—I’d stepped on his toes; he’d only grinned, because he was wearing heavy hiking boots—“but it’s easier to bribe them with cash. You know, in case you want to go somewhere they don’t want to take you.”
Before I could argue further, he’d kissed me goodnight, and then I hadn’t felt like arguing anymore. His kisses tended to have that effect on me, which might have annoyed me more if I couldn’t tell they had the same effect on him.
Within a block, I was awfully glad for the extra cash in my pocket, because I had forgotten my wallet (sue me, I had a lot on my mind), and I was starting to get the creepy feeling someone might be following me.
An SUV I didn’t recognize, parked across the street from my parents’ house, had started up right as I reached the sidewalk, and had made a U-turn, so it was heading the same direction I was. Could be a coincidence—maybe somebody happened to be leaving at the same moment I was—but it was traveling pretty slowly.