“Oh, Beej,” she whispered. Her heart felt bruised. He was safe, and she would make certain he would always be safe no matter what it took. Her eyes burned, and Cissy fought back tears. Then she checked both of the windows in his room to see that they were latched and double-locked.
She couldn’t think about losing B.J., about his life being in jeopardy. Feeling unsteady, she splashed cold water over her face in the bathroom before returning downstairs. “I’m sorry,” she said to the two detectives as she returned to the living room where they sat unmoving, waiting. “You scared me so much I had to make sure Beej was all right.”
“We understand.” Did they? She doubted it, but she just listened while they explained they weren’t certain of the details of her uncle’s death, but it looked like he’d been poisoned. They would know more once the tox screens and other lab work and autopsy were performed.
Cissy felt her insides quiver.
Of course they were doing the same with her grandmother’s remains, but they promised to release the bodies as soon as possible because they knew she had to make funeral arrangements. They asked her to stop by the station to look over a computer-generated sketch of the assailant, as several people at Harborside had seen her.
“Her?” Cissy repeated.
“Yes, a woman. In her sixties, maybe even seventies.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“She could have been disguised; in fact, we suspect she was,” Paterno said.
“Does she have a name?”
“Mary Smith. Claims she was from a local church, and, of course, the church in question has four Mary Smiths, and one Mary Smythe, in their congregation. We’re checking them all out, but figure the name is an alias.”
“You think it’s Marla,” Cissy stated flatly.
Quinn shook her head. “This Mary Smith has been visiting Rory since before your mother escaped. So, no, it wasn’t Marla.”
Paterno said, “Unless she started impersonating the real Mary Smith.”
“But why?” Cissy said. “My uncle could hurt no one.”
“We’re working on that too.” Paterno stood. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”
“Believe me, I’m fine.”
“Your husband’s not home?”
“No,” she said, and smiled. “Not yet.” Why go into it? She’d consider telling them the true state of her relationship with Jack when she went to the station, looking at the picture of the suspect, whoever Mary Smith was.
After escorting the detectives to the door, Cissy closed and locked it behind her, throwing the deadbolt and punching in the lock on the knob. She thought of the figure she’d seen outside her house and the guy who’d bumped into her outside the coffee shop. Were they related to all this or not? Little goose bumps raised on the back of her arms, and she hurried upstairs again, walking directly to B.J.’s room. He was inside, of course. Just like earlier. He hadn’t been snatched away in the last thirty minutes.
Nonetheless, she adjusted his blanket around him and sent up a silent prayer for his safety. Downstairs, Coco growled, and for the first time since the dog had come to live with her, Cissy decided it might not be such a bad thing to have a furry little house alarm always on guard.
“Sleep tight,” she said and couldn’t help but wish Jack were with them. It would be comforting, knowing he was here to protect them.
Even if he was a lying, cheating son of a bitch.
Bayside Hospital
San Francisco, California
Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
Oh God, I’m going to die. The hospital staff doesn’t know I’m alive. This is so wrong. So damned wrong.
I’m so frustrated! With all my might I try and fail to move any part of my body—an eyelid, an eyebrow, a finger, my lips—but my muscles are frozen, useless. As hard as I try, I can’t do anything!
Please, God, let them understand that I’m awake, I can hear them. Don’t let them kill me…. Please…It’s a miracle they’ve kept me on life support, I know that. But now they’re talking about discontinuing it. At any second they could pull the plug and not give me the time to prove to them that I’m awake, I’m alive, and I have so much to tell!
How can I make them understand? If only I’d had a real mother, one who embraced me, one who was not so cold, always unavailable. Everything, it seems, was more important than her daughter. Her parties. Her “women’s retreats.” Her charity work. Everything! She acted like she wanted me, but it was just that—an act. The truth of the matter is, I was an inconvenience, something to be kept in a drawer until she needed me, like one of her precious pieces of jewelry.
And so I’m alone.
Again.
As always.
The nurses have given up hope, and the doctor is convinced I’ll never wake up. Here he comes now. With his low voice, bright light that he shines in my eyes, cold stethoscope that he puts on my chest. Can’t my damned body please react so that he can understand? If only I could hold my breath. Or freak out enough to elevate my heart rate or anything!
“Condition unchanged,” he says.
No way! My condition has changed. Listen to me, you old fool—I’M ALIVE.ALIVE!
If only I could scream or even whisper!
Surely they can’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t completely wake up. Yes, I’ve dozed; yes, I’ve had only a few moments of lucidity; and yes, I can’t seem to communicate with anyone, but please, please give me a chance. It’s not hopeless.
“I don’t know how much longer we can keep her like this,” the doctor says. “I’ve consulted all the specialists in the area. No one has any hope.”
But they’re wrong! Can’t you see that?
Oh, sweet Jesus, if I just had more time!
If only I had one more opportunity to tell Jack that I forgive him, that I love him, that I was wrong…so wrong. I remember what happened…every little detail…
Chapter 10
A funeral should never be a media circus.
There should be a rule about that somewhere.
But Eugenia Haversmith Cahill’s funeral ceremony and internment were nothing less than a three-ring circus for the press, Cissy thought angrily as she stood at her grandmother’s grave. A stiff breeze blew in from the ocean, causing the ribbons on the standing floral sprays to snap and the roof of the small tent near the grave site to flutter, but the weather hadn’t deterred the police or reporters from showing up.
Bastards! Cissy thought.
Grief-riddled, she watched as her grandmother’s casket was lowered into the earth. She made a mental note that when she died, she wanted the ceremony to be quick and simple, as Rory’s had been. Just a few family members, the preacher saying a couple of short verses, a prayer, a hymn, and that was it. Rory Amhurst had been interred without a lot of fuss.
But this was different.
The century-old church where Eugenia had been a member for fifty years had been filled to capacity, voices of bereaved members lifted in song and prayer. A long-winded pastor had read from the Bible, prayed, reflected on Eugenia’s celebrated life, and her sudden, violent death when “God had called her home.” Cissy had felt tears gather in the corners of her eyes during the ceremony and wished she were alone. Completely alone. Not standing in a sea of friends, relatives, neighbors, and strangers under the soaring ceiling of the very church in which her grandmother and grandfather had been married half a century earlier.
During the church service, Jack had been by her side, which she supposed was comforting, though it seemed such a lie, a fraudulent display of a marriage that was being ripped apart. He was with her now too, standing under a portable awning beneath a cold winter rain as Gran’s casket settled into the wet dirt next to the burial plot of her husband, Samuel J. Cahill. Eugenia’s name, birth date, and the words Loving Mother had already been etched into the marble—only her date of death still needed filling in.
Oh, Gran, Ciss
y thought miserably, guilty for every bad thought she’d held against her grandmother as a child, teenager, and adult. For all the times she’d wished her grandmother had butted out of her life. For her favoritism, at least early on, of her grandson. For her strict rules and discipline.
As wind chased the rain into the city, Cissy was seated. Jack, again, was on one side of her; her uncle Nick and his wife, along with her estranged brother, on the other. Jack’s family and Eugenia’s friends were scattered around the grave site, all half-hidden by umbrellas. At a distance were the police and the camera crew from one of the stations in town that had made the drive up to the cemetery overlooking the city and bay. The cops were clearly expecting Marla to show up. Several plainclothes detectives were mixed in with the crowd, and the media waited discreetly at the periphery. They wanted Marla: her mother, the notorious murderess and prison escapee.
Cissy swallowed hard. She couldn’t wait for the ceremony to be over. She still had to get through the gathering at her house, where friends and family were invited to stop by and have something to eat or drink. Cissy had decided to host it at her house rather than at the big house on the hill. There was something too macabre about returning to the place where her grandmother had died and throwing a party, albeit a quiet one. She imagined Sara mentally calculating the value of the real estate, or one of her greedy relatives asking about the disposition of Gran’s jewelry or furniture. No, it was better to return to her own house, where Tanya was watching Beej and Cissy could take some time, if she needed it, in the solace and solitude of her own bedroom.
The preacher asked them to stand, then led them in a final prayer. Jack grabbed Cissy’s hand as images of her grandmother slid through her mind: Gran hosting charity events, Gran knitting while the television blared, Gran teaching her bridge and suffering through impossibly long board games, Gran buying Cissy her first horse, a palomino gelding they kept at the ranch, Gran delighted when Cissy’s brother, James, was born.
Now, through her tears, Cissy glanced over at James. The kid was close to going to junior high. He was all arms and legs and geeky hair, still a boy, but already over five feet tall. Trying not to squirm in his seat, James looked uncomfortable and awkward in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and tie, all probably purchased for the funeral. He slid a glance her way, and she managed to give him a smile. One side of his mouth lifted. Then, as if realizing how grim and serious the situation was, James turned his gaze back to the coffin.
When the last “amen” was whispered, Jack squeezed her hand, then released it. Cissy stepped forward and, in the drizzling rain, tossed a white rose onto her grandmother’s coffin, said a silent good-bye, and turned toward the waiting limo. She wasn’t going to stick around and watch the dirt being flung over the casket.
Her vision was a blur as she made a beeline for the waiting limo. She smiled or nodded at familiar faces, but she didn’t stop to talk. There was time for that at the house. For now, she just wanted to get home, where her son was already waiting. She’d asked Rachelle of Joltz to cater the event, and Tanya was watching Beej, as Cissy had decided eighteen months was too young to attend a funeral. Nor had he been with her for the tiny ceremony for her uncle.
God, what a week. In the backseat of the limo, she kicked off her shoes and didn’t argue about Jack joining her. For today she’d decided to call a truce and just try to get through the slated events.
“It was a nice service,” Jack said as the driver pulled the black limousine away from the curb.
Cissy gave him a look as she unsnapped her small purse, found a small bottle of Ibuprofen, and popped a couple dry. “No platitudes, okay? I’m going to hear plenty the rest of the day.”
He didn’t argue, just glanced out the window. Cissy followed his gaze and saw a man seated on a backhoe, ready to fill in the grave with the big, rumbling machine after the guests had dispersed.
It all bothered her. The kind words, sympathetic cards, gorgeous bouquets—but it all boiled down to a dirt mover shoveling wet earth over a fancy coffin. She shuddered a little at the thought and reminded herself that it wasn’t Gran’s or Rory’s body that was the important thing. Surely their souls were in “a better place,” as the preacher had intoned.
She certainly hoped so.
Leaning her head back against the seat, she closed her eyes and prayed for strength to get through the next few hours. It had taken the police nearly a week to release the bodies, and then she’d worked with Deborah on the obituaries and funeral arrangements, also squeezing in time to meet with the lawyers, insurance agent, and accountant. The week had flown by in a series of appointments where she’d seen little of her son and more than she’d wanted to of Jack.
He’d made himself available, and she’d let him, almost falling into the trap of thinking they could work things out. Almost. They’d eaten takeout, talked over the funeral arrangements, and discussed everything in the world but their impending divorce. He’d watched Beej when she’d had meetings and Tanya wasn’t available, had even taken his son out for a walk while she’d finished the damned story on the mayoral candidate. He’d also been there while the new furnace was installed and the old one removed. All the while, he’d helped her screen calls from sympathizers, well-wishers, or the merely curious. Together they’d watched the news, snapping it off whenever Marla’s face was flashed on the screen or her name was mentioned.
Cissy hadn’t asked the police what, if anything, they’d learned about the murders; she’d just been too busy and exhausted. But every night she double-checked each window and door latch, deadbolt, and safety lock in the house, sometimes three times, before she went to bed.
She wasn’t being paranoid, she tried to convince herself. She was just being doubly careful.
Opening her eyes, she shot Jack a glance, and he sent her just the hint of a smile, not that cocksure, irreverent grin she had grown to love and hate, but a gentle curve of the lips that meant he planned to stand by her throughout the afternoon.
Her silly heart ka-phlumphed painfully, and she had to fight another burn of unshed tears. Why did she let the man get to her? She looked away, through the fogging windows to the city streets where traffic rolled through puddles on the pavement and the skyscrapers looked as if they could pierce the underbellies of the somber clouds hanging low in the heavens.
She felt cold and disembodied, as if all this hoopla and tragedy were happening to someone else.
But it’s not, Cissy. This is your life.
Using her finger, she traced a small heart on the foggy window, then, surprised at herself, quickly erased it as the big car slid to a stop in front of her house.
“Brace yourself,” Jack said. “It’s showtime.”
“That it is,” she said and slid out of the limo, allowing Jack to tip the driver as she squared her shoulders and strode into the house she and Jack had purchased only a few years earlier.
Many of the guests who had elected not to visit the grave site were already milling around, and for the first time Cissy second-guessed her decision to make her home the gathering area. The rooms were already crowded, and the people who’d gone to the short service at the cemetery hadn’t yet arrived. It was going to be tight in here. Eugenia’s house on Mt. Sutro could have handled the mourners easily.
Still, maybe this cramped space, where everyone would be stuffed in elbow-to-elbow, might force people to leave earlier, which would be just fine.
Planting a smile on her face that felt as false as it was, Cissy inched through a sea of “I’m so sorry about your grandmother” and “If there’s anything I can do, please call” and “Eugenia, what a force she was. I remember a time…”
By the time she’d wended her way from the living room to the dining area, she felt as if she’d just been squeezed through Bloomingdale’s department store on the last weekend before Christmas.
Diedre and Rachelle were working in the kitchen, pulling out trays of hors d’oeuvres from the refrigerator, microwave, and oven before sl
iding them onto silver trays. While Beej was down for a nap, Tanya was hauling the new trays into the dining room and returning with empties while Rosa and Paloma mingled with the guests, offering wine, napkins, or food. Cookies, cakes, and pies were lined up on one counter. The goodies had been brought by the legions of women who heard there was a death in the family and instantly donned aprons and grabbed spatulas to whip up something for guests and company. The array was dazzling, everything from decorated chocolates bought at boutique candy stores to homemade apple pies and rich, towering cakes.
“Don’t you know that you’ll gain five pounds by just looking at those,” a soft voice said to her.
Cissy turned to find Gwen, her personal trainer, shrugging out of a knee-length black cardigan sweater. Gwen had been instrumental in helping Cissy lose the extra weight she’d gained during pregnancy. Her hair was dark, layered, and shaggy; her toned body visible in a clingy black dress; her expression sober. “I haven’t seen you in the gym in a while, but you look great. On second thought, maybe you should indulge in a piece of pie. You seem to have lost weight.”
“A little. But I’m not hungry. Maybe later.”
“So how’re you doing?” Gwen’s dark eyes were sympathetic.
“I’m surviving.”
“It’ll get better,” Gwen said, then patted her on the shoulder. “Go and talk to your other guests. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Thanks.”
Gwen gave her a quick I’m-here-for-you hug, then, after grabbing a shrimp canape, she spotted Jack, who was standing near the table of pictures and awards that showcased Gran’s life. She headed straight in his direction. While candles flickered at the shrine Cissy and Deborah Kropft had created so hastily this past week, Gwen struck up a conversation with Jack, her expression changing from serious to almost buoyant.
Did Jack even know Gwen? Cissy wondered. Cissy, on her own, had joined the gym where Gwen worked. But, from the way Gwen was talking animatedly to him, it sure seemed like they were acquainted.