by Jance, J. A.
“Your mom’s not here yet,” he said.
“Maybe she’s running late,” Lindsey said brightly. “Maybe she got busy and forgot what time it was.”
“Tell you what,” Conrad said. “Why don’t you stay on the bus until I drop Tommy off at Rainbow Lane. If your mother’s running late, that’ll give her a few minutes to catch up.”
He glanced in the girls’ direction. Lindsey clapped her hands in delight. “You mean we can ride all the way to the turnaround? And then we can be on the bus all by ourselves?”
“Yes,” Conrad said. “Once Tommy gets off, it’ll be just the two of you and nobody else.”
Lindsey turned to her sister. “Won’t that be fun?”
Lacy shook her head and said nothing.
Once again Conrad was struck by how different the two girls were. Last year, on another field trip, he had overheard two of the first-grade teachers talking about them. “Well, Lacy’s certainly not retarded,” Mrs. Dryer, Lacy’s first-grade teacher, had said. “She can do all the work. She just won’t participate in class.”
Conrad had wondered at that. He didn’t think teachers should be talking about kids being retarded. Weren’t they supposed to use nicer words than that? Besides, the situation with Lindsey and Lacy reminded him of his two sons, Johnny and Miguel. Johnny was two years older, and he had been the one who had done all the talking. There wasn’t any need for Miguel to find his own voice, as long as his older brother was close at hand. Miguel hadn’t actually started speaking on his own until halfway through first grade, when he skipped the baby-talk stage completely and cut loose with fully formed sentences. And he hasn’t shut up since, Conrad thought with a chuckle. It seemed possible that some of Miguel’s teachers used to say the same thing about him. Now, though, his younger son was an honors communications major at the University of Arizona, so go figure.
Once Conrad had dropped Tommy off, made the turn, and come back to the Foresters’ long driveway, there was still no sign of the Hyundai. Conrad pulled over, stopped the bus, and reached for his cell phone. He wasn’t surprised to find that he didn’t have a signal way out here in the boonies. Putting away the useless phone, he sat and wondered what to do. It was against the rules to take the bus onto a private road, especially since there was a good chance he might run into a spot where it would be impossible to turn around. If there was any kind of problem, he’d be late getting back to school to pick up his next load of kids.
“It’s okay,” Lindsey said. “You can let us out here. We can walk home. We know the way. It’s not that far.”
“No,” Lacy said.
Conrad was surprised to hear Lacy state her opinion. In the three years the girls had been riding his bus, this was the first time she had uttered a single word in his hearing.
“Come on, Lace,” Lindsey wheedled. “Walking won’t kill us. If you want, I’ll even help carry your stuff.” Lacy Forester came to school every day with a backpack that seemed half as big as she was.
“Maybe I should take you back to school so the principal can call your mom,” Conrad offered.
“No,” Lindsey said. “I don’t want to go back there. I’m hungry. I want to go home and have a snack. Come on, Lace. We can do it.”
For a moment Lacy Forester resumed her stony silence. She seemed close to tears, but finally, faced with her sister’s force-of-nature determination, she sighed, stood, and shouldered her backpack.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Conrad asked as he opened the door.
“We’ll be fine,” Lindsey declared. “You’ll see.”
The two girls clambered out of the bus. Conrad watched them trudge side by side down the dusty red dirt track with the clear November sun at their backs until they disappeared from sight over a slight rise. Then he put the bus in gear and headed back to school. If he didn’t get going right then, he would be late for the last bell.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he told the other drivers over coffee later that week. “I never should have let them go home alone.”
CHAPTER 1
For the hundredth time that day, Ali Reynolds asked herself why she’d ever let her agent, Jacky Jackson, talk her into being a part of MCMR, short for Mid-Century-Modern Renovations, a program aimed at the Home & Garden TV viewer, documenting restoration projects designed to bring back venerable old twentieth-century American houses that otherwise would have fallen victim to the wrecking ball.
Months earlier Ali had come into possession of one of those precious fixer-uppers when she had purchased Arabella Ashcroft’s crumbling hilltop mansion at the top of Sedona’s Manzanita Hills Road. She had been intrigued when Jacky contacted her about filming the entire project. According to Jacky, MCMR would be the next great thing. Mid-Century-Modern Renovations was due to air on Home & Garden TV sometime in the not too distant future, but there was always a chance it would follow the lead of some of the Food Network’s cooking shows and make the jump over to one of the major networks.
Jacky had begged and pleaded until Ali finally agreed. At first her contractor had been thrilled at the prospect, and his crew had enjoyed mugging for the two cameramen, Raymond and Robert. Now, though, with construction seriously behind schedule, the workers were becoming surly at having the cameras forever in the way, and so was Ali. It was bad enough when things were going well. But then there were days like today, when Bryan Forester, her general contractor, had gone ballistic after Yvonne Kirkpatrick, the city of Sedona’s queen-bee building inspector, had decreed that the placement of some of Bryan’s electrical outlets in both the bathrooms and the kitchen were out of compliance.
The cameras had been there filming the entire epic battle as Bryan and the fiery-haired Yvonne had gone at it nose-to-nose over the issue. Later, they had been missing in action when Yvonne, who had returned to her office to check the rules and regs, had called back with the embarrassing admission that Bryan had been right and she had been wrong. From her days as a television newscaster, Ali Reynolds knew the drill. After all, confrontations make for great TV. Reconciliations don’t. Compared to war, peace is B-O-R-I-N-G. And even though Yvonne had admitted her mistake, she had yet to come back and sign off on the permit. The drywall guys couldn’t start hanging wallboard until she did.
Ali had hoped to have the place ready for a grand Thanksgiving dinner unveiling for friends and family. Right now her house had no running water or electricity, and the interior walls were nothing but bare studs. This latest delay made a turkey-day gathering in her remodeled home even more unlikely. Disheartened, she had retreated to the wisteria-lined flagstone patio where they had erected a canvas canopy over the worn redwood picnic table that served as a lunchroom for workers and film crew alike. Before Ali could summon a really serious funk, though, Leland Brooks appeared, bearing a silver tray set for tea.
“Tea?” he asked. “You look as though you could use a cuppa.”
“Yes, please,” Ali said gratefully, shivering in the late-afternoon chill. “That would be wonderful.”
Ali had taken on restoring Arabella Ashcroft’s dilapidated home as her personal rehabilitation project, and Brooks, Arabella’s former butler, had made fixing Ali Reynolds his. Months earlier and already dealing with the end of both her newscasting career and the end of her marriage, Ali had abandoned California and returned to her roots in Sedona, Arizona, looking for respite and a little peace and quiet. That hadn’t worked very well. Instead of achieving idyllic serenity, she had been propelled into life-and-death struggles with not one but two murderous nutcases.
Afterward Ali had been drifting aimlessly into a sea of depression when Leland Brooks came to her rescue, determined to find a way to help her help herself. Refusing to take no for an answer, he had set before her the daunting challenge of buying and re-creating Arabella Ashcroft’s mother’s house. In the ensuing months, every time the resulting complications had threatened to overwhelm Ali, Leland had been at her side. He still referred to himself as her butler, but she
saw him as her property manager and also as her trusted aide-de-camp. He had taken up residence in a fifth-wheel trailer set up in the driveway, where he could make sure tools and supplies stayed put when the workmen left the site.
Ali waited while Leland dosed her tea with two cubes of sugar and a wedge of lemon.
“I see that building inspector was here again,” he said.
“Yes,” Ali returned. “She rode in on her broom, out on same, and fouled up the wallboard guys for at least another day. I’m pretty sure Thanksgiving is a lost cause.”
Leland handed over a cup and saucer. “Mr. Forester is a good man,” he said thoughtfully. “Surely he’ll be able to find a way to carry us over the finish line.”
Ali took a sip of her tea. It was perfect. “Mr. Brooks,” she said, “has anyone ever told you that you’re an incurable optimist?”
Leland frowned. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment, is it?” he returned.
Ali laughed aloud. No matter how bad things got, Leland always seemed to cheer her up. Just then a car came winding up the driveway, threading its way between lines of workers’ vehicles. As it parked behind Ali’s Porsche Cayenne SUV, she recognized Detective Dave Holman’s sheriff’s department sedan.
Dave, a fellow graduate of Cottonwood’s Mingus Union High, was a longtime friend and recently a sometime beau. Several months earlier, he had been granted primary custody of his two daughters, nine-year-old Cassie and thirteen-year-old Crystal. Since then Dave had thrown himself wholeheartedly into his unexpected second chance at fatherhood. His newly assumed parenting responsibilities combined with a realization that both Dave and Ali were in full rebound mode had led to a mutual decision to back off for a while. As a result, he and Ali had been spending far less time together of late. On this occasion, though, Ali was delighted to see him—until she caught sight of the grim set of his jaw. Clearly, this was some other kind of visit.
At another time in her life, Ali Reynolds might not have thought the worst, but after months of dealing with one disaster after another, her heart went to her throat. Had the brakes failed in her father’s doddering antique Bronco, or had her mother’s Alero been T-boned making a left-hand turn across traffic into the Sugarloaf Café’s parking lot? Or was it Christopher? Had something happened to her son? Holding her breath, she gestured Dave onto the patio.
“Hey, Dave,” she croaked. It was a lame attempt at pretending she wasn’t terrified. “Good to see you. Care for some tea?”
Dave shook his head. “No, thanks.” He glanced toward the house. “I’m looking for Bryan Forester. Is he here?”
Relieved, Ali let out her breath. “In the far bathroom,” she answered. “Would you go find him, please?” she said to Leland.
Leland nodded. “Certainly,” he said and marched away.
“Is something wrong?” Ali asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Dave answered. “Morgan Forester’s been murdered. Their two girls came home from school a little while ago and found their mother dead in the front yard. Has Bryan been here all day?”
Even though all of Bryan’s worker bees had shown up on time, Bryan himself hadn’t appeared until later in the morning. Given that he had several different jobs going, his late arrival wasn’t so unusual. Ali had noticed, however, that the generally even-tempered Bryan had seemed out of sorts. Even before his confrontation with the building inspector, Bryan had been barking at his people and growling at the guys wielding their cameras.
“He wasn’t here all day,” she said. “But he was here most of it. Why?”
Before Dave could ask anything more, Leland returned, bringing Bryan Forester with him. “What’s up?” Bryan asked, looking questioningly from Ali to Dave.
Ali knew from personal experience what it meant to be given that kind of devastating news. Not wanting to witness Bryan Forester’s heartbreak, Ali thought of taking Brooks and disappearing into the house. Before she could rise from the bench, however, Dave cut off that avenue of retreat by speaking immediately.
“It’s about your wife,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
“Bad news about Morgan?” Bryan asked. “What about her? What kind of bad news. Has she been in a wreck or something?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Your wife has been murdered,” Dave said. “Your daughters found her this afternoon when they came home from school.”
Ali felt a momentary flash of anger at Dave Holman. Couldn’t he have found a gentler way of delivering such awful news? Couldn’t he have couched it in less blunt terms?
Bryan’s face contorted in grief and astonishment as the brutal blow landed. He staggered over to the picnic table and sank down onto the redwood bench across the table from Ali. “No,” he said, shaking his head from side to side in absolute denial. “That can’t be. It’s impossible. Morgan was fine when I left for work. This is wrong. You must be mistaken.”
“I’m afraid there’s no mistake,” Dave replied. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Forester, I’ll need you to come with me. Once the body has been transported, we’ll need you to identify…”
At first Ali thought he had softened slightly, but then she noticed the odd shift from “Bryan” to “Mr. Forester.” Ali was a year younger than Dave, and Bryan Forester was over ten years younger than Ali. Dave’s turn to formality struck her as ominous.
Bryan, on the other hand, seemed oblivious. He surged to his feet. “No,” he interrupted. “Where are Lindsey and Lacy? What have you done with my daughters? I’ve got to see them, be with them.”
“The girls are fine,” Dave said reassuringly. “I called in Deputy Meecham, the DARE officer from their school. She knows your kids, and they know her. I asked her to take them to the sheriff’s office. The girls are probably already there.”
“Let’s go, then,” Bryan said impatiently, changing his mind about going to the house. “Why are we standing around here jawing?” He took two long strides toward Dave’s car, then stopped and turned back to Ali. “Tell the guys for me, please,” he said. “They should probably plan on taking the rest of the week off. Until I—” He broke off, unable to continue.
“Of course,” Ali said reassuringly. “I’m so sorry about this, Bryan. You do what you need to do. We’ll be fine.”
She watched as Dave took Bryan Forester by the arm and escorted him to the waiting patrol car. Dave opened the door—the door to the backseat, Ali noted, to let Bryan inside. Ali had to concede that was probably necessary, since there would likely be weapons and equipment in the front seat, but still, was it really necessary for Bryan to be locked in the back of the vehicle like a common criminal—like he was under arrest or something? But then Ali remembered that when her almost–ex husband, Paul Grayson, had been run over by a speeding freight in southern California, the investigating officers had driven her to Riverside in the back of a patrol car as well. Perhaps this was the same protocol and it meant nothing. Maybe Ali was simply reading too much into it.
“If you’d like me to, madam,” Leland Brooks said quietly, “I’d be happy to track down the work crew and relay the bad news.”
Ali knew that in the past, Leland had dealt with Arabella Ashcroft’s periodic flights from sanity by retreating into that very proper butler made. Dave’s uncharacteristic detour into formality had disturbed her, but as Leland switched gears, Ali felt herself comforted.
“Thank you,” Ali said. “That would be greatly appreciated.”
Ali sat staring into the depths of her teacup and thought about two little girls coming home to the shock of finding their mother murdered. It appalled Ali to think about them being thrust into this awful turmoil and then being carted off to the sheriff’s office by some stranger to await the arrival of their father.
Ali’s cell phone rang. Glad to be jolted out of her grim contemplations, she hurried to answer, but it didn’t do her much good.
“Have you heard about Morgan Forester?” Edie Larson asked. “It’s positively dreadful! I
still can’t believe it.”
Ali Reynolds had always marveled at her mother’s uncanny ability to know everything that was going on in Sedona, Arizona, before almost anyone else did. Since Edie’s sources were quick and nearly always accurate, Ali didn’t bother questioning them now. Obviously, whoever had delivered the news knew what was going on.
“Just did,” Ali admitted. “Dave was here a few minutes ago and told Bryan what had happened.”
“Those poor sweet little girls,” Edie went on. “Can you imagine coming home from school and finding something like that? The one is already such an odd little duck, I doubt she’ll ever recover.”
“Odd?” Ali asked.
“They’re twins, you know,” Edie said. “They’ve come to the Sugarloaf on occasion, usually with their daddy.” The Sugarloaf Café was the family-owned diner Ali’s parents had run for years.
“The two of them are the cutest little things. They look just alike, but the one—I don’t know which is which—talks nonstop. She chatters on and on like a little magpie, while the other one never says a word. The one eats everything in sight and cleans her plate without the least bit of fuss. The other one has to have everything on a separate plate—one plate for the eggs, another for the hash browns, another for the bacon, and still another for her toast or sweet roll. God forbid if one crumb of food should touch another. It’s always a problem when they come in, because there’s not enough room on our four-tops for one person to use four separate plates.” Edie paused and then added, “I guess you’ve never waited on them.”
Periodically, Ali pitched in as a substitute waitress. She knew of several adult customers with similar phobias, but she didn’t remember ever waiting on Bryan Forester’s little girls. “I guess not,” she agreed.
