One Last Look Page 5

  “Clare,” she chimed, another devotee of caller ID, assuming that she’d even bothered with such mundane technology. Mrs. K might not have been Irish, but she definitely had the Sight. I’m the skeptic’s skeptic, but I’ve seen her in action too many times to discount her unique talents. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Good things, I hope,” I said, putting on my makeup while we talked. I didn’t wear much, but meeting yourself can definitely take the color out of your cheeks.

  “Well, I did have a rather disturbing dream,” she said carefully. She didn’t like to scare the uninitiated, or even the partially initiated, like me. “Your head was bleeding.”

  A chill did a Cirque du Soleil number down my spine, and for a second I was afraid to turn around, afraid my spare self would be standing there, eyes pleading, hair soaked crimson.

  “Funny you should mention that,” I said, once I caught my breath. “I saw myself again last night, Mrs. K.”

  She gasped, which did nothing to make me feel better. This was the third hallucination. I’d confided in Mrs. K after the first two episodes, several months before, and, unlike most people, who would have recommended immediate medical attention, she believed the phenomenon had a deeper meaning. I’m not given to flights of fancy, strange or otherwise, and sometimes my elderly friend seemed to be the only person in the world who never forgot that. She’d told me gravely to let her know right away if it ever happened again.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” she said crisply.

  I recounted the details. The clothes, the blood, the imploring eyes.

  “This is not good, Clare,” she concluded.

  I felt a touch of impatience, despite the aforementioned high regard for Mrs. K’s unusual abilities. I’d figured that much out for myself. Perhaps I’d even hoped she’d ascribe it all to hormones, strain, and my imagination. “It’s probably just stress. There’s a lot going on in my life right now.” I told her briefly about Sonterra’s new job and the move it would require, and hinted that Loretta was having problems, without betraying her confidence.

  “There is always a lot going on in your life,” Mrs. K retorted flatly. “Things will turn out fine for Loretta. The new job is just what Tony needs right now—what you both need, actually. But we’re talking about you, specifically. The first thing I want you to do is call your obstetrician. The second is, tell Tony, if you haven’t already.”

  I was taking my prenatal vitamins, even though they made me gag. I avoided alcohol, consumed less than half my usual quota of caffeine, and never took over-the-counter medications. I wasn’t going to tell my doctor that I was seeing things. She’d either lock me up in a rubber room or slap me in the hospital for a bunch of tests—or both—and I wasn’t about to let myself in for that.

  “Okay,” I said, drawing the word out to twice its normal length. I figured it wasn’t exactly a lie, since I hadn’t said “yes” to cluing in either Sonterra or my doctor.

  “In the meantime, I’ll look into the matter.” When Mrs. K “looked into the matter,” she lit candles, burned herbs, and talked to spirits. It sounds crazy, I know, but she got answers. “How can I get in touch with you, Clare?”

  “Call my cell,” I said, as I swabbed on some mascara, taking care not to put out an eye, and forced a cheerful note into my voice. I’m not naturally perky. “How’s the secret-shopping biz these days?”

  Recently, Mrs. K had taken a part-time job as a mystery shopper. It was one of those serendipity things. She’d found her niche in the career world and promptly started her own company. She ran the operation from her kitchen table, and within weeks, she’d taken on three employees.

  “Booming,” she said proudly.

  “That’s good.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your loan, Clare. I should be able to start paying you back by next month.”

  I didn’t care if she never paid me back—the few thousand dollars I’d given her hadn’t made a dent in the interest on my inheritance, let alone the principal. Still, like Shanda, she had her pride. I understood pride, having so much of it myself, and stepped lightly whenever I encountered it in others. “That’ll be great,” I said.

  “Be careful,” she replied seriously.

  “I promise I will,” I said in all good conscience.

  How was I to know somebody would try to kill me before the day was over?

  Five

  T he population of Dry Creek had not, as it turned out, been sucked up into a flying saucer since my last visit, as a problem teenager. From the looks of some of the people on the streets, though, there might have been a few instances of intergalactic crossbreeding.

  The Escalade drew curious glances as I cruised down Main Street, careful to stay within the speed limit. Not that I would have minded seeing Sonterra, even if he was writing me a ticket. It was 9:47 by the clock on my dashboard—I’d killed a little time shopping for maternity clothes in Tucson after leaving Loretta’s. The swearing-in was scheduled for ten sharp.

  I was right on time.

  I eyed the Bijou, the town one-plex—I think it closed about the time Disney released Old Yeller—then came two combination gas station–convenience stores, the Doozy Diner, three taverns with redneck names, a hair salon, an insurance agency, and a seedy-looking supermarket with discarded flyers and crippled shopping carts littering the nearly empty parking lot. Most people probably went to Tucson for everything but bread and milk, and those could be purchased at the gas-and-go’s. The American Legion occupied the same squat log building it always had, bravely advancing the cause of blackout bingo on a reader board out front. There were several more recent additions to the landscape, but one stood out—an antique store called Danielle’s Attic. The building was new and expensive, with a faintly startled look to it, as though it had gone to sleep in Scottsdale’s oh-so-upscale gallery district and awakened to find itself in Dry Creek.

  The place was doing a brisk business. I counted six RVs out front, all with out-of-state plates, as I passed, headed for the police station, which was at the far end of Main Street, unless they’d moved it, across from Dry Creek High School. The barbershop had closed, though the red-and-white-striped pole was still clinging to the wall like a sailor on a sinking ship. There was a FOR RENT sign in the smudged window, and my spirits lifted a notch. Good place for a law office.

  A couple of squad cars waited in the gravel lot outside the cop shop, and quite a crowd had gathered for the swearing-in. Sonterra’s arrival was big news, and everybody in town probably wanted a good look at Oz Gilbride’s successor.

  Anthony Sonterra, chief of police. I had to admit it had a certain ring. And hadn’t Mrs. K as much as said the job was part of his destiny, as well as mine?

  Two old ladies squinted at my vanity plate as I headed for a space between a rusted-out truck and a minivan. Since they didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger of figuring it out, I didn’t worry.

  A deputy with a round face and a serious belly spotted me as I approached the entrance to the station, and tugged politely at the brim of his Smokey hat. He had a pair of sunglasses hooked in his shirt pocket, and the skin around his eyes sagged, as if he’d seen too much in his time, and his flesh couldn’t support the weight of it anymore.

  I smiled warmly. If Sonterra and I were going to live in this town for six months—and at some point I had resigned myself to the fact that we were—it was important to get off on a friendly foot.

  “I’m Clare Westbrook,” I said, putting out my hand.

  “Dave Rathburn,” the deputy replied. His grip was crushing, but, through long practice, I didn’t wince. “Chief Sonterra asked me to be on the lookout for you. He’s inside, doing an interview with some woman from the Arizona Republic.” He resettled his hat. “They didn’t bother with us much when Oz disappeared.”

  I offered no comment on that. I had seen file footage of Oz Gilbride on a few newscasts, after he took an alleged powder, but Rathburn was essentially right. There h
adn’t been any big splash.

  After engaging in a sigh, Deputy Rathburn took a loose grip on my elbow and squired me inside the police station. It was small, with old-fashioned wooden railings separating it into sections, three visible cells, and an honest-to-God potbellied stove. I almost expected Andy Griffith to appear, whistling, with Don Knotts ambling along at his heels.

  Sonterra was indeed wearing a uniform, and he was every bit as hot as I’d anticipated. The reporter from the Republic, a pretty little thing who looked about seventeen, gazed up at him in wondrous appreciation of every golden word that fell from that sensual Latin/Irish mouth of his. She and I had butted heads recently, when I’d won an acquittal for David Valardi, a client accused of writing a computer virus and sending it out to gobble up hard drives.

  Eat your heart out, kid, I thought benignly, admiring Sonterra. He’s mine.

  He turned, spotted me, favored me with one of his lethal grins. There was a promise in that grin.

  Maybe I should have picked up a can of whipped cream along with the maternity tops and expandable pants.

  Sonterra cut the interview short and made his way toward me.

  “How’s Loretta?” he asked, at the same time I blurted, “How’s Eddie?”

  “Eddie’s awake,” he said with relief. “He’s going to be okay.” Sonterra’s eyes were warm, watchful. I felt like a rat for not telling him I was having hallucinations. Then I remembered he hadn’t told me about seeing Kip and the girlfriend at the commissioner’s country club. In my opinion, we were even-steven.

  “What about Loretta?” he asked.

  “Very depressed. I invited her to come along, but she didn’t feel like leaving the ranch. She was saddling up for a horseback ride when I left.”

  Sonterra took my upper arms in his hands. “Thanks for coming, Clare,” he said quietly. “It means a lot to me.”

  I wanted to rise on my toes and kiss him, but there were too many people around. “Where, exactly, are we going to live?” I asked sweetly. “Not the Hidy Tidy Trailer Park, I hope.” I’d seen a sign for the Hidy Tidy on my way into town and been surprised to know it was still in business. Even way back when, it was tacky to the max.

  The grin flashed again, wicked and warm. “Didn’t I tell you? The town council ponied up for a house. It has a screened-in sunporch and a big yard with lots of grass. The dogs love it.” He leaned in close, and his warm breath brushed my ear, sending a sweet shiver through me. “There’s no furniture yet, of course. Just a blowup mattress in the middle of the living room floor. Don’t think for a minute you’re going back to Loretta’s before we break it in.”

  I blushed. I do not blush.

  “I told her not to expect me before midnight,” I whispered back.

  He made a low, growling sound, audible only to me. I noted, out of the corner of my eye, that Kelly Staben, Ace Reporter, was watching closely, though. The old acid-wash glare.

  I’ve had that from the best, practicing law. She was hardly intimidating. I waggled my fingers at her.

  She scowled back.

  A pudgy bald man, who could only have been the mayor, cleared his throat loudly, preparing to orate.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, as the crowd settled into an interested murmur. “As you know, the fine community of Dry Creek has been subjected to scandal and unfair speculation in recent months, but this is a new and better day….”

  I glanced over and saw Deputy Rathburn’s jowls quiver, and a faint pink flush rose in his thick neck. The two old biddies from the parking lot were nearby, too, watching me narrowly.

  Guess they figured out my license plate.

  MJRBCH.

  Major Bitch.

  I smiled engagingly.

  Six

  A fter the swearing-in, there was a community picnic at the park, down by the dry creekbed from which the town had taken its name. Sonterra had to hobnob and press the flesh, and eat a lot of fried chicken, so everyone would know the new chief of police was approachable, a regular guy. I wondered if the mayor or Deputy Rathburn knew that Sonterra was drawing a second paycheck from the feds, and made a mental note to ask him for the lowdown later on.

  Not that I had a hope in hell he’d tell me anything sensitive.

  I was tucking into a second helping of potato salad at one of the picnic tables when a tall, skeletal woman with a sleek cap of black hair materialized out of the milling citizenry and put out a bejeweled hand in greeting. Even though dusk was gathering, she wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes. By my best guess, she was in her midthirties.

  “Danielle Bickerhelm,” she said, by way of introduction.

  I felt a jiggle of familiarity in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn’t remember meeting her before.

  “Clare Westbrook,” I replied, intrigued.

  Her lips formed a twitchy smile. “Not ‘Clare Sonterra’? Are you one of those modern women who don’t take their husband’s name?”

  It was a reasonable question, I suppose, but it definitely rubbed me the wrong way. And I was only half in the conversation, since I was still trying to figure out how I knew her. “Not Sonterra,” I confirmed, putting down my paper plate.

  “Well,” she said. “That’s interesting.”

  I figured it was Sonterra she found interesting, but being the soul of polite decorum, I didn’t comment. Instead, I made a deductive leap. “You own Danielle’s Attic,” I said, recalling the swanky antique store on Main Street.

  “Yes,” she answered. I wished she’d take off those damn glasses, so I could get a read on her. Maybe, if I saw her whole face, I’d recognize her. “You must stop in sometime. I’ve got some furniture that would look lovely in the chief’s house.”

  The chief’s house. As though I didn’t fit into the equation.

  “Have we met before?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered without hesitation.

  “I’d swear—”

  “I tried to buy that place,” Danielle broke in, and her voice seemed to tighten a little, as though some little demon was twisting a screw, deep down in her psyche. Meanwhile, my legal brain flipped through the files—law school, college, even high school. Nothing, but still the déjà vu persisted. “The city council refused to sell,” Danielle complained. “It’s the only house in town with trees in the yard.”

  Life is hard and then you die, I thought uncharitably. Then, Rein it in, Clare. You’re being hormonal. “I like trees,” I said, because I was still snagged on placing her.

  “Cottonwoods,” Danielle said dreamily. “Lovely and green.”

  I began to feel restless. I looked around for Sonterra, spotted him playing horseshoes with half a dozen old boys in billed caps. Our gazes connected, and I sent a silent message. Damsel in distress.

  Fortunately, he picked up on it, excused himself, and headed in my direction. Danielle lingered. Maybe I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could tell by the angle of her head that she was watching Sonterra’s approach.

  “Hello, Chief,” Danielle said sweetly. “I was just telling—” She paused, as though she’d forgotten my name, and maybe she had. Plainly, I was not the focus of her attention. “—Clare that I put in a very generous offer on the house you’ll be living in. It was turned down flat.”

  Sonterra’s grin was affable, but his eyes were on the alert. “That’s too bad,” he said lightly, and took my hand. “We’d better go and check on the dogs,” he told me. “They’ve been alone since this morning. God knows what they’re up to by now.”

  There were other people to meet before we could make a clean getaway, of course. Leaving Danielle behind, we made the acquaintance of Father Morales, who officiated at St. Swithin’s Catholic Church and was surrounded by an adoring retinue of small, eager children, mostly Latino. Madge Rathburn, the deputy’s wife. Various business owners and community leaders.

  When we could make a graceful departure, Sonterra and I hiked for the parking lot, and I still couldn’t get Danielle out of my min
d, even knowing any pertinent data would surface eventually if I left it alone.

  “I’ve met that woman somewhere before,” I mused aloud.

  “What woman?”

  “Danielle Bickerhelm. The one in the sunglasses. Do you know her?”

  Sonterra pondered a moment, looking somber, then shook his head. “Nope.”

  Big Chief had driven his SUV to the celebration, and I’d brought the Escalade, so we wouldn’t have to go back to the cop shop to pick up one vehicle or the other.

  “I don’t like her,” I said, as he opened my driver’s door for me.

  Sonterra didn’t answer. I could tell he was thinking about other things. Like Oz Gilbride’s disappearance and the five bodies found in the desert outside Dry Creek, one of them Jimmy Ruiz’s.

  Suddenly, he grinned gloriously. The sun had come out from behind the clouds. “Follow me, Counselor. I’ve got an air mattress I want to show you.”

  I felt infinitely better and immediately forgot Danielle. “Lead the way,” I said.

  He left me to get behind the wheel of his SUV, and we caravanned it out of the parking lot, down Main Street, and onto a side road marked Cemetery Lane. It gave me a little chill, seeing that street sign. I put it down to tension, pregnancy, and too much potato salad.

  Though it was still midafternoon, the house was all lit up, inside and out. It was a sizable white Victorian with gabled windows and a wraparound porch, flanked by the lush cottonwoods Danielle had mentioned. There was a picket fence, and the mailbox beside the front gate was one of those elegant iron mail-order jobs, a large, ornamental box with curlicues and a door with a brass handle.

  I was charmed already, and I hadn’t even been inside.

  As a kid, living in shabby, backstreet rentals with my mother, then a series of foster homes and, finally, blessedly, in my grandmother’s double-wide mobile, I’d dreamed of houses exactly like this one. Once, I’d even carried around a picture ripped from an outdated magazine in my caseworker’s office, like the kid in Miracle on 34th Street, hoping Santa Claus would hook me up with just such a place, complete with a pair of sober parents.