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After checking that lock as well, Remmi went back to the study and looked out the window to scan the street
again.
The dark SUV was gone.
And somewhere she thought she heard the strains of the same old song she’d heard at the Montmort Tower as the woman had leapt to her death.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
Her blood turned to ice.
Where was it coming from?
But no. She couldn’t hear it now. The song must’ve just blossomed in her brain randomly. A memory. An earworm. Nothing had triggered it.
But as she stared out the window at the dark, lifeless night, her reflection a pale wraith of her own image, the tune lingered, the refrain repeating and echoing in her mind.
CHAPTER 17
When Remmi got up the next morning, she opened the blinds and checked. No SUV. The space the black vehicle had occupied was empty, dry pavement showing the outline of where a vehicle had been parked. But it could have been occupied by anyone. She stared through the window. Had the driver returned?
“Stop it,” she said aloud. She wasn’t going to let her nerves get the better of her. She had too much to do.
The day was cloudy and dark, no promise of blue skies, but the rain had stopped for the moment, and Remmi watched a few boats sailing into the bay. Cars were already clogging the bridges as she stretched and told herself today would be a better day.
It had to be.
She’d slept poorly, had had dreams of women dressed in garish clothes, clownish versions of Didi in overdone makeup and ripped, sequined dresses plummeting through the air and whispering, “I’m not me. I’m not me,” but never hitting the ground. Instead, all the women dressed as different characters in Didi’s repertoire floated, pirouetting, diving, and ascending in the misty air over the bay and Golden Gate Bridge. Didi as Cher or Madonna or Marilyn Monroe, spinning over the tallest buildings and then breaking into that little song she’d heard as a child, all in Didi’s high soprano voice, louder and louder, their mouths working choppily, as if they were marionettes.
Let it shine! Let it shine! Let it shine!
She’d woken up with a start, her heart pounding a million beats a minute, the dream fading as she’d realized she was in her bedroom, it was morning, and she still didn’t know if her mother was dead or alive.
“Coffee,” she said as she stretched. She got out of bed and unlocked her door, and Romeo shot into her room, scaring a yelp out of her. “Lots of coffee,” she added dryly.
The nightmare fading, she spent thirty minutes running through the shower, dressing in jeans and a sweater, and twisting her hair into a messy bun. She’d never been much into makeup, so a dash of lip gloss and a touch of mascara did the job. She grabbed Greta’s copy of I’m Not Me and was down the stairs to the main kitchen, where coffee was brewing, gurgling in a glass pot and filling the air with the warm scent of rich java.
Greta was already up, dressed in slacks, a sweater, and vest, her own makeup and earrings in place. She had her iPad open and was working on the New York Times crossword puzzle, which was part of her daily early-morning routine.
“Good morning,” she said without looking up as she clicked in the answers.
“Morning.” Remmi dropped the book on the table next to Greta’s iPad and noticed the coffeepot had sputtered to a stop, the glass carafe full of dark brew. “Coffee?”
“Of course.”
Remmi poured two cups, while Beverly, one of the three women who took care of the house and Greta’s needs, swept through from the laundry area downstairs. She snatched a couple of wet towels from the counter. “Anything else you need washed today?”
“The sheets?” Greta asked.
“Already through the wash and in the dryer,” Beverly said. “New sheets on.” She was tall and lithe, fifty-something, with a quick smile, dark eyes, and reddish hair that was cut short and starting to gray. “Towels are next, so I’m talking about load numero dos!” She held up two fingers, proud of herself as she was trying to learn Spanish.
Greta played along. “Gracias.”
“De nada,” Beverly started for the stairs, but Remmi held her up.
“Hey. Either of you know if a neighbor has a new car?”
Shrugging, Beverly said, “Nuh-uh,” as Greta shook her head and asked, “Why?”
