OTHER TITLES BY CATHARINE RIGGS
Santa Barbara Suspense Series
What She Gave Away
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Catharine Elizabeth Manset Morreale
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542042130
ISBN-10: 1542042135
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
To Chuck and Peg
Thank you
CONTENTS
START READING
I. PRIDE
The Angel
RUTH MOSBY
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
II. SLOTH
The Angel
ZACH RICHARDS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
III. ENVY
The Angel
RUTH MOSBY
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
IV. GREED
The Angel
ZACH RICHARDS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
V. GLUTTONY
The Angel
RUTH MOSBY
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
VI. LUST
The Angel
ZACH RICHARDS
One
Two
Three
VII. WRATH
The Angel
RUTH MOSBY
One
Two
Three
Four
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers.
Proverbs 6:16–19
I. PRIDE
Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.
—Proverbs 16:18
The Angel
Some might call me a cold-blooded killer. I beg to disagree. I’m more like a kindly saint. A patron saint of crossings. One part Saint Christopher, two parts angel of mercy. Add a dash of Mother Teresa, and the recipe is getting close. I have a calling, and I’m good at it. I’ll keep it up until I’m stopped.
“Will it hurt?” The bedside candle casts a shivering shadow across Loretta’s sunken face. Tracing my fingers along the glass syringe, I gaze into her liquid eyes.
“Not for long.” I’ve administered a few insulin overdoses. It doesn’t seem like a bad way to go. But I never lie to my disciples. That would be morally wrong.
“It won’t be worse than the bone cancer?”
“It won’t be worse than that.”
“Then I’m ready.”
I tug her pink slip from my pocket and set it on the nightstand. “First, I need your secret.”
Tears slip along the folds of Loretta’s crumpled cheeks. “I don’t have one.”
I fight off a quiver of irritation. “You’re forgetting our agreement?”
“Of course not. But I can’t think of a single thing.”
“Oh, Loretta. I’m disappointed. I can see the secret in your eyes.”
She plucks at her satin bedcovers until a lavender scent blooms. “What kind of secret do you want?”
I shrug. “Your choice. It can be happy or sad. Scandalous or glorious. I’m not picky. It’s totally up to you. But it must be something you’ve never revealed. A defining moment in your life.”
Loretta is quiet for so long I wonder if she might back out of the crossing. But then she speaks with a trembling voice. “All right then. It’s something that happened on my fourteenth birthday. I’ve never told anyone—not even my husband. I’m still so terribly ashamed.”
“Go ahead,” I say, nearly drooling. This side of me isn’t quite so noble. Less like a saint and more like a tick.
“It was a hot summer day in Michigan.” Her voice cracks as she speaks. “My friends were busy with chores, so I walked to the lake on my own. When I entered the forest, I heard a rustling behind me, and . . .” Her words drone on from there.
Closing my eyes, I sip on her secret. Her words are like a melody—the mournful notes of a dove. When she finishes, I have tears in my eyes. “Thank you,” I say. “That was beautiful.”
“Beautiful? But it was such a terrible moment. So unspeakably dark.”
“There are times when dark can be beautiful.”
Loretta takes a choking breath. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. And I do feel better somehow. You promise you’ll never tell?”
“I promise.”
“Good.” She lifts an arthritic hand and swats vaguely at the air. “You’ll stay with me?”
“Until you cross.”
“Then let’s get moving. I’m ready to see my Charles.” Loretta folds her hands across her chest and takes a quivering breath.
“Peace be with you,” I whisper, and then I inject the fatal dose. A half hour later, I head to my office, where I retrieve my crossing journal and write the seventh entry in my book.
RUTH MOSBY
One
Monday, May 6
My goal each day is ten thousand steps. A Fitbit monitors my progress. One. Two. Three. Four. This morning I’ll reach six thousand steps. Only four thousand left after that. It’s nice the days have grown longer. I’ll walk the harbor loop after work. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. I speed up the slope of Orpet Park through the grove of moth-eaten oaks.
At the summit of the steepest hill, I catch a peek of ocean gray. The islands are invisible today, shrouded in waves of lowering fog. June gloom. That’s what the locals call it, although we’ve barely stepped into May. Locals? I am a local. Or should be after thirty-some years. But oh no. Not in Santa Barbara. You can’t be a local unless you’re born here. Ridiculous but true. Sometimes I wonder why I stay. But at my age, where would I go?
Cresting the final hill, I catch my first glimpse of the mission bells. They’re a sad reminder of my walks with Carlyn and the chats we had every day. She thought the Queen of the Missions was a sign of God’s blessing on our tony beachside town. I wonder what she thinks of God now. I wonder what she thinks of me.
I continue past the mission lawn, verging on parched and dry. The agaves look weathered and dusty; they’re wilted at the tips. A handful of elderly tourists snap photos of the iconic scene. Their foreign chatter disrupts the calm, so I cross the street to the rose garden and follow the rutted trail. A lone dog shoots into view, and I slow my rapid gait. The golden Lab jumps, twists, and barks, nabbing a Frisbee in h
is mouth.
“Morning,” his master calls to me, a smile gracing his youthful face.
“Morning.” I lock my gaze on my running shoes. How did he miss the DOGS ON LEASH signs staggered every twenty feet? Or maybe he didn’t but somehow believes he’s above the city’s rules. I make a mental note to call animal control and continue on my way.
I pick up my pace for the final ten blocks, feeling better than I have in weeks. Turning down my narrow driveway, I cringe at the sight of my neighbor standing on his porch.
“Morning, Ruth,” he calls.
“Morning, Zach.”
Zach limps down his steps and through his drought-stricken garden, a frown rumpling his grizzled face. He’s dressed in board shorts and a tattered T-shirt, mended flip-flops shielding his feet. “You hear those kids partying last night?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. “Was it loud?”
“Hell yeah. I can’t believe they allow short-term rentals in our neighborhood. We’ve got to put a stop to that.”
“Well, kids will be kids.” I fail to mention I called the police at ten sharp. That’s when the noise ordinance kicks in.
“I’m going to complain at today’s city council meeting. Want to come along?” The breeze shifts, and I catch a whiff of spoiled milk. Zach has taken to strategic bathing, which results in an occasional stench.
“I would, but I have to work.”
“Bummer. There’s a better chance if we complain together.”
I nod, thinking he’d have a better chance if he made an effort to clean himself up. When we moved into the neighborhood decades ago, Zach had been a handsome man with an easy smile and a mop of thick black hair. A homicide detective whose pretty wife, Tina, taught art at the nearby elementary school. The perfect neighbors on a perfect street of tiny Craftsman homes. Then their son died in a tragic accident, and Tina passed soon after that. A broken man, Zach took early retirement and nearly drank himself to death. He’s in recovery now and has replaced the booze with an obsession for neighborhood affairs. “What about my petition?” he asks. “You plan on signing that?”
I bite my lower lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Construction begins next week.”
“I wish I could, but . . .”
Mumbling under his breath, he eyes me with a frown. He’s also taken to talking to himself. Is dementia creeping up? “But what?” he asks.
“I don’t think it’s wise for someone in my position to take a political stance.”
“Your position?” He rolls his eyes. “You work at an old folks’ home.”
“I work in a life-care community.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
His frown deepens into a crevasse. “So, you’re okay with those homes coming down?” He nods at the four vacant bungalows located directly across the street. They’re slated for demolition, to be replaced by a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Our future neighbors are a flashy young couple with toddler twins and an army of well-groomed staff. Seems our former middle-class neighborhood is attracting the fashionable Hollywood types.
“I’m not okay with it,” I say, “but what can we do? The planning commission has made their decision. We’re not going to change their minds.”
“But if we don’t take action, it won’t be long before people like us can’t live in this town.”
“At least we’ll make a mint when we sell.”
“You’re not thinking of moving, are you?”
“Of course not.” Although I might if the price is right.
Zach sniffs and takes a swipe at his nose. “I just wish we could stop these assholes. They even complained about my new picket fence.”
I hold my voice steady. “They did?” Last month, Zach replaced his aging fence with a synthetic version that lists from side to side.
“Hell yes. City says my fence is four inches too tall, and I’ve got one month to replace the thing. Where the hell am I going to get that kind of money? My pension only goes so far.” He searches my face with his electric-blue eyes. They’re the only part of him that haven’t aged.
“That’s terrible,” I say, dropping my gaze and backpedaling down the driveway. “Got to get to work. Have a nice day.” I hurry through the gate, swimming through waves of guilt. What if Zach finds out I turned him in? He’ll be angrier than a cornered wasp. But by the time I step out of the shower, I’ve pushed away all my self-doubt. Is it my fault his fence is too tall? For God’s sake, rules are rules.
Two
Monday, May 6
I slow my Prius near the gilded gates that safeguard Serenity Acres’ front entrance. I’m behind a line of thirty cars—it’s the daily changing of the shifts. The back service entrance is under renovation, resulting in this ridiculous traffic jam. The results had better be worth it. The delay adds minutes to my commute. I glance at my cell phone, hoping against hope my daughter might think to check in. But I’m dreaming. She’s way too busy. But I won’t let that get me down. When the security guard waves me through, I note a freshly inked tattoo on his neck. Visible tattoos violate company rules. I’ll be giving his supervisor a call.
Winding my way through the tree-lined drive, I look for further infractions to report. They’re often difficult to discern as the beauty masks the flaws. The campus is a stunning location, a series of two-story Moorish-style buildings topped with traditional red-tile roofs. But the whitewashed walls seem a little grimy today. I’ll ask facilities to give them a touch-up. And I’ll want answers on why the lawn looks so shabby. Did someone forget to mow?
It’s not that I’m being unreasonable. We have certain standards to meet. Our guests demand perfection for their million-dollar investments, and I don’t blame them in the least. The arched windows are washed weekly, the tiled floors buffed until they gleam. The gardens are clipped to perfection, and the blossoms are removed before they fade. The nine-hole golf course is fed by a private well; no sign of drought makes an appearance here.
I pull into my favorite spot in the far corner of the staff parking lot. I get an extra five hundred steps that way. Checking my Fitbit, I smile. Six thousand three hundred. Not bad. When I reach the backside of administration, a rumbling fire truck and ambulance await. Although emergency services visits us daily, no sirens disturb the peace. We keep illness and death at a distance; it’s part of the illusion we create.
Inside the climate-controlled building, I wince at the hint of rotten fruit. Smells are the scourge of all eldercare facilities, but we’re supposed to be above that here. I make a note to speak to the head of housekeeping and continue to my office door. There awaits my first appointment, slouching against the plaster wall.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she says in a tired voice.
“Good morning, Selena. Please come in.”
After stepping through the foyer that leads to my office, I flick on the overhead lights. I hang my jacket and set down my purse, pleased to begin my day. Taking a seat behind my mahogany desk, I’m enveloped in a calming sense of control. My office is my home away from home, decorated to my taste. The walls are peach, the furniture plush, the artwork united by pastels. The lighting is soft, the air nicely scented, my desk polished with natural lemon wax. An arched window looks onto a brick-lined rose garden that blooms throughout the year. This is the place where the big contracts are signed, so it’s important to set the right tone.
I nod at the padded guest chair. “Please take a seat.” Selena drops with a sigh. “How are you?” I ask.
“Good,” she replies, exhaustion dripping from her pores. I try not to focus on her puffy brown eyes threaded with webs of red.
“I appreciate your stopping by after your shift,” I say, pulling her counseling memo from my drawer. “You must be tired.”
“Very.” A caretaker here for over a decade, Selena has gradually moved up the ranks. She’s a plump woman in her late thirties, the night supervisor in assisted living. A hard job
, but not the worst. I rattle the memo in my hands.
“So, let’s get straight to the point and get you home. You were late to work six times last month. Two times this past week.”
Selena works her weathered hands together, keeping her gaze fixed on her lap. “I’m sorry . . .”
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve been on the night shift for two years now.”
“And . . . ?”
“I have three children.”
“And . . . ?”
“And . . .” She takes a deep breath, and her words spill out. “I’m tired. That’s why I’m late. I’m tired all of the time.” She straightens her shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. “I’d like to be transferred to the day shift.”
I drop the memo and drum my fingers on my desk. “Impossible.”
“But there’s a position open in the champion’s unit.”
“I’m sorry. I’d like to help. But there’s no one to cover your night shift.”
“But I’m so tired in the morning, and when I get home, it’s not like I can sleep. I have to get my three niños off to school, and . . .”
And? I want to help. I really do. But it’s not easy to find coverage for the night shifts. “What about your husband?” I ask. “Can’t he help?”
She shifts nervously. “Carlos is in Mexico. He was deported last month.”
“Oh.”
She leans forward. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He was on his way to his gardening job, and ICE stopped him.” She sniffles, and I hand her a tissue and wait while she pulls herself together. “If only he’d fixed that broken taillight,” she continues. “I told him over and over, but he never listens to me.”
“That’s too bad,” I say, meaning it. Deportations have been picking up in the area, which is disruptive to our staffing.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes glisten with tears. “He’s so unhappy. California is the only home he’s ever known.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “His parents brought him here when he was a baby. But now the government says he can never return.” Her voice cracks. “Every night my niños cry themselves to sleep. They want their papa back. I promise them someday soon . . .” She gazes at me with hope. “So you see, I’m needed at home at night. At least for a little while.”
What She Never Said Page 1
