“No, she doesn’t give away much about herself. Which reminds me—I’ve got an errand to run. Release the men when they’re done and my father will settle up in the next couple of days.”
He hurried to his car and drove to Healerina but saw the CLOSED sign on the door as he pulled up. Daley had closed up shop already. He got out for a closer look and saw a Closed Monday note on the glass.
He went around back where she parked her car but it was gone.
Damn. He’d wanted to take her out for dinner but had been so busy all day it slipped his mind. Where had she gone?
MONDAY—MARCH 2
1
“Oh, crap,” Rhys muttered when he saw the display.
THE DUAD MUST GO
The divestment process had been proceeding in a slow, steady, orderly fashion. The Pendry Fund would easily meet Dad’s mid-March deadline to be out of the equity market. But now this.
Good thing his father wasn’t around. He’d gone out first thing this morning to harass Jason Tadhak into hooking the new cable to the transformer. Even Rhys knew the procedure was a lot more complicated than making a few connections. Not only was the deal memo not ready, but they needed to build a mini substation to handle the switching and regulate the voltage.
But what did this mean here? Go? Did that mean leave town? Or something a lot more sinister?
He was tempted to run last night’s scans again, but he’d already been treated to a number of these cryptic messages in the past few weeks, and repeat runs had never made a difference.
Okay. He’d fix this—only a temporary fix, he knew, but it would buy some time. He took screen shots that cut off the message and forwarded them to his father’s computer.
Then he jumped in his car and drove down to Healerina. The trip proved a replay of yesterday: the door locked, the Closed Monday sign still in the window, and no car around back.
Where the hell was she?
2
Daley slept in.
She hadn’t realized how much she missed her old bed until she’d collapsed into it last night. And somehow hugging the pillow until late on a Monday morning seemed the height of decadence.
With no return visit from Karma, Sunday had proved blessedly uneventful. So Daley closed the shop a little early to accommodate the long drive back to LA. She’d brought along an audiobook—a mystery thriller to help pass the time—but couldn’t concentrate on it. All she could think of was that poor little girl and the thing growing in her brain.
She made it to North Hollywood and crashed, grateful for the oblivion of sleep.
One of the reasons for the trip had been to move some of her stuff south and make her Nespodee Springs place feel more like hers. The other had been her monthly billing chore. Yesterday had been the first of the month, and that meant bogus invoice time.
(“Do you really want to continue this?”) Pard said as her label printer began spitting out address stickers.
“I don’t see I have a choice. Healerina isn’t exactly a cash cow, and I’ve still got rent and taxes to pay.”
“I know, but it’s just … beneath you.”
Funny how she never used to see it that way, and now …
“I hope to phase it out.”
“Before you get caught and arrested for fraud. And even if you do phase it out, these kind of things don’t go away entirely. They’re always out there, waiting to come back and haunt you.”
She sighed. “Yeah, there’s always that.”
She’d insulated herself to some extent. The bank had her address and that of Burbank Drain and Pipe Cleaning listed as the Burbank UPS Store. The Burbank UPS Store listed her at the North Hollywood store and vice versa. Round and round and round she goes …
But she wasn’t kidding herself: A determined investigator could unravel it all fairly quickly.
She printed out the invoices, folded them into envelopes, and attached the address stickers. Ready to go.
Keeping a constant watch for her fan club from the Medical Arts building, she spent the early afternoon packing her Crosstrek with smaller pieces of furniture and various odds and ends, including her candle safe. Fortunately nobody showed and she was able to get the job done with time to spare.
“I’ve got an itch to see Gram again,” she said.
Dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, Pard looked up from where he lounged on the couch, a position he’d held all day. A couple of times she’d almost yelled at him to get off his ass and help her load the car but bit it back when she realized he couldn’t lift a toothpick.
(“Well, scratch it, then.”)
So she called.
“Hey, it’s me,” she said when Gram picked up. “Got any plans for dinner?”
“The usual. Will you be coming over?”
“Love to. But—”
“I’ll put on another pork chop then.”
“No-no. What say I bring over dinner for you and Seamus tonight?”
“Oh, you don’t have to be doing that. You’re too busy as it is.”
“I’ll pick up a steak and some sides, you just save your appetites.”
“You won’t be trying any of that nuveen cuisine on us, will you?”
Nuveen cuisine … Daley had first heard the expression as a teen and had to look it up: Gram’s term for nouvelle cuisine, which meant any dish that came with a sauce or “took on airs.” Any time Daley had tried to introduce a different kind of food to the table, it had been dismissed as “nuveen cuisine.”
“No nouvelle cuisine, I promise.”
“Well … all right, if you really want to … but at least let me do the afters.”
“Deal. I’ll be over around five-thirty.”
Pard said, (“How does someone who lives on frozen dinners plan to cook this?”)
“Oh, I’m not cooking anything…”
She stopped at the post office to mail her invoices, then headed out to a butcher shop in Burbank that sold precooked steaks—just heat and eat. She picked out a marinated London broil and mixed-green salad. On impulse she added a pound of broiled asparagus that looked delicious.
When she arrived at five-thirty sharp, Brendan gave her a welcoming bark; Seamus took the food and found his way through the smog to the kitchen where he set it on the counter. Dressed for dinner now in khakis and a button-down shirt, Pard sat on the kitchen table.
Daley said, “How’d you fare in the earthquake, Unk?”
“Barely felt it up here. A vibration was all. Can I be opening you a stout, dearie?”
She’d never been a stout fan—even the name was unappealing—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun.
Watch this …
“Got a Guinness, Unk?”
She didn’t want a Guinness any more than she wanted a mint julep, but she always liked the reaction.
Seamus glowered at her. “You know damn well I’ll not be serving that swill in me house.”
(“Ah! Similar to his ‘Protestant whiskey’ reaction.”)
“And I’ll not be having you say ‘damn’ in my house,” Gram said, charging in from her bedroom.
Seamus pointed at Daley. “She asked for a Guinness!”
Gram turned to her. “Dearie, why would you be tormenting the man?”
(“I was about to ask the same question. Let me hit the memory banks. Oh, yes, I see…”)
The two of them came from County Cork where the Murphy’s brewery sits right on the edge of Cork city. Seamus’s father had worked there all his life and Seamus put in a short spell among the vats himself before coming to America. Murphy’s biggest rival was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of stout, Guinness, which was brewed in Dublin. As a matter of Cork pride, they drank only Murphy’s.
“Come on, Unk,” Daley said, not ready to give it up just yet, “have you even tried Guinness?”
He turned up his nose. “Never!”
She loosed a dramatic sigh. “Well, then, if you haven’t got Guinness, I suppose I’ll just have t
o make do with the wine I brought.”
She’d picked up an oversized bottle of Argentinean merlot on the way. Red and on sale—what more did she need to know?
“Great heavens!” Gram said, eyes wide as she stared at her hair. “What in the name of the saints have you done to your hair?”
Daley gave an elaborate shrug. “It just turned white there. And I can’t change it.”
“Well, no one on my side of the family’s ever had hair like that.” She eyed the rest of her. “And will you be looking at yourself, all dressed in black. You look like a widow. You need some color, you do.”
She’d worn her Healerina garb because time would be tight getting down to the desert tomorrow morning in time to open the shop.
“Black is a color.”
“Well, you’ll never be attracting a man if you’re goin’ about looking newly widowed.”
No comment.
The steak came in its own aluminum pan which Daley put in the oven along with the asparagus.
“Aren’t you going to boil them?” Gram said.
“No, they’re broiled.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. This is nuveen cuisine, isn’t it.”
“No, not even close. You’ll love it. Trust me.” She had to get her to stop hovering. “How about you dish out the salad while I get the wine out of my car?”
“Of course, dearie,” she said as she took a sip of her whisky. Gram preferred her Jameson neat, poured a little bit at a time into a juice glass. She called them “shorts.”
With a cigarette dangling from her lips, she began forking the salad onto plates.
(“This feast isn’t getting off to a great start.”)
It’ll turn out fine. I’m sure of it.
She hadn’t enough arms to carry in the wine along with the food, so she’d left the bottle behind. As she retrieved it from the front seat she almost dropped it at the sound of a man saying her name.
“Stanka, Stanka, my, how you’ve grown.”
She whirled to find a smiling, neatly dressed man standing by the rear bumper. Though the sun was down, she still had plenty of light. He appeared to be in his fifties and looked vaguely familiar.
“I’m sorry … do I know you?”
“You mean you don’t recognize your Uncle Billy?”
She almost dropped the bottle again. Billy Marks had put on weight and gone a little gray since she’d last seen him—when she thought she’d seen the last of him.
And yet, here he was … the last person she wanted to see.
“You’re not my uncle.”
“I’m your father’s cousin. That makes me an uncle of sorts—a distant uncle.”
“Very distant. What do you want?”
“That’s not a very friendly greeting.”
“How do you expect me to greet the man who murdered my father?”
His smile vanished. “That’s a lie your mother spread and you know it. The Family council completely exonerated me. I wasn’t even in the same town when it happened.”
His alibi had been his brother, and Daley would never buy that.
She began walking toward Gram’s door. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“But I’ve got matters with you. I heard how you messed up your game in Coachella.”
She kept walking …
“You shouldn’t be running games without giving the Family its cut.”
… and walking …
He added, “And I know Consumer Affairs has an eye on you.”
That made her stop and turn. “How do you know what Consumer Affairs does?”
The smile returned. “I’ve got a source keeps an ear out for anything involving the Family—just so we get a heads-up on any trouble coming our way. I don’t know what you’re running down there in the desert, but you better give the Family a slice.”
“I left the Family behind at thirteen. I’m so far gone you’re not even in the rearview.”
“You’re never out of the Family, Stanka. Besides, we can help you, make sure you don’t screw up this new thing like you did Coachella.”
“It’s not a ‘thing,’ and I want nothing to do with you or the Family—especially you.”
“Consumer Affairs lists you as ‘Healerina.’ It better not have anything to do with the horrors, because I’m developing a game on the horrors and I don’t need no interference.”
She resumed walking away. “Rest easy, Billy,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not interested in the horrors.”
“Keep it that way, or there’ll be trouble.”
A burst of rage wheeled her around and drove her toward him. What she felt must have shown in her face because he raised his hands and took a step back.
“Whoa! Whoa!”
“That wouldn’t be a threat against Gram, would it?” she said through clenched teeth as she got in his face. “Would it?”
“No, of course not. I don’t stoop to messin’ with no old woman. You’re the one who should watch out.”
“Well, that’s fine. But if you ever lay so much as a finger on Gram, I’ll have your eyes. Got that? Your eyes! And then I’ll stick a knife in your heart like you did my dad.”
She turned and stomped back inside where she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, shaking.
(“Your heart is pounding.”)
I thought I was through with him and the Family.
(“Did he really kill your father?”)
They had a blood feud. He told my father he’d get even on the happiest day of his life. The day I was born he was found dead, stabbed in the heart.
(“I’m so sorry. We’ve never discussed this.”)
What’s to discuss? My dad was never part of my life—obviously. Just a name and a picture my mother carried. But still, he was my dad … and Billy Marks killed him.
(“And that burst of protective instinct … it caught me off guard. You don’t have that for anyone else in the world.”)
I thought he threatened Gram.
(“But you … you said you’d have his eyes. You meant that metaphorically, right? You didn’t mean literally gouging—“)
If he hurt Gram? Of course I would. I don’t think I could stop myself.
(“Well, now … that’s scary.”)
Nobody hurts my Gram—nobody.
“Are you all right, dearie?” Gram called.
“On my way.”
Help me put on my game face for the old folks.
(“Okay … I’m blocking some of that adrenaline to slow your heart and unjangle your nerves. There. Feeling better?”)
As a matter of fact … yeah.
And she did. She suddenly felt calmer, less shaky.
All right … showtime.
* * *
Well, it could have been worse.
Daley poured everyone some wine. And soon a second for her. It further relaxed her and brought back her appetite.
She served the salad, then the asparagus, and placed the platter of sliced steak in the center of the table.
Seamus started off by poking at his salad. “And what would this be?”
“Salad, Unk. Try it.”
“Salad’s got lettuce.” Poke-poke-poke. “Where’s the lettuce?”
“Those are called tricolor greens. There are other kinds of lettuce than your usual iceberg.”
Gram, ever helpful, said, “It’s that nuveen cuisine.”
Poke-poke. “Looks like stuff I’ll be pulling out of the garden.” Poke-poke. “You wouldn’t be feeding us weeds now, would you, dear?” He caught himself and smiled at her. “If you brought it, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
He took a leaf and gingerly pushed it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. His smile definitely looked forced this time.
“Different. Good, yes, it’s good. But different.”
“It’s nuveen cuisine, I tell you.”
Gram used the meat fork to examine the steak slices.
“It’s not cooked,” she said.
It came out medium-well. Daley liked her steak rare to medium rare but hadn’t dared leave anything redder than a faint pink. God forbid. A steak caught in the Hiroshima blast might pass muster as adequately cooked.
“Of course it’s cooked. If you want overdone pieces, take from the ends.”
Gram speared herself a blackened tip, cut it in half, and tasted it.
“Quite good, dearie. Lovely flavor from that marinade. I’m just wishing it was cooked a little more.”
Daley shrugged it off. She knew Gram and Seamus had grown up eating bully beef. She noticed Seamus half out of his seat, looking back toward the kitchen.
“You forgot to put out the poppies.”
“No potatoes tonight, Unk.”
He looked at her as if she’d called him a name. “No potatoes? Not even crisps?”
“Try the asparagus instead. It’s different and delicious.”
He made a face. “Asparagus makes me pee stink.”
“Mine too,” Gram said. She was holding up one of the broiled stalks and examining it. “Dearie, I’m afraid these are overcooked.”
Daley never would have guessed that word existed in her vocabulary.
“They’re supposed to be a little crisp, Gram. They can’t help being a bit crisp after broiling.”
She got a pained expression. “Crisp asparagus? That’s nuveen cuisine if I ever heard of it.”
Daley could feel her patience slipping away. “Just. Try. One.”
Gram took a hesitant bite, chewed, and then her face lit.
“Why … why, it’s delicious.” She dug into her serving. “You must be trying these, Seamus.”
Seamus sighed. “All right, but I’m going to pay for it. Don’t even like to be in the same bathroom with meself when me pee starts to stink.”
Not knowing whether to laugh or scream, Daley bowed her head and started on her salad.
(“What are those dark flecks adhering to the greens? Pepper?”)
She looked closer and recognized them.
(“Oh, my. Cigarette ash.”)
She closed her eyes and ate.
* * *
After dinner Daley was banished to the living room while Gram and Seamus cleared the dishes—since she’d done the cooking, they insisted on clearing. So she sat on an overstuffed couch with an overstuffed stomach and groaned.
Double Threat Page 23
