by Sara Rosett
I could see Abby was about to lose it, so I said, “Isn’t there a program, a federal grant or something to help military families who can’t sell their houses?”
“Gavin checked into that. We don’t qualify. We bought our house before some arbitrary date, so we don’t get anything. We’re on our own. We had to do it.”
Abby’s eyes narrowed as she asked, “Hasn’t Gavin been gone? I know he was deployed with Jeff. So how could Gavin have broken into my house?”
Cecilia readjusted her glasses. “Oh, that. Well... Gavin had to deploy, but we still had bills to pay and once I saw how easy it was, I . . . ah . . . I got a kid who lives around the corner to . . . do a few things for me.”
“How?” Abby barked, completely abandoning the good-cop role.
Cecilia scrunched back in her chair at Abby’s sharp tone. “I told him we were playing a prank on my friends. Look, you don’t understand. It’s not like anyone missed anything I took. You could go right out and buy a new phone. I wasn’t hurting anyone.”
“Anything you took?” I asked, tilting my head. “I thought you said it was only Gavin and this neighborhood kid who took stuff.”
“It was,” she said quickly. This was sounding a lot like the rambling, not quite consistent explanation that I got from Livvy a few days ago when I found the stash of candy-cane wrappers under her bed. I didn’t believe Cecilia was a bystander. Was there even a kid? Probably not. I bet that Cecilia took over the stealing when Gavin deployed. That would explain the differences between the earlier break-ins and the slightly sloppier later ones.
“Why don’t you sell this house?” Abby asked. She was obviously still trying to work out why Cecilia had resorted to breaking and entering.
“And live where? In an apartment? We can’t even afford a studio in a crummy part of town. No, I won’t live in a place that’s dangerous. We have our baby to think of.”
There was a huge hole in her logic, but I figured pointing out that breaking the law wasn’t an ideal way to prepare for parenthood would be lost on her.
I wasn’t sure what the end game was for Abby and me. We were getting our questions answered, but what would happen after that? Did we want to try and talk her into calling the police to confess? Were we going to leave, then call the police? Would she let us leave? There were two of us against one of her, if it came down to that, so I figured Abby and I could get out, barring something that tipped the scale in her favor. I quickly scanned the kitchen, but didn’t see anything that could be used as a weapon—no visible knives or . . . heavy pans. Not even a rolling pin in sight. Since we were barreling along this road like a car without brakes, we might as well ride it out and get all the information out of her that we could, so I asked, “How did you make any money . . . pawn shops?” Unlike Abby who was interested in the why, I wanted to know the how.
“No, that would be stupid. The police check pawn shops.”
“But not consignment shops?” I asked conversationally. “I saw a purse today at a shop that looks exactly like the one stolen from Abby’s house.”
Cecilia closed her eyes briefly, then said, “Okay, look. Yes, I took the purse to the consignment shop, I had to. Gavin had a . . . system. He found this guy—Jerry—who bought the stuff from us. God, I could kill him,” she said, her tone exasperated. “If he’d just showed up yesterday like he was supposed to, you never would have found this stuff.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?” Abby asked, a horrified look on her face. “That you’d . . . kill someone?”
“No,” Cecilia said, confused. “Of course not.” Cecilia stared at her, confusion and then shock chasing across her face. “You think I—you think I killed Jean? No. No way. I would never, never do something like that. Taking a few things is one thing, but killing someone? No. That’s not me.”
She said it so vehemently and looked so frightened that I almost believed her. Cecilia had lied about so many things. And she was a good liar. I’d bought her breezy line about not having anything made of gray snakeskin that night outside the food bank.
Her head swiveled between Abby and me, her eyes wide with fear behind her glasses. “I know you don’t have a reason to believe me, but it’s true. I promise. I’d never hurt Jean. Oh, wait,” she said, tension flowing out of her body. “Last Thursday, I was at the bank during lunchtime. We had an overdraft and it took forever to get it straightened out,” she smiled triumphantly. “Nothing to do with it.” When neither Abby nor I responded, she sighed. “I can prove it. I got to know Debbie, the branch manager, quite well while I was there. Look, I’m sure we can figure this out, but right now I really have to pee.”
She stood up, then quickly grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself. Abby jumped up, but Cecilia held up her hand. “I’m okay. Just a bit of a head rush. Must be everything that’s going on. I might be a bit dehydrated.”
“I’ll get you more water,” Abby said. Cecilia nodded and walked down the short hallway that ran by the garage to the guest bathroom and spare bedroom.
I grabbed my cell phone and moved to the opposite corner, in the living room, searching for a signal.
“What are you doing?” Abby asked.
“I’m already a suspect in a murder investigation. I can’t risk Waraday thinking I’m a party to this, too,” I said, holding up the phone near the window.
“Don’t you think it would be better for Cecilia to call?” Abby said.
“Yes, of course, but will she do it?” I asked. Abby didn’t have an answer. I moved back into the kitchen. “What if she comes out of the bathroom and refuses to call? Then what? Aha!” I said as several bars appeared on my phone.
A crash sounded from down the hall. Abby and I both looked at each other, then I replaced my phone in my pocket and we walked down the hallway.
The bathroom door was closed. “Cecilia? Are you okay?” I called.
Silence.
Abby knocked. “Cecilia, we heard a crash. What happened ?”
After a few more seconds, I tried the door handle. It was locked.
Abby knocked harder. “Cecilia, open up. We’re getting worried.”
It was a simple push-button lock like the ones at our house. I tried to pop it with my fingernail, but that didn’t work because my nail was too short.
“Cecilia, please say something to let us know you’re okay. I’m sure everything will work out. We’ll figure out something,” Abby called, then whispered. “We need a nail file—or a knife. Something long and slender.”
I nodded, about to scurry away, then remembered that our house in Washington State had tiny narrow keys stowed on the trim surrounding the door frames. I patted the thin edge of wood above the door and touched metal. I pulled the key down and called, “Hang on, Cecilia, we’re coming in.”
A twist popped the lock. Abby turned the handle and the door swung open, revealing an empty bathroom.
Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season
Crafty Kid Ornaments
If you have kids, more than likely you have an overabundance of crafty ornaments that your kids made in school or church. What to do with all these Popsicle stick snowmen, clothespin reindeer, and macaroni-wearing angels?
A couple of options: Some families create a separate children’s tree solely to display their children’s ornaments, which can be a good solution if you have the space and the funds for a second tree. Another idea is to rotate the handmade ornaments each year, since many are delicate and tend to lose parts and pieces as the years go by. Only display a few at a time, including the crop from the current year. Keep the rest for your kids when they leave home. You can pass them on to your kids so they’ll have a few special ornaments for their own first Christmas tree.
Chapter Eighteen
The shower curtain had fallen. It lay across the tub at an angle. The window blind cords trailed over the floor. The blinds were gathered into a tight packet near the top of the window, thudding rhythmically against the glass. A cool breeze filtered
through the open window, curling around us as we stood there staring, our motionless image in the mirror reflecting back our surprised faces.
Abby moved first and in two short strides she was leaning out the window. “I can’t believe it—she went out the window.” She pulled her head back inside and turned to face me, hands braced on her hips. “The screen is down there on top of the hedge that runs along the house.”
I walked over for my own look. The window was wider than my shoulders and with the pane pushed all the way to the top, the opening was at least three feet high. Cecilia could have made it through the window easily. The drop to the ground was only about five feet. Several branches of the hedge with thick, waxy evergreen leaves were flattened. I scanned the backyard. I couldn’t see the farthest corners of the backyard, and Cecilia wasn’t lurking anywhere in the faint circle of the glowing back-porch light.
“If the police are quick, she won’t be able to get very far,” I said, turning from the window. Abby was already dialing on her newly recovered cell phone.
I heard a car engine turn over. It sounded odd, as if the noise was coming from two directions. I could hear the distinct rev of an engine through the open window, but the sound was muted, too, and coming from somewhere else—somewhere inside the house? I tilted my head and listened. Abby heard it, too. She moved the phone away from her ear.
I pushed by her as I dashed down the hall to the garage. I yanked open the door that led to the garage in time to see Cecilia’s white Kia surge backwards down the driveway, bounce over the gutter, and jerk to a stop inches from the bumper of my van, which was parked on the street. I could see Cecilia in the driver’s seat. She threw the car into drive and then sped away with a screech of the tires after giving us a jaunty wave. Then all I could see were diminishing red taillights.
For just a second, I thought of trying to follow her, but then I remembered that Cecilia’s house was one block away from the entrance to the neighborhood. She’d be on the busy state highway before I could even get my keys.
I went back in the house and looked around. A row of hooks inside the kitchen held a single key, probably a spare house key. Cecilia must have picked up the set of keys on her way to the bathroom. I hadn’t been watching her. I was too busy trying to find a signal on my phone and Abby had been refilling her glass of water.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” I said to Abby. “The police already don’t believe me.”
Abby asked, “We’re staying until they get here?”
“Afraid so.”
She tilted her head toward the garage. “Did not see that coming. Or the escape out the bathroom window, for that matter.”
“Me, either. I guess I do have some latent bias toward pregnant women, after all. I never would have thought—” I broke off suddenly as my gaze swept the kitchen. The bag of electronics was still on the kitchen table. The only thing missing was . . . I hurried into the living room to check. Nope, not there, either.
“What is it?” Abby asked.
“The duck decoy. It’s gone.”
“And how would you describe this missing duck decoy?” One of North Dawkins’s finest waited for Abby’s answer. Another officer was in the kitchen cataloging the electronics on the table.
Abby raised her eyebrows and her shoulders. “I don’t know much about decoys. It was wooden with its head turned backwards. I’m not sure what kind of duck it was—not a mallard. No greens or anything like that. It was all dark neutrals, browns, and cream. Really pretty. The painted feathers were very detailed.”
As he nodded and took down the description, I said, “You know, Nadia took a lot of pictures at the Christmas party. There might be one of the duck decoy.”
“That would be helpful,” Officer Fawkes said, but I got the feeling it was more of an automatic reply. “So, you’re saying that Cecilia Cedrick and her husband Gavin were part of a theft ring?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what she told us.”
“And after she told you this, she went to the bathroom, palming her keys and the wooden decoy on the way. Then she climbed out the window, entered the garage, and drove off in a white four-door Kia?”
“Yes,” I said in a small voice. It did sound odd when stated so baldly.
“And she just told you all this . . . admitted it freely?”
“Well, when I found the phones and stuff in the trash bag, she wanted to explain. I think she was hoping that she could talk us into keeping quiet.”
Abby nodded. “She did ask if we could just forget everything. She promised to return the stolen items, but then she realized that we suspected she might have killed Jean. That must have been what spooked her.”
I cringed. This was going to take a lot longer now. Officer Fawkes said, “Killed?”
“Yes, Jean Williams,” Abby said, her words slowing down as she realized how she’d just complicated things. “She died last week.”
“She was murdered,” I said, resigned to a long night. “You’ll want to contact Detective Dave Waraday at the sheriff’s office. “Cecilia denied having anything to do with Jean’s death.”
“But she sure got out of here fast. How did she get in the garage?” Abby wondered, obviously not worried about how strange our story sounded.
The other officer walked into the living room, carrying the electronics in an evidence bag. “There’s a coded entry pad outside the garage.”
“I guess we didn’t hear it because we were at the back of the house, trying to get into the bathroom,” I said.
“Where is Mr. Cedrick?” Officer Fawkes asked.
Abby and I exchanged looks, then I said, “We don’t know. Cecilia didn’t say where he was. Most of the time, the guys leave the house to the girls on book club night.”
“Have a seat,” Officer Fawkes said, “and I’ll be back with you in a moment.” He and the other officer stepped into the kitchen to confer. I pulled out my phone and dialed our house. When Mitch picked up, I said, “Sorry, honey, but I’m going to be a little late.”
Friday
The next morning, I cleared Mitch’s spreadsheets off the island and replaced them with rolls of wrapping paper, gift bags, and ribbon. It was the kids’ last day of school before Christmas break and my best chance to get all the gift wrapping done without locking myself in my bedroom, an action which immediately drew the kids’ attention. Last year, the situation had brought up the is-there-a-Santa-Claus question. Livvy had already guessed the truth about Santa, but I figured this was probably the last year before Nathan figured it out, too, and I wanted him to enjoy the Santa legend to the hilt before the imaginary bubble burst.
It hadn’t taken quite as long as I thought it would last night at Cecilia’s house. Waraday hadn’t shown up, but I expected his path would cross mine today. When I’d arrived home, the kids were in bed and Mitch was dozing in our bed, too. He was propped up against the headboard with the light on, surrounded with his spreadsheets. I’d gently removed the layer of paper, switched off the lamp, and crawled into bed. He’d come awake enough to wrap his arm around me and pull me to his chest. I’d filled him in on everything that had happened with Cecilia over the phone earlier in the evening. “Did they find Cecilia or Gavin?” he’d asked, his voice thick with sleep.
“No,” I said in a near whisper. Gavin hadn’t come home while we were there. I’d heard one of the cops report to Officer Fawkes that Gavin had been at the nearby Applebee’s watching Thursday Night Football during the book club meeting. The bartender reported that Gavin got a phone call and left abruptly. “Do you think we should be . . . worried? Do you think they’d come around here?”
Groggily, Mitch had shook his head. “I doubt it. They’re probably long gone. Headed for Florida or something.” His last word got lost in a yawn and we had both drifted to sleep.
Rex rubbed against my leg, and after cutting a huge swath of wrapping paper decked with wreaths, I reached down to pet him. “Good thing I’ve got you, isn’t it, boy,” I said to h
im. “I don’t need to worry about anyone bothering me with you around, right?”
His ears pricked up and he wagged his tail. He bounded away and returned with his tennis ball gripped on one side of his mouth. The only threatening thing he would do to someone would be lick them to death, but at least he looked tough. I tossed the ball for him a few times, then focused on wrapping again. Soon I was stuffing the last items into gift bags and fluffing tissue paper. I grabbed a roll of red ribbon and set to work making bows and tendrils of curlicues. Working with the gift wrap made me think of the white elephant gifts . . . the duck decoy and all the other presents that had been exchanged at the party. Could they be the key to everything that was happening? To Jean’s death? Something was definitely up with the duck decoy.
I set the last bag under the tree, then retrieved the file on my computer with the photos that Nadia had e-mailed to everyone after the party. I found one of Abby holding the decoy up to the side, like a prizefighter hoisting a trophy. It took me awhile but I clicked, zoomed, and cropped until I had a close-up. Solid items, things that could be sorted and shifted, were what I felt most comfortable with, but I was getting better at this digital stuff. I minimized the decoy photo and did a Web search for duck decoys. After sifting through several pages of links and trying different descriptions, I found a link to a news article about the growing popularity of duck decoys as collector’s items. I scrolled down to a picture of a decoy that looked almost exactly like Abby’s white elephant gift. I nearly fell out of my chair when I read the tag line. “Preening pintail drake decoy by A. Elmer Crowell. Sold at auction for over a million dollars.”
“A million-dollar duck,” I said, stunned, and patted blindly around on the desk for my phone as I skimmed the text. I dialed and it was only when Abby’s voice mail picked up that I remembered she was teaching. “Abby. Call me. I found the match to your duck decoy online. It wasn’t exactly a white elephant—not by a long shot. Call me and I’ll tell you how much the twin to your decoy went for at auction.”