Clouds In My Coffee (17 page)

And I bristle once again at his obvious contempt of how I earn my money. But I’m not about to let him know just how much he’s pushed my button.

“Who did it?” I ask, raising my eyebrow as I look over at him.

“Did what?”

“Shoved that stick up your ass?”

“A woman not nearly as beautiful as you,” he replies, giving me a playful wink, “Again I apologize. It seems as if I
have
been rather—snide today.”

“Times a million,” I reply, and he laughs genuinely.

It’s the first time I’ve heard his laugh. It’s a nice sound though, I’d venture to say, it doesn’t happen a lot. I think it’s an
Italian
thing. My father is the same way.

“And, by the way, I’m no longer skeptical or dubious about your supernatural abilities,” he continues seriously.

“Please. Just refer to it as my
gift
or
episode
. It sounds less creepy that way.”

“You’ve got it,” he says with a smile, showing an errant dimple.

Hmm…when did he get
that?

“So, I guess you know all about my father and his background, huh?”

“I do,” he replies, “He and my father are the best of friends still. I was just a kid back then, four or five years old. Don’t remember any of it, which is probably for the best.”

“You look a lot like your father,” I comment.

He quirks a puzzled brow. “How would you…?”

“My first episode,” I explain before he finishes his question. “It’s how I found out about him at all. Through my mother, Karlie Masterson. My mom and dad were in love back then. Your dad knew all about it.”

“So, I guess you were raised by someone else then?”

“Yeah, my mother’s best friend raised me as hers. I didn’t know the truth about any of it until my episode.”

“That had to be a real shocker.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

He pulls up the drive to my father’s house. “I booked a room at the lodge. I have to set up my laptop and do some video conferencing. It’s better for me to have privacy. Please thank your father and Sheila for their hospitality. Don’t forget to take your lunch. It’s the one on top,” he says, nodding toward the boxes I had placed between us.

“Wait, what about the diary?”

“I plan on reading it tonight. I’ll call you after I get back from meeting with Mrs. Adams and fill you in, how’s that?”

I’m not happy being left out of the investigation part, but I realize I’m not equipped to be of much help, except that I want to meet some of the other players. Maybe it’s simply curiosity on my part.

“There’s one thing I want you to know before you go. I mean, you’ll read about it in the diary, towards the end, but Cece was pregnant when she was killed. Her murderer knew that, but the father of her baby…Erik, the boy she loved, he didn’t know.”

He looks at me, his face totally serious. “Was that the motive for
him
to allegedly do that?”

“There’s no
allegedly,
Marco. Marshall Rydell did it, but no, Cece never told him after she found out that night that Angie had been pregnant when Marshall killed her. There’s evidence in that log cabin.”

“Hold up,” he says, “You’re going too fast here. I’m familiar with the name of Angie Linton from our previous discussion, she was knocked up when she died?”

“Yeah, and the baby was Marshall’s.”

“I see. Now what log cabin? Is it mentioned in the diary?”

“Yes, you’ll find some mention in there, and I can fill you in on the rest. But what isn’t in there is the fact that Marshall was popping acid—something called chocolate mesc—the night he murdered Cece. He also kept “keepsakes” from both Angie and Cece hidden in that cabin. Cece discovered that the night she . . . died.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “Try and get some rest. I’ll need your help once I get through this. But, I have to say, I’m impressed so far with what you’ve provided and the accuracy of your recall. I’ll have more questions for you once I’ve read this thing.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

And, as I walk into the house, a feeling of triumph overwhelms me that, at last, Agent Trevani doesn’t think I’m some freak of nature; he believes me.

Agent Trevani has a new attitude the following day as we drive to Salt Lake City to meet with Erik Laughlin at his construction office. I feel as nervous as if I actually am Cece coming back from the dead. How will I ever be able to truly explain my knowledge to the loved ones in these scenarios?

I’ll have to worry about that later. Right now I have to prepare myself to meet Erik. Will I be able to talk this time?

“Do you have an issue with my asking Erik some questions?” I ask.

In my peripheral vision, I see Agent Trevani glance over and my gaze meets his with a hint of an attitude. I notice him quirking a brow.

Yes, your hotness. I dared to ask that question.

“Maybe we should prepare in advance,” he replies.

So we do. And I can tell that he’s read the whole diary and he does, indeed, have a new perspective on the circumstances surrounding Cece’s death and a new one on me as well.

By the time we reach Erik’s office, we’re both on the same page—almost like we’re a team. He’s the captain, of course.

For now anyway.

Erik Laughlin has aged well. No signs of the former hippy, freak, stoner, head or
whatever
they were called back then. He still has most of his dark—now intermixed with gray—hair, a neatly trimmed goatee and his build has taken on a few well-needed pounds over the years.

He stands when his receptionist ushers us into his modest office and I see he’s dressed in business casual: long-sleeved polo shirt and Dockers.

Agent Trevani thanks him for seeing us on short notice and then introduces me to Erik as his “assistant.”

Nice.

“Please, have a seat,” Erik invites.

We take our seats across his desk and he sits down, a look of confusion still present on his face. “I’m not sure what I can help you with, Agent Trevani. Your call last night kind of caught me off guard. I mean, it’s been so long since...well, since Cece passed. Kind of came outta the blue, I guess.”

Marco leans forward, removing the diary out of his briefcase and he shoves it across the desk. “Maybe this will help answer your question as to why we’re poking into this after all of these years. Do you recognize this?”

I can tell that Erik does, in fact, remember the diary that was part of Pierre, the gift he selected for Cece all those years back.

“Damn,” he replies softly, picking it up and fanning the pages gently. “I sure do. I gave this to Cece—well, it was inside a stuffed dog, but it’s the same diary I’m pretty sure. Where the hell did you get this?”

“Her mother, Mrs. Adams, had kept it.”

That was totally the truth.

“I don’t understand,” Erik, replies. “Why do you have it then?”

“Mr. Laughlin, there are certain things—events, situations that have been brought to the Bureau’s attention surrounding Cece’s accident. The fact is that many of Cece’s entries in this diary corroborate the information we’ve received from a third party. Enough so that we’re looking into her death as a possible homicide.”

“Homicide?” he asks, his voice getting a bit louder. “Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“But who? . . . What?” he falters, “You think I had something to do with her death? Is that what Mrs. Adams told you, because, if so, that’s a bunch of shit. I loved that girl! I loved Cece more than you could ever have imagined.”

“I believe you,” I say, looking at him and seeing the passion and sincerity that still lace his voice when speaking of her. “But there are some things you can help us clear up about the night she died and then afterwards. Things about other people from back then.”

“Like who?”

“Her friends, ex-boyfriends, classmates,” Agent Trevani interjects, giving me a slight glare.

“Marshall Rydell,” I blurt, not caring if it pisses Marco off at this point. Why beat around the fucking bush?

“That preppy-ass bastard,” Erik snarls, “If anyone should be answering questions about Cece’s death, he’d be my first suspect for sure. It ate him up when she dumped his ass to go back with me.”

“How did he act after she...died?” I press, ignoring Marco’s jab in my side.

Erik shrugs and leans back in his chair. “He wasn’t around long after that. I really couldn’t say.”

“Where’d he go?” Agent Trevani asks before I can.

“Some private school was the story, but I’m betting he made a pit-stop in rehab somewhere. His family had money and power, so they were in a position to hide their dirty laundry from the general population. Trust me, Marshall was on a downward spiral with all the drugs he was eating back then.”

“Where’s his family now?” I pipe up.

“Uhh...let me think. His mom and dad ended up getting divorced a year or two after Cece passed. His mom was a local veterinarian, she’s retired now. His dad was some bigwig surgeon in Salt Lake, but he retired and moved East. I’m pretty sure he passed away years back. I think his mother still lives out at their ranch, if that’s what you can still call it. Pretty run down last time I was by it.”

“Money issues?”

“Yeah. I guess divorces and high maintenance brats can do that to a family, you know?” Erik shakes his head as if remembering something. “Marshall Rydell had it all and, yet, he still always wanted more. Heard he’s some big-time judge somewhere. Imagine that?”

“So, what did you end up doing?” I ask, because I have to know.

For Cece.

His eyes get a far-away look for a moment. “Well, for awhile I tried to live the dream I had before...before Cece died. I opened a coffee shop out on 189. Got married about four years later and my wife ran it right into the ground.”

“I’m sorry.”

And I was.

“That’s why she’s an ex now,” he replies, giving a wry smile. “I was trying to get this business off the ground and well, I guess I expected too much—least that’s what she claimed. But, you know, Cece would’ve done it right. That much I know.”

“Erik,” I continue, “What about Kim and Keith—Cece’s friend and boyfriend from back then. Are they still around?”

He looks at me and is curious. “How—?”

“They’re mentioned in the diary,” Marco replies.

Erik nods. “Keith died of an overdose when he was nineteen. Kim still lives around Evanston. She married a guy named Riley Benton. They raise sheep on their farm right off 189 near Kemmerer.”

“Thanks,” Marco says, scribbling it down on the back of one of his cards. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

“Erik,” I interrupt, because this is something I need to know for myself, “Did you ever have unprotected sex with Angie Linton?”

“What the—?” I hear Marco growl next to me.

“It’s important,” I reply, turning my attention back across the desk to Erik. “Think back.”

Erik chuckles and shakes his head. “My memory is fine, Ms. Locke and, I can assure you that, every time Angie and I did the deed, I wore my latex raincoat. It might’ve been the seventies, but I still took precautions.”

“What about with Cece?” I press, ignoring the loud sigh that Marco releases.

“Only once without protection. I remember that as well. Just once. Why do you ask?”

I start to answer, but I feel Marco’s hand on my arm, helping me to my feet. “That’s all for now, Mr. Laughlin. We’ll fill you in after we’ve had a chance to go over the rest of the evidence.”

Erik stands up, handing the diary back to Marco. “Please do, Agent Trevani. Something’s always bothered me about that night. I mean, aside from the fact that I felt guilty as hell because she was on her way to see my band play when she had the…
accident
, there were just too many unanswered questions in my mind.”

“Like what?” I ask, ignoring the pull from Marco.

“Like what happened to the ring I gave her for Christmas? It wasn’t on her finger at the funeral home. Her mom said she couldn’t find it in her room. And then the fact that she supposedly had been eating sopers before she crashed. No way. Not Cece.”

“Are you saying that Cece didn’t get high?” Marco asks, “Because I seem to recall some entries in her diary that say otherwise.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Agent. Cece and I both got high—me more than her, you know, smoking pot and stuff. Hell, I did some acid, some downers, that kind of shit, but not her. No, Cece used to jump in my shit about doing pills. No way was she doing them. I just couldn’t see that at all.”

We finally leave and, on the way to the car, I have to listen to Marco rant about my trying to take over the questioning of a potential witness.

Finally, I couldn’t resist. “Get over it, Marco. You weren’t asking the
right
questions.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean, I asked some questions that hopefully will fill in the gaps of what isn’t in
that
diary. For example, Angie’s pregnancy?”

“That,” he replies smugly, “remains to be seen. First off we have Cece’s exhumation to deal with, then will work on Angie’s.”

“What?”

“That’s correct, mia caro, I got a text message while we were in there. The petition has been approved and a judge has signed the order.”

Mia caro. That’s what Dad called Karlie.

“Good work,” I reply, settling myself into the passenger seat of his car and fastening the seat belt.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, giving me a hint of a smile.

I didn’t hear from Marco (or Ryan) for the next few days. Something inside my gut is unsettled and I’m not sure if it is because the thought of not hearing from Marco has taken precedence over not hearing from Ryan.

In my mind, I argue it is because I am used to not hearing from Ryan for days, sometimes weeks on end, and it is totally different anyway. The sooner this business in Wyoming is finished, the sooner I can get back home to New York and to Ryan as his assignment should be finishing up soon.

I’m sprawled out on the sofa in the living room; not paying attention to whatever it is that’s on the television. I pick up my cell and call Mom.

“Parrish, is everything alright?”

“That’s how you answer the phone, Mom?”