Girl Blue (A Brown and de Luca Novel Book 7)

by Maggie Shayne

  I held my clutch, also black, in both hands, front and center, head bowed, eyes closed, feeling things out. It was kind of cool that at a funeral, this pose was not odd in the least. Usually, I had to face away from everyone or wear sunglasses or something. Oddly, standing around in public with your eyes closed is considered weird.

  A cold tingle tiptoed up my spine, making me lift my eyes and look around.

  Mason stood beside me in a blue-black suit. He wasn’t going to go unnoticed for long. My man was hot in that suit. I liked the way it fit across his chest and shoulders.

  His eyes met mine. I wiggled my brows. He flashed the dimple of doom, then turned somber again and returned his attention to the main event. Yeah, I lost focus, there, didn’t I? He tended to have that effect on me.

  I looked at those gathered around the casket of Dwayne Clark, the guy I vividly remembered strangling. I used my five regular senses this time.

  The first person I noticed was a sunshine blonde no bigger than a whisper. Late thirties, maybe forty, and pretty and somehow as soft as bunny fur. She stood between two other women, a redhead and a brunette. The brunette was Juanita Clark, Dwayne’s ex. I’d scoped the widow out on social. She was even sexier in person than in her profile picture. Her black dress clung to every curve, her cleavage was capable of hiding Jimmy Hoffa, and her face was flawless. Her little boy Juan stood in front of her, dark brown hair, big brown eyes, baby cheeks that would probably be gone by the end of first grade. The blonde was stroking the child’s hair. Juanita had her hand on his shoulder.

  I closed my eyes behind my Jackie O sunglasses.

  The blonde loved the kid almost as much as his mom did. She just sort of radiated love. I’d never come across anyone who felt like that before. She was gentle and fragile and cool, and had love oozing out of her pores.

  I opened my eyes, skeptical. Maybe my stuff needed a tune-up. Nobody was that good.

  “See the widow?” I whispered to Mason, beside me.

  “I am not looking at the widow,” Mason said. “I swear.”

  I looked up at him. He was looking at the widow, so I elbowed him in the ribcage.

  “Ow! Sorry. I just keep wondering what was she doing with him?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he was handsomer alive.”

  He lowered his head to hide his quick smile. “Or maybe she’s not as shallow as she looks.”

  “Nobody’s as shallow as she looks.” I know. I’m a shit.

  “The redhead is Holly O’Mally.”

  “Oh, the chief’s wife,” I said. Mason and I had done a little research before our movie, and it turned out he’d met Dilmun Police Chief Vince O’Mally more than decade ago. The chief had been a decorated detective for the Syracuse PD when Mason had been a rookie cop in Binghamton. They’d worked a case together or something. “I think the blonde is Holly O’Mally’s sister,” I said. “That’s the vibe I’m getting.”

  “Bullseye,” Mason replied. “Ivy Newman. She was little Juan’s Kindergarten teacher last year.”

  Of course the angelic blonde was a kindergarten teacher. Made perfect sense. Miss Honey.

  Ivy Newman bent to the little guy and said something. He nodded sadly.

  She looked our way then, sort of casually, spotted us, and then lowered her big black sunglasses over her eyes.

  “You okay here for a bit?” Mason asked.

  “I’m great here. The dead love me. They don’t even care that it’s not mutual. Why, where you heading?”

  “Back down by the entrance. Gonna chat up the chief.”

  When we’d arrived, there’d been a Dilmun Police SUV parked in the road outside the cemetery, probably in case any press showed up. The funeral was for the victim of an unsolved murder, after all.

  “I’ll meet up with you on your way out, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  He moved away from me. I edged in a little closer to the cluster of people standing around with their heads bowed, closed my eyes, and felt for anything unusual.

  That tingle went up my spine again. It felt like a warning, like you might feel if there were a serial killer or, I don’t know, a bear standing behind you. I’d experienced the former. Not the latter.

  I scanned the cemetery and caught a glimpse of motion way off in the distance where the tombstones gave way to woods. I focused there for a long moment.

  Nothing.

  Back to the matter at hand, the people surrounding Dwayne Clark’s open grave. I opened my senses to them. But it was what I didn’t pick up that was most interesting. None of the mourners seemed to be mourning. There was more relief than grief at the graveside.

  As the minister finished up, people filed past the widow to pay their respects. I got in line amongst them, exchanged banalities with folks I didn’t know in respect-for-the-dead murmurs, as one does at these things.

  “It was a beautiful service.”

  “The weather couldn’t have been nicer.”

  “What a perfect spot this is.”

  When it was my turn, I clasped the widow’s hand as the others had done and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I’m not.

  That was it, two words, loud and clear and angry, but entirely silent. She’d felt them strongly. And so had I.

  I relaxed my grip. Hers tightened, and she looked up at me. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  Ivy stepped up behind her and placed a delicate hand on the widow’s shoulder. She had the prettiest French manicure, all pink and shiny.

  “I’m here with Detective Brown,” I said softly.

  The chief’s wife, Holly, said, “Juanita, remember? Vince told you Detective Brown would be coming tonight?”

  “Right,” Ivy said, as if she’d just remembered that herself.

  I met Ivy’s eyes. They were light blue like aquamarines. No, I am totally serious.

  Juanita said, “Oh, the detective investigating Dwayne’s…yes. Yes. Is there anything new?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But Mason–Detective Brown–will fill you in, in a little while. We just wanted to pay our respects.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Then she looked past me at the next in line, so I moved on. Holly and Ivy–oh my God, I just got that–came with me.

  Ivy said, “It seems above and beyond the call of duty for a homicide detective and his wife to attend the funeral of a victim.” Her tone was soft, her energy, curious, and she was trying not to be offensive or rude. She was a self-conscious little thing. And yet everything in me was drawn to her.

  “Oh, we’re not married,” I said, deftly swerving around an answer. “I’m Rachel, by the way. Rachel de Luca.”

  “Ivy Newman.” She extended a hand. I took it and made a long, slow blink a part of my smile. She felt warm, and kind, and gentle. She was also deeply, deeply wounded. It was a heart wound.

  “And this is my sister, Holly.”

  “Mrs. Chief O’Mally,” I said, with a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you, Holly.”

  She took my hand, too. And I heard her panicked thoughts, Murdered. Dead. Strangled. And then out of nowhere, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…

  Our hands separated, and I pulled myself out of her head like pulling my shoe off a piece of gum on the floor.

  An older couple gathered around Juan and Juanita, sort of herding them toward the parking area. The crowd was dispersing, I realized. It was time to go. Juan looked back at Ivy, waved at her. She waved back, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  The three of us walked together back toward the cemetery’s entrance. Mason had intercepted Juanita and was talking to her, a little bit away from everyone else.

  “It’s a shame what happened to that family,” Holly said. “First the divorce, and now this. It’s just so hard to believe.” The sisters were flanking me as we walked down the path toward the cemetery gate. Holly had calmed herself. I guessed the internal counting was her stress mechanism. I could sense her better now that she'd stopped. She was friendly and funny and kind
, and madly in love with her husband. And she was worried about her little sister.

  “I hope it was amicable. The divorce, I mean.” I knew it wasn’t.

  Holly shook her head. “Not by a long shot. The custody fight has been vicious.”

  “Holly, maybe this is stuff that should stay private,” Ivy said softly. I felt her not wanting to make her sister mad, but protective of Juan and his mom.

  "I consult with our department on an official level,” I said, like that would make it okay to talk to me.

  “Really?” Ivy asked, looking at me quickly. “In what way?”

  “Well, it’s…” Not fucking psychic, that’s for sure. “It’s kind of my own thing.”

  She looked right into my eyes, smiled just a little, and I understood why kindergarteners hugged her.

  Holly said, “You should come by the house before you head back. I’ll make dinner. Ivy, you too. It would be good for you to get out.”

  Ivy dipped her head. “I don’t know. Aside from school, this is the most I’ve been out since–”

  “I know, hon.” Holly touched her sister’s shoulder. “Still, I think you should come. No pressure, though. You decide.”

  We’d exited the cemetery’s open gate onto the winding country road, where Mason had finished with Juanita and was now leaning on the hood of a police department Bronco chatting with Chief O’Mally, whose photo I’d seen online. O’Mally was bigger than Mason only because he had several more years’ worth of insulation. Their builds were similar, though, and I decided that my hunky honey could rock another twenty pounds and still make my girl parts tingle.

  I moved up beside him. He put an arm around me, just like I wanted him to. Ivy said goodbye, hugged her sister, then walked away. She picked up a bicycle she’d left on the side of the road, an old-fashioned one with a basket on the front, and she pedaled away.

  “Does Ivy live close?” I asked.

  “Just up the hill.” Holly pointed. “The D’Voe mansion.”

  “As in Reggie D’Voe?” I could see the top parts of the house in the distance, peaks and turrets and a widow’s walk, just as creepy as you’d expect.

  “They were very close,” Holly said. “It’s been rough on her.”

  I met Mason’s eyes. We were both wondering the same thing; what was the relationship between Ivy Newman and the old horror film star?

  While the others were discussing dinner plans, those tiny, icy shivers tiptoed up my spine again. I looked back toward the cemetery and caught a glimpse of someone walking among the tombstones, way off in the distance where I’d glimpsed him before. He was heading away from us, tall and lanky, and slouched like his backbone was tired. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that it was Gary Conklin.

  “Mason?”

  He looked at me, then at where I was looking, but Gary had vanished among the trees.

  An hour later, we were sipping rum-punch from an actual punch bowl at Vince and Holly O’Mally’s modest white clapboard house. The place had a picket fence and flower boxes in the windows, all a’bloom with orange, yellow, gold and purple blossoms. I guessed Holly was one of those women who could actually grow flowers. I only seemed to be able to kill them.

  “So has Mason told you how we know each other, Rachel?” The chief asked. He wasn’t drinking punch, but a cold beer.

  Mason dropped his chin to his chest. “You gonna ruin my image, now, Vince?”

  The chief laughed softly. “He was a raw rookie on the Binghamton PD.”

  “And you were a decorated detective with Syracuse,” Mason filled in.

  I tried to pay attention, but kept glancing toward the front door every time a vehicle passed, wondering if it was Ivy.

  “There was a body in a park,” Vince said. “Mason was the one who spotted it. He was off duty, just happened to be there, but still, first cop on the scene.”

  Mason picked up the story. “I called it in. Detective O’Mally asked me to keep people off the crime scene until SPD arrived. But I, uh–got distracted talking to a bystander, and a bunch of kids on bikes blew right past me.”

  “Right through the crime scene,” O’Mally said. “A couple of ‘em rolled right over the victim. Contaminated the hell out of my evidence.”

  “And probably traumatized those poor kids for life,” Holly said, a hand on her husband’s shoulder. They were always touching, those two.

  I looked at Mason. “Was the bystander a hot female jogger?”

  “No.” He said it with the sincerity of an innocent man.

  I kept looking at him, waiting, because I knew there was more.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “She was doing yoga ten feet from my face. I really had no choice in the matter.”

  “Male,” I said, but I said it with love.

  We were still laughing softly when Ivy came in. She entered so quietly I didn’t even hear her. But I felt her. She felt like sunshine.

  “Hello, again,” she said. “Holly, what smells so good?”

  “A frozen lasagna. Best I could do on short notice. And as a matter of fact, it should be just about ready.”

  Ivy dipped out a cup of punch and sat down on a pretty chair. She didn’t sit back, but perched on the edge, like she wanted to be ready to launch.

  Thinking I could help out, and maybe she'd drop a tidbit more about this town and the Clarks, I followed Holly into the kitchen. It was pale yellow with white cabinets and trim. The countertop was the beigest of beige with slightly beiger flecks.

  “I get the feeling Dwayne Clark wasn’t exactly a beloved member of the community,” I said, setting my cup of punch on the counter.

  “Did you? What gave it away?”

  I shrugged, not answering as she took some pot holder mitts from a hook near the range.

  “He was a drinker with a temper. Got into a lot of bar fights. Didn’t get along with his neighbors. Just kind of an all-around a-hole.”

  I loved that she said a-hole. “Do you think that might be the motive? That maybe he pushed someone too far?”

  “I can’t believe anyone local could’ve done this,” she said. “It’s just not that kind of town." Anymore.

  The anymore part came so clearly I thought she'd said it out loud. It took me a beat to realize her lips hadn't moved. If I hadn't been looking at her, I might never have even known.

  Which made me wonder how many things I'd heard people say that they hadn't actually said. I usually had my eyes closed. Wow. A flaw in my gift-curse management methodology. She opened the oven, took out steaming hot rolls, and popped them into a waiting basket, lined with a spotless, red-and-white checkerboard dish towel.

  My jaw dropped a little in awe of her hostessness.

  "You can take these out, if you want," she said. "Oh, and there’s a salad in the fridge.”

  I accepted the basket of rolls, located the big salad bowl, and took both into the dining room.

  Holly came behind me with the pan of lasagna, and everyone gathered around the dining room table.

  The dining room and living room were both done in lake colors. Sky blue walls and crisp white trim. There were lots of framed photos on the walls, including several of Holly and Ivy as little girls, with and without their parents. But none as older girls, none as teens. The photos came to a halt when Ivy must've been around five, Holly a couple of years older. Was that odd?

  Seems odd to me, IB offered.

  I dug in. Holly had fancied up the frozen lasagna with extra sauce and cheese and seasonings. She reminded me of my sister.

  We ate, and we talked. Vince and Mason talked about police work, and the chief shared some of his war stories from when he’d served on the Syracuse PD. Holly told us that her father had passed, but that her mom was retired and living nearby, married to the former police chief, who’d passed the torch to Vince. Ivy talked about funny things her kindergarteners had said and done, and every one of them was a heartstring-tugger. But not about Reggie D’Voe, I noted. I talked about the boys and the bulldogs. I
probably talked too much about Myrtle as a rule, but no one had ever complained.

  After a while, we all helped clear up and then retired to the living room to sit and chat some more. Mason and I quit the rum-spiked punch after two, but Ivy was on her fourth or fifth, and as soon as she got into a big comfy chair, she started to nod off.

  “Poor thing,” Holly said, pushing her sister’s hair off her forehead. “Honey, why don’t you go lie down in the guest room?”

  “I can’t spend the night here. I need to be home.”

  “In that big empty house all alone?”

  “I have to,” she said. “But…maybe just a nap. If you promise to wake me in a couple of hours.”

  “I promise.”

  Ivy smiled. “You lie, though. It’s okay, I’ll set my phone to wake me.” She got up, and I swear, I could feel the grief in her. It was bone deep, and had been lurking there the whole time. The rum had weakened her defenses and let it spill out. But she smiled brightly all the same and said, “It was so nice meeting you, Rachel. I hope we see each other again.” She reached out to take my hand in both of hers.

  I looked down and noticed she was wearing a watch with a delicate oval face, gold hands and numbers, and a pink leather band.

  Holy shit.

  I clasped Mason’s forearm so hard it must’ve hurt. He glanced my way curiously, and I said, “We should get going, too.”

  “Yeah, the kids and the dogs are waiting,” Mason said. No questions asked. We shook hands, Ivy hugged me. I am not a hugger. I hugged her back and I felt nothing but goodness coming from her. There was no way she was a killer.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Mason went on. “It was fantastic.”

  “We should keep in touch,” Vince said.

  “Absolutely.”

  We got into the car, and Mason looked at me. “What?”

  My brain said, Ivy’s watch is the same one I saw on the wrist of the person who murdered Dwayne Clark. But my lips only said, “Let’s get over to Ivy’s house so we can take a look around before she finishes her nap.”