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“Preschool until this fall,” Elizabeth explained.
“She was with a babysitter this afternoon while you were working?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know your husband was heading south of San Diego, possibly to Rosarito Beach?”
“He was supposed to be flying to Chicago. That’s what his ticket said.”
“Did you know Whitney Bellhard?” A trick question said off the cuff as if the answer didn’t mean that much to her, but Elizabeth knew the detective was keyed into her response.
“I knew of her. She . . . advertised around the neighborhood with flyers.”
“Her husband said she was an aesthetician.”
“Yeah . . . she advertised Botox and facials and skin peels. I never went to her.”
Elizabeth’s mind was starting to wander into dangerous areas again. You wished him dead . . . just like you wished bad things on Mazie . . . just like you wished ill on that other cop, Officer Unfriendly . . . and they both died, too ...
But how could thoughts kill?
Detective Thronson asked questions about her relationship with Court, which Elizabeth answered dutifully. Yes, there were some problems in the marriage. No, she hadn’t known he was having an affair with Whitney Bellhard until . . . She stumbled and lied, saying, “Until the officers told me.” She didn’t bring up Tara’s revelation, nor her fight with Court, nor the true deteriorated state of their marriage. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to determine something was fishy about the accident. The probing questions the detective was asking indicated something wasn’t right.
Finally, Detective Thronson wound down and slowed her questions. When she ended the interview, she told Elizabeth she would be in touch with her later.
Elizabeth thanked her and showed her out, then nearly collapsed against the door panels once the woman was out of her house. With an effort, she gathered her strength, then made her way to the bathroom, staring in the mirror at her own drawn face.
You shouldn’t have lied. You should tell them, right now, what you know. Before they learn it some other way. Let them know he’s dead because of you. That you knew it was going to happen. That it’s your fault. That it’s happened before. Tell them before it’s too late.
But it was already too late, and she knew she wouldn’t say a word.
Chapter 2
The funeral for Courtland Ellis was scheduled for eleven A.M. on the Friday following his death. Despite being stunned and feeling as if she were living in an unreal world, Elizabeth had started planning a memorial service, but on Monday Court’s estranged sister Barbara had flown in from Buffalo and insisted on orchestrating her brother’s funeral. She took charge as if she’d just been waiting for a chance to bully her way back into her brother’s life, or death, as the case may be, which seemed odd as Court and she had suffered a falling out years earlier.
Elizabeth, still dealing with her own reeling emotions as well as Chloe’s seeming lack of them, gratefully let Barbara make all the arrangements. Fighting her sister-in-law would take more energy than she could spare, and she needed to take care of Chloe. Take care of herself. As for the details of burying her husband, she didn’t much care one way or another how he was interred. Memorial service . . . funeral service. . . the only thing that mattered was keeping Chloe’s life on track, making certain it was as normal as it possibly could be.
That was Elizabeth’s aim, and she had been monitoring Chloe all week. Apart from an initial sadness when she’d learned the news of her father’s unexpected death, Chloe had been pretty much business as usual. There had been a few tears the first night and several nightmares
where Chloe had ended up in Elizabeth’s bed, but all Chloe’s night fears had seemed to evaporate. Elizabeth hoped it meant her daughter was coping with her grief, not burying it, but it was hard to say. Chloe, like Court, was adept at hiding her feelings.
And what about you, Elizabeth. Aren’t you the master of repressing your emotions? Maybe your daughter learned to maintain tight control because she’d witnessed it in you.
Whatever the reason, when Barbara blew in, Elizabeth was relieved to let her take over. Barbara was tall, brown-haired and brown-eyed and looked a lot like Court, but where Court had been smooth and polished, Barbara was raw, socially awkward, and had a tendency to stare at people a little too hard for any kind of social comfort. Fortunately, she’d decided to stay at a nearby hotel, keeping Elizabeth apprised of her plans as if it were a duty, which, Elizabeth supposed, it might have been.
On Friday, Barbara came over at the crack of dawn, rapping loudly on the door until Elizabeth, in her bathrobe and balancing her first cup of coffee, let her inside.
Barbara’s gaze swept over her as she headed into the kitchen. Barbara followed and spied her niece.
Chloe, hair mussed, still in her pajamas, was eating breakfast at the kitchen island.
“You need to get dressed, sweetie. We don’t have time to dawdle.” Barbara was dressed all in black—black dress, black shoes, black hat with a veil.
“Not dawdling,” Chloe said, frowning, her little eyebrows pulling together as she stared at her aunt.
Barbara glanced at Elizabeth. “We can’t be late!”
“I know.” To her daughter, Elizabeth said, “You can finish your pancakes first, Chloe.”
