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Like you knew him so well, Elizabeth thought. But then, neither had she, apparently. “All I know is the investigation’s ongoing and no one’s located the driver of the SUV that was supposedly involved.” She leaned a hip against the counter and let out a sigh. “That’s all I know, Barbara. Really.”
“When you learn something, call me,” Barbara ordered. “Better yet, give me that detective’s number. She’s with the Irvine Police Department, right? Maybe I will call her.”
“Good idea.” Elizabeth found Detective Thronson’s private number and scribbled it onto a sticky pad she kept in the junk drawer, then ripped the page off and handed it to her sister-in-law. Have at it, she thought.
Barbara glanced at the number, then folded the paper and stuffed it into an outside pocket of her purse. “I’d better get going. My flight’s tomorrow. I should get back to the hotel and frankly I don’t see that there’s anything else I can do here.” She walked to the closet and grabbed her coat and hat.
Elizabeth, trying not to appear too relieved at her departure, opened the front door.
After shrugging into her coat, Barbara started to step across the threshold, but stopped midway and slowly pivoted on one heel until she was facing her sister-in-law again.
Elizabeth automatically braced herself and gripped the edge of the door more tightly.
Barbara didn’t disappoint. “Let me give you some advice,” she said as she adjusted the brim on her black hat. “You might try acting like you care more, or someone could get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Of course she did. Elizabeth leaned against the open door. “I wish he were still alive, Barbara,” she said as a breath of wind rushed through the palm fronds high overhead. “Believe me.”
“Right.” Barbara slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Lips pursed in disbelief, she added, “You know, you’re going to have to be a hell of a lot more convincing than that.” With one last condemning glance at Elizabeth, she stepped through the doorway.
Good.
Elizabeth let the door slam shut behind her. A second later, she twisted the lock, secu
ring the dead bolt. Only then did she let go. Sagging against the door and squeezing her eyes shut, she fought tears, not only of sadness but indignation and yes, anger. With an effort, she pushed back her battling emotions, refusing to cry, attempting to quiet her slow-burning rage, ignoring the pain. Her fists balled at her sides, but she wouldn’t let the flood of emotions consume her; she didn’t dare allow the passion within her free. It was just too dangerous.
She heard the sound of an engine sparking to life and slowly let out her breath as she stretched her fingers and counted to ten, then twenty. The storm within her passed, thank God, though she knew it was only for the moment.
After peering through the window to see that her sister-in-law truly was gone, she headed back to the kitchen and the bottle of wine still sitting on the end table near her chair. Without a second thought, she poured herself the last glass from the bottle. After taking a calming sip, she rinsed and recycled the bottle, then walked to the wine rack and drew out another of chardonnay, which she intended to place in the refrigerator to chill. As her fingers curled over the neck her gaze fell onto the bottle of red wine Court had purchased several years earlier. He’d told her he wanted to save it for a special night. “When we have something to celebrate,” he’d said with a smile. She’d agreed, glad for his good mood, which had become exceedingly rare in those days.
“Why not?” she asked herself.
Sliding the chardonnay back into the rack, she pulled out the merlot, uncorked it and poured herself a healthy glassful. She then dumped out the glass of chardonnay and took the merlot to the couch, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Holding her glass, staring at the bloodlike color of the wine, she thought about the past few months and the changes those months had wrought. A lot of changes. Despite telling herself she wouldn’t slide into the dangerous territory that surrounded the death of Mazie Ferguson, Elizabeth again mulled over the woman’s death. So sudden. Like Court’s.
Don’t go there.
Taking a swallow of the merlot, she tried to corral those wayward notions. It was not the day—especially after Court’s funeral—to run through those disturbing memories again, but she failed, as she always did.
“It’s not your fault,” she said aloud, her fingers clamped around the glass. “It’s not your fault.”
But her mind and fearful heart refused to listen.
Chapter 4
Mazie Ferguson’s memorial service had been three months earlier and Elizabeth had felt nearly as dissociated, shocked, and afraid then as she did now. The circumstances of Mazie’s death and Court’s were different, yet surprisingly similar. They’d both died in car accidents, though Mazie had apparently been driving while under the influence and Court had lost control of his car while stone-cold sober.
Elizabeth’s throat grew tight and she gulped at the wine, remembering.
As she stood around silent and motionless at the reception afterward, her hand gripped around a glass of club soda and lime like it was life-giving elixir. She suddenly recognized that she was willing people to die. That it was her fault Mazie was dead, and also Officer Daniels—dubbed Officer Unfriendly—before her. It was impossible, of course. Elizabeth knew it was impossible. But Mazie had died and so had the police officer. Both times it was after Elizabeth had wished them dead.
A couple sales associates in her office and other realty agencies had tried to poach Mazie’s clients away even before her body was cold. Though Elizabeth had worked with most of the clients as Mazie’s assistant, she was too shattered to put up much of a fight. All she could think about was that somehow, some way, it had been her fault that Mazie had died. At night, she dreamed of the accident, the nightmare crawling through her subconscious. During the day, she struggled with the doubts that plagued her, so profiting from her boss’ death was the farthest thing from her mind.
But as it turned out, Mazie’s clients were unwilling to give up Elizabeth. They knew her. They trusted her. She worked with them before and after she’d obtained her own real estate license, helping out whenever Mazie needed her, which was fairly often since “Crazy Mazie” as she was dubbed by some of the more envious agents, always seemed to have a million things going at once. So Mazie’s clients gravitated to Elizabeth.
She backed away from them, unable to profit from a tragic situation she felt was somehow her fault. She explained that she didn’t think it was right for her to be their agent. They doubled and redoubled their efforts to keep her. Maybe they sensed how upset she was and wanted to save her, make her feel better. Maybe they appreciated that she was just generally a nicer person than Mazie. Or, maybe they just didn’t want to be fobbed off. Whatever the case, Elizabeth found herself with a plethora of new clients and she was busier than she’d ever been.
