Relatively Risky (14 page)

N
ell felt
that jolt of surprise, yet again, at how quickly—and without fanfare—one's world could change beyond recognition. She'd had a few minutes to be relieved that her parents hadn't lied about everything. They had been high school sweethearts. For whatever reason, that had seemed like the big betrayal, more even than the rest of it. It was that love, that history of their love, that had made her their kid. It had been the rock on which her life and memories were embedded. It all might have started in a weird place, but the world they'd built, the love they'd shared was real. Who she was, that was real, too. It might be a bit out of focus at the moment, but that didn't mean it had been an illusion.

No wonder they'd been so tied at the hip. Had they done it for her? Or was it something more? Someone had tried to kill them, had believed they succeeded in killing them until she came to town. No wonder her parents hadn't wanted her to visit Sarah. It would have helped if they'd told her. She rubbed her face, catching sight of the ring in the process. Just because someone gave you something, that didn't mean you had to take it. Her parents were proof of that.

Of course, they'd had to fake their own deaths and hide until they died.

Sarah's hand covered hers. “Are you all right?”

Nell wasn't sure. Her mom's rules of “all right” hadn't covered getting handed a ring of power over a criminal empire. Was she all right? It didn't feel “all right” knowing that creepy St. Cyr had been dad to her dad. And her mom's family? What were they like? Besides creepy. What had really happened all those years ago? And not to be all about herself, but how would it affect her going forward?

“I'm probably okay.” Nell heard the doubt in her voice and tried to smile at her friend.

No one knew she had the ring, did they? So no one ever needed to know she'd had—why had he given it to her? Had it been an impulse when he realized he was going to die? Had this been what the killer was after? She reached over and picked it up again, remembering that moment when she'd really looked at him. What had she seen in his eyes before the bodyguard interrupted them? It would be so easy to imagine she'd seen…something. That he'd felt something for her as a person. As a granddaughter. That the ring wasn't to hose her but to acknowledge her as his son's child.

Wow, she really did have an imagination. Which could be put to better use than trying to imagine what a dead, wise guy might have been thinking when he tripped her. And stalked her. And dumped a hot potato in her portfolio.

Thanks a lot, gramps.

“No one needs to know I have it, do they?” she asked, uneasily. Who had expected to get it? “You could just give it back to, I don't know, whoever was supposed to get it?”

Alex and Ben exchanged glances of a significant nature.

“I'm not sure we can,” Ben said, “but yeah, better if no one else knows you have it.”

She didn't plan to blab to the gangster relatives. She might not speak to them at all. She wasn't sure what she felt, let alone what she wanted to do. Other than avoid them. Her gaze happened to accidentally intersect with Alex and she almost sighed. She did know one thing she'd like to do. Very shallow, but there it was. Besides, her Mom had once told her there were times in life when you went deep, but also times when it didn't hurt to ride the tops of the waves until the storm passed. That sounded like permission to be shallow every now and again. If she didn't paddle there indefinitely.

Her mom would have liked Alex, she decided, though she wouldn't have approved of his anti-kids deal. Thirteen kids. That had to leave its mark, particularly on the oldest. The brothers tweaked each other as they tried to figure out what to do going forward. She could see the bond of affection between them, even during the mild argument. It had been there with his sister, too. Family affection. Family bonds. She and Sarah were a different kind of family, friends, almost sisters but by choice, not by blood.

It was the almost part that left her feeling a bit blue. Family, the call of blood. Would she feel it with anyone in her parents' families? She sure hadn't felt any call around the old man. Not even a whisper.

Alex would make a great—if reluctant—dad. Cute gene pool. She'd liked to have been a mom, had thought a couple of kids would be nice, but now had to worry about her gene pool.

As if he felt her attention, Alex looked at her, one brow quirked. “You sure you are all right?”

“I'm not dead.”

He grinned. “There are times when that's not the good news.”

She matched the grin, surprised she had one in her. The warmth in his eyes made the grin widen—

The front door bell pealed sonorously. An odd, sad sound for a house that managed to be both old and cheerful. It had a disconcerting effect on the two men. They both shot upright, all signs of softness replaced with steely-eyed resolve. Yesterday Alex had been brisk cop. This was different. More dangerous. She exchanged a rather wide-eyed look with Sarah.

“What was that?” Alex asked.

“The front door bell?” Sarah said, with a caution Nell shared.

“That's your door bell?” Ben asked.

Got a nod from them both.

“Are you expecting someone?” Alex asked, rather tersely.

“No, but—”

Alex exchanged a look with Ben. “Wait here.” They disappeared out the door to the long hall.

“I hope they don't shoot a client,” Sarah murmured. “I haven't got that many.”

After a tense wait, one not broken by a gun shot, Ben returned, with an distinctly odd look on his face. He looked at Nell.

“There's someone here to see you.”

“Me?” Had anyone come to see her before Alex? Even her publisher had her come to him. “Who—”

“Helenne St. Cyr.”

Her grandmother? She could be wrong, but she was betting this grannie hadn't arrived bearing paper dolls.

T
he old lady was remarkable
, an artist's gift, if Nell could have managed a sketch while that cool, dark gaze scorched over her. The eyes were so like—yet also very not like—her dad's. No question where he'd gotten his looks. She still had the bones, the bearing. There were lines etched in the face and the hair had gone gray without obvious interference. She sat ramrod straight in the chair, both gnarled hands resting on the impressive head of finely crafted cane. If Nell had seen her, instead of St Cyr, she'd have known from whence her DNA hailed.

Unlike her husband, she didn't call up vegetable images. Nell might have mulled trees, tall, stately ones with creepy twists, but she didn't dare blink, let alone mull anything. If looks could kill, grandma would have managed it. Alex standing like a rock at her back helped some. Kind of funny that the old lady was accessorized with two bodyguards. Or maybe not. She must have trust issues after yesterday. The artist in Nell picked out the differences in the tall, lean, cliché-clones in dark suits. They periodically scanned for threats with creepy intent, but mostly they glared at Alex. The more goonish one shifted his glare her direction, but removed it when he realized she'd noticed.

The chill receded some, when the old lady looked at her the bodyguards. “Wait in the hall.” Her heavy lidded gaze shifted to Alex. “Go away.”

“Nell?”

She managed what she hoped was a regal nod, though she did spare him a quick, reassuring glance. He looked more amused than worried. A heavy silence filtered into the room in the wake of the three men's departure.

She stared past the old lady, her gaze settling on the music box. It was big, ungainly, the craftsmanship rough. Her dad had made other music boxes, better ones, but this was the one she'd had to keep because it was his first. It would have been upstairs by her bed, but it was a heavy little s.o.b. The sight of it anchored her to Dad. It connected her to her past as she turned her gaze back to his mother.

For a couple of seconds, she didn't know what to say, but then went with the obvious.

“I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am.”

The brows arched imperiously. “Are you?”

Nell didn't care if she didn't believe her. The old lady could—and would—believe what she wanted anyway.

“I must suppose that my son is dead.” A pause. “Again.”

The voice was distant, detached. It kind of made sense. She'd lost him, probably mourned him thirty years ago. The fact that he'd died again didn't change that much for her now.

Nell nodded. It felt weird, it was disturbing, how much she was like Dad. And how very much she wasn't at all like him. It was hard to see her getting warmed up enough to get pregnant. And now she needed to wash her brain out with soap.

“Where did…” Her nose quivered like she smelled something off.

It took Nell a moment to figure out the question. “Wyoming. Northern Wyoming.”

A pause. “How extraordinary.”

Okay. She did not know what that meant. It was like those nightmares where you had a test you weren't ready for.

“I did not think there was a large city in Northern Wyoming.”

“There isn't.” There were more people in New Orleans than the whole state.

Another longer pause. “How—I see.”

What did she see? Since the old lady had no trouble staring, Nell stared back, trying to connect her dad with this woman in some way besides superficial appearance.

“What was—Phil like?” It was easier for Nell to call him that for some reason.

The precisely shaped brows lifted. The pause long before she offered, “Phillip was a handsome boy. Bright. Charming.”

Nell felt the implied
not at all like you
and wondered why his mother had stopped. Her dad had been more, so much more than handsome and bright and charming. Maybe if she could have sketched her…that's how she figured people out—what would her dad have wanted her to do? Besides never meet his mother? It had happened and couldn't be undone. So now what?

“I tried to save him.”

The words didn't feel meant for Nell for some reason. She sure wasn't looking at Nell.

“You did save him.” Or someone had. The gaze slammed into hers and she suspected that—Nell couldn't think of her as a grandma, not really, so she defaulted back to Mrs. St. Cyr—probably hadn't meant to save him for Wyoming, but for herself. Nell changed position and managed to sneak a look at her watch. Only three minutes? Seriously? It felt like she'd been in this room a lot longer than that.

“How did he die? When—” Not a muscle quivered in that regal face.

Did she really not know or was this some kind of wise gal game? “Drunk driver.” For the first time, Nell felt the irony that his second death was also in a car. “Two years.” And some change, but the old lady wouldn't care about change.

The silence felt longer this time. The old lady avoided looking at her, her gaze apparently fixed on a vase that needed flowers, sitting on a table that needed dusting. Why was she here? What did she want? The disconnect between her dad and his mother was almost intergalactic. It was hard to believe there'd been a time when both her parents must have sort of fit into this world.

Nell studied the chilly mask of a face. She wasn't here to bond with Nell. There'd been no questions of a personal nature. So what issue was still hanging?

“What did he tell you?”

Everything and nothing.
Not that it was any of the old lady's business.

The elegant lips thinned into a sneer. “Were you hoping there'd be money? An inheritance?”

“No.” Nell didn't hesitate. Hard to hope for something she hadn't known existed and knowing now, yeah, didn't plan to line up for the blood money. She met the skepticism in the old lady's eyes without flinching. Not exactly the cozy grandmother she'd wished for once or twice. Not the grandma her parents had wanted her to have, Nell reminded herself. Had she known what she was getting into when she married St. Cyr? She didn't look like the kind to not know what she was getting into.

“Then why are you here?” The old lady turned to give the room a disparaging look. “One hears things, of course.”

She somehow managed to make Nell feel like she'd been tacky to get talked about. Neat trick from the widow of a wise geezer. She waited for the gaze to make its way back to hers, then arched her brows. Just a bit. It had worked for her mom when people were nosy.

“Canapés and drinks?”

Sneer mixed with disdain. No, not cozy.

“Sarah took me off drink service, so just canapés these days.” She also chopped and cooked, but that didn't seem relevant to the moment. Wow, if her parents hadn't booked it, she might have been on the other side of the trays. Would she have been as snotty? Nell couldn't imagine that, or the person she might have been. Assuming she'd managed to get born, she reminded herself. There were those crypts where her parents weren't buried. But why had it taken all of two years—Sarah's business had only started to make headway into the type of clientele the St. Cyrs most likely frequented. That had to be it. Her visage on her book jacket was as a green bean. If they recognized her from that—ouch. Unless they'd been watching her for two years? That was a creepy thought, though it seemed unlikely they'd be that patient. Nell met Mrs. St. Cyr's gaze and retracted that thought. This old lady could be more than that patient. Nell had a sudden sense of a spider spinning a web—

Her cool gaze swept Nell's face. “You're very like her.”

“My mom—” Nell began.

“Your grandmother.”

Nell had not known that. She hadn't known Mom looked like her mother. It wasn't exactly a shock. Kids did look like their parents. It just felt weird to find out her face was a double hand-me-down. “You…knew her?”

For some reason she'd thought that the families were armed, hostile camps. Wasn't that Wise Guys 101?

The old lady blinked. “I knew her, yes.” She did not sounded thrilled, so it was a surprise when she added, “We were friends.”

“Is she—”

“She died before you were born.”

There was something there, a hint of an acid leak, though nothing showed on her face or in her eyes. Was it the family connection that bothered her? The fact that her beautiful son had fallen for the ordinary girl? Some kind of twisted version of housewives of wise guys? It was weird to realize one could have too much family. Was this how Alex felt? Of course, he didn't have Family. Nor did his trail clouds of goons.

The silence was a bit fraught. Not even the hum of a clock and the curtains muffled any street sounds brassy enough to attempt entry. Dim and a bit close, the ever-present humidity made the cool feel less so. The old lady's scent had to be expensive and was on the strong side in the still air. Rather
grande dame
of crime-ish. Was she a power behind the throne or more splendidly oblivious? The spinning spider image came back, stronger and more creepy than before. Nell's finger tips quivered. She closed them into fists. She'd been known to make air drawings when the urge hit at paperless moments.

Nell still couldn't figure out what the old lady wanted. She replayed their conversation so far. It didn't take long, but she'd missed something. She wasn't sure how she knew, she just did.

Nell's head to tipped to the side. “You're angry at him—them.” Or just Mom?

It was hard to believe her eyes could get more arctic, but she managed it.

“He was a fool to run away, just because he and Phin didn't see eye to eye about the business.”

“The business?” Would that be the murdering and stealing and who knew what else business?

The cold gaze regarded her. “Phillip would have come around.”

Nell doubted that. Since he hadn't.

“Toni was naive and idealistic and Phillip—”

“—loved her,” Nell cut in.

The old hands may have tightened on the cane head. “So he said.”

Nell mainlined her mom's unflinching look. Her dad had
proved
he loved her mom. The eyes shifted back toward Nell, dark, deep and disturbing. Nell didn't know her well enough to know what stirred down in her depths. She didn't want to know her that well. She looked like dad but—wow, the apple hadn't fallen close to that tree at all.

Nell wanted to ask stuff but didn't know how to do it without giving away what she did and didn't know, or that she had that ring. She had a fervent hope that this woman never found out about that. The silence stretched like spandex and was about as comfortable.

Had the scary matriarch really not known her husband was watching Nell? How long had he watched before Nell noticed? What had he planned to do about it? When had the old lady found out about Nell? The timing of St. Cyr's death—Nell realized where her thoughts were going and put on the brakes. If grandma had taken out grandpa, she did not want to know it. Or think it in her presence.

“Has Bett been to see you?”

“Bett?”

“Your mother's father.”

She didn't see any reason not to admit he hadn't, so Nell shook her head.

“He will.”

“Unless he's the one trying to kill me,” Nell said, though she probably shouldn't have. Unless being in someone's gun sights boosted her creds with the fam. The old lady's brows arched. No sign of sorrow or worry. Oh well, wasn't really looking to boost the creds with this particular fam.

“Why would you matter enough to kill?”

Nell shrugged, not sure why that stung. Yeah, no cozy grandma there. And she only mattered if someone knew about the ring, didn't she? Which they shouldn't. But someone might know it was missing? Nell shifted uneasily.

“I suppose Aleksi Afoniki might see you as a threat.”

“Why—” Because she was the granddaughter of two wise geezers? She briefly considered the notion, but she wasn't any more suited to be a wise person than her parents.

“Phin thought Aleksi was the one who—” she stopped. “It was never proved.”

She did not know wise guys needed proof. Was it a Hatfields and McCoys deal? He might not have liked the two families joining DNA, leaving him standing alone, but it didn't happen. So what, revenge visited on the next generation? It was not a happy thought. When mafia types got you in the cross-hairs, they didn't tend to back off. She was a bit hazy on the conditions of Witness Protection, but it seemed logical to assume that she'd need something to trade for protection. So far, all she had was a ring she couldn't admit she had. And DNA she didn't want. Annoyed did a spike. “Why are you here?”

She brows arched. “You're my granddaughter.”

Nell did skeptical. Grannie not-dearest looked away. Then Nell got it. This visit wasn't about her. It was about Dad. Her son. That she hadn't seen for thirty-plus years. Who she'd never see again. Was it longing she sensed beneath the anger? Or the old lady could be trying to play her, find out what she knew.

“Did he make music boxes…before?” Nell asked.

That put some surprise on her face. “No…” She blinked. “He…no.”

“Oh.” Nell hesitated. “Maybe it was his way to sing without singing.” Or a way to distract himself from missing what he'd left behind? “He was terrible. When he wanted to make us laugh, he'd do this lounge singer routine—” Nell stopped as the surprise grew, removing some of the scary matriarch vibes. “Did he sing a lot when he was little?”

A pause. “I suppose he might have in school.”

Where did he come from, she wanted to ask. Instead she tried again. “He fixed cars.”

“He always liked cars.” For a second the old lady almost looked relieved.

She hesitated, but decided Dad would want her to know. “They were happy. Everyone said so at,” she took a steadying breath, “the funeral.” The dark gaze had gone back to giving nothing away. Nell didn't know if this mattered to grandma not-dearest, but she felt the need to say it. “They said it was fast. They didn't suffer.” Nell looked away, staring at the dust motes drifting in a tiny ray of light that had snuck past the drapes. Remembering laying on the rug next to her dad while he spun her a tale about the mote fairies. It was as bad as his singing. She'd edited it as he told it. Her fingers tried to break out of fists as images began to take shape in the sunbeam. She'd need to sketch another mental dump and soon.