by Linda Grimes
I swallowed and looked beseechingly into Billy’s eyes. “I want to be sure you know I’m not still hung up Mark. I’m over him, really I am. Only sometimes, when seeing him catches me off guard … well, the best way I can explain it is, it’s a reflex. Like a … a sneeze. Or something.”
He grinned, the twinkle back in his eyes, and tugged a lock of my hair. “Gesundheit.”
I laughed. “Okay, maybe not like a sneeze. More like a bad habit. One I’m trying my best to break,” I said sincerely.
“I almost wish you’d gone ahead and had a fling with him and gotten it out of your system. Might be easier for you to forget about him if your curiosity didn’t keep poking you,” he said, still teasing me.
Frankly, I wasn’t so sure that would have worked, but I wasn’t going to say that to Billy. “Well, that boat has officially left the dock. No flings for me. I’m sure my Pavlovian response to Mark will fade away to nothing soon, and you will be the only one I drool over.” I smiled as engagingly as I could.
“Ciel, it’s not wrong to respond to other men. It’s normal and healthy. Do I like it?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Not a bit. But as long as you come to me to act on those responses, I’m not going to complain.”
He pulled me to him and kissed me in a way that made me wonder what in the heck I had ever seen in Mark.
Chapter 9
Finding myself on a plane for the fourth (or was it the fifth? I’d lost count) time in three days was not the highlight of my week. But at least the first-class accommodations Billy had insisted on springing for helped somewhat. And, yes, I let him. My independent, pay-my-own-way streak is severely weakened by altitude.
If Billy had been with me, it would have been even better, but alas. He was with Mark, monitoring the drop to see who else was watching.
It was killing me not to be with them, but if I didn’t get back to the East Coast for my final dress fitting, and other assorted wedding stuff, Mom might send her favorite celestial hit man after me with (pardon the expression) God knew what. I’d already had a heck of a time explaining how I’d come to leave such an unladylike text message on her cell phone. For some reason, she did not appreciate being told to “fuck this shit” by her daughter.
To make amends, I was going to have to do a spectacular job on the shower. Billy’s sisters could handle it, but if I didn’t figure out a way to put my own brand on it, they’d take all the credit and bank the brownie points themselves. (Not that I’d blame them. I’d do the same thing. Brownie points are essential currency in our great big happy adaptor family.)
There were fifteen texts of escalating urgency from Mom waiting for me when I got off the plane. Since I was already in the doghouse, I didn’t dare not respond. I formulated a shower update in my head as I waited for her to pick up.
“Ciel? Have you landed? Of course you have, you wouldn’t be calling otherwise. But you’re still at the airport, right? Because your brother—Brian, I mean—will be landing there in about twenty minutes. He has Molly with him. She wants to help you and her sisters with the shower.”
“Doesn’t she have school?”
“Please. She’s so far ahead, her teacher will be happy for the time to help the other kids catch up. Now, I know you have everything under control already”—Ha! Good one, Mom, I thought wryly—“but try to find something she can do, all right? It’s so important for her to feel needed. And Brian has to check out the wedding venue for his band—did I tell you he’s playing the reception? Isn’t that wonderful? Such a nice thing to do for his brother—so Mo and I thought we’d kill two birds with one stone by sending them down together. They can stay with you, right?”
“But Sinead and Siobhan are already staying at my place—”
“That’s okay. Molly can share your room and Brian can sleep on the couch. It’ll be fun, like a slumber party.”
I sighed. “What’s their flight number?”
* * *
Brian walked from one side of the stage to the other, stopping at various points along the way to say a few words.
“The acoustics in this place are amazing,” he said, a big, goofy smile on his face. “I can’t wait to play here.”
The Barns at Wolf Trap, a rustically charming theater constructed by combining two eighteenth-century barns that had originally come from upstate New York, had been suggested by Thomas as a possible spot for both the ceremony and the reception. It was where he and Laura had gone on their first date, and was still one of their favorite places to see musical talent from all over the world. And then there was the New York connection—Mom liked that.
We’d learned from an employee that the larger German barn was the actual theater, while the smaller English barn served as the bar. The lovely space wasn’t often available as a rental on a weekend during the show season, but Mom had wangled it somehow. Probably made a large donation to the foundation that ran the place, knowing her. Or else made Thomas do it.
Molly was onstage with Brian, helping him check out the acoustics using an odd assortment of Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber lyrics, while Sinead and Siobhan were busy snapping pics of every corner of the place with their phones, and sending the images to our mothers.
I had slipped into the alcove in the back and was doing my best to connect with Billy, so I could see what was going on out west. I’d watched an interview with Nigel Overholt back at my place before we’d all piled into a hired van to get to our current northern Virginia locale, and I couldn’t get the situation off my mind. Not that I didn’t appreciate Molly’s musical offerings (she was actually pretty good), but I was anxious to see if Billy and Mark had come up with any info on the gun’s owner. I had a bad feeling about it.
Billy answered after my third attempt. “Really, sweetheart, such language. My voice mail is blushing.”
“Well, answer faster next time and you won’t hear it again. Now, what’s up with the gun? Did you figure out who owns it?”
“Sadly, no. The gentleman I caught watching the drop had been hired—again, anonymously—to pick up the gun and dispose of it. Mark and I, of course, being extremely good at what we do, stopped the guy before he managed to get rid of it. So, we’re back at square one—we have the gun, but with no proof of who’s interested in its whereabouts.”
“Are you sure the guy didn’t know?”
“Gosh, no, Ciel. Mark asked him once, nicely, and when the guy said he didn’t know, we apologized for interrupting his job, patted him on the back, and sent him on his merry way. Now we’re kind of worried he may have been having us on.”
“Okay, okay … no need to get snippy. It’s just that … well, did you see Nigel Overholt on TV? The way he’s talking, it’s obvious he believes Lily-Ann is innocent. Billy, what if you were right? What if Jack set me up as an alibi?”
There was a long pause. “That’s pure speculation on our part. The gun might not be related to Angelica’s murder at all.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t you think that’s a bit too coincidental?”
“Coincidences do happen.”
“Maybe, but … hey, I know—can you or Mark find out what kind of gun Angelica was shot with? Maybe we can rule out the one we found.”
There was a big sigh. Billy hardly ever sighed like that.
“What?” I said.
“Same caliber,” he admitted.
“He did it,” I whisper-shouted. Who knew how well voices carried in this place? “Jackson Gunn committed cold-blooded murder while I was him!”
“Calm down, cuz. We don’t know that. It’s a common caliber. We have to approach this carefully—”
“Oh. My. God. What if I’m an accessory to murder?”
“You are not—”
“But what if? Just because I didn’t know it at the time doesn’t mean I didn’t make it possible. I could be a … a … a murder enabler!” My head felt like it was going to explode. My heart was pounding and my breath was coming too fast. Was it possible God was strikin
g me dead as I spoke?
“Ciel … Ciel. Listen to me. Breathe slowly. This is not your fault.”
“But he couldn’t have done it without me. That makes it my fault,” I said. Well, gasped. But quietly, because of the acoustics.
“Ciel, if Jackson did it—if—then he would have found a way even without you. In fact, I would have done the snake job myself if you hadn’t. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be taking the blame for murder if I had.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Billy said, sounding a trifle peeved.
“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.” Much. “Listen, Siobhan found me. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”
“Slow breaths!” was the last thing I heard before I disconnected.
* * *
I was too distracted to pay much attention during the rest of our tour. Brian worked out the details of his band playing the reception, and Sinead provided our guide with name of the caterer Mom had hired, along with the requisite insurance information. (I supposed if any of the wedding guests got food poisoning, Wolf Trap didn’t want to be sued.)
Back in the car, Brian looked over the top of his seat at me and said, “You sure you’re okay, sis? You look kind of pale. If you’re feeling queasy, I have something that might help.” He reached into his shirt pocket.
“No!” I said quickly. I knew what Brian’s nausea remedy was, and I didn’t think the driver would appreciate the aroma. Plus, I didn’t want to get arrested. “I’m fine. Really.”
Siobhan leaned close and whispered, “That was Billy you were on the phone with earlier, wasn’t it? You’re not upset with him, are you? Is it the other girls? Because—”
“No, honest, I’m okay,” I said.
“—you know it doesn’t mean anything when he flirts with other girls, right? He’s a friendly guy,” Sinead finished in my other ear.
I was sitting between the two of them in the backmost seat of the hired van. Brian and Molly were in front of us, occupying the two seats in the middle row.
“Sociable,” Siobhan continued.
“Exuberant.” Sinead again.
“Ebullient.” Back to Siobhan.
All the Doyle kids had great vocabularies, thanks to Auntie Mo refusing to “dumb down” her conversations with them when they were little.
“Wait, what? What other girls?” I said.
“I’m sure it’s just habit. He loves you,” Sinead said.
“Billy still flirts?” I said. How had I not noticed this?
Brian twisted in his seat to join our little huddle. “Not cool, Sinead. Billy doesn’t mean anything by it, sis.”
“Siobhan said it first, not me. I was only elaborating,” Sinead said.
“Well, I figured Ciel already knew, and I wanted to reassure her that it doesn’t mean anything,” Siobhan said.
Molly, who’d been looking out the window at the subway train passing us on the track in the middle of the highway, poked her head between the seats. “Billy doesn’t flirt with other girls, Ciel.”
“Thank you, Molly,” I said. You could trust kids, right? Weren’t they always the bearers of awkward truths? Surely she would have told me if—
“They flirt with him. He only talks and smiles back at them to be polite. He’s an extremely courteous guy, you know,” she added.
Brian nodded. “Hey, me too. I’m courteous.”
Well, wasn’t that reassuring? Brian changed girlfriends every other week.
On the other hand, worrying about my boyfriend flirting with other girls beat the hell out of waiting for God to smite me for aiding and abetting a possible murderer.
* * *
Thomas was waiting for us at my condo, complete with a take-out feast from a local gourmet fried chicken place. My stomach released an unladylike growl at the delectable aroma of deep-fried goodness emanating from the spread laid out on my dining room table.
I hugged my oldest brother (extra-tight, because that tends to make him squirm). “Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?” I said.
By the time the driver dropped us off I had convinced myself I’d overreacted to the news about the gun. Like Billy said, it was a common caliber. Unless the bullets taken from Angelica matched the gun barrel precisely, and unless the gun could be proven to belong to Jack, we couldn’t be sure of anything. It might just be some freak coincidence.
I was really hoping it was a freak coincidence.
“I might forgive you,” Thomas said, still sounding a little grudging, “if you’ll do me a favor.”
“For chicken like this I’ll cut your lawn with manicure scissors. What do you need?”
“Eat first. We’ll talk after.”
He didn’t have to say it twice. I let go of him and elbowed my way in between Brian and Molly. Grabbed a golden-crusted leg, beating Sinead and Siobhan by a fraction of a second.
Thomas looked on as a tangle of arms swarmed the food. “I brought paper plates,” he said to everyone. “You guys might consider using them.”
We all paused, eyed each other, then raced to the counter. Molly got there first, raising her plate triumphantly over her head before scrambling back to the table. The rest of us weren’t far behind. Well, except Thomas, who waited patiently until all our plates were full. Which meant he was still chewing on his chicken when the rest of us started arguing over the last piece of chocolate pecan pie.
“Back off, ladies. I’m bigger than all of you and I need more sustenance,” Brian said.
Molly stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m having a growth spurt—I need the calories.”
“Hey, it’s my condo. Ergo, I should get the last piece,” I tried. Lame, I know, but worth a shot.
“But I had the tiniest first piece!” Sinead said.
“Whose fault is that? You snooze, you lose,” Siobhan said, reaching for the pie tin only to have it snatched away by Thomas in a truly impressive sneak move. No one had even seen him approach.
Holding his prize high, he said, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I now possess this last piece of pie.” He gave me pointed look. “Ergo, it’s mine. Besides, I haven’t even had one piece yet, and I bought the damn thing.”
Molly batted her eyelashes up at him. “But you haven’t had any watermelon yet either. It’s really good.” She grabbed a slice and bit into it. “Mmmm. Don’t you want some?”
“There’s plenty of watermelon. I believe I’ll eat my pie first.” He was reaching for a fork when a small, black oval appeared on his forehead.
“Molly! Did you spit a seed at Thomas? What would Mom say?” Siobhan’s shock was exaggerated, and the glint in her eye gave her away as the culprit.
“No, I didn’t!” Molly protested as a seed landed on Siobhan’s cheek.
A quick look at Sinead revealed from whence it had come. She was reloading her mouth with juicy red ammo when a whole slew of seeds pelted her. Brian. He’d mastered rapid-fire watermelon-seed spitting when we were kids.
And he’d taught me everything he knew. I reached for the seediest piece left and loaded up. Felt a splatter of seeds hit my neck. Apparently Brian had taught Molly his technique, too.
“I can’t believe I’m housing you guys!” I mumble-shouted around a mouthful. It’s possible I sprayed Molly’s garishly printed hot-pink sweatshirt with more than just the seeds.
“Eeew!” she said with a giggle.
I shrugged. “Nobody will notice stains on that shirt.”
“Sloppy, sis. I taught you better than that.” Brian demonstrated by machine-gunning my entire torso. Molly joined in, as did her sisters, covering my face and hair. When they were done, I looked like a demented dalmatian.
“Mmm. That was tasty,” Thomas said from across the room, where he’d retreated to eat his pie and watch the battle. His plate was empty.
“Coward!” I said.
He smiled and let the shark show behind his eyes. “The key to winning any fight is knowing the proper
time to exit the fray.”
* * *
“You’re still working your Hollywood job, aren’t you?” Thomas said once the uproar died down.
Sinead and Siobhan were putting away the remains of our lunch while Brian and Molly diligently gathered the watermelon seeds from floor, walls, and furniture. I’d brushed myself off and joined Thomas for a quiet talk on the sofa.
“Yeah. Unless the director decides Sparky’s overacting in the snake scene isn’t as heinous as he first thought. Then I’m done, which I am sincerely hoping is the case. I was planning to call Jack after his wife’s funeral.”
“When is that, do you know?”
“No clue. I suspect the murder investigation is holding it up.”
“Yeah, about that … you know Nigel Overholt is representing Lily-Ann Conrad—you remember Nigel, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said. “He’s—and I’m quoting you here—brilliant. I saw him on TV talking about the case.”
“He called me for some advice—it’s not looking good for Ms. Conrad. I mentioned you had done some work for Gunn in your capacity as professional problem solver, and he’d like to meet with you as soon as possible.”
“Does he know about us?” I asked. Thomas knew I was referring to adaptors.
“No. Never had occasion to tell him.” Thomas was almost as tight-lipped about our kind as Mark was.
“So what can I do for him?”
“I told him Gunn hired you to help him cope with his snake phobia, and that you probably learned quite a bit about him and his family in the process.” Thomas knew how thorough my client questionnaires were—he’d helped me draft them. “In cases like this one, information gathering is key. You never know what might prove crucial to your defense. So, will you meet with him?”
“Sure. When? After the wedding?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What? Thomas, I can’t go back to L.A. now—what about your shower? If I screw that up, Mom will fricassee me.”
He held up one hand in the universal calm-down gesture. “Relax. Nigel’s coming to D.C. tomorrow. You can meet with him here”—he looked around—“or maybe my place would be better. I’d suggest my office, but the fewer people connecting you to him, the better.”
