Hush (8 page)

―I‘ll be fifty-four,‖ Dave protested.

―One more reason to start today! There. I‘ve said it. I want a baby and I want it now.‖ She turned to Coby. ―That‘s probably more than you ever wanted to know about us.‖

Coby lifted her hands in surrender.

―Bug, are you sure?‖ Dave asked her seriously. ―I mean, really?‖

So they were testing the waters with her, staring at her intently, and though she could tell her father was drag, drag, dragging his feet, it looked like the matter had already been decided. ―I don‘t need to tell you, this isn‘t about me,‖ Coby said. ―Or Faith. Or even Mom. It‘s about you two.‖

―Thanks for nothing,‖ Dave said with a faint smile.

―Hey, I‘m Switzerland. Totally neutral,‖ Coby responded.

―Sounds like Coby might really like a little brother or sister,‖ Annette suggested.

―I wouldn‘t go that far. Switzerland,‖ Coby reminded her.

―Don‘t push, my dear,‖ Jean-Claude told his daughter. ―I think you‘ve won this battle.‖

―More wine?‖ Coby asked, holding up her empty glass.

―I‘ll get it.‖ Annette scooped up Coby‘s glass and headed into the kitchen.

―You‘re sure it‘s over with Joe?‖ her father asked her again.

―Pretty sure.‖

Coby heard Annette open the oven door, and the scent of warm bread and cheese and baking mushrooms wafted into the living room. There was a moment or two of awkward silence as they all tried to figure out what the conversation would be next.

Finally, her father asked her, ―So, how‘s work?‖

―Fine. How‘s the hotel doing?‖

Jean-Claude answered, ―Humming along. I would like to get rid of the tearoom completely and just have a wine bar, but people love it.‖

Dave said with pride, ―Annette practically runs the place, though Juliet and Suzette do a nice job running the tearoom and wine bar.‖

―I‘ll have to stop by,‖ Coby said, wondering how long it had been. She had a tendency to avoid situations that put her together with her father and Annette.

―Any interesting cases?‖ Dave asked, looking toward the kitchen as if he already missed his wife. Coby embarked on a story about an acrimonious divorce—no names given—where the wife had run off with her lover and the husband was asking for full custody of the two elementary-school-age children. Coby‘s firm was representing the wife, and it was a sticky wicket, no doubt. Even Coby had trouble sympathizing with the woman, whose self-involvement was damn near record-breaking, even among Jacoby, Jacoby, and Rosenthal‘s wealthy and powerful clients.

She finished with, ―The children want to stay with their dad. He wants the kids and the wife talks like she does, but I don‘t think her heart‘s really in it. He‘ll get the kids and she‘ll probably win in the alimony department.‖

―So the kids are merely a bargaining chip for more money. Too bad,‖ Dave said.

Jean-Claude had wandered back to the den and now he returned to catch the last bit. ―I should not speak ill of my ex, but she did the same. Wanted my money more than our girls.‖ He shrugged. ―But they got the better parent: me.‖

Annette brought Coby a new glass of wine, then headed toward the front door as they heard voices outside. But the door opened before she could reach it, letting in a cold rush of wind. A moment later Juliet and Yvette Deneuve and a boy of around twelve came into view: Yvette ‘s son.

Benedict. Coby smiled a greeting at the sallow-skinned and dark-eyed youth who looked a lot like his mother.

Yvette took one look at Coby and instantly headed her way. She still wore her hair in a ponytail, but her face had grown thinner over the years. She was also wearing jeans, which made Coby feel instantly better.

―Hey,‖ Yvette greeted her, sizing her up. She was a little taller than Annette, a little more voluptuous, and there was a line drawn between her eyes, as if she spent a lot of time scowling.

―Hi, Yvette.‖ Coby greeted her with another forced smile. They‘d never been close friends, and that last year of high school had been difficult. No one knew whether to be happy for Yvette and her pregnancy, and Yvette wasn‘t one to let anyone be close to her.

―You want to meet my son?‖ Yvette said now. Then, ―Benedict, get over here.‖ Dutifully the boy walked over to stand in front of his mother and stare at Coby with a certain amount of suspicion. His eyes were big and round like Yvette‘s but more hazel than brown. His skin was lighter and his hair was medium brown. Coby found herself trying to see Lucas Moore in him, but it was impossible to say.

―This is Uncle Dave‘s daughter Coby. She and I used to be friends . . . sort of,‖ Yvette said.

―Hi,‖ Benedict said, sticking out his hand.

Coby bent down and shook it. ―Hi, yourself.‖

―He‘s not,‖ Yvette said in an expressionless voice.

―What?‖ Coby looked at her as she straightened and Benedict walked away to plop himself in front of the television.

―He‘s not Lucas‘s.‖

Yvette was nothing if not direct. ―I didn‘t say he was,‖ Coby pointed out.

―I read your mind.‖ Her smile was cool. ―It‘s what you thought. It‘s what you all thought senior year. Probably still do.‖

―Well . . . yeah . . . I suppose you‘re right.‖ This was the kind of thing Coby wanted to avoid. Exactly this. She‘d known it was going to be tough seeing Annette and her father fawn all over each other, but she really hadn‘t wanted to relive the night Lucas died with her old classmates, and yet, here it was.

Yvette was challenging her, and Coby did not want to be challenged.

With a glance toward Benedict, who was absorbed in a video game on the TV, Coby moved closer to Yvette and said in an undertone, ―You told us the day we found Lucas that you and he were an item. That he wasn‘t into Rhiannon and he never had been. That you and he were together, in love, secret boyfriend and girlfriend. You made a point of it. So, yeah, we got the impression Benedict might be Lucas‘s, but
you
gave that impression to us. On purpose, I might add. Loudly and insistently.‖

―Whoa.‖ Yvette‘s brows lifted in surprise. She clearly hadn‘t expected Coby to be so forthright.

―Yeah.‖ Coby left her then, clomping across the wood floor in her cowboy boots back toward the kitchen. She was irked and angry. Yvette was just one of those people who liked to be a pain in the ass, and Coby, with a glance outside at the bad weather, thought she might like to spend the night at the beach after all, maybe book a hotel in Cannon Beach or Tillamook, becaus e as the night wore on she sure as hell felt like getting drunk.

If there was one thing Danner Lockwood hated above all else, it was small talk.

Small. Talk.

All right. That was a bit of hyperbole. There were far, far worse things in this world he hated more. Things worthy of serious hate. Like intent to cause pain, killing for personal gain, abuse of the weak and dependent. He‘d seen more than his share of all of that.

But he did hate small talk. Hated listening to it. Hated acting like he knew how to respond to it. Hated being polite.

What he‘d like right now was to be having a beer with his homicide partner, Detective Elaine Metzger, mid-forties or fifties, built like a tank, language as salty as the briny sea. Elaine made all the crap of the job seem insignificant. She had gallows humor that kept the worst parts of being a cop bearable and made the best parts enjoyable. She‘d survived two marriages and as many divorces and she was all about work, which was fine by Danner, as he was a lot the same way. But she‘d just left on two weeks‘ vacation and it had left him a bit rootless and dissatisfied. In this funk he‘d accepted an invitation with his ―date,‖ now seated across from him, and he could already tell it was a huge mistake.

Had he really thought this would work?

He smiled at her. She was a nice woman. Someone he‘d gone to school with. He watched her mouth and tried to concentrate on her words. The weather? Politics? God, he hoped not.

Whether the latest celebrity marriage would end in divorce before or after they had children?

His ears seemed incapable of listening, yet he listened every day to information that would help him solve serious crimes. Just that morning he‘d interviewed a man suspected in multiple gang shootings and had learned some key information that had led to the discovery of a cache of guns and ammunition that could put the bastard away for several lifetimes.

But for now, on this late Saturday afternoon, he was seated at a café table in Cannon Beach under a covered porch, thank God, because the rain was streaking from a black sky, the wind was winding up from a low moan to a building shriek, and the approaching storm had sent all but him and his date scurrying inside.

She suddenly looked at him expectantly and he quickly reran her last words through his mind, praying he would remember the gist of her conversation.

Aware of his distraction, she asked, ―What‘d I just say?‖

―Something about your family?‖

―Uh-huh. What was it?‖

She always talked about her family. There were issues among them that she considered to be a lot bigger than they were. He could have told her he‘d seen a lot of families with a whole hell of a lot worse problems, but she wasn‘t much of a listener, either, so he let it go. ―You wish your mother would stop interfering in your affairs.‖

―Nice try. I wish she showed some interest in my affairs rather than that rat-faced loser with the houndstooth jackets and musky aftershave she‘s been dating. God, what a loser.‖

―I thought you said your mother was through with him, and it was too bad, because he at least seemed to care about her.‖

―I was wrong. They‘re still together.‖

Danner reminded her, ―You thought he was the one getting used, not your mom, because she was involved in some secret affair, or something?‖

―Okay, okay! You do listen. But I was wrong about that, too.‖ She held up her hands and half smiled. ―I said as much to Mom and she got really bitchy about it.‖

―Imagine that.‖

―Told me I didn‘t know my ass from a hole in the ground—the PG version of those words, anyway—and that I should mind my own business. There wasn‘t some secret affair, apparently. But her relationship with Barry is just
wrong
. They‘re too kissy-smoochy in front of people and that‘s always a bad sign. Like they‘re trying to
prove
how happy they are when it‘s all a big fat lie.‖

―His name is Barry?‖ Danner asked.

―Barry,‖ she agreed as if the word tasted bad. She brooded for a moment, gazing out across the sand and toward the restless waves. The ocean was more a low-grade buzz than a roar; the roar was the driving rain and wind that shot in and slapped them with a gleeful snap of water and cold every few minutes. ―I wish—‖

But he never got to hear what she wished for because a blast of sideways rain shot in and hit them with a
swoosh,
drenching their table.

―Oh, my God!‖ she cried, jumping from her seat. Her gray sweater-coat was soaked and her black slacks looked wet, too.

―Let‘s go.‖ Danner was laughing as he followed her inside the restaurant, his own jeans wet from waist to knee, his black cotton sweater soaked across the waist, his black parka easily weathering the blast. They‘d ordered coffee for her and a light beer for him, and now he paid and they hurried to her car, a late-model white BMW convertible, the top securely fastened against the elements. She was driving, so now he sank into the passenger seat again and thought of his older, black Jeep Wrangler with its plastic windows, which weren‘t working as well as they once had, and was glad to be warm and dry.

He was not, however, glad he‘d agreed to this fool‘s errand. He‘d agreed to accompany her because he wanted to see Coby Rendell. He‘d agreed because his ―date‖ was Faith Rendell, and this birthday party had given him a golden opportunity to see the one woman who‘d gotten away, so to speak.

Opportunity. And motive.

―As if Mom‘s problems aren‘t enough,‖ Faith was saying with zero enthusiasm, ―now I get to wish my stepmother ‗Happy Birthday.‘ Whoopee. Can‘t wait.‖

He knew Coby and Faith‘s father had married Annette Deneuve. He knew all about everything.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Danner laid the seat back, relaxed into the cushions, and closed his eyes.

―It could be a bumpy ride,‖ Faith warned him.

Yes
, he thought,
it definitely could.

They drove to the party.

The doorbell had been ringing constantly as guests arrived at the party and straggled in from the rain and blasting wind. The decibel level had been rising accordingly and Coby, on her third glass of wine, had a pretty good buzz going. She‘d learned to pace herself since those early high school days at the campout; maturity was a great thing all around. And she also made certain tonight to eat the hors d‘oeuvres as they were passed around.

She decided she didn‘t much like Yvette. Even though her sister had married Coby‘s father, she hadn‘t had much contact with her over the years, which was just as well. Coby had seen Juliet and Suzette sporadically in the time since—they were second to youngest and youngest, in that order—and she was in close contact with Nicholette, of course, since they worked together. But Yvette had been the one who‘d been the most reclusive, maybe because of her teen pregnancy, maybe because she was a single mom, maybe because of all the secrets they‘d told together, secrets that made them want to run away from each other, secrets that kept them from bonding. Maybe it was Lucas‘s death. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Whatever the case, Coby did not feel warm and fuzzy toward Yvette, and the feeling was clearly mutual.

Yvette‘s eyes were on her son, who was still immersed in his video game, which was right in the center of the action. The boy wore headphones, so the elevator music Coby‘s dad had put on was all she could hear, but across the TV screen ran explosion after explosion, mega-gunfire, while soldiers keeled over and bodies turned into melting flesh and bone.

―Good God,‖ Coby murmured aloud.

Yvette glanced over at her. ―He‘s eleven,‖ she said. ―It‘s what they do.‖

Coby didn‘t comment. She sensed Yvette was spoiling for a fight and she didn‘t want to be any part of it. But it was just so like Yvette to be unable to let things go; that hadn‘t changed since high school. Now she moved Coby‘s way.