The Stars Shine Bright (22 page)

She turned over an empty bucket, offering me a seat. But I remained standing after the long drive.

“I heard about the fire,” she said, sitting on the bucket. The contrast only made her look more elegant. “I'm glad you survived, of course. But I worried. The smoke must have ruined your clothes.”

“I was wearing my own jeans and boots.”

She pointed at my purse. “So what is that?”

I looked down at the bag. “Nothing.”

She leaned forward and swiped her finger over the gold Coach emblem. “That's . . . dirt.”

“Mud, actually.”

“Raleigh, the handbag is not a backpack.”

“I'll clean it. Saddle soap—I hear it works on anything.”

She sighed. “It was too much to hope for.”

“What was?”

“I was hoping Raleigh David would rub off on you. But I should know better. People don't change from the outside. Proceed.”

“What do you remember about Bill Cooper, the trainer?”

“Forty-eight. Married once. Divorced. Sporadic child support. Employed by Eleanor Anderson for, what, a year?”

“Little over.”

The woman was a computer. Which was why I came here tonight. Well, one reason. She listened carefully as I described the buried tube, the battery bricks, and the state lab's forensics. “Cooper uses clay poultices to soothe the horses' aching muscles. But I just found out it has at least three poisonous substances. Selenium, uranium, and thorium. And Cooper won't tell anyone where he gets the mud.”

“You think he's poisoning the horses on purpose?”

“I can't prove his intentions right now. But the minerals wouldn't show up in any blood tests. Not unless the tester knew to look for them specifically.”

“Clever,” she said. “Very clever.”

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

She dangled a leather sandal from her foot, thinking a moment before speaking. “Eleanor pays him for wins, I'm sure. A percentage of the purse is fairly standard for good trainers. So if he's poisoning the horses, that means somebody is paying him more to lose. Do any funding sources come to mind?”

This morning, when Mr. Yuck inspected the barns, Cooper was warning someone on his cell phone.
“Five minutes,”
he said. Yuck's next stop was Abbondanza. “Sal Gagliardo, maybe. The bookie. But Sal Gag's horse was involved in the starting gate fiasco.”

“You're committing an error in logic. Don't assume the mud and this tubular mechanism are related.” She bobbed the sandal on the end of her foot. “Unless . . .”

I waited. The woman could read motive like a spreadsheet.

“It was raining that day. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“What if the substance sprayed from the tube dissolved in water? Or blended with the turf?”

“Like the clay.” I thought of the soil suspended inside the beaker of water. “And if a horse was already suffering from mineral poisoning, one small projectile of uranium or thorium—”

“Carried quickly by the adrenaline, which would be coursing through the animal's circulatory system prior to a race—”

“And then shock,” I said. “Shock would send more adrenaline into the bloodstream.” I told her how SunTzu's heart gave out in the medical clinic, and how the vet tried to resuscitate him.

“One problem.” She reached down, tugging the sandal back on her painted toes. “This Bill Cooper sounded rather crass on paper. Is he clever enough to carry out this hypothetical scenario?”

“From what I saw this morning, he's ruthless and devious.” I described the way Cooper plucked Ashley from the ruins of Abbondanza. “He convinced her it was for her benefit. The whole thing happened quickly, but it was as if Cooper already had a plan.”

Lucia smiled. It was the sly and quiet smile of Mona Lisa, with the gravitas of understanding the criminal mind. “You would like me to do a deeper background check?”

“Could you, please?”

“If you apologize for ruining that beautiful handbag.”

“I'm sorry.”

She reached for the shelves behind her. They held gallon cans of olive oil and a pencil that dangled from a string. Tearing paper from what appeared to be a shopping list, she wrote something quickly. “You will want another favor.”

“Not right now.”

“Are you sure?” She smiled again, but another expression was playing in her sloe eyes. Like a cat who had cornered a mouse and was playing with it. “Wouldn't you like me to steal your photo from Jack's desk?”

My photo.
Jack's desk
. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, that's right. I forgot. You're not in the office these days.”

“You never forget anything.”

“That is true.” The corners of her mouth lifted again. “I was being disingenuous.”

“Or worse.”

“I presume this picture was taken on that cruise to Alaska. I can see mountains in the background.” She folded the scrap of paper. “But perhaps you two went on another trip?”

“Lucia, nothing's going on. You know that.”

“Of course.”

Yet she continued to smile. And I felt heat coming up my throat.

I said, “Get it over with. Tell me.”

“Well, it's interesting from a profiling standpoint.”

“From a profiling standpoint, Jack's insane. We know that.”

“Ah, but this particular photograph has an intriguing quality.”

My face felt hot, like it was the color of Donato's tomato sauce. And I couldn't seem to make it stop.
When did Jack take a picture of me?

“You remember his desk,” Lucia said. “That display of girlfriends, each of questionable reputation?”

Jack's photo harem was a running joke inside the Violent Crimes unit. Nobody knew if the women were his dates or his suspects.

“They're gone,” she said. “Every one. Now there is only a picture of you.”

I lifted my left hand, brandishing my ring finger. “Engaged. Remember?”

“Oh, but of course.” She stood and opened the door. Smiling. “Shall we eat?”

Her sister, Giuliana, was standing at the stove. She lifted a ladle from a sauce pan and sipped. “Oregano,” she said. “I was right.”

Donato wasn't there to hear her. Standing by the alley door, he greeted the crowd of family streaming inside. I saw Lucia's elderly uncle, his withered posture curling him like a violin scroll. And two couples with seven children between them, all under the age of ten. Donato followed them back into the kitchen. When he saw me, he exclaimed, gave me a hug, and introduced me to everyone. Lucia's friend Raleigh. That was all. Just Raleigh. The uncle grunted and took the only seat in the house, a kitchen stool with a kick-step, while everyone else stood around the big island, talking loudly beneath a copper cloud of cooking pots, their voices saying nothing important but each word delivered with great emphasis, bouncing off the metal above us. Our meal was dished out on the same paper plates that the customers got, while Donato and Giuliana relaunched their argument. The children ran to the service window to play restaurant—girls served food; boys pretended to eat—except for one plump boy also called Donato. He stood beside his grandfather at the stove, listening to the old man ladle out cooking advice.

“First a-thing,” Donato said. “You no listen to the women,
capiche
?”

I lifted my paper plate. The roasted tomato sauce had a silken texture. It bathed a glistening brown sausage bedded on a crusty roll with sautéed peppers and onions. I closed my eyes to give thanks and listened to the music of the people around me. My first bite sent garlic waltzing across my tongue, pirouetting with the sage, while the slow-roasted pork and beef stepped forward, luxuriating on my palate until fennel took its final bow.

I almost gasped, giving thanks again.

Donato served me a second sandwich. My paper plate and napkin looked like a crime scene. Lucia remained pristine, without a speck of red sauce anywhere on her linen clothing. And all the while, the happy cacophony continued. Mothers yelled at the kids, husbands yelled at the wives for yelling at the kids, and the kids yelled back that it was all unfair. I drew a deep breath and continued eating.

“Ey, Raleigh.” Donato's face seemed to glow with joy. “You like-a my food?”

I could only nod.

And later that night, as I sat outside on the condo porch, I was still trying to find the words. In the sky above, the Summer Triangle was blinking into view–Altair, Deneb, Vega—and my eyes felt tired, almost gritty from so much driving. But when Polaris peeked out, I recalled a summer night long ago, when a thunderstorm knocked out Richmond's electrical power. My dad never wasted opportunity. He led me outside for the blackout so we could name the stars. Dippers—Ursa Major, Ursa Minor—and Orion with his belt and sword. And this same Summer Triangle that was also known as the Swan, Lyre, and Eagle. It was a good memory, but I started to feel cold and went back inside. I walked through the sleek and empty rooms that belonged to a woman who didn't exist, and climbed into her fresh, anonymous bed in a room where an air conditioner sucked dry every trace of warmth. And for hours I tossed and turned. Too many thoughts were flitting through my mind, and finally I rolled over and turned on the bedside lamp. The red leather book waited. But tonight I could only flutter the pages, too tired to choose, and wishing that whatever wisdom I needed would simply appear and mend the ache inside my heart. The pain. It went far beyond the usual hurt. Past the grief of missing my dad. My mom's condition. The situation with DeMott. And yet I couldn't name it until Proverbs rustled into view. Suddenly I recalled all the good food and bickering inside that kitchen, all the echoes of children at play and heated arguments. My heart ached because open rebukes were better than hidden loves. Because wounds from a friend were more faithful than the profuse kisses of an enemy. Because this night had glimmered with the tight entropy, the skimming blows, the eruptions that came from long-simmering resentments.

The needles born for our souls.

It was family.

And I had none.

Chapter Twenty-Four

S
aturday morning I woke early. While the coffee brewed, I picked through Raleigh David's junk mail and listened to the messages on her answering machine, a litany of political pleas and lies recorded yesterday. By the fifth call, from a candidate who could only lift his stature by vilifying his opponent, I reached over to hit Stop.

But the sixth message began, “It's me.”

I stared at the machine.

“Delta Airlines says Madame can stay under my seat, in a cage,” DeMott said. “Here's our flight number.”

I grabbed a pen and scrawled the number across a political flyer.

“The flight's scheduled to arrive at one in the afternoon, but since we're changing planes in Atlanta, thunderstorms might delay the flight. Be sure to check the arrival time before you drive to the airport.”

I moved my jaw back and forth. Maybe it was the way he said it. Like he didn't expect me to think of this myself. Lecturing me. Again.

He said, “We'll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“It's sudden, I know,” he said, as if hearing my reply. “But Madame won't survive like this much longer. And Mac's baby is due next week. I want to be here for that.”

There was a long pause. My feet felt riveted to the kitchen floor.

“Probably best if I call your cell phone when we land. Then you won't have to park. You can pick us up at the arrivals.” He paused again. “I can't wait to see you, Raleigh.”

He hung up. I hit Play again. One thought was looping through my mind.
DeMott, in Seattle
. I felt sweat breaking out under my arms.
Today. DeMott in Seattle. Today
. But on the second listen my panic turned to fury.
He couldn't give me some notice?
I hit Stop before he finished talking and scrolled through the call log. His message was recorded yesterday. Friday. At 6:00 a.m. When I was meeting with the arson investigator. Gone all day, and last night too tired to check the messages. A sensation like a piercing arrow hit my heart. He had given me notice. And like those politicians, I was vilifying him to elevate myself.

As I was pulling the plank from my eye, I saw another message was on the machine. My finger was poised over the delete button, expecting another politician, but it wasn't.

“Miss David, this is Walter Wertzer with the Pierce County Fire Department. I'm calling Friday afternoon.”

Oh boy
.

“Since you seemed eager to take it, I scheduled your polygraph.”

The lie detector test.

“I know you horse people work on Saturdays”—his tone was somehow snide—“so I'll expect you at the Auburn station off Black Diamond Road. Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock.”