Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (19 page)

“Your circumstances were unusual,” she acquiesced, examining her sunglasses.

“Ya think?”

She bit back a retort and I almost smiled. I wasn’t sure when I’d become so cruel.
She was clearly in pain. But payback was a cold, hard bitch. I’d have to be one more
often.

Ever the stalwart soldier, she marched onward and asked, “Will you give me the message?
The one my father left for me?”

I couldn’t help it. My mouth fell open and I almost scoffed aloud. Now? After all
these years she decides she wants to join the club and I’m supposed to remember a
message given to me by a departed when I was in the low single digits? What the bloody
hell?

“Okay, well, I was like—” I lifted my eyes to the big calculator in the sky. “—I don’t
know, four or five, so that was how many years ago? Math isn’t really my thing.”

“Twenty-three,” she offered.

“So, I was four.”

“I know,” she said. Her fingers tightened around her bag. “But I also know how amazing
that mind of yours is.” She looked at me pointedly. “Clearly you never forget anything.”

“You do have a point. I still remember quite profoundly the slap you gave me in front
of the crowd at the park. And the time you dragged me off that bike at the beach.
By my hair. And the time I tried to tell you what your father said and how you went
ballistic on my ass, screaming at me as we drove to Dad’s bar.” I leaned in. “You
spit in my face.”

Her lips thinned in regret. Damn, she was good. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say
she was actually sorry for what she did.

“I was in shock at the park. What you did was—” She inhaled, then let that accusation
drop and moved on to the next. “And your hair caught in my ring. I told you not to
get on that bike and you disobeyed me.”

If the heat of anger could manifest outside my body, she’d have been nuked right then
and there. A charcoal briquette in the shape of Hitler, because she really did resemble
him in an odd, disturbing kind of way. What I did? How dare she.

“And if you will remember, I wasn’t even aware that my father had died when you told
me you had a message from him from the grave. How was I supposed to respond to that,
Charlotte?”

“By spitting in my face, apparently.”

She lowered her head. “If I apologize, will it help?”

“Not especially.”

“Will you tell me anyway?”

The sadness in her eyes, the remorse, ate at my resolve. Not much. Kind of like a
mouse nibbling a tiny speck off a hunk of cheese the size of Mount Rushmore. But enough
to have me saying, “I honestly don’t remember the exact message, since you’re asking.
It was something about blue towels. Or maybe towels that weren’t really blue. Fuck,
I don’t know.”

Okay, I only used the F-word because I knew how much she hated it, but it did little
good. She was lost in thought, trying to remember what I could possibly be talking
about. Then something sparked in her memory. Recognition flitted across her face.
“Wait,” she said.

“How long, because I really do have things to do.”

She stood and turned her back to me. “What did he say about the towels?”

After taking a deep breath, I said, “I told you, something about the fact that they
weren’t really blue. I think he said it wasn’t your fault.”

The sadness hit me like a blast of acid. It caused my eyes to sting. My chest to contract.
I closed against it, shut down my ability to absorb emotion, and forced nonacidic
air into my lungs.

Then she turned and kneeled in front of me. Kneeled. On her knees. Awkward. I tried
to scoot away from her, but I was already at the end of my sofa—which might or might
not go by the name of Consuela. My expression had to show the distaste I was feeling.

“It wasn’t even about me,” she said, her face glowing with awe. “It was about you.
He was trying to tell me about you.”

“You’re in my bubble.”

“He was trying to tell me how special you are.”

“And you didn’t listen.” I tsked. “How surprising. But, no, really, you’re in my bubble.”

“Oh,” she said, glancing around in surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m—” She sat back on her
chair and smoothed her slacks. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

I had no idea how her father had sent her a message about me from the grave, or how
she made such a connection when it was apparently about blue towels. And, sadly, I
didn’t much care.

“Is that all you needed?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s the only message I have for you today. Unless you want the one about
how much work I have to do. That’s an important one.” I picked my bag up off the floor,
replaced my sunglasses, and stood to walk out.

“Can you tell when someone is about to die?” she asked before I got far.

I knew it. With bowed head and gritted teeth, I said, “I’m not sure.” Sadly, I had
the uncomfortable feeling that I could. That I always could. But it was one of those
nagging little notions in the back of my mind that I ignored. Like when Cookie wore
purple, red, and pink together. I just pushed it to the back of my consciousness.
I didn’t know how to explain that to someone like her, so I didn’t try. “It’s possible.”
I tilted my head to the side and looked her up and down. “Yep. I’d start looking at
burial plots if I were you.”

She didn’t take me seriously in the least, which was probably a good thing, since
I was pulling her spindly leg.

Standing as well, she stuffed her tissue in her bag and said, “If you notice anything
of that nature, will you please give me a call?”

“Absolutely. I’ll put you on speed dial.”

She walked to the door, then turned back. “And just for the record, I wasn’t asking
for me.”

I let her leave, waited a good five minutes, then headed out the door myself, dismissing
her from my mind completely. Or doing my darnedest to.

*   *   *

According to their sign, the Veil Corporation was dedicated to the exploration and
development of alternative fuel, and Harper’s stepbrother, Art, was apparently a big
deal there. Since I didn’t have an appointment, I was told to wait in the lobby. Not
a place I liked to wait. So I told the receptionist who I was and explained that if
Art wouldn’t see me, I’d come back with a couple of officers and a warrant. I was
shown up to his office in a matter of minutes. I loved it when that crap worked. Honestly,
a warrant for what? Art must have something to hide.

He didn’t seem especially happy to see me when his assistant showed me in. He stood
and offered his hand, but he wasn’t happy about it. Unfortunately, the guy was good-looking.
He wore a three-piece suit and had a movie star face with short brown hair and naturally
tan skin. But the pièce de résistance was his eyes: silvery gray with a hint of blue,
fringed in long, dark lashes. Damn it! I hated it when bad guys were that good-looking.
It was so much easier to think the worst of them when they looked the part: scraggly
with a greasy smile and rotting teeth.

Though it did help that I could see hints of his mother in him. Oh, yeah, he was scum.
And I would prove it the first chance I got.

After offering me a quick shake, he gestured for me to sit, then did the same. “Mind
explaining why you felt the need to threaten me, Ms. Davidson?”

“Not at all. I needed to see you and I needed to see you fast. I’ve been hired by
your stepsister—”

“I know, I know.” He held up a hand to stop me. “Mother told me all about it.”

I was the talk at dinner? Cool. I loved when that happened. But I had a personal bias
against grown men who called their mothers Mother, so that was another strike against
him. Maybe it would counteract the good-looking-as-heck thing.

“As I’m sure she did you,” he added.

“Me?”

“Yes. I’m sure you got an earful about how Harper just wants attention and how it
all started right after my parents’ marriage.”

I assessed his emotions, but he wasn’t angry. Or particularly guilty. Until I said,
“Harper said you set fire to her dog’s house. With him in it.”

“She said that?”

Guilt radiated off him, but something else was stronger. Anguish. His feelings were
hurt. He stood and faced the window. “It was an accident. She knows that.”

“And she told me as much.” I could make out the faintest of smiles on his face from
the reflection in the tinted glass when I said that, and realization struck. Hard.
“Holy crap, you’re in love with her.”

“What?” He turned to me, his face a mask of indignation.

My mouth thinned. “Really?”

“Shit.” He came around his desk and closed the door to his office before continuing.
“How did you—? Look—” He raked a hand through his hair as I tried not to grin. “Of
course I love her. She’s my sister.”

“Art, she’s your
step
sister, and she’s gorgeous. I’ve seen her, remember?”

He sat back down. “She doesn’t know. Not really.”

“Why?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“It’s complicated. But we’ve been close for years.”

“Wait a minute,” I said as realization dawned. “You were her contact. You helped her
when she disappeared those three years, didn’t you?”

He pursed his lips. “How much of this will get back to my mother?”

“Unless it involved this case directly, none of it. And I can’t see how knowing you’d
help your stepsister is her business.”

“Yes,” he said with a reluctant nod. “And it was the hardest three years of my life.”

He really did love her. “Well, I have to admit, you’ve just thrown a wrench into my
theory. I really thought it was you.”

“Sorry.”

He wasn’t. I could tell.

“But you believe her, right?” His brows rose, his expression full of hope.

“I do. Can you give me your thoughts? I mean, surely you’ve formed a few theories
over the years.”

“Nothing that ever panned out,” he said, seeming disappointed in himself. “I’ve tried
for years to figure it out. One time I’d think it was the kid from next door who had
a crush on her, then I’d think it was the furniture delivery man. Things would happen
at the oddest times. Sometimes Harper would be home, sometimes she wouldn’t, so my
mother’s theory about Harper just wanting attention is bullshit.”

I was glad he thought so. “Was there anyone else in the house growing up? Anyone who
would have easy access to Harper’s room?”

“Sure, all the time. We had relatives, cousins, maids, cooks, gardeners, caterers,
event planners, assistants, you name it.”

“Did any of those people live in the house?”

“Just the housekeeper and sometimes a cook. We went through a lot of those. My mother
is not the easiest person to get along with.”

I could imagine. “I need to ask you something difficult, Art, and I need you to keep
an open mind.”

“Okay,” he said, growing suspicious.

“Do you or have you ever suspected your mother?”

His face froze in thought. “No.” He set his jaw. “No way.”

“But your stepdad’s health is failing, right? If anything happens to Harper, you and
your stepmother get it all.”

He shrugged a shoulder in resignation. “That’s true, but we get a small fortune anyway.”

“Maybe a small fortune isn’t enough. Maybe your mother has been trying to, I don’t
know, drive Harper insane so she can declare her incompetent or something.”

“I understand why you’d think that, but she’s not that greedy. I’ve been thinking
about this for a long time. My mother wasn’t lying. It all started right after they
got married. I’d only met Harper a couple of times before the wedding, but she was
just a normal girl.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards, she’d changed. And despite what my mother thinks, I don’t think it had
anything to do with their marriage.” He leaned forward and leveled those hawklike
eyes on me. “I think something happened to her during my parents’ honeymoon. Something
that’s connected with all of this.”

“She didn’t mention an incident.”

“I’ve done research on PTSD, Ms. Davidson, and looking back, I think Harper had the
symptoms. She was only five, for God’s sake. Who knows what she’s repressed.”

“Well, you’re definitely right about that. Bad memories can be repressed. I’m glad
she had you, though. Someone in her corner.”

“Me, too.” He grinned and sat back. “I wonder if she’s ever going to let me live that
fire down.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

11

Since killing people is illegal,

can I have a Taser just for shits and giggles?

—T-SHIRT

Maybe Art was right. Maybe Harper had repressed something. An inciting incident that
set this whole thing into motion.

If anyone would know, it should be her first therapist.

I called Cookie and after going through verbal instructions on how to turn the ring
volume down on her phone, I got the information for Harper’s first therapist, a psychologist
named Julia Penn. She was retired, and Cookie couldn’t get any contact information
other than an address. She lived in Sandia Park just over the mountains. I had a thousand
and one things I wanted to do today, including check on Harper and Quentin, and pay
a couple of old friends a visit, namely Rocket, a departed savant who lived in an
abandoned mental asylum. But I decided to pay her a visit anyway. It shouldn’t take
too long.

I drove on the historic byway of Turquoise Trail through a rich landscape to the prestigious
San Pedro Overlook, an affluent community at the base of Sandia Park.

Struck by its beauty, I called Cookie back.

“Did I not mention the ring thing is bothering me today?”

“Cook, how can you have a hangover? You were fine at four-ish this morning.”

“It hadn’t hit me yet. It hit me later. Around seven twenty-two. Are those Gemma’s
pants?”

“Yep.”

“How did she—?”

“I have no idea. Look, I just called because screw this apartment building crap. Since
we can’t have the cool apartment, I say we move out here.”