by J. J. Cagney
“That was beautiful,” Susan murmured in a low voice. She patted Cici’s white robe, adjusting the deep purple stole Cici wore over her vestments. “Too bad the ass didn’t deserve such a moving tribute.”
Cici squeezed Susan’s finger with gentle pressure. “Any time you want to talk, call me. Or Carole. We’ll be here for you during this difficult time.”
Susan snorted.
“I’m heading to Cabo for a month, maybe longer,” she said. “I always wanted to go, but Don was too busy with work. Good thing he left me a nice fat retirement plan to help me get over him. With a cabana boy or a beach bum.”
Cici walked Susan out of the sanctuary, keeping her arm around the older woman, even though Susan appeared more than capable of walking on her own. Others began to trickle out, some to shake Susan’s hand and express their sympathies, others to give Cici an earful about her ceremony.
For the most part, the feedback was positive. Only Mrs. Hodgkins complained about the piano concertos chosen. Donna, the church’s pianist—who held a master’s degree in music theory from Juilliard—rolled her eyes discreetly, causing Cici to cover her laugh with an abrupt cough.
Donna smirked as she whispered her goodbyes to Cici, then promised more loudly to be in extra early tomorrow to work on her music. Mrs. Hodgkins nodded, telling Donna she really needed the practice. She hobbled off toward the small shuttle her retirement community sent for her.
Sam strolled up to Cici, hands in his suit pockets.
“Did good up there, slugger.”
“Not my first rodeo, cowboy.”
Sam smirked but his eyes continued to study her face. “I hurt you the other day.”
Cici dipped her head to the side. No point in denying it.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Though, I’m guessing it was more related to work than to support the reverend.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam said, rocking back on his heels. “Could be a bit of both.”
“Discover anything useful?” Cici asked.
Jeannette joined them, curving her arm through Sam’s and tugging him closer to her side. “Cecilia. Lovely service. But then, all your services are amazing.”
Cici smiled. “Blessings, Jeannette. Thank you for coming today. How is your family? Didn’t I hear something about a sick father?”
Jeannette tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze darting up to Sam’s face before returning to Cici.
“Good. Yeah, I went home for a week to see him. He’s better now. Thanks for asking.”
“How did you know Donald?” Cici asked.
Her smiled pulled, straining at the edges.
“Oh, um. He stopped in the mayor’s office a couple times a month. We liked Donald. He always brought us in pastries from Clafouti’s. That man remembered my love of peach preserves and made sure there was always a jar of the stuff in with the croissants.”
Jeannette shook her head, her eyes a bit damp. “With all Don had going on, he remembered something as silly as my favorite jelly.”
Sam looked startled. “I didn’t realize you knew him well.”
Jeannette pursed her lips. “Well is an overstatement.”
She straightened her suit jacket, dusted a piece of lint from her sleeve.
“But he treated the mayor’s staff like we were humans. One of the few who came in regularly who even knew our names, really. And he always enjoyed talking to me about his pro bono work that he did for the local nonprofits.”
Cici caught Sam’s eye, and he dipped his head. He’d pursue Donald’s relationship with Jeannette and the mayor as soon as he had the chance. Other people pressed forward, forcing Sam and Jeannette to move along.
But like her, Sam now wondered if Jeannette and Don had spent more time together . . . say in a romantic fashion. Cici shifted her weight, sending up a prayer that Jeannette wasn’t Don’s mistress. And not just for Sam’s sake. That would be . . . awkward to try to explain to Susan.
Cici shook hands with another seventy or so people. Donald’s legal work, both with the city’s elite and the nonprofits, made him popular with the art and scientific community, leading to an eclectic mix of attendees.
“Cee. Good to see you.”
Evan Reynolds, Anna Carmen’s last boyfriend, patted Cici awkwardly on the shoulder. Remembering her dream and the feeling that something was off with Evan—that’s why Anna Carmen wasn’t with him that afternoon she died—caused Cici to remain wooden.
He pulled back and settled his hands on Cici’s shoulders, studying her face. Probably wondering if she was still angry with him for the last words they’d exchanged.
She was.
She wouldn’t ever get past the cruelty of his words—no one called her sister a whore.
“Sometimes, it’s so hard to see you,” Evan said.
Cici closed her eyes against the pain of that statement. It wasn’t as if she’d chosen to be Anna Carmen’s identical twin. Not that she’d change her years or relationship with her sister. She never would—unless it was to make their bond stronger, last longer.
Maybe Evan understood he’d hurt her because he said, “You look beautiful. But then, you always did. Do.”
Cici forced a smile. “Thank you for coming to the service, Evan. I didn’t realize you were friendly with Donald.”
Evan’s smile fell. “Not really friendly. We—ah—knocked skulls a few times. At work.”
Evan focused mainly on bankruptcies. Considering the first groups to get shafted out of money tended to be the nonprofits Donald championed, Cici could understand the tension. And that might explain why the two men never seemed particularly happy to be in the same room together.
“And speaking of that . . .” Evan glanced around before leaning in closer. “Anna Carmen met with Donald before she died.”
Everything inside her stopped for a long beat. “What?”
“I’m just saying there’s a reason they were both stabbed to death.”
Cici shivered. “You know about his stabbing? That it’s like . . . how?”
“I asked.”
Evan threw his chin toward Sam, whose narrowed eyes remained focused on Cici.
“Sam didn’t want to play nice, but he knew I’d go over his head.”
He leaned in closer, his voice lowering. “Whatever Anna Carmen got herself involved in, it’s not over. Don’t get sucked in, too.”
“Reverend?” Carole appeared at Cici’s elbow. Cici turned toward her, hoping the fear wasn’t visible all over her face.
“Donald’s family wanted a word. You’ll excuse us, won’t you?” Carole turned a guileless gaze on Evan, who dipped his head before walking away. He didn’t look back. Then again, he hadn’t looked back as he walked away from her sister’s grave. Why would this experience be any different?
“Hitting on you in your robes,” Carole muttered as she pulled Cici through the thinning crowd. “Does no one understand how wrong that is? What is it with young people these days?”
Cici was too stunned by Evan’s words to clarify. But when Carole turned to look at her expectantly, Cici said, “Considering the fact I’m thirty, I don’t really think I qualify as a young person.”
She pressed a hand to her stomach, over the slick synthetic fabric of her vestment. The conversation—warning—with Evan left her unsettled. She’d untuck her emotions, his words later, try to decipher why her body went so cold and still.
Carole took off Cici’s stole, folded it, and stored it in the closet with the others.
“Well you aren’t sixty-two, so count your blessings.”
“Did you really need me to talk to Donald’s family?” Cici asked, shaking off the unease from Evan’s words with difficulty.
“No. They’ve mostly left. Stiff bunch. Old money, I could tell. What did Sam want?” Carole asked as she closed Cici’s office door behind them.
“To gauge the crowd, I guess. I didn’t talk to him long. Jeannette came over.”
Carole�
�s scowl deepened, as it always did when Cici mentioned Jeannette. Cici had no idea what grudge Carole had against the woman, and she didn’t plan to ask. She already carried too many secrets in her head to bother with another unsolicited one.
“Right. Well, if we’re done here, I’m going to head out. I have to meet Jenny Timkins.”
Carole taught archery to students for close to thirty years, one of her hobbies that she increased after her daughter’s death.
“How’s her training coming along?” Cici asked.
Carole shook her head. “These kids. I don’t know how they talk their parents into thinking they have Olympic-level capabilities. That girl can barely hit the target.”
Cici locked up the front door to the sanctuary an hour later, glad for the opportunity to finally process Evan’s warning. She’d driven her Subaru to the church today—as she did most days. A reverend on a Harley proved more than most people could handle, especially for a funeral.
Good. There was still enough light this afternoon to walk her dogs. She needed a physical outlet for the pent-up energy tugging at her muscles.
The plethora of small bits of gravel and debris crunched under Cici’s feet as she approached her car in its accustomed place under the large piñon. She stopped, her hand to her mouth as her keys slid from her other hand to jangle in merry discord on their descent.
Not one, but two dead birds. White birds, too large to be doves, lay on her windshield, blood from their slit throats still dripping onto their once-pristine feathers.
7
To weep is to make less the depth of grief. — Shakespeare
Cici scooped up her keys, her gaze locked with the sharp black eye of the dead bird. Just last week, she’d discovered that a group of crows was called a murder. She had a murder on her windshield.
Aimed at her.
She intended to run back toward the dubious sanctuary of her church, phone already clutched in her other hand. She stumbled back after she slammed into a thick slab of muscle. Her heart pumped hard, begging her to let it continue to do so as a scream built in her throat.
“An omen,” Big Joe Benally said, steadying Cici, whose knees had seemed to liquefy as she tipped downward.
“Joe,” Cici managed to gasp, “I sure wish you’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier.”
“Not my time now,” he said. “You pay me to be here for weddings and funerals and from eleven to two every Sunday.”
True. And Jim never did anything without much for thought and without it in writing. Though, why he was here now Cici also didn’t know.
“I drove by.” Jim pointed to the open door of his beat-up Altima about two steps from where Cici stood. Her heart warmed as she realized he’d stopped after seeing her expression.
“When you drove by, did you see who did this?”
Joe shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone. The person didn’t want to get caught.”
“What does this mean? The omen, I mean.” Cici’s words came out half-gasped as she gestured toward her car.
Joe squinted his rheumy eyes. While Joe wasn’t old—only in his mid-fifties—he’d had many health issues and his eyesight began to fail a few years ago in part due to his untreated diabetes. Now, both his diabetes and his eyes were managed, and he worked security for Cici’s church and for a few other places Cici helped set him up with.
“I’ve only ever heard them spoken of in dreams. There, such beautiful specimens mean aspirations, goals. To see them slaughtered . . .”
Big Joe shook his head, his chin lowered to his chest. A strange, growly rumble emitted from his chest.
“Nothing good,” he muttered.
“White ravens are rare,” Sam said, looking up at Cici over his mug of tea. Not that he drank any of the steaming liquid. He didn’t enjoy hot tea, but Cici was too frazzled after the dead birds to offer him coffee.
“Okay,” she said on an expulsion of air. The tension didn’t leave her shoulders—or the area behind her breast bone. “So, they’re ravens not crows. Are you sure?”
“Um, no. I’m not a bird expert. Does it matter?”
Cici tugged her long, dark hair up into a haphazard bun on the top of her head. “Probably not. Maybe.” She shrugged. “A group of crows is called a murder. I just . . . a murder on my windshield.” Cici hugged her arms, running her palms up and down in quick strokes.
“Huh,” Sam said. “I had no idea.”
He pulled out his phone and typed something into it. “A group of ravens is a conspiracy. That’s bad but not as scary as the murder of crows.” He typed some more. “Yeah . . . there are white crows and ravens. Different species. Have black eyes so not albinos.”
“Sam?” Cici said, leaning forward. “I’m sure that’s all fascinating. But someone sliced the throats of two defenseless creatures this afternoon and left them on the hood of my car. Can we focus on that, please?”
Sam shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry, Cee. I agree someone had to search those suckers out. Finding two would be even more time-consuming. Someone wants you to understand how serious they are.”
Cici set her mug on her desk. “It’s a statement. I get it. The symbolism Big Joe spoke of. All of it. What I don’t get is who or why. Why now?”
She picked back up her mug, ignored her shaking hands, and managed to gulp down some of the scalding liquid. She sighed, steadier, as she lowered the cup.
“The whole town now knows you were on the SAR team that found Don. Your sister’s death still isn’t solved. And someone doesn’t want it to be solved.”
“Two white crows, murdered. Two innocent people, murdered.” She met Sam’s concerned blue eyes. “We can assume they’re for Aci . . . I mean Anna Carmen and Donald.”
Sam dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Good guess. But that’s all it is right now. A guess. Much as I’d like to move on someone, I don’t have enough evidence.”
“Evan spoke to me. Said Anna Carmen met with Donald not long before her death.”
Sam ran his hand over the short spikes of hair across the back of his head. “I knew that. Evan and Anna Carmen fought after that meeting. That’s why Anna Carmen was up in Chimayó without Evan that day.”
Cici stood and began to pace. She refused to look out the window into the parking lot where the forensics team finished its work.
“Or it’s his convenient excuse to explain why he wasn’t with my sister when she needed him.”
“I don’t think so. They were solid. Looked like they were headed toward marriage. We all thought so.”
The image of her sister in a bridal gown and veil slid through Cici’s mind, causing the ache in her chest to intensify. She’d never see that. Never stand next to her sister again, let alone help her prepare for her wedding. Or hold her sister’s child. Call her at Thanksgiving.
The grief of loss ripped through Cici’s chest, leaving her raw and edgy.
She turned back toward Sam. “I felt her up on Aspen Ridge. Anna Carmen. She’s trying to tell me things.”
“Cee,” Sam said as he stood.
“She wants me to help you solve Donald’s murder. She knows its related to her own.”
Sam’s mouth trembled a little as he said, “I know you miss Anna Carmen. I do, too. But she’s dead. And the dead don’t talk.”
Cici cringed. She’d thought Sam, of all people, would understand. In some ways, she couldn’t wrap her head around the fact her twin reached out to her last week.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Cici raised her hand.
“Don’t placate me,” she said, her voice sharp. “I don’t need it.”
She might not be able to explain to Sam, an only child and nonbeliever of anything he couldn’t touch or see. Talk about the Doubting Thomas.
What Sam forgot was Anna Carmen was not just her sister. Anna Carmen was her identical twin. They shared something much more special than a sibling bond . . . the same DNA.
Something, Cici now believed, not even death coul
d eliminate completely.
“I’m sorry I ruined your plans tonight,” she said, unwilling to discuss her conclusions further. “I’m sure Jeannette isn’t happy with me.”
Sam shrugged as he leaned back in the chair.
“Duty calls. And you know I’ll always be around to help you out, Cee.”
“You shouldn’t have to. And I’m not asking you to believe me about Anna Carmen. I’m telling you, flat-out, I must be involved in this. To the bitter end.”
Cici shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress slacks, needing something to warm her cold hands. A fist tapped on the office door, cutting off whatever Sam’s reply would’ve been. Cici waved in Justin Espinoza, the forensic photographer, and another member of her church. His gaze lit on Cici, and he scanned her, much as Sam had done, checking to make sure she was unharmed.
“Got what we could out there,” Justin said to Sam, turning to shake his hand. He turned back to Cici. “No one broached the locks, so now that we’ve scoured every inch of your vehicle, you should be good to go.”
Justin pulled Cici into a side hug, and because she was tired and scared and heartsick over Sam’s lack of faith in her announcement, she went willingly, leaning against Justin’s broad shoulder with a sigh. Justin was the high school running back, but over the last few years, he’d given up his rigorous workouts, claiming sprints and even weight lifting hurt his knees.
When he lost his college scholarship to NMSU in his sophomore year—something to do with partying and poor decision-making with booze—Justin bounced around for a few years, taking up photography sometime during that period. He was hired as the forensic photographer by the police chief—and a family friend—and seemed to be doing well now, even if he was once again single. At least, that’s what Carole, a distant relative of Justin’s through marriage, told Cici a few months ago.
“Thank you, Justin. But I’m not going to drive my car again. At least not tonight. Not until it’s cleaned. And blessed or something.”
Cici shuddered even as she huddled closer into Justin’s embrace. She’d have to read up on removing bad energy. No way she’d drive her car until she managed to remove all traces of negativity from it.