by Lisa Jackson
Kacey wondered how well she knew her mother. How well she’d ever known her. Maribelle was full of secrets and obfuscation. The truth was a thing to hide.
“How about that? You actually showed up.”
Dan Grayson’s smile stretched across his face as he stood in the doorway and swung the door open to allow Alvarez to step inside.
She’d almost turned around when she’d spied the unfamiliar car parked near the garage, snow piled four inches over it, so that it was impossible to tell what make or model it was. A small compact, it looked like.
“Hey, Hattie! We’ve got company,” he called over his shoulder, and Alvarez’s stomach dropped an inch or two. “Come in, come in. Cold as the devil out there!” Stepping out of the doorway, he waved her inside, and she forced a smile she didn’t feel.
What a mistake! He’d suggested she come over just to be polite, that was all. But now there was no turning back; she’d just have to make her excuses early and leave. She stepped into the entryway of the cabin and heard the thunder of footsteps.
Two girls who looked to be around seven, identical twins, rounded the corner. One was dressed in pink, and her hair was pinned back behind her ears with a matching headband. The other, in green, wore a ponytail that was slipping out of its band, and when she smiled, she showed a missing front tooth.
“Girls, this is Detective, er, Ms. Alvarez.” Then to Alvarez, “Selena, meet McKenzie and Mallory.”
“Hi,” the girl in pink, McKenzie, said. Her sister’s eyebrows pulled together, and she glared at Alvarez as steady footsteps clipped from behind and a woman who could have been a twin for June Cleaver appeared. Tall, slim, in heels and a sheath, she smiled brightly as she spied Alvarez.
“I’m Hattie,” she said with a warm smile. She was actually wearing a strand of pearls and one of those flimsy, useless aprons that wrapped around her wasp-thin waist. Her hair was pulled to the back and pinned with a fancy comb of some sort. She looked as if she’d just stepped off of a 1950s television soundstage.
“Selena,” Alvarez said, feeling awkward as she handed the woman, obviously the hostess, the bottle of wine.
“So glad you could make it. And just in time!” To Grayson, she said, “You could offer to take her coat. Geez, Dan, sometimes I wonder!” She glanced at the wine. “Cabernet! My favorite!”
Save me, Alvarez thought and mentally kicked her way into the dining area, where the old beat-up table had been covered with a pressed cloth, and fresh greens and a sprig of cranberry surrounded fat white candles as a centerpiece. Four place settings, chipped china on faded place mats, screamed that she hadn’t been expected.
“Dan, can you open this?” Hattie asked and actually winked at him as she handed him the bottle, then hurried through a doorway to what was obviously the kitchen.
“You got it.” To Alvarez he said, “Hattie is . . . was ... my sister-in-law. The girls are my nieces.”
“Oh.”
That didn’t explain a lot, and as if he could read the confusion in her eyes, he added, “Hattie’s my ex-wife’s sister.”
Oh, God, this was getting more and more complicated.
They walked into the kitchen, where Hattie was pulling another plate from a cupboard and a turkey, roasted to perfection, was cooling, waiting to be carved, an open bottle of Chablis standing next to two mismatched wineglasses.
Inwardly, Alvarez groaned as Hattie rattled in the cutlery drawer and came up with a place setting.
Make the best of it, she told herself. Just get through the next couple of hours and smile. Even though this is your own private nightmare, you can handle it. How difficult is small talk compared to searching for clues to Jocelyn Wallis’s death or studying the crime scene left by a sadistic, brutal killer? It’s only a meal, for God’s sake!
“Dan, why don’t you start carving?” Hattie asked as Grayson uncorked the bottle of red.
“Good idea.”
Alvarez buried her nose in the glass he offered her. This was a side of Grayson she’d never seen. The relaxed family guy. Dear God, what had she been thinking?
Hattie glazed the sweet potatoes to perfection, then whipped up gravy for the white potatoes as well. There was cranberry sauce and a pumpkin pie cooling on the counter ... just too damned Martha Stewart for Alvarez. Why the hell had she decided to come ... no, make that intrude?
They were all crammed around the table, Alvarez seated opposite the twins, Grayson at one end of the table, Hattie at the other, and Alvarez thought of all kinds of ways to escape. Hattie insisted the girls say some kind of grace. Mallory clammed up, but McKenzie said a sweet prayer that Alvarez thought she’d memorized in anticipation of the request.
The meal was tasty, the turkey succulent, the sweet potatoes a concoction that melted in her mouth, and yet Alvarez couldn’t enjoy it at all.
As Hattie served dessert and was literally beaming at Grayson, Alvarez found her cell phone and managed to hit a button that would make an alarm. When the phone beeped, she grabbed it and said, “Alvarez.” She managed to appear concerned, held up a finger, and pushed her chair back. “Yeah? Okay, go . . .” She walked to the entry hall and made all the appropriate noises into the phone, then, after three minutes, clicked off and returned to the dining area. “Sorry, I’ve got to run,” she said. “Don’t get up. I’ll find my coat.”
“Trouble?” Grayson was already on his feet.
“Nothing serious.” At least that wasn’t a lie.
“Then, please, stay for pie and coffee.” Hattie’s perfectly arched eyebrows had drawn together in concern, little lines of worry evident between her brows. McKenzie imitated her mother’s expression, while Mallory was dipping an experimental finger into the dollop of whipped cream that was melting on the pumpkin filling of her pie.
“Sorry, I can’t. Thanks for the dinner. It was spectacular.” Alvarez avoided Grayson’s eyes because she hated trying to fabricate excuses and had always prided herself as a straight shooter. Lying didn’t come easily.
Grayson followed her into the hallway and found her coat on a peg near the door. “Whatever it is can wait.”
“Don’t think so.”
He grabbed the crook of her arm. “What’s going on?”
“Just a mix-up with some lab requests and reports.” He let go, and she almost sighed in relief. “As I said, nothing serious. I just want it straightened out ASAP.” She slipped her arms into the wool sleeves and felt like a fool as he helped her shrug into the shoulders. Grabbing her scarf from one of the pegs with one hand, she reached for the door with her other. “Thanks so much for the meal. It was incredible,” she said and hurried outside.
Reaching her car, she glanced back to see Grayson standing on the stoop, watching her slide behind the wheel of her Jeep.
“Dan?” Hattie’s muffled voice sounded from the other room.
Alvarez rammed the keys into the ignition and, as the engine sparked to life, flipped on the wipers to brush off the accumulation of snow that had collected on the windshield. She backed around and hit the gas. In her rearview mirror she spied the door to Grayson’s cabin close, all warmth and light shut away from the winter night.
Disappointment clutched her heart in its cold, bitter grasp, and she chided herself. What had she expected, huh? That she and the sheriff would eat an intimate dinner alone, that they would sip the wine she brought, maybe even share a kiss?
She could scarcely bear her own thoughts. She turned onto the main highway, only to be trapped by a snowplow steadfastly pushing snow to the side of the road, its huge blade scraping a layer of ice.
Alvarez slowed to fifteen miles an hour and advised herself never to be so foolish again.
She was still gone.
He knew it by the lack of ruts in her driveway and the fact that the lights glowing in Acacia’s home were the same ones that were wired to timers, set to go off at specific hours. The den’s desk lamp clicked on at 5:00 a.m. every morning, and the downstairs table lamp brightened the roo
ms at four thirty in the afternoon without fail. Day in, day out.
But no other patches of light were visible through the bare-branched trees. In spring and summer her home was hidden from the road, but this time of year, with no foliage on the cottonwoods, aspens, and chokecherries that rimmed her house, the buildings could be observed. Yes, they were nearly a quarter of a mile off the main road, with fields and the sparse trees separating the house from traffic, but even on a wintry night like this, lamplight was visible.
He had been careful as he didn’t know if she was returning tonight and he feared his footsteps would be visible in the snow. Though he knew that he should be cautious, that attacking her now could bring more attention to him than he wanted, he was also a believer in taking any opportunity that presented itself. The holidays provided cover as there was more traffic, and people were busy and distracted. Currently she had no alarm system, no guard dog, and no roommate, but any of those factors could change in a heartbeat. He had to act swiftly, while he could.
Driving slowly, he had passed by the lane leading to her house once, then once again, and convinced she hadn’t shown up, decided to take the chance.
He’d parked a mile and a half away, behind a pile of boulders at an old rock quarry, then strapped on his cross-country skis for the trek. Fortunately, her family’s farm abutted a national forest, and he had few fences to cross. There were trails that wound through the stands of pine, tamarack, and juniper, and he’d learned the closest routes.
Wearing night-vision goggles, he’d skied carefully through the quiet forest, scaring up a snowshoe hare, which had hopped quickly into a thicket of snowy pines.
His blood had been pumping; his ears were straining to listen; his eyes scanning the frigid landscape. He’d caught sight of a deer, which had stood frozen as he passed, and saw the back of a martin as it had slunk through the underbrush.
Jamming his poles into the snow, he’d pushed through the woods until he’d reached the far side of the Lambert property. He’d hesitated a minute, ears straining, eyes searching the surrounding acres for any sign of life. Now satisfied that he was alone, he slid out of his skis and strapped on his snowshoes before crossing the fence separating private property from government land.
Once inside the fence line, he moved quickly and silently, as he had years before in the desert, when he’d been in the marines. Keeping near to the fence so as not to make his tracks too apparent, he noiselessly made his way to the outbuildings. Despite the freezing temperature, he was sweating, his nerves strung tight as guy wires, his muscles tight. Ready.
At the back of the nearest shed, he paused, drew a deep breath, then keeping close to the walls of the outbuildings, made his way ever closer to the house, where once again he saw a warm patch of light glowing from the den.
He couldn’t help but smile.
Her attempt to make the house appear occupied was amateurish, even naive.
As he entered the back of the main yard, he paused, checking the house again, making sure no one was inside; then he stepped through the bushes to pause near the exterior wall of the garage.
The night was thick with falling snow; the silence broken only by his own breaths and heartbeat. No other sounds disturbed the stillness.
He was safe.
But he didn’t know for how long.
Quickly he unstrapped the snowshoes from his boots, then eased across the rear of the garage and around the back corner. Carefully, he dared flick on his flashlight and peer through the window of the side door.
No vehicle was inside.
She hadn’t returned.
Yet.
Patiently, planting his feet in the footsteps she’d made earlier, he made his way up the back porch to the door. From deep in the pocket of his ski jacket, he retrieved a ring of keys and found the one he’d had made earlier. He smiled as he remembered disabling the furnace, pretending to be a repairman, and “running out for a part” after he’d lifted the keys from the purse he’d found in her desk. He’d had the key made, returned, dropped her keys into the side pocket of her purse, then “fixed” the furnace by replacing the part he’d taken from it. So simple. So easy. And now, just as easily, he unlocked the door.
He took off his boots, hid them behind a stack of outdoor furniture, then, in stocking feet, stepped inside Acacia’s home. Scents enveloped him—cold coffee lying darkly in the glass pot of the coffeemaker, warm spices because of the scented candles placed throughout the interior, and even the tiniest waft of her perfume, still lingering in the air.
He reached into his pocket, opened a vial, and poured the powder into the ground coffee sitting on a shelf near the coffeemaker. Then, as he’d learned during his tour of duty in Afghanistan, he set about placing bugs in her bedroom, living room, kitchen, and den. They were remote, could be accessed from a receiver a long distance away, conversations listened to or recorded.
Perfect.
As he set the last tiny microphone under her bed, he smiled to himself and wondered what he might hear.
Then, checking his watch, he made his way out of the house the same way he came in and felt confident the snowfall would cover his tracks. He locked the door behind him, pulled on his boots, and carefully stepped in the very footsteps she’d originally created. Unless she arrived home in the next half hour, the snow would cover any hint of his tracks. She wouldn’t notice that her own boot prints were smaller than his.
Oh, she was a smart one, but Acacia Lambert had no idea what she was up against.
But then none of them did, and there were others who demanded his attention.
Grinning to himself, he adjusted his night goggles and found his snowshoes where he’d left them.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the bitch making her first cup of coffee in the morning. She didn’t stand a chance against him.
And soon she would realize it.
But by that time, it would be too late.
CHAPTER 15
As Kacey drove home, snow was falling in big, lacy flakes, which, had she been in a better mood, might have filled her with delight. As it was, she was bothered about her mother’s interest in David Spencer. Not that she didn’t want Maribelle to be happy, but for years the woman had been miserable, the dutiful if disinterested wife of a man she barely tolerated. When Kacey’s dad had suffered his stroke and never fully recovered, they’d sold their house and moved here, to Rolling Hills. Maribelle, with the help of the staff, had grudgingly tended to him, and during that time she’d barely been able to scare up a smile.
He’d died within a couple of years, and only then did she show any emotion that she’d loved the man or missed him.
Even then, Kacey had suspected that Maribelle had been more interested in portraying herself as the martyred widow, rather than feeling any true loss at her sick husband’s death.
“Stop it,” she chastised herself while staring at the ribbon of plowed road ahead. Her mother was happy, and that was all that mattered, she told herself, grateful that she was nearly home. Just a few more miles. Kacey should be thankful that Maribelle had found someone.
And yet she felt a gnawing dissatisfaction and wondered why her mother had found a way of skirting the most difficult of subjects.
There was something off about how she’d handled the questions about her husband’s infidelity or the possibility of any other children, something that bothered Kacey.
She’s lying. She frowned, catching sight of her troubled expression in the rearview mirror just as headlights blazed in the reflection. Your mother’s lying to you, straight out. “But why?” she wondered aloud.
Maybe it wasn’t her father who had other children; maybe it was Maribelle herself. But was that even possible?
The headlights were blinding, the guy behind her having his beams on high, the light refracting crazily as it caught in all the falling snow and mirrors.
Her mother’s reticence with the truth wasn’t going to stop her. As a doctor, Kacey had access to informatio
n and medical records that might help her get to the truth, and if she couldn’t dig it up herself, then she also had a patient who, while under anesthesia, once had claimed to have hacked into all kinds of government files. She decided that if she couldn’t get the information she wanted on her own, there was no reason not to see if Tydeus Chilcoate was the real deal, or if he was only a computer hacker demigod in his own mind due to the effects of local anesthesia. She was willing to take the chance and enlist him if need be because her mother’s reticence had really ticked her off.
What was it Maribelle had said? Oh, right, she’d suggested that Kacey’s questions were an “inquisition.” Yeah, right. Throw on the guilt, avoid the real issue. Deflect, deflect, deflect.
Irritated, she saw the bastard in the vehicle behind her pull into the oncoming lane and gun it. Engine roaring, tires spitting up snow, his light-colored van pulled up alongside hers.
Was he out of his friggin’ mind?
She slowed to let him pass. “Idiot!” she muttered and glanced over. Two people were in the front, a man and a woman, she thought. The woman, in the passenger seat, was smoking a cigarette. She looked over at Kacey and said something to the driver.
Suddenly, the guy lost control.
The van swerved into her lane.
“Damn!” Kacey stepped on her brakes and veered toward the shoulder, which sloped off to the deep ditch that ran alongside the road.
Her heart clutched.
Her tires skidded.
She gripped the steering wheel hard, her knuckles showing white as she tried to remain calm. “Come on, come on!” she said, nervous sweat dampening her brow. Her car began a slow, steady spin. The other car sped past, throwing up snow.
