by Dianne Emley
You’re going down, too, asshole.
She knew it was false bravado as she felt herself growing weaker. Every cell in her body cried for oxygen. Then she felt herself floating off, observing from someplace that had nothing to do with water, earth, or air. The fight didn’t so much leave her as it seemed silly to struggle any longer. Her legs released their grip. Her hands opened against the cushion. She was floating. She’d always loved the water. It will support you if you only let go. Everything except her lungs felt light and free. They burned. They were all that was holding her back. They would feel free too if she only released that last part. She saw her dead husband and son, smiling, like the last time she’d seen them together. There was something else, lurking at the edges. Was that her astral shadow? She finally let go.
THREE
Pasadena police detective Nan Vining held a dog-eared edition of The Joy of Cooking. She pointed to a table-setting diagram for a formal dinner and compared it with the sparkling china, crystal, and silver arrayed on her rarely used dining room table. She noticed that the linen tablecloth that had once been snowy had yellowed with age.
“See, Mom, I told you, spoons on the right and forks on the left.”
Holding her glass of chardonnay by the stem, Patsy Brightly returned the forks and spoons she’d moved to their original positions. “Well, that wasn’t how I was taught in Home Ec.” She inspected her freshly manicured nails. “I thought Stephanie had your grandmother’s tableware.”
“Steph took it and had no right to.” Vining perfected the spacing between a cut-crystal wineglass and a matching tumbler.
They were speaking of Vining’s younger sister and only sibling, a stay-at-home mom with two little boys.
“I hope you didn’t strong-arm your sister, Nan.”
Vining bristled at the belief in her small family that her law-enforcement background spilled over into her personal life. She calmed herself down before responding, determined to not let her mother or anyone disturb her good mood and the festive Easter dinner she’d planned. Her boyfriend and partner at the PPD, Jim Kissick, was coming over with his two teenage boys. They’d gather around the table with her mother, grandmother, and fifteen-year-old daughter, Emily.
Vining responded calmly, “Actually, Mom, Granny asked Stephanie to drop off the tableware at my house.” She warmed as she recalled the telephone conversation she’d overheard, in which Granny had told Steph, “Borrow doesn’t mean keep, young lady. You can all pick over my bones when I’m dead and buried.” In addition to having inherited Nanette Brown’s first name, Vining also had her grandmother’s flintiness.
“But Steph gives dinners and parties for her husband’s business associates and the different charities and school activities she’s involved in.”
“And I’m just a divorced mom and a homicide detective.”
“Nan…You’re always so sensitive when it comes to your sister.” Patsy straightened a crisp linen napkin that was edged with embroidered flowers. “I just don’t know why you’re going to all this trouble. We could have ordered a nice honey-baked ham with all the trimmings from Vons.”
“It’s fun. I’ve earned some fun, don’t you think?” Vining began setting out the small Easter baskets she was using as place-card holders. She’d filled them each with foil-wrapped eggs, a bunny from See’s Candies, and a name card she’d designed and printed on her computer.
She’d spent a week shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Earlier that morning, after the storm had passed through, she’d wiped down the big picture windows in her 1960s tract house and took in the crisp turquoise sky. The two-story home in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Mount Washington, east of downtown L.A., was perched on a hillside on cantilevers and overlooked the city’s hindquarters: working-class neighborhoods; the railroad tracks of the Alameda Corridor that ran all the way to the Port of Los Angeles; the massive County USC Medical Center; and a glimpse of the sparkling skyscrapers of downtown L.A. that peeked above the hilltops.
“Thank goodness it finally stopped raining.” Patsy examined her reflection in a window. Still clutching the now-empty wineglass, she fluffed her highlighted blond hair, done in a stylish short cut. She was petite and still trim at fifty-four. It always tickled her when people thought that she and her blond, blue-eyed daughter Stephanie were sisters.
Vining had her mother’s facial characteristics from the nose down, but otherwise looked as if she hadn’t sprung from the same family. She was tall and lean with an athletic build and nearly black hair that she wore in a blunt cut that brushed her shoulders. Her skin was alabaster and her deep-set eyes were green-gray. Her mother said that she took after her father, of whom Vining had no memories. She knew him only as the first of her mother’s four husbands and the jerk who’d abandoned them when Vining was a toddler.
“Giving a formal dinner isn’t my idea of fun. I would think you’d take a vacation after everything you’ve been through.” Patsy turned her attention from her reflection to the hems of her peach-colored pants, which matched her floral print twinset that she’d accessorized with a chunky off-white necklace and dangling earrings. “Look what the rain did to my new pants. That’s mud from when I went to pick up your grandmother.”
Vining was dressed simply, as was her habit, in navy blue slacks and a new argyle pullover in shades of pink and gray. Her only jewelry was silver-and-abalone-shell earrings that Kissick had bought her. “I took a vacation—a two-month unpaid suspension for conduct unbecoming.”
“I can’t believe the Pasadena police suspended you, after everything you did for them. For everyone. You were nearly killed. Again.”
“I broke the rules. Believe me, it could have been a lot worse.”
Vining kept secret the more egregious things she’d done in her obsessive pursuit of the serial killer who’d nearly made her one of his victims. Six months had passed since her final confrontation with the creep. Nearly two years had passed since their twisted relationship had begun when, while working overtime in uniform, she’d responded to an ordinary suspicious-circumstances call at a house in one of Pasadena’s well-heeled neighborhoods. After he’d sliced her gun hand with a knife that he’d then buried in her neck, he’d escaped. She’d died for two life-altering minutes.
It was all behind her. She was no longer stuck in that stinking morass into which the creep had dragged her, and was at long last free of him. While the end had been less than perfect, at least it was over and she had come home at End of Watch.
After, she’d again gone through sessions with a department-appointed psychologist. This time, therapy had gone much better, perhaps because she was no longer lying to the shrink in order to be released for duty. Now she felt clear and calm. It was as if, once the creep was gone, she’d been able to unload the giant sack of paranoia and rage she’d been dragging around.
The knife scars remained. There was a long one down the left side of her neck and a smaller one on the back of her right hand. They were fading, but she’d always have them. That was okay. It would keep her from the temptation of pretending that it had never happened.
She was a different person now, but she was still Nan and she was strong and sound. Others, though, persisted in treating her as if she might again break apart along her glued-together seams. She very much wanted her loved ones and colleagues to stop walking on eggshells in her presence. As a sign of renewed vigor, she was taking on new challenges, like tonight’s dinner.
Patsy persisted. “That’s just what I mean, sweetie. To go to all this trouble is stressful. Plastic plates and forks would have been fine. You’re trying to make it perfect. It’s just family.”
Just family, Vining thought. So like her mother to turn something profound, something Vining had put her heart and soul into building and nurturing, into a throwaway concept. She remembered her vow to let anything her mother might say or do roll off her.
Vining had gone all out for the dinner. The herb-encrusted leg of lamb was roasting, as was the méla
nge of root vegetables drizzled with the pricey balsamic vinegar that was a splurge. The creamed spinach ingredients were ready, waiting for Jim to apply his culinary magic. Her grandmother was preparing her corn casserole. Her mother was a pie-maker extraordinaire and had promised two homemade pies, but she’d shown up with two purchased from Marie Callender’s.
Patsy’s justification was on her lips before Vining had a chance to say anything. “When you work the hours I do, you don’t have time to make pies.”
Vining had decided ahead of time that she was going to remain cool, calm, and collected. Family holiday dinners ranked a close third behind weddings and funerals for bringing out the best—and the worst—in people. She’d swallowed her knee-jerk retort and had thanked her mother for the pies. Now, she again resisted temptation and remained silent instead of taking on her mother’s jibe. But she did change her original seating plan and moved the small Easter basket labeled “Patsy” to Jim’s right at the far end of the table and placed Granny to her own right.
“I’ll uncork those red wines I brought,” Patsy said. “The guy at the wine store said they need to breathe.”
Shortly, she heard her eighty-four-year-old grandmother yell at her mother in the kitchen, “Why do we need so much liquor?”
“These are very good wines. Cabernet from Sonoma, pinot noir from the Willamette Valley in Washington, and I brought French champagne to have with appetizers.”
“I hope you didn’t spend much money, Mom,” Vining shouted from the dining room. Patsy lived paycheck to paycheck from her job at the Estée Lauder counter at the Macy’s in West Covina and had a history of getting in over her head with her credit cards.
The cork Patsy was pulling with the corkscrew came out with a pop. “It’s my business how much I spent. We deserve a treat.”
“Those wines look expensive,” Vining said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Granny opened a can of creamed corn. “We don’t need that much wine. Nan doesn’t drink much and neither does her fiancé.”
“They’re not engaged,” Patsy retorted with a sarcastic tone that set Vining’s teeth on edge.
“They will be,” Granny said.
“No marriage until Em and Jim’s boys are out of the house,” Vining said. Jim and his ex-wife had two sons: James, seventeen, and Caleb, known as Cal, thirteen. For the first time in her on-again, off-again romance with Jim Kissick, she envisioned a happily ever after. It would be a relief to stop hiding their romance at work. This dinner was the first formal get-together of the two families.
Patsy peeled the foil from the top of the pinot noir. “I’d like to get married again.”
“Thought you broke up with that man, that plastics guy,” Granny said.
“His name was Harvey, and he was the Western sales manager for a polystyrene foam packaging manufacturer,” Patsy shot back. “I’m seeing somebody new.”
“Why didn’t you bring him?”
“He had other plans.”
Granny didn’t ask for details about the new beau and neither did Vining. Best not to get too attached to them.
Vining entered the kitchen, opened the oven door, and basted the leg of lamb. Out of the corner of one eye, she watched her mother pour some of the pinot noir, swirl the glass, and hold it up to the light. Patsy’s newfound interest in fine wines had come with her former beau Harvey, along with golf lessons.
Patsy sipped the wine and stared off into the distance as she swished it around her mouth. She pronounced, “Black cherry and ash.” She said to her mother, “Mom, you already put salt in that casserole.”
“I did not.”
“You did. I watched you.”
Granny pointed the wooden spoon she was stirring with at her daughter. “I know that I don’t hear all that well, but I am in full possession of my wits. This corn casserole recipe was passed down from my grandmother.”
“We know, and you’ve added too much salt.” Patsy downed the pinot and poured the cabernet.
Emily came up the stairs off the kitchen from her domain in the house’s former rumpus room. She yanked out one of the earbuds of her iPod, and it dangled across her shoulder.
“There’s our girl.” Patsy set down her wineglass long enough to hug her granddaughter. “I’m so glad you’re spending Easter with us.”
“Wasn’t my choice. Hi, Granny.” Em went to give her great-grandmother a kiss.
“Where else would you be?” Granny asked.
“At the club with my dad and Kaitlyn.”
The girl used to disdain what she called her father Wes’s “McLife” in his mansion in a gated community with his younger, too-thin new wife Kaitlyn and their two little boys. Wes had made a fortune in property development. Lately, instead of being disdainful, Em had welcomed Kaitlyn’s treatment of her as both the daughter and younger sister she’d never had. Vining had at first found Em’s new distancing behavior hurtful, as they’d always been close, but she’d come to realize that it was normal. More often lately, instead of feeling hurt, she had the urge to wring the teenager’s neck.
Vining had to strong-arm Em into not dressing in all black. She was wearing a soft pink sweater over pencil-leg jeans and Ugg boots. Vining had lost the makeup battle. Em’s green-gray eyes, the same color and shape as Vining’s, were heavily made up in smoky hues, which created a dramatic effect against her alabaster skin.
Em had an artistic nature that contrasted with Vining’s practical one. Vining tried to keep the reins on Em’s free spirit without squashing it. As long as Em’s grades were good (they were excellent), she did her chores (barely, but she did them), and behaved herself, Vining left her dress and cosmetic choices alone, as long as they were age-appropriate.
Vining stirred her roasting vegetables with a spatula.
“And what’s better than a nice home-cooked meal?” Granny had never been tall and had shrunken considerably, but her gaze was still intimidating.
“I don’t like Jim’s sons,” Emily said.
Vining closed the oven door. “I don’t know why you don’t like James and Cal. They’re nice boys, and you’ll be pleasant and polite to them.”
Em shot a dark look at her mother. “We already have a perfectly dysfunctional broken family unit. Why do you want to make it even more complicated?”
Vining set her jaw and didn’t respond.
Patsy straightened the gold pendant shaped like a knot with a small diamond that Em was wearing. “At least you’re wearing the necklace I bought you.”
“I love it. Thank you, Grandma.”
“You seem like you’re spending a lot of money lately, Mom,” Vining said.
Patsy shrugged. “Every girl likes a little glamour now and then.”
Vining heard the doorbell. “Em, can you let Jim and his sons in, please?”
Em was typing a text message into her cell phone. “One second.”
Vining mustered the equanimity she’d learned from dealing with criminals. She reached over the girl’s shoulder and plucked the cell phone from her hand as easily as she might have snapped on a handcuff.
Em knew that if she pushed her mother too far, she’d lose her phone privileges. Having a homicide detective as a mother was more often than not a liability for the teenager. And her mother was not just any detective. She’d become famous as the cop who’d hunted down a notorious serial killer. Em said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Vining handed back her daughter’s phone and resumed work on the dinner preparations, listening to the chatter of the guests’ arrival at the front door. Her back was turned when she felt familiar arms around her waist. Jim Kissick kissed one ear from behind. His breath against her skin made her tingle in all the right places.
Patsy started giggling.
Granny waved her hand, clad in an oven mitt, at Jim. “You character.”
Still in Jim’s embrace, Vining turned to see what was so funny.
“Happy Easter, bunny.” He gave her a peck on the lips and looked at
her with that silly expression he had when he was playing a joke or wanted to provoke a response from her.
She couldn’t figure out what was going on until she looked up and saw the pink plush rabbit ears on his head, attached to a headband in his sandy brown hair. He laughed.
She laughed too. “You nut.” She greeted his son. “Happy Easter, Cal.”
Vining accepted a pot of red tulips from the thirteen-year-old. “Thank you. These are beautiful.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Vining.”
She was tickled by the formal way Jim had taught his sons to address their elders.
“Introduce yourself to Mrs. Vining’s mother and grandmother, Cal,” Jim prompted.
The boy followed his father’s instructions.
“Smells great in here,” Kissick said.
“My corn casserole,” Granny said. “Recipe was handed down from my grandmother.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to wear those the rest of the day,” Cal said. He looked like a young Jim, with mischievous eyes and a quick grin. His face was still soft with baby fat, and he hadn’t yet had a growth spurt.
“Better check the casserole.” Granny opened the oven door and looked inside. “That corn casserole recipe was passed down from my grandmother.” She closed the door.
“You just said that,” Cal said to Granny.
“Cal, that’s not nice,” Jim said.
“Well, she did,” the boy insisted.
“Cal…” Jim’s voice was stern.
“It’s all right.” Vining took Kissick’s bunny ears from his head and tried to put them on Cal.
“No way.” The boy jerked around, colliding with Patsy, who let out a shriek and dropped the chocolate egg she was eating on the floor. Cal stepped on the egg as he ran from the kitchen.
