Almost Dead (7 page)

Paterno quit scribbling long enough to click the top of his pen as he thought. “Don’t you have some cousins, or half cousins?”

“My father’s cousins.” Her jaw hardened at the mention of the man who had sired her. Though Alex Cahill had been dead for years, Cissy had never forgiven him for neglecting her while he’d been alive. “Gran always called them the black sheep.” Cissy scratched the little dog behind her ears. “Monty, er, Montgomery, is still in prison, but his sister, Cherise, is around. I think her last name is still Favier. It’s hard to keep up. She’s been married a few times.”

The policeman nodded, as if he actually knew who she was talking about. Jack didn’t. Sometimes it seemed the longer he knew Cissy, the less he knew about her.

“They never got along with the rest of the family. I think they thought my grandfather did something underhanded and cut their grandfather out of the family fortune. Monty and Cherise never got over it.”

“Did your grandfather? Cut them out?”

She lifted a shoulder, and Jack realized she was trying to hold on to her patience. He saw the tension in her body, the slight narrowing of her eyes. She didn’t like Paterno and didn’t like his questions. “I don’t know. Gran would remember….” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “Look, I really don’t know what more I can tell you.”

Paterno nodded and acted like he’d heard it all before, but it was news to Jack. The detective asked a few more questions, asking Cissy to check and see if any valuables were missing when she returned to Eugenia’s, then finally left. Jack walked him to the door and noticed that the KTAM van wasn’t blocking the driveway any longer.

Good news, at least for now. But it wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later, Lani Saito, or someone else who smelled a story, would be back.

He closed the door behind Paterno and watched as the policeman walked to his Caddy. Once satisfied that the detective wasn’t coming back, Jack returned to the living room, where the fire hissed in the grate and Cissy sat in the chair, petting the dog, still staring out the window. “So,” he said, picking up a framed picture of B.J. on his first birthday, one candle burning on a cake placed on the tray of his high chair. His eyes seemed twice their size as he stared at the cake in awe and amazement.

“So what?” she asked, not even looking at him.

He replaced the five-by-seven on the table. “Are you going to throw me out again?”

“Am I going to have to?”

“You don’t
have
to.”

She hesitated, as if there were just the tiniest chink in her armor. She slid her gaze to one side, and he had the good sense not to walk close to her, try to touch her, offer unwanted consolation and sympathy. “You keep pushing me.”

“No, Ciss, you’re the one pushing. You’re pushing me away.”

“And you know why,” she declared, throwing her arms up in defeat. “I am so tired of fighting. You can stay, Jack, on the couch—on one condition. No…make that two…on second thought,
three
conditions!”

Before he could argue, she held up a finger. “First, you leave early in the morning. You do not pass ‘go,’ you do not ‘get out of jail free,’ you do not expect to move in, and you just get the hell out before I get up.”

“Okay.”

A second finger shot skyward. “You walk the dog tonight.”

“The dog hates me.”

“Tough!” The third finger joined the others. “Before you leave, you find a way to fix the damned furnace.”

“You’re not calling a repairman?”

“It’s Sunday. The thermometer in here says the temperature is hovering below sixty-two, and the thermostat is set to seventy.”

“I’ll look at it.”

“Okay.” Cissy gazed at him uncertainly, as if unsure whether she’d won or lost. “Then, good. Good night, Jack.”

“Good night,” he said, but she was already striding out of the living room, across the foyer, then hurrying up the stairs, her bare feet nearly noiseless on the hardwood steps. Above, as she walked, the floor creaked. He heard a door open and shut, then watched a pillow and a sleeping bag come hurtling down the stairs. The sleeping bag bounced against the door of the closet in the foyer; the pillow skidded across the floor and stopped when it hit the back of the couch.

“Thanks,” he called up the dark staircase toward the landing.

“Don’t mention it.” A second later he heard the distinctive creak of the master bedroom door as it opened, then shut with a soft thud and a click of the lock. Obviously Cissy was taking no chances that he’d try to sweet-talk his way into their king-sized bed.

He wasn’t that deluded.

He picked up the sleeping bag, unrolled it, and tossed it over the slick leather cushions of the damned couch. Throwing the pillow toward one end, he surveyed his work. Not that great, but at least it beat the car, he thought as he walked into the kitchen, found the last beer in the refrigerator, and uncapped the bottle. After taking a long, not-that-satisfying pull, he carried a growling and suspicious-looking Coco outside, deposited her on the turf just off the patio, and waited in the cold drizzle for the damned dog to sniff every damned bush before she finally got down to her damned business.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he confided to Coco as he carried her inside and found a dishtowel to wipe her tiny wet paws. For all his efforts, he was rewarded with a warning growl. He thought for a minute that the feisty bit of fluff might actually bite him. “Don’t even think about it,” he advised, and when he set the dog onto the floor, she scrambled to get away from him, nearly skidding as she headed for the stairs and ran up them as if she were a dog half her age and was fleeing for her life.

“Good riddance,” Jack muttered.

With one look up the darkened stairs, he returned to the living room, flopped onto the couch, and picked up the remote. He thought of the irony of his earlier assessment of the single life. Even married and in his own house, it wasn’t much different.

He clicked on the local news, and there, filling up the flat screen, was the last picture his wife had of her mother: Marla Amhurst Cahill’s mug shot.

You’re a fool!

Cissy peeled off her clothes, let them drop to the bedroom floor, then stepped into pajamas that had gotten at least one size too big for her over the last month. Her appetite had been off; the stress over the separation from Jack had cost her ten pounds she could ill-afford to lose.

And now he was downstairs.

Great!

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Tonight on the couch. Tomorrow up here in the bedroom? And then what? Are you going to forgive him just like that? Set yourself up for more heartache? Put yourself and B.J. on an emotional roller coaster for the rest of your lives? You can’t do it, Cissy. No matter how much you want to. Jack Holt is a player, plain and simple. He might not ever intend to hurt you, but if you let him, he’ll break your heart over and over again.

She couldn’t let him.

It was that simple.

She walked into the small master bath that she and Jack had carved out of an existing attic space, brushed her teeth and stared at a face she barely recognized. Her eyes, whiskey gold, as Jack had referred to them, were rimmed in running mascara, the whites shot with red veins from all of the crying she’d done since finding her grandmother on the floor of the foyer. Her nose was pink, a couple of damned zits daring to erupt on her chin, and her cheekbones more defined than ever. She scrubbed off all remnants of her makeup, dug in the drawer for acne cream she was way too old to be using, then gave up the search when she heard Coco scratching at the door.

“Hang on for a sec,” she called, then walked through the bedroom.

She opened the door, half-expecting Jack to be on the other side, his shoulder propped against the doorjamb, an irrepressible grin tugging at his lips, devilment in his eyes.

But the dog was alone.

Insanely she felt a little bit of disappointment.

“Come here,” she whispered to the dog, “let’s go check on Beej.”

She heard the soft noise from the television in the living room filtering up the stairs and noticed the illumination of a flickering screen playing against the wall of the staircase. Sighing, she found it ridiculously comforting knowing that she wasn’t alone tonight. That Jack was downstairs. In their house.

Oh man, Cissy, you ARE a basket case!

She pushed open the door that she always left just slightly ajar. Inside B.J.’s room, her son was sleeping in his crib, and her heart swelled at the sight of him in the one-piece pajamas that covered him head to toe in soft, powder blue cotton. His blond curls had dried from the bath, and his lips were parted as he slept on his back. A mobile of airplanes through the ages, biplanes to Lear jets, hung suspended from a ceiling where she and Jack had painted clouds.

“Don’t let his angelic demeanor fool you,” Cissy whispered into Coco’s ear as she stared at her son. “He’s been a holy terror all week.” With her free hand, she adjusted Beej’s blankets and watched his small chest rise and fall.

Satisfied that he was sleeping soundly, she slipped back into the hallway and then nearly screamed when she saw a dark figure near the stairs. Her hand flew to her heart the nanosecond before she recognized Jack. “Holy God, Jack, what’re you doing up here! We had a deal.”

“I was just going to do what you’ve been doing. Check on my son.”

“He’s fine!”

But Jack brushed by her and poked his head into the nursery anyway. She followed and peeked through the open door. Her heart squeezed as she saw Jack smile and place his big hand on B.J.’s tummy.

Her heart squeezed.

Don’t let him get to you, do not!

“You’re right,” Jack said, easing into the hallway again and brushing up against a picture she had yet to take down, an eight-by-ten of their wedding in the stupid little Las Vegas chapel. She was in a short white dress, he in a tux, and no one they knew had been there to witness the event.

Jack saw her quick glance and looked at the picture, righting it. “You don’t like Detective Paterno much, do you?”

“He’s not exactly been a champion of my family, but let’s discuss this some other time.”

She thought he might grab her right then and there, close as they were. But the little dog in her arms growled, causing Jack to curb whatever impulse he might have had. “That dog hates me,” he said, faintly amused.

“Maybe she has a reason.”

“Cheap shot, Ciss,” he said, but his amusement didn’t fall away. “You know, I’m getting damned tired of being your whipping boy.”

“You’re the one who lobbied hard and fast to get back into the house.”

“My house,” he reminded her. “At least half of it. But listen, I’m not going to argue with you tonight. I know you’ve been through enough today. So for now, good night, Ciss.” He walked the few feet to the stairs and descended, leaving her in the hallway. She glanced at the wedding picture, yanked it from its hook and, once inside the bedroom, tossed it into the trash with enough force that the glass splintered and the frame broke.

Telling herself she didn’t care two cents about the damned picture, she set the dog on the floor, but the terrier was having none of it. With surprising agility, Coco launched herself onto the bed and settled on Cissy’s pillow. “Oh, no. Not a prayer.” Cissy pushed the tiny beast onto Jack’s side, where Coco circled about a million times before settling into the spot formerly occupied by the man downstairs.

How pathetic was that? She and this little dog on a bed that suddenly seemed an acre across.

She slid between the sheets and picked up a book, then, after reading the same paragraph three times without remembering a word, tossed the paperback onto the nightstand and clicked off the light. Coco was already snoring contentedly, but Cissy stared up at the dark ceiling.

The police really thought her grandmother had been murdered.

During the very week her mother had escaped from prison.

She shuddered, drew the covers up around her neck, and glanced out the window, where the streetlight illuminated a spot on the sidewalk. No police car was outside, but the rain beat steadily, slashing downward, and for a second, just half a heartbeat, she thought she saw someone standing outside that watery pool of light, a dark, smudgy apparition that could have been a person in a dark coat, or a figment of her imagination.

A frisson of fear skated down Cissy’s spine, and her heart nearly stopped.

You’re imagining things.

But she slid out of the bed and, in the darkness, walked to the side of the window, obscured by the curtains, peering out into the damp night. Lights from neighboring houses should have made her feel more secure. Jack being downstairs should have made her feel safe.

Her fingers wound in the sheer curtains as she squinted into the night.

There’s no one there. Look…there’s nothing.

But she swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and resisted the urge to call out to Jack.

She thought about Marla as she stared at the spot where she felt she’d seen someone lurking.

Where was she?

Here?

The couch wasn’t made for sleeping.

It was fine for sitting on.

Great for watching television.

Perfect for making out.

But sleeping all night, no way.

Jack woke with a crick in his neck and a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t dare go upstairs and wake his wife, so he walked into the small bath off the foyer and cleaned his teeth with some of the soap from the dispenser and his finger.

He thought about making a pot of coffee and carrying it up to Cissy, maybe even finding a fake flower and placing it between his teeth in an effort to make her smile, but thought better of it. Part of their deal was that he would leave before she awoke. Cissy was not a “morning person” and was still too pissed at him to even think about forgiving him. He walked into the kitchen, ground some beans for coffee, found the filters, and poured in a carafe of water. With a press of a button, java was on its way.

Just as the first fragrant drips were working their way into the pot, his cell phone jangled. He flipped it open and spied his sister’s name and number. Not a good sign. He almost didn’t answer, but knew that wouldn’t stop her. Jannelle—tall, blond, and five years older than Jack—had been a print model before opening her own school for girls who were on the fast track to the runway. She was tunnel-visioned to the nth degree and relentless when she wanted something. If she was calling at six in the morning, it wasn’t just to say hello. She had to be on some damned mission.

“Hi, Jannelle,” he said in a whisper so as not to wake his wife, child, or the yappy dog.

“What’s this about Cissy’s grandmother being murdered?” Jannelle demanded.

That was Jannelle, never one to sugarcoat anything. “Good morning to you too.”

“You know about this, right? It’s all over the news! Jesus, Jack, did someone really kill Eugenia Cahill?” She sounded nervous, anxious. He heard her breathe in hard, then the distinctive sounds of her lighting a cigarette, though she’d quit smoking a good six months earlier.

“That appears to be the current line of thinking,” he said, leaning one hip against the corner of the cabinets in the kitchen. The coffee was really doing its thing, percolating and sputtering and hissing and filling the small kitchen with a warm, rich scent.

“Was it Marla? Did she knock off her mother-in-law?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t really know, Jannelle. Enough with the interrogation.” He heard his voice rise with impatience and made an effort to bring it back down. “It’s early. Slow down. For all I know, Eugenia
could
have fallen down the stairs. It doesn’t look that way, but who knows?”

“I’ve already had a reporter call
here
. Can you believe it? I think the jerk knew you were Cissy’s husband, couldn’t find you in the book, and was calling anyone named Holt with a ‘J’ for the first initial. Jesus, I’m going to have to change that. You know, Dad probably got a call too. And J.J. Brace yourself. They’re bound to be as pissed as I am about it. Probably worse.”

“I’m braced.” Jack wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear. He was already rooting around in a cupboard for a cup, came up with a mug from his days at UCLA, and pulled the pot out of the coffee machine before it was ready.

“So this guy didn’t call you?”

“Not yet. But our house…Cissy’s place is unlisted. I don’t have a phone at the apartment. Just use the cell.”

“They’ll track you down.”

Of that much, he was certain. He poured himself a cup while some of the black brew drizzled from the reservoir and through the filter onto the hot plate, where it sizzled. Quickly, he returned the carafe to the coffee machine and listened as Jannelle barraged him with more questions. Rapid-fire, she demanded:

“When did it happen?

“How?

“Who would have done this?”

A bit of conscience hit her, and she asked, “Jesus, how is Cissy? You’ve talked to her, right? You…Oh God, that’s why you’re whispering! You’re with her, aren’t you? Oh, Jack, no!” He heard her take another long drag. “Didn’t I tell you to divorce the bitch and be done with it?”

Jack wasn’t in the mood. “What is it you want, Jannelle?” he asked coldly.

“Answers.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know what to say if the damned media calls again.”

“Whatever happened to your stance that ‘no publicity is bad publicity’?”

“Maybe that was a little broad. I’m rethinking it,” she said from her condo in Sausalito.

“Try ‘No comment.’ Look, I’ve got to run, I’ll talk to you later.” Before she could say another word, he hung up and took another long gulp from his coffee. What was it with Jannelle? Naturally bossy, she was forever sticking her nose into his business.

But then, his whole family had a tendency to get under his skin. All opinionated; no one could ever keep his or her mouth shut. And they’d all chimed in on his separation from Cissy. Jannelle, divorced twice herself, had never liked Cissy and was rooting for the split to be finalized. When he’d given Jannelle the news, she’d arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, crossed her incredibly long legs, leaned back in her chair in the Italian restaurant on Pier 39, and smiled. Outside, a colony of sea lions lazed on the docks in the cool wintry sun. Inside, Jannelle ordered two glasses of champagne and said, “Let’s toast to your new freedom. I’ve always said you should divorce the bitch.”

Jack had walked out, leaving her with the two flutes of expensive champagne and the bill. He’d wandered aimlessly along the waterfront, smelling the brine of the sea and wending his way through tourists willing to brave the sunny, if windy, day.

Things had gone differently with his father. Jonathan Holt had been saddened when he’d heard of the potential demise of Jack’s marriage. He’d met Jack in an Irish bar not far from Jack’s office in the financial district. “I hope you find a way to bury the hatchet and patch things up,” he’d said, sipping a Guinness and glancing at the long mirror that stretched behind the bar. They had been standing, each with a foot on the brass rail, an array of colorful bottles and clean glasses stacked on glass shelves in front of the mirror. “There’s a child involved, you know.
My
grandson.”

“I know that, Dad. B.J. isn’t just your grandkid, he’s my son.” The old man always had a way of turning the center of the conversation to himself. And Jonathan Holt was no expert on marriage. Though he and Jack’s mother had endured nearly forty years of being together, throughout the duration of the union, Jonathan—handsome, fit, and charming—had found it difficult to stay faithful to his wife. In the end, Jill Holt had become weary of turning the other cheek, looking the other way, and pretending not to hear the whispers, while younger women openly flirted with her husband. She didn’t divorce him, just moved into a bedroom on the far side of their house, as far from her husband as possible without actually taking the step of “separation.” In Jack’s estimation, Jonathan Holt was the last one to be giving advice on the sanctity of marriage vows.

Jack hadn’t had to face his older brother, Jon, who went by the moniker Jonathan Junior and sometimes was referred to as J.J. Once a major surfer and now “doing time” as he called it as a philosophy professor at a small college in Santa Rosa, Jon often dated coeds and had always been a believer in the old hippy axiom of “doing your own thing.” When Jack had delivered the news of his separation from Cissy to his older brother over the phone, J.J. had barely reacted. “Hey, man, it’s your life. Mom and Dad made a mess of theirs hanging together for so long. If we learned anything from them, it’s you should get out of a bad marriage while you can. I did. It’s no big deal.”

No big deal.
J.J.’s words still haunted Jack, ringing in his ears as he stood by the French doors and looked outside to the predawn morning. He noticed his watery reflection in the glass, seeming ghostlike. J.J. had been wrong. This, the breakup of his marriage, was the biggest deal of his whole damned life. And his marriage wasn’t “bad”; it just needed some work. Maybe
he
needed some work. He was the one who’d messed up.

Closing his eyes for a second, Jack could almost hear his mother’s voice, as if she were in the room standing next to him instead of dead and buried, having succumbed to liver cancer two months before B.J. was born. Of course, if Jill Holt had been alive, she would have wrung out the old “’til death do us part” line, not that it mattered much.

The divorce had been Cissy’s idea.

He heard the sound of little dog paws and then footsteps on the stairs. In the wavy reflection, he spied his wife walking into the room. She was carrying a tousle-headed B.J. in her arms.

“’Morning,” Jack greeted her.

“I thought one of the terms of our deal was that you’d be gone in the morning.”

“Still haven’t worked on the furnace.”

To his surprise, she didn’t argue. Still in pajamas and bare feet, her sun-streaked hair a mess, no makeup visible while hauling a groggy and seemingly grumpy child into the kitchen, she was still beautiful.

“Hey, big guy,” Jack said as Cissy handed her son off to him. “How’re ya?”

Beej, usually ecstatic to see him, turned his face away and grumbled, “No!”

“What’s this all about?” Jack asked him with a frown.

“No, Dad-dee!” B.J. was emphatic.

Cissy glanced over her shoulder on the way to the coffeepot. “Welcome to my world. This has been his disposition most of the week. I think he’s teething again. He hasn’t got a fever or anything. Just a bad mood.” She poured herself a cup and rested her hips against the counter as she blew across the top of the steaming cup. “You made this?”

“Yeah?”

“The single life must be agreeing with you already. Look what you’re learning.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. I
knew
how to make coffee before I met you.”

“Never made a pot while you were living with me.”

“You’re the earlier riser.”

She hid a smile behind the rim of her cup. “And how was that couch?”

“Slept like a baby.”

“Up every three hours crying?” she asked as Beej, a limp rag, his head tucked in the crook of Jack’s neck, looked up at his father and scowled.

“No, Dad-
dee
!”

Cissy shook her head as she started making Beej some oatmeal.

“Maybe he just needs breakfast,” Jack suggested, trying to jolly his son out of his grumpy mood by lifting him high overhead and swinging him, but B.J. wasn’t having any of it and began wailing as if in pain.

“I see Daddy’s missing the magic touch too,” Cissy said as she turned her attention to B.J. “We’ll have breakfast, then go upstairs and have a real bath, as last night you ended up with only a lick and a promise, and we’ll change and…” Her voice had lifted an octave as she spoke to her son, smiling at him and wrinkling her nose, but he turned away from her as well.

“Apparently Mom’s got an equally magic touch,” Jack observed.

“At least this morning,” she said, adding, “Coco needs to go out, and the furnace is still blowing cold air.”

“I’m on it.” He drained his cup, then opened the door to the backyard. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but at least the rain had stopped, leaving the air thick and damp. “Come on,” he said to the little white dog.

Coco stood as if planted on the hardwood floor under the table. “Come on, Coco, let’s do your thing.”

The stubborn animal wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Cissy said, unable to keep a tinge of amusement out of her voice. “Come on, Coco.” Carrying the toddler, Cissy walked outside, and the stupid little dog happily followed. Over her shoulder, Cissy called to Jack, “You could have picked her up, you know.”

“And risk being bit?” he asked, following her.

“Wimp!” she said but laughed as Coco started sniffing the wet grass.

The house phone rang. Still holding Beej, Cissy headed back inside to answer it. “Hello…Yes, this is she…. No, I haven’t heard from her,” she said, her voice edged with irritation. I don’t expect to…. What? Look, I have no idea, okay, none! That’s all I have to say on the matter. Don’t call back!” Cissy slammed the phone down so hard that outside Coco jumped and looked up from her close examination of a clump of crabgrass.

Jack could hear Cissy grumbling under her breath as she walked into the living room. It sounded as if someone had asked her about Marla. He grimaced, imagining what might come next, how many reporters and snoops and gossips would keep bothering her. Wishing he could stave off the flood and help, he let the dog back inside.

Well, there was one thing he could do.

The furnace, a giant rumbling monolith, was in the basement, down steep, switchbacking steps through a door just off the kitchen. Jack found a flashlight in a junk drawer in the kitchen, then headed downstairs and past the laundry area to the ancient heater. It looked like a giant octopus with huge tentacles rising to the ceiling and the rooms above. Its replacement had been next on the to-do list, but, of course, that was before all hell had broken loose and his marriage had crumbled. No, that was wrong. It hadn’t completely died, he reminded himself, though Cissy acted as if the marriage were on its last gasps and there was no hope of resuscitation.

Jack wasn’t about to give up.

He spent half an hour with the damned furnace, figured out that it wasn’t cycling on and that the element was probably kaput. The ducts were fine, might need to be cleaned, but it was the furnace itself that needed replacing. Not a surprise.

He found a towel in the dirty-clothes basket positioned near the washer. Wiping his hands, he climbed the stairs and reentered the living room, where Cissy, having already folded the sleeping bag, was sitting on a corner of the couch, Beej on her lap playing with a toy bunny.

“It’s shot,” he said.

“Your professional opinion?”

“Yep.”

Cissy sighed. “I’ll call some places this morning. Get a few bids.”

Jack noticed the time on the clock in the living room. No matter what he did, he’d be late for work, and he couldn’t bag out. He had a meeting at ten with reps from a major hotel downtown. The hotel reps wanted a feature, and since the unique hotel was a major advertiser, Jack was ready to discuss it. He would have loved to run upstairs and shower, but that was impossible. Cissy had thrown every last stitch of his clothes on the driveway the morning after he’d spent the night at Larissa’s. There wasn’t so much as a sports jacket in his side of the closet any longer.