Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

  “Yeah. Maybe you should give Annessa a break,” Nate said, coming to their missing classmate’s defense. “She probably has her own issues to deal with. She’s married to a guy twice her age.”

  “And that’s a problem?” Lila threw back. “So am I, and Chuck and I, we’re happy. Make that very happy.”

  Nate shrugged one shoulder. “Just saying, you never know.”

  “Well, if you ask me, she’s weird about the reunion. Annessa should be embracing the community, but she spends all her time working. Can you believe that? With her money? Ever since her husband’s corporation bought property around town, she spends all her time visiting the sites. I’ve seen her car at the cannery, St. Augustine’s, and Reacher’s farm. Did you know he bought that, too?” Lila’s lips pinched together in disapproval.

  Rachel offered, “It probably has more to do with trying to get a vision for the new construction.”

  “Whatever. The point is she should be here tonight. She’s in charge of the money, you know . . . keeping track of who’s paid and who still owes and . . . well, she sent a spreadsheet, so I guess that’ll have to be good enough.” Obviously irritated, Lila reached in her pocket again, but this time didn’t come up with a cigarette.

  Watching her, Rachel recalled that Annessa and Lila hadn’t liked each other much in high school, but that was long ago. Lately, though, Lila had been pissed that Annessa and her husband hadn’t used Lila as a real estate agent when they had purchased various properties in the area, including the old cannery and St. Augustine’s hospital with its now-closed private school.

  Lila gave up her rant. “Nothing I can do about it.” She touched Rachel on the shoulder. “All this talk of Vi. It’s depressing and just . . . just awful.” Lila gave a little shudder, her bracelets rattling. “I need a glass of wine. You?” she asked Rachel.

  “Not now.” She shook her head.

  “What about a double shot of whiskey?” Nate suggested.

  “Oh. You want?” Lila asked, brightening a little. “I’ve got . . . scotch, I think. Chuck always keeps a bottle of Glenlivet—”

  “No.” Nate held up his hands. “I was joking. I’m good. Really.”

  But Lila was already moving away, hurrying past the pillars separating the living and dining areas. At the far end of a long table, Brit Watkins was huddled with Reva Santiago and Billy Dee Johnson around an open laptop. Reva wore a sleek black suit and a white blouse, her black hair cut in layers to her shoulders. Billy Dee was dressed more casually in sweats and a T-shirt, as if he’d just jogged off the practice field. His bald head shined in the glow of another chandelier as he picked up one of Brit’s catering menus. Brit appeared uncomfortable in the straight-backed chair. The trio, in deep discussion over their tasks of planning food, drinks, and games or contests, had not seemed to notice that Rachel had arrived.

  “She never listens, does she?” Nate asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks and hitching his chin toward Lila. Still tall and lanky, his hair as brown and thick as she remembered, Nate would probably be a candidate for the most unchanged since graduation. A few faint lines were visible near the corners of his eyes, the beginnings of crow’s feet, but other than that, he looked about the same as he had when they’d graduated.

  “Never.”

  Lila was already filling two glasses at a mirrored sideboard that was laden with trays of food, gleaming stemware, and open bottles of wine, soda, and hard liquor.

  In the middle of the display, three white candles had been lit, tiny flames flickering around a small bouquet of violets in a glass vase, obviously a tribute to Violet Sperry.

  Geez. Lila must have moved on that quickly.

  Sadness crawled through Rachel all over again.

  Lila was returning with the drinks and had caught Rachel’s gaze. Handing a short glass to Nate, she explained, “I felt I had to do something.” She touched the rim of her wineglass to Nate’s, then took a long drink of wine. “I couldn’t just ignore the fact that she’d died today.”

  Rachel didn’t say anything.

  “Right?” Lila prompted.

  “I guess.”

  “She was killed, Rach. Murdered. In her own home. Last night, or early this morning. I just thought . . . you know, we needed to make some kind of statement. We couldn’t ignore it. She graduated with us.”

  “Sure.” That was so Lila. “It’s just . . .”

  “. . . so weird, I know.” Another big gulp of wine.

  “Rachel!” Brit scraped her chair back. She’d finally noticed that Rachel had arrived and was blinking back tears as she awkwardly made her way around the end of the table. “It’s horrible. Horrible.”

  “Unbelievable,” Rachel said, and to her surprise Brit hugged her for a second, pulling her close despite her baby bump.

  Brit dabbed at her eyes. “Sorry. I’m emotional. Pregnancy hormones, y’know.”

  “We all feel it,” Rachel said, hiding her surprise at being hugged by a woman who usually could barely scratch up a smile for her.

  Nate agreed. “It’s sick,” he said.

  From the corner of her eye, Rachel noticed that Reva and Billy Dee had abandoned their spots at the table and were walking toward the group. Reva carried a glass of red wine, and Billy Dee came around the other side of the table.

  Oh. Great. She knew she shouldn’t have come. Within half a minute everyone on the committee was clustered in the living room.

  “I saw her at the dog groomer’s, the one with that stupid play on words—what’s it called? Oh, Doggie Bartique, the one on Third Street—just last week. My schnauzer needed his nails clipped,” Reva reported as she joined the others in front of the cold fireplace. “Anyway, she was there with her three dogs and we waited at the counter, making small talk, you know. I can’t believe it. Now she’s gone. I hadn’t seen her in years—I mean years—and there we were talking about the stupid dogs. It’s surreal, y’know. Why would anyone . . . ?” Her voice faded and for once Reva seemed at a loss for words. She was pretty and smart, a woman who’d always used her good looks and brains to her advantage. She’d been a cheerleader, of course, and in the choir and drama club. Their senior year raven-haired Reva had sung and danced to deliver a stand-out performance in Bye, Bye Birdie.

  And, for a while back then, before Lila had turned his head, Luke had dated Reva. Exclusively. Reva had been head over heels for him.

  Now an attorney, Reva was as slim as she had been in high school, but her features had sharpened with age. If she still harbored any bad feelings for Lila, she did a damned good job of hiding them. Then again, she’d been a pretty good actress twenty years ago.

  “Maybe she wasn’t targeted.” Billy Dee rubbed the back of his neck, and despite the cool temperature, he was sweating, beads visible on his bald pate. “Could’ve been a random thing. Y’know, a burglary gone bad.”

  “You think?” Nate asked, not hiding his skepticism.

  “Who knows?” Billy Dee shrugged his shoulders. “These days that kind of shit happens.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Reva agreed. “I’d actually rather believe that than think someone wanted to kill her specifically.”

  “Now wait a second. Can we let this go for a few minutes and maybe, you know, talk about the reunion, the reason we’re here?” Lila asked. “This is too morbid. And we don’t know anything anyway.”

  “It’s just hard to concentrate,” Brit said.

  Billy Dee nodded. “Maybe I will have that drink now,” he said and made his way to the makeshift bar, his bald head gleaming under the lights. He’d been a runningback in high school before an injury had sidelined him, an injury that had shattered his ankle and put him in the hospital for a week, all compliments of Luke’s tackle in practice. The injury had knocked Billy Dee off the team for the season and, he’d complained later, cost him an athletic scholarship to the University of Colorado. Now he was a teacher at the high school and a football coach for the ever low-flying Eagles.

&
nbsp; Despite Lila trying to put everyone on the committee back on track, the conversation about Violet continued as Bon Jovi played in the background.

  There were more questions than answers as they tossed around theories and anecdotes, remembering things about Violet, remarking about when they’d seen her last, wondering how she’d died and why. Had her attacker known her? Was murder the intent? Or was Billy Dee right when he’d suggested the botched burglary? Had she been sexually assaulted? Could her husband be behind it?

  “It’s all such a shame,” Brit said. “A horrible tragedy, and I kind of know Leonard. He comes into the shop before work for coffee and a scone or something. We don’t talk much, but I can’t imagine him killing Violet. No.” She shuddered visibly. “I heard he found the body. He was supposed to be on a fishing trip. Came home early.”

  “Supposed to be?” Nate asked. “You mean he wasn’t?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I don’t know anything about it. Just what people say when they come in.” She let out a breath. “And that’s all just coffee shop talk.”

  “Gossip,” Mercedes said from the couch as Lucas walked into the room.

  He glanced at his mother, who gave a quick nod, and then he walked to the buffet and began filling a couple of plates.

  Reva swirled the ruby wine in her glass. “The police always look at the family first. And I think they were having money problems. When I saw her at the dog groomer’s, Vi was kind of pissed. And she mentioned that Leonard wanted to buy the store from his parents but they were at some kind of impasse. She didn’t seem all that crazy about the idea, but then, who knows?” She shrugged her shoulders. “But I bet Leonard is suspect numero uno.”

  Mercedes clicked off her phone and stood, circumventing the coffee table to stand with the rest of the group in front of the fireplace. “Reva’s right. The cops always suspect the husband, or if the husband is killed, then the wife, or maybe a whacked-out kid, whoever’s in line to inherit. Wait ’til they check the will.”

  “They didn’t have kids,” Lila said. Then, eyeing Mercedes, she asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Mercedes lifted a shoulder. “Last week. I tracked her down at the furniture store.”

  Nate lifted his chin. “Tracked her down?”

  “I was trying to get an interview with her, for the series. Since she was one of the witnesses at the trial, and she was on the scene when Luke was killed, I thought it would be interesting to see what she had to say now.”

  “Let me guess,” Reva said. “She shut you down.”

  Mercedes’s stony expression acknowledged nothing. “She didn’t want to talk about it. The damnedest thing, you know,” she said, her gaze moving back to Rachel. “No one wants to be interviewed.”

  “I wonder why?” Reva tossed out. “Geez, did you stalk her?”

  Mercedes opened her mouth, then closed it. “I just needed a little information. It’s my job.”

  “So we’ve heard.” Nate took another drink.

  “And just so you know, the next article is coming out next week.” Mercedes was staring straight at Rachel. “The Tuesday edition.”

  “Listen, could we please all get back to work?” Lila said. “All this talk about Vi isn’t going to bring her back.”

  Billy Dee made his way to the table, and Reva followed.

  Mercedes stepped closer to Rachel. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve texted and called and all I’ve gotten is radio silence.”

  “Because I don’t want to talk about it.” Rachel was going to add lamely that she’d been busy, but Mercedes didn’t give her time.

  “I just want to ask some questions about Luke’s murder. For my series.”

  “Yeah, Mercedes, I get it! We all do,” Rachel said, a little louder than she’d anticipated, and Brit’s eyebrows shot up. Lila’s head swiveled in her direction.

  “You didn’t call me back.”

  “I know that too,” Rachel said, the room seeming to shrink a bit.

  “Why?”

  God, why would Mercedes corner her with everyone else around? Even Lila and Billy Dee in the dining room had turned to look at the small group near the couch. “Nothing to say.”

  Mercedes wasn’t buying it. “Oh, come on. You were accused—”

  “Look,” Rachel said sharply, cutting her off. “I don’t want to talk about what happened to Luke. Okay?”

  Mercedes asked, “Can I quote you on that?”

  “No!”

  “Jesus, Mercedes, give it a rest, would ya?” Nate said. “Have a little respect. This isn’t the time or place.”

  “There is no time or place with Rachel,” Mercedes pointed out, bristling.

  Lila touched Mercedes’s arm. “Come on, Mercy, let it go for now. It’s a tough day for those of us close to Luke anyway, and now, with what happened to Violet, everyone’s . . . they’re just not themselves. You and Rachel can figure this out another time.”

  Mercedes’s eyes flashed. “I’ve got tomorrow open. Or Sunday before noon. Work for you?” she asked Rachel, putting her on the spot.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I keep a calendar at home.”

  Mercedes glared at her. “You have a calendar on your phone or iPad or whatever. You’re a techie.”

  Rachel stood her ground. “I am and I do, but I can’t give you an answer right now.”

  Mercy wasn’t about to give up. “Then—”

  “For the love of God, didn’t you hear Lila?” Nate threw up a hand, his drink sloshing over the rim of his glass. He didn’t care, just glared, flush faced, at Mercedes. “Violet’s been killed, damn it. So stop. Just stop!”

  “Stay out of it,” Mercedes warned.

  “Let’s all take a breath.” Lila stepped between them. “Sort it out later. We’ve got work to do.” Then she noticed her son was still loading up and lingering at the buffet. “Isn’t that enough?” she asked.

  Lucas looked up, caught her eye, and mumbled a quick, “Yeah,” before heading back upstairs.

  When Rachel looked back at Mercedes, the petite woman was still eyeing her intently. Back in high school, Mercedes Jennings had been one of the rare girls who hadn’t fallen for Luke Hollander, a girl who had called him out for being a phony. Now, she finally said, “Okay, Lila and Nate are right. This isn’t the time and we do have work to do. I’ll call you and we’ll set it up.”

  Rachel waved her off, but Mercedes couldn’t stop.

  “So check and see if Monday works for you, Rachel. We can meet at the office or I’ll come to your house. That might be better. I’ll bring a photographer. Name the time.”

  “Monday doesn’t work,” Rachel said quickly.

  “You don’t know that,” Mercedes objected.

  “Back it up!” Nate’s face was flushed with fury. “You need to learn that no means no.”

  Brit was suddenly on her feet, closing up her laptop. “I can’t handle this. Can’t concentrate. It just feels wrong tonight with everything that’s going on.”

  “But we have to,” Lila insisted.

  “I can’t. Being here, talking about high school with Violet . . . I’m outta here.”

  “No, no. Brit, listen. Try to put your grief aside, will ya?” Lila was getting pissed. “Violet would have wanted us to—”

  “Bullshit!” Mercedes said. “Violet wanted no part of this reunion. You said so yourself.”

  “I was still trying to talk her into it,” Lila admitted. “The ironic thing about it was that I was going to put her in charge of the remembrance table and now . . . now she’ll be a big part of it.”

  “You know what’s more ironic?” Mercedes threw out to the group. “How about this? Violet was murdered on the very date Luke Hollander was killed twenty years ago.”

  “Whoa. Wait.” Nate’s gaze drilled into Mercedes. “That’s right, but . . . so what? You’re trying to connect the murders? That’s crazy. It’s been decades.”

  Rachel fe
lt her insides begin to shred. She had to get out of here. Fast.

  “I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, but I am going to report on it. Of course. I’ve already got someone tracking down the lead investigator on Violet’s case, Detective O’Meara.”

  Kayleigh. The shredding cut deeper. She let out her breath, refusing to think of Kayleigh O’Meara, and how her husband had fallen in love with his smart, redheaded partner.

  Water under the damned bridge.

  CHAPTER 11

  Blam! Blam! Blam, blam, blam!

  Kayleigh maintained her stance, protective glasses in place as she aimed and fired at the target, her shoulders jerking with each blast of her pistol, her jaw locked. She was wearing ear protectors that blocked out everything but the satisfaction of hitting her mark, the outline of a man’s torso suspended at the far end of the shooting range. She’d managed to tune out the other shooters in the indoor shooting range and was totally focused on the target positioned near the far wall. Her shots were on target, three a little off center, just where a man’s heart would be hidden under protective ribs.

  She fired off several more rounds before she was satisfied that her aim was true. By the time she was finished, most of the tension had drained from her body and she felt reenergized. It had been a long day, and she hadn’t wanted to return to her apartment on a Friday night. Alone.

  Camille, a friend she’d known since her freshman year at Washington State, had phoned to say some friends were getting together for drinks and appetizers at O’Callahan’s. Kayleigh was familiar with the Irish pub located on one of the piers. Still, she had declined.

  “Why?” Camille had demanded. “Got something better planned?”

  “Have you seen the news? I’m working on a homicide.”

  “Yeah, and I have a shitty job and a shittier boss who wants me to work late but I told him, ‘Forget it.’ It’s the weekend! Let’s have a few drinks, catch up, and un-freakin’-wind. You’re not going to bring that dead woman back, you know. Dead is dead.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

  “Okay. Fine. I don’t think a couple of hours with friends will stop you from finding out what happened to her.”