“Ouch,” I said. “Naturally, you’ve got a lawyer of your own.”
She grinned ruefully. “Yeah. You.”
I nodded. I’d review the papers, when the time came, and make recommendations. If she needed a barracuda, I’d see that she got one.
“In a strange sort of way,” my friend went on, “it feels good to be letting go of all that stuff. I called Rosa and offered her a job at the ranch, but she says she’s ready to retire and spend more time with her grandchildren. Thank God her pension fund wasn’t touched.”
I felt a little nick of sorrow at Rosa’s departure, sharp as a razor jab. She’d been a mainstay at Loretta and Kip’s place in Scottsdale for a long time—a good housekeeper and, by extension, a good friend to Emma and me.
“Now what?” I asked, after giving things a few moments to settle.
“Well, I’m not going to sit on my ass and wait for Kip to get out of jail, that’s for sure,” Loretta said. The spirit in her voice cheered me up considerably. “I think I’ll get a real estate license, to start. Maybe I’ll skip sales and go straight to brokering. Or I could turn the ranch into some kind of resort.”
“What about the divorce?”
“I told him I’d fight it. I want to see who we are, Kip and I, without all those stocks and bonds and fancy houses.” She turned slightly in my direction. “You think I should cut my losses and run, don’t you?”
I thought for a few moments. Shook my head. “Not necessarily,” I said.
Loretta drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure of many things,” she told me. “But I know I still love Kip. The real Kip—the man I married.”
“Then you ought to give him a second chance.”
A tear slid from under her Versaces, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away. “I always thought I’d kick him to the curb if he ever cheated on me,” she reflected. “I wonder what Dr. Phil would say about all this.”
I laughed, though I had to blink back a few tears of my own. Loretta was hurting, so I was, too. “Guess you’ll have to work this one through without him,” I said. “You’re not a stupid woman, Loretta. You have choices, and, last I heard, access to a Swiss bank account, which puts you way ahead of most people. If you want to give the marriage another try, do it. If it’s a bust, you’ll know you did your best.”
We were quiet for a while.
“Catch me up on all the latest at Dry Creek,” Loretta said, after she’d repaired her eye makeup.
I gave her the condensed version.
Loretta listened thoughtfully. “What else?” she asked, when I was finished.
“What do you mean, ‘what else’?”
“I know there’s more. I can tell when you’re holding back and, besides, this is too easy. Your life is a freak circus, Clare.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t try to deny it.”
I smiled. “Actually, it’s more like a soap opera these days.”
“Tell,” Loretta ordered.
“I’m a twin.”
Loretta was suitably impressed. “You mean, you have a long-lost sister roaming around out there someplace?”
I thought of the times I’d glimpsed the other Clare, and felt sad again. I’d had a while to think about the phenomenon—it was far-fetched enough, seeing myself as a separate person, without concluding that I’d been visited by my dead twin’s ghost, as if she’d grown up in some parallel universe and found some way to bleed through into my dimension in a crisis.
“No,” I said firmly, addressing my own newly discovered fanciful side, as much as Loretta. “She was stillborn.”
“Oh.” Loretta reached across the console to pat my arm. “Nobody ever mentioned her to you?”
“Mom certainly didn’t. I don’t think Tracy or Gram had any idea that she ever existed, either—but I’ll never know for sure.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Talk about Dr. Phil,” I countered.
“It’s a fair question. I’ve read about these things. Sometimes, when one twin dies, the other feels a void, a kind of loneliness they can’t explain. As if a part of them is missing.”
I had had that feeling many times in my life, but I’d always connected it to my mother’s chronic neglect and repeated experiences with the child welfare system. “Sonterra thinks I ought to have counseling,” I said with a dash of resentment. I’d told him about the twin discovery, and I’d planned to come clean about the hallucinations, too—until he mentioned a shrink. After that, I’d dug in my heels, and Mrs. K hadn’t gotten back to me with the results of her psychic scan, if she’d done one.
“And you took that as an insult.”
“I’m already seeing an obstetrician,” I pointed out. In fact, I was scheduled for a sonogram in Scottsdale on Friday. Sonterra and I were still debating whether we wanted to know the baby’s sex, or wait for the unveiling in June.
“It isn’t the same thing,” Loretta argued, “and you know it.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“You’ve had therapy sessions before. Time for an update. A professional could help you make sense of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like why a great guy like Tony Sonterra practically had to drag you down the aisle, for a start.”
“Look what happened when I got to the altar,” I said, as the vision of Father Morales taking a bullet unfolded in my head. We’d talked away the distance between Tucson and Dry Creek, and now we were on the outskirts of town. “Where to?” I asked. “Our place, or the B&B?”
“Actually,” Loretta said, after another deep breath, and an exhalation that made her shoulders slope, “I thought I might bite the bullet and go back to the ranch.”
We’d passed el rancho twenty miles back, but I saw no need to state the obvious. “You’re sure you’re ready for that?”
“I’m sure it won’t get any easier if I wait,” she answered. “But don’t turn around yet. I want to say hello to Emma and Tony.” She grinned, and I glimpsed the old Loretta. “Maybe we could tune in to the Food Channel and whip up something interesting for lunch.”
“And commit another culinary atrocity? No way.”
I stopped at the supermarket, and we bought fried chicken and potato salad at the deli. Good thing I picked up extra, because when we got back to the house, Sonterra was there, along with Eddie and Special Agent Timmons. They were having some kind of confab at the kitchen table, over coffee and a box of doughnuts.
Like any good cop’s wife, I refrained from commenting on the doughnuts.
Sonterra rose from his chair, politely waited until both dogs had been greeted, then kissed me lightly on the mouth.
“Hey, Loretta,” he said, gruffly kind. “Welcome back.”
She nodded, and didn’t take her sunglasses off right away.
“Kip okay?”
Loretta nodded again.
Sonterra introduced her to Timmons—she’d met Eddie before, of course—and both men stood, after some chair scraping.
“Guess I’d better get back to work,” Eddie said. He looked gaunt in his new uniform, but purposeful. His bruises were fading, too. I wondered if he missed plain clothes—Sonterra did, though evidently not enough to turn in his badge and return to homicide duty with Scottsdale PD. “I’ve got a place of my own now, Clare,” Sonterra’s former partner added hastily. “I’m renting a trailer at the Hidy Tidy. I can move in anytime.”
“No hurry,” I said.
Eddie grinned. I saw a mischievous light in his eyes and rejoiced, because I knew he was coming back from whatever dark place he’d been caught in since his marriage started to fall apart. It might be a long, slow trip, but he was headed in the right direction. “Much as I love sleeping on that couch,” he joked, “I wouldn’t mind a real bed.”
I nodded, and the men went outside to confer briefly on the back porch, out of Loretta’s and my hearing. Then Sonterra came back into the kitchen, and Eddie and the fed left in separate cars
.
“Where’s Esperanza?” I asked, looking around.
“The school called and said her daughter was sick,” Sonterra answered. “Eddie took her to pick up Maria in the squad car, then drove them both home.”
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t think so,” Sonterra answered.
I was unpacking the food, filling plates for Loretta and me. “Want something to eat?” I asked Sonterra.
He shook his head. “Too many doughnuts,” he said. “Anyway, I’m due back at the station.”
“Any trace of Danielle Bickerhelm?” I asked, as casually as I could.
Sonterra didn’t buy casual. Maybe because I’d been nagging him for answers for days. “No,” he said with exaggerated patience. He stepped into the pantry and came out buckling on his gun belt. “But I’ll be sure and keep you in the loop.”
He crossed the room, kissed me again.
“You are so full of it,” I said with affection.
“I love you, too, Mrs. Sonterra,” he answered.
When he was gone, Loretta picked through the chicken carton for another wing. “Let’s do something we shouldn’t,” she said.
“I’m game,” I replied. “Any suggestions?”
“We could go over to Danielle’s house and poke around a little. Look for clues.”
“Great idea. Except for the distinct possibility that we’ll be charged with breaking and entering—a definite embarrassment to SuperCop—I can’t see a problem with that.”
“Like that stopped you when you checked out Micki Post’s trailer.”
I helped myself to a drumstick and inspected it closely before taking a nibble. “It was dark.”
“We could go to her shop, then. I noticed that it was open for business when we came through town.”
I thought about the painting of the young Venetian contessa and her lovely, doomed children, and a shudder ran down my spine. All of a sudden, that seemed even creepier than the skeletons in her dining room. “Why would we want to do that?”
Loretta shrugged. “We can grill the clerk. Might find out something the cops missed.”
“What brought this on?”
“I guess I’m in a Nancy Drew kind of mood,” Loretta said. “Besides, if I sit still too long, I start thinking about Kip. How he’s on one side of the country, behind bars, and I’m on the other. How we probably have a snowball’s chance in hell of making this marriage work. How I want a baby.”
I was too stunned by the baby comment to address it. “You could always rent an apartment near the prison and ride out his sentence,” I suggested lightly. “Watch the Food Channel between visits and bake him little surprises.”
“That would be codependent,” Loretta replied.
“It would also be assault,” I said.
Loretta made a gee-that’s-SO-not-funny kind of face.
I finished off the drumstick, washed my hands, and reached for the Hummer keys. “So,” I began casually, “were these visits you made to Kip conjugal?”
She grinned mysteriously. “Maybe. You might say he’s doing hard time.”
“Droll,” I said. “He made love to you, then asked for a divorce?”
“No,” Loretta replied. “He asked for a divorce, then I seduced him.”
It seemed like a good time to change the subject. And, like Loretta, I was in a Nancy Drew kind of mood.
“Let’s do some sleuthing,” I said.
Two minutes later, we were on the move.
As we pulled up in front of the antique store, a young woman crouched in the display window setting tiny pieces of furniture in the rooms of a massive wooden doll-house. I vaguely remembered her from my visit, when she’d been ringing up sales in the back of the store.
She was thin, dressed in old clothes, and her brown hair had that little-Dutch-girl-just-awakened look that will go out of fashion if there’s a God in heaven, along with those baggy cutoff jeans teenage boys love to wear.
She looked us over warily as we crossed the sidewalk, and worked up a smile. Evidently, business was slow that day. There was nobody else in the shop.
“What happened to the cradle?” I asked, surveying the contents of the window as the clerk stepped down to the floor.
“I sold it over the Internet,” the woman said, studying us curiously. “Some collector.” Had she made us for non-shoppers? I could see where she’d rule me out as a potential customer, but my sidekick had “platinum Amex card” written all over her.
Loretta approached the beautiful but creepy painting. “An amazing piece,” she said thoughtfully. “How much?”
“It’s worth in excess of fifty thousand dollars,” the little Dutch girl informed us, running her palms down her thighs. “I’ve told Danielle she ought to sell it, but she—wouldn’t.” A pause, a blush. “She’s missing, you know.”
I nodded, watching her. “I’m Clare Westbrook—”
Loretta shot me a look.
“Sonterra,” I finished.
“Chief Sonterra’s wife?”
“The same,” I answered.
Dutch Girl put out her hand. “Becky Peakes,” she said. “I’m assistant manager. Not that there’s been anybody to assist.”
We shook, and Becky’s palm felt moist against mine. I remembered hearing her message on Sonterra’s cell phone, while we were in Nogales, rescuing Suzie from Hotel Hell. She’d reported Danielle’s disappearance, and she’d sounded agitated.
“The police have probably asked you a lot of questions,” Loretta observed, still pretending a keen interest in the painting. At one time, she could have afforded it, but it would never have worked at the ranch, even at the height of her spending power. The décor there was distinctly Southwestern.
“You can’t even imagine how many,” Becky replied.
“I think I can,” I said.
Becky did the thigh-wiping thing again. “Nobody seems to want to find Danielle. I know she’s difficult, but—”
I considered patting her shoulder and decided against it. Loretta was doing enough overacting for both of us. “How long have you known Danielle?” I asked.
“Forever,” Becky said. “We were in the same foster home together.”
Bingo.
I squinted at Becky and did a reverse-aging sequence in my brain, but I couldn’t place her. I pegged her age at around twenty-five or so, but she might have been younger—or older. “Really?” I asked, careful not to seem too interested. “We have something in common, then. Foster homes, I mean.”
She looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I wondered if Danielle had instructed her not to talk about the wonder years. “It was a long time ago,” she said.
“I had an alcoholic mother,” I said lightly. “What’s your story?”
“My folks died in a motorcycle crash, when I was five,” Becky answered, and for a fraction of a second, I glimpsed the bewildered child she’d once been. “I didn’t have anybody else, so I became a ward of the state. I was so scared and confused. If it hadn’t been for Wanda—”
Wanda.
In that instant, my recalcitrant memory finally kicked in. Of course—that was Danielle’s real name. I was ten when I knew her, and she was probably thirteen or fourteen. We—the other foster kids and I—had dubbed her Wanda the Witch, because she wore black lipstick when the state-sponsored roboparents weren’t around, and once chalked a pentacle on their laundry room floor.
Since the Fredricksons belonged to a strict church, Wanda/Danielle disappeared back into the system as soon as the last load of towels went into the washer.
“What was Wanda’s last name?” I asked.
Becky blushed. “I didn’t mean to say Wanda. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve been so upset—”
“Cut the crap,” said Loretta, really getting into the spirit of detective work now, “and answer the question.”
I took her aside. “Cool it, Sherlock,” I whispered.
Loretta looked offended, but she cooled it.
Becky put a hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened.
“Are you afraid of Wanda?” I asked.
She shook her head, but the expression on her face told a different story. “Of course not. We were—are—friends. She wanted to make a new start, that’s all. Put the past behind her. So she changed her name and asked me not to tell anybody.”
I didn’t move. The situation was fragile, and I thought Becky would run like a startled rabbit if I spooked her. “So you didn’t give this information to the police?”
“No,” Becky admitted weakly. Then, quickly, “It wouldn’t matter—it really wouldn’t. She’s the victim here, not the criminal!”
“Becky, do you want Danielle to be found?”
“Yes!”
“Then you need to tell the police everything you know.” I reached into my bag, pulled out my cell phone. “My husband will talk to you—”
“No!” Becky cried. “Stop! I can’t trust the police—look what Deputy Rathburn did to Oz and Father Morales—”
I dropped the phone back into my purse. “Rathburn was a rogue,” I said quietly. “Chief Sonterra is a good cop. The real thing. He can help you.”
“Please,” Becky pleaded. “I promised Danielle—”
“If she’s still alive,” I said evenly, “she’s in trouble. Don’t you want to bring her home?”
“She is alive, and she’s not in trouble!”
I waited a beat. “How do you know that?”
Nothing from the Dutch Girl.
“Because you’ve either seen or talked to her since you reported her disappearance, that’s how,” I guessed aloud. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Loretta open her mouth, and I held out one hand in a bid for silence. “If you have been in touch with Danielle,” I went on, “the police will be able to trace her through your phone records. So you might as well tell the truth.”
“Maybe I talked to her once,” Becky said miserably.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know—I swear I don’t!”
I got the cell phone out again.
“Don’t,” Becky pleaded. “Oh, God, she’s going to kill me—but please don’t involve the police.”
One Last Look Page 29
