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The mother and daughter were at the arrivals area in Fresno-Yosemite airport, their flight from Portland having arrived twenty minutes early. Suellyn looked around for their ride. Saw no one yet and turned back to the girl. "And it's filthy. You'll get your dress stained."
That risk apparently didn't carry much weight either. But all it took was one "Mary-Gordon," uttered in a certain tone, that very special tone, and the cute blonde stepped back immediately. Funny, Suellyn thought, she and her husband never laid a hand on the girl, never even threatened spanking, and their daughter was far better behaved than the children of neighbors who did wallop their kids--all in the name of raising them right.
Sadists, she thought.
And then reminded herself to chill. Bobby Prescott's death had cast a pall over everything. And how was Kayleigh holding up? She and Bobby had quite a history, of course, and Suellyn knew that her kid sister would be reeling from the loss.
The poor thing ...
And the possibility that he'd been murdered?
Maybe by that gross stalker who'd been bothering Kayleigh for the past few months. Terrible.
She remembered Bishop's call that morning, after she'd learned the sad news from Kayleigh. The conversation with her father had been conducted in the clumsy way he bobbled nearly everything personal. Suellyn was thinking it was odd that he'd called in the first place, much less to ask if she'd come to Fresno to support her sister during this tough time ... until Suellyn realized: Bishop would want to share the bereavement duty with someone else. Anyone else. Well, no, he'd want to hand off the job completely if he could.
But who knew his real motive? Their father was both transparent and unreadable.
And where was the luggage? She was impatient.
Suellyn resembled her younger sister in a vague way. She had a wholly unsupported theory that the greater the distance in age, the less siblings looked like each other. Eight years separated the two, and Suellyn was taller, of broader build and fuller face, which couldn't be traced to the fifteen pounds she had on her sister. Her nose was longer and her chin stronger, she felt, though her light brown hair was of the same fine, flowing texture, light as air. Today she was prepared for the assault of a late Fresno summer, in a burgundy sundress, cut low in front and back, and Brighton sandals, whose silver hearts covering the first two toes fascinated Mary-Gordon.
Even in this outfit, though, she was uncomfortably hot. Portland had clocked in at 62 degrees that morning.
"Where's Aunt Kayleigh?"
"She's getting ready to sing a show. The one we're going to on Friday."
Maybe. Her sister hadn't actually invited her to the concert.
"Good. I like it when she sings."
With a blare of a horn and a flashing orange light, the baggage belt started to move.
"See, you wouldn't have had time to get off."
"Yes, I could. And then I could ride around and see what's behind that curtain."
"They wouldn't like that."
"Who?"
Suellyn was not going to talk about TSA and terrorists.
"They," she repeated firmly and Mary-Gordon forgot about the question as she spotted the first suitcase and gleefully charged toward it, her white Keds squeaking on the linoleum, her pink dress, accented with a red bow, fluttering around her.
The luggage was retrieved and they both walked away from the belt and the crowds and paused in front of one of the doors.
Her mobile rang. She glanced down. "Hey, Daddy."
"You're in," the man growled.
And hello and nice day to you too.
"Ritchie's on his way to pick you up."
Or you could've come to collect your daughter and granddaughter in person. Bishop Towne didn't drive but he had plenty in his crew to play chauffeur--if he'd wanted to come.
Suellyn found a bogus smile on her face as often happened when she was talking to her father, even though he was miles away. Bishop Towne intimidated Suellyn less than he did his younger daughter but it was still plenty.
