The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (31 page)

“You were very brave tonight, Molls.”

She nodded, pleased, and yawned.

“And don’t worry; Ivy’s going to be okay.” Ivy had been her sitter for half a year; I assumed Molly would be worried about her.

“No, she’s not, Mom. Ivy’s nuts.” Molly said it simply, as if she wondered why I hadn’t noticed such an obvious, uncomplicated fact.

“It’s sad.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“So what did you do to her?”

I hesitated, remembering that Molly didn’t know—she’d taken off with Luke.

“I thought she was going to hurt us.” She laughed, too high, too shrill. Why was she laughing? “What did you do, throw the kettle at her?”

Oh my. Once again, Molly’s thinking surprised me. But her laughter—was it a bit hysterical? Or just a much-needed release? I leaned down, kissed her forehead. “How would you get an idea like that?”

She shrugged. “It’s what I would have done.”

Oh my. “You’re a smart girl, Molly Hayes.”

She yawned again. “Do you really know that other lady? Was she really from your job?”

I nodded, holding Molly. “She’s very sick.”

“No kidding.”

No kidding? Sarcasm from a six-year-old? “But you’re safe now. And I meant what I said. Tonight you were very brave.”

She nodded, thinking. How would she process the terrible events she’d witnessed? How would they affect her long-term? In her short life, she’d seen far too much violence but had somehow managed to adjust. Now, she was up later than she’d ever been, and her eyelids were heavy, her small body demanding rest, drifting off to sleep. I’d have to wait; only time would tell how she was coping. Again, I leaned over and kissed her good night, whispering that I loved her more than I could say. Then I started for the door.

“Mom?

“Yes?”

“What if I drop the basket?”

If she what?

“Or what if I trip?”

It took me a second to grasp what she meant. But then I got it: Molly was worrying but not about being kidnapped or attacked by a murderous lunatic—she was worried about being a flower girl. How amazingly childlike and sweet. Except, suddenly, my heart and stomach switched positions, churning and pulsing, and air got stuck, clogged my throat. Oh God. The wedding—it was the next day. Or no. By now, it was nearly three. The wedding was today.

“Or what if I do the step wrong?” She’d been listing the possible things that could go wrong. Mistakes she might make.

“You’ll be fine, Molly. No matter what, you’ll be the best flower girl ever.” I went back and smoothed her curls, but her eyes were already closed, and she seemed to have fallen asleep. I paused, watching her even breathing before I tiptoed away.

“Mom?”

I stopped at the door, listening.

“You were brave tonight, too.”

Apparently, Nick had been waiting for me in the bedroom; the lamp was on and he was sitting up, but he was sound asleep, snoring. God knew how much he’d imbibed at the bachelor party, but it must have been significant. Normally, Nick would be unable to rest until he’d found out every detail of what had happened in a killing, let alone a killing involving his family, let alone a killing committed by his future bride. I sat beside him, listening to the soft rumble of his snores, considered waking him up, decided not to. I couldn’t. His face was too relaxed, the purple, jagged scar almost invisible in the shadows. Instead, I watched him, comforted by his steady, noisy breathing. In less than twenty-four hours, this man would be my husband. Husband? I repeated it to myself, trying to understand its definition. But my mind was dull, my emotions numb, my head sore, my body drained. The word seemed to be just a couple of syllables with meaning I couldn’t fathom.

I showered. I stood under hot clean water, soaping myself, scrubbing away clotted crusted blood, cleaning away the recoil, the smell, the ear-shattering blast of the gun. Rinsing away the sight of an eye socket spouting red, the agonized shimmy of a woman scalded. I washed, lathered, shampooed, rinsed and repeated the cycle until the water got cold. Then, beyond exhausted, I wrapped myself in my soft terry cloth robe and returned to the bedroom.

Nick still slept. Damn it. Why was he sleeping? How could he sleep after everything that had happened? And then I realized that I didn’t actually know everything that had happened. The bachelor party might have been more exhausting than I wanted to know. Naked women danced into my head, slithering over, under, around and onto Nick as Sam and a battalion of men cheered and hooted. Okay, now I was pissed. I was out rescuing our children, fighting for my life and for theirs, while Nick, homicide detective extraordinaire, fiancé and father, buried his face in bare bosoms and his thighs in, well, I didn’t want to think of what. I was furious.

“Nick—wake up.” I shook him.

His eyelids popped open, then dropped again.

“Nick.” I shook him harder.

Again, the eyelids lifted. “What?” His eyes drifted, found me. Half his mouth lifted into a half smile, delighted to see me. “Zoe?” He reached for me, arranging himself on his pillows. “Zoe. C’mere.”

He pulled me to him, but I resisted. He opened an eye, confused for a moment. “What?”

“I need to talk to you.”

He nodded. “Wuzzup. M’lissnin.” He closed his eyes, already snoring. I’d never seen him this way.

I shook him again. “Nick.”

“Pudem enyupokit.” I think that’s what he said.

“Put them in my pocket?”

“Notchoo. Tony.”

It was no use. Nick was unreachable. I lay down, put my head on his chest, letting my tears dribble onto his skin. “Nick, I really need to talk to you.”

“Sleep.” His voice was content, like a sigh. “Sokay, beyokay.” He kissed my head, his words blurred; Nick was only half-awake, and that half was in the bag.

E
XHAUSTED,
I
DOZED OFF
and on, but I couldn’t really sleep, unable to recover from the aching fear I’d felt for the children. I got up to check on Molly and Luke, wandering from one room to the other, and when Eli showed up a little before five I was wide awake in the rocker in Luke’s room. This time, I wasn’t surprised to see Eli. I didn’t think anything could surprise me anymore. Instead, when I looked up to see him standing in the doorway, I simply got up and gave him a hug.

“Coffee?”

He nodded. “That would be great.”

Together, silently, we went downstairs. While the coffee brewed, I explained the yellow tape and the events of the night. I told him about the rehearsal dinner and how I’d spotted Bonnie Osterman in his photograph, how his picture had saved the children’s lives.

“If I hadn’t seen her face there, I wouldn’t have hurried home and, instead of playing dead, she’d have gone after Ivy and taken the kids.”

Eli listened without interrupting. I told him all about Anna’s murder, Ivy clunking me on the head. I talked about the kidnapping, burning, knife wielding and shooting, and when I got to the part about Nick being sound asleep, Eli set his mug of coffee down and reached out, gathering me in muscled arms. He didn’t say anything. He just held me. And he kept on holding me until I stopped shaking.

I
T WAS AWKWARD WHEN
he released me. I’d felt his heart beating, had learned his scent. Standing beside him, I felt chilled and bare, and I averted my eyes. He watched me, though, as if waiting for me to signal what would come next. Stop it, I told myself. This man is Nick’s brother. The attraction you feel is for Nick, and Eli looks exactly like him except younger. Which means that you are, by the way, more than a decade older. Still, Eli’s eyes pulled at me, and I didn’t dare look at him, his square jaw, his wide—very wide—shoulders. Good Lord. What was happening to me? My wedding was today. To Eli’s brother. And I’d just been through a night of hell. How could I feel steamy attraction after a night of death and fear? Especially for Nick’s baby brother?

It was nothing, I told myself. I was in shock, that was all, and Eli was comforting me. And I needed to change the subject before mentally pursuing the subject of Eli’s rippling shoulders or tight torso any further. He didn’t speak, just watched me. Waiting.

“How come they call you a spy?” I clutched my coffee mug, wandered to the steps and sat.

He followed me, chuckling. “They still do?”

I nodded. “Or secret agent. Even an assassin. They say nobody knows what you really do.”

Eli shook his head; his smile seemed forlorn. “Those guys.”

I sipped coffee, watching his eyes. I couldn’t read them.

“It’s just a game. They know what I do. I’m a photographer.”

“They say that’s just your cover story—”

“Because they never could accept that I’m who I am. I’m shy. I’ve always been shy. They take that as secrecy; they assume I’m hiding something. But I’m just—I don’t know. I’m what you see. I live on the sidelines, observing. I guess that’s why I take pictures. The camera gives me an excuse to keep apart.”

To keep apart? On the sidelines? I didn’t buy it. The man was too compelling, too imposing. Too gorgeous. There was no way people wouldn’t notice him standing on the sidelines and pull him in. “Even as a kid?”

He shrugged, twinkling. “I don’t know.”

“They tell stories about you. Stuff you did. You didn’t sound all that shy.”

He didn’t answer. We sat quietly, comfortably. In a little while, the sun would be up. Luke would want to nurse. But for now, we sprawled on the steps, Eli and I, holding coffee mugs, our backs leaning against the walls, facing each other, oddly intimate, silent.

“My unit was ambushed.” His voice was hushed, almost a whisper.

I waited, not sure how to respond.

“Did you know I was a Ranger? In Afghanistan?”

“Yes.”

“Most of the guys were killed. Nick, Sam, Tony, our parents, everybody thought I was dead, too, because they couldn’t find me. But I wasn’t there. I’d been sent ahead, secretly, to do recon and take pictures. While I was away, my buddies—everyone got blown up.”

I watched him. “Eli. I’m so sorry.”

“Like I said, for a while everybody here thought I was dead, too. I had a girlfriend then. When I came home on leave a few months before the ambush, she got pregnant.” He shook his head. “Nobody knew. She didn’t even tell me for a while. But when she thought I was dead, she had an abortion.” He waited for me to respond.

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Imagine. A baby like Luke. And she just got rid of him like—”

“Eli. She thought you were dead. She must have been devastated. I’m sure she didn’t know—”

“She killed my kid.” His eyes were steely, his jaw set. A warrior. “Whatever.” And, in a breath, his face relaxed again. “It’s history. Thing is, she died, too.”

What? “What happened?”

He shrugged. “Car crash. Not long after I got back.”

Oh my God. “Eli. How awful for you.”

“Whatever.” Another tough-guy shrug. “What goes around comes around.”

Wait. Did he mean that his girlfriend had deserved to die? I touched his arm, rejecting that idea, telling myself that he’d had nothing to do with the “accident.” What was the matter with me? Not every death was a murder. “You’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry.”

“Nick’s the only one who knows about the baby. I never told anyone else. Just him and, now, you.”

“I’m glad you did.” I met his eyes, saw something burning there. An expectation? A threat? I looked away.

“Well, you’re going to be my sister now. Family. So, we can turn to each other.”

“I’ve never had a brother before. I was an only child.”

He grinned. “Really? And suddenly you have three brothers, none of us easy.”

Upstairs, Luke whimpered. Waking up, hungry again.

“You guys aren’t so bad.”

Eli’s eyes laughed, beaming a message impossible to read. “Oh, you have no idea.”

I excused myself to get Luke. A minute later, I came back with the baby, but no surprise, once again Eli had gone, faded into the early-morning light.

W
ITH ANNA OUR WEDDING
planner lying in the morgue, the big day did not go as planned. Most of the house was a crime scene, I had a cut in the back of my head, Nick was hungover, Molly seemed to have developed a cold, and Susan arrived at first light, fluttering, hovering and offering endless commentary and items borrowed and blue. Susan was nervous, worrying her hands and pacing, but she poured me yet more decaf and got me moving. Without her, I’d have forgotten my hair appointment, never would have remembered about my scheduled makeup, pedicure or manicure. Like a drill sergeant, Susan led me through the day, imitating Anna in her officiousness, herding our straggling wedding party toward the evening.

In fact, by 9:00 a.m., Susan had gathered a staff of my friends to help her. She delegated the catering, flowers and hotel setup to Karen and Davinder. She assigned Tim the tasks of getting my father dressed and delivered to the ceremony. She ordered Nick, once he’d slept off the effects of his party, to focus not on the murders but on his bride and to take care of Molly and Luke because their mother wouldn’t be available all day. And she hustled me into the shower, reminding me that I should bathe early because, later, I wouldn’t want to ruin my hair. Wow. How could she think ahead like that? How could she focus on my hair? I obeyed. But in the shower, the water didn’t drown out Ivy’s agonized moans; it didn’t wash away Bonnie’s lethal sweet smile. The water poured over my head, but nothing could cleanse the guilt I felt about Anna. Everything we did, every preparation or errand, reminded me that she was gone and that her death was my fault. If I hadn’t asked her to babysit, she’d still be alive, pestering florists and bothering chefs. I kept imagining the fatal encounter. Had Anna been afraid, anticipating the knife? Or had she been fooled, seeing Bonnie as a kind and grandmotherly soul? Again, I saw Anna seated in the wingback, her empty gaze staring at air. I closed my eyes, letting the hot water run. I could take shower after shower all day; nothing could make my trembling or my sorrow go away.