Cheated By Death (28 page)

“Are you in a position to negotiate?”

“Tell me!”

She tapped the ash on the table. “I don’t
want money. I want to be his friend.”

“How close a friend?”

She took a deep drag, held it, then exhaled
fully. “That’s up to him.”

I hoped my expression alone was enough to
convey the depth of my contempt. “So tell me.”

She looked past me to the parking lot. “Ray’s
been asking a lot of questions about you two. Being a real
pest.”

Talk about something coming from out of left
field. “The guy at Aunt Ruby’s?”

She nodded. “When he first came to work, he
asked me if I had a brother named Jeffrey.”

“When was this?”

“A few weeks back—before I even met you.”

“The way Aunt Ruby spoke, I assumed—”

She shook her head. “He showed up at her
house during Thanksgiving dinner. I must’ve mentioned I was going
there. I never told him where she lived. I think he followed me
there. Aunt Ruby was real nice, she invited him to stay. He behaved
himself that night, but he asked a lot of questions. The night of
the party, he wanted to leave before I was ready and we argued.
Michael asked him to go. I told him I’d meet him at a bar
later.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. He was drunk when I got there. He kept
asking about you and about Richard.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “He said you’d captured a
murderer last winter. That Richard got shot. I didn’t know what he
was talking about.”

“It was in the paper and on the news last
Easter.”

“I was in Mexico with a friend,” she said,
and this time tipped her ash into her cold coffee.

“Didn’t dad tell you?”

“I wasn’t living at home back then. I thought
Ray was crazy—that he was making it up. But he had a newspaper
clipping.”

“Why didn’t you ask me about it?”

“I asked Richard, the day of the
funeral.”

They’d covered a lot of conversational ground
that day. “Why’s Ray so interested in us? Do you think he might be
behind the shooting at the Women's Health Center?”

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t say that. I just
thought he was overly interested in Richard.”

“You called him away from his wife at a time
like this to tell him that?”

“What’s the big deal? She wasn’t the one who
was killed.”

“She lost their baby,” I blurted.

My announcement wasn’t met with
surprise—Richard had probably already told her. Patty’s face held
no hint of sympathy. If anything, her mouth curved up, her eyes
taking on a sly glint.

God, I hated the bitch.

“What’s Ray’s last name?” I asked.

She was still thinking, plotting.
“What—?”

“Ray’s last name,” I repeated.

“Sampson.”

“Is he from around here?”

“Yeah. But he was living downstate for a long
time.”

“Doing what?”

“How should I know?”

“Then why did you want to tell Richard
this?”

Her eyes blazed. “I was looking for an excuse
to see him, okay?”

I glanced around the place. “In a dump like
this? Honey, Rich has a lot more class. And if you haven’t figured
that out yet—”

“Why don’t you just shut up,” she said and
got up. “Ask Richard about Dr. Concillio. Just ask him!” She
grabbed her purse, jumped out of her seat, and stalked off.

The waitress got up from her vigil on a stool
at the counter, and handed me the check. “Looks like she stiffed
you.”

I reached for my wallet, and took out a five.
“Keep the change.”

Patty’s Mustang was gone by the time I got to
the parking lot. I was so angry I wanted to punch something—or
someone. Why the hell was Ray Sampson so interested in Richard and
me?

But that wasn’t why I was angry. It had been
gnawing at me ever since Richard put down the phone. Patty couldn’t
have called him—she didn’t have his newly unlisted telephone
number. That could mean only one thing.

He’d called her.

I sat behind the wheel of my car, quietly
fuming.

Family.

It was time to get some answers.

CHAPTER

20

The old woman’s face lit up as she saw me standing in
front of the bakery’s plate glass door. She shuffled forward on
stiff legs and let me into the shop. Her delighted smile faded,
however, when she caught sight of my hooded expression.

“You’re early tonight. You didn’t have to
work, eh?” Sophie Levin asked.

“No.”

“Come in, sit down. You want some coffee? How
about cocoa?”

“No, thanks.” Hands stuffed into my pockets,
I followed her into the back room.

She took a chair behind the wobbly card
table. A well-thumbed deck of cards was laid out in the classic
solitaire pattern. She picked up the pack, turned over the first
card.

“Tell me about your family,” I said.

Sophie studied the layout, avoiding my gaze.
She put the four of hearts on the five of clubs. “You don’t want to
hear about them. I’ve bored you so many times already.”

“How many children do you have?”

She didn’t look up. “Three. Two girls and a
boy.” Her laugh was more a snort. “They haven’t been children for a
long time now.”

“How many grandchildren do you have?” I
asked.

She turned over the next card, the Queen of
diamonds, and set it on the discard pile. “Five. Four girls, one
boy.”

“You talk about your grandson like he’s a
small boy. How old is he?”

“Not so small any more,” she admitted.

“How about your youngest granddaughter?”

“Pretty grown up by now,” she admitted.

“Younger than your grandson?” I pushed.

She shrugged. “A little.”

“Ten years younger?”

Her eyes darkened, as though with loss. “It
seems like only yesterday they were all babies.”

“Where’s your family now?” I pressed on,
relentless. “Why do they let you live here all alone? Why don’t
they visit you?”

She got up from the small table. “I’d like
some tea. How about you?”

“No, thanks. Where’s your son?”

She hung her head, her face hidden in the
shadows.

“He died, didn’t he?”

Her head bobbed ever so slightly. “Not long
ago.”

“Your son was my father, wasn’t he?”

She turned, her face filled with anguish.
“Why would you ask that?”

“I saw your picture in an old photo album the
day of his funeral. You with a little boy on your lap. That boy was
me.”

She wouldn’t look at me. “There are some
questions you shouldn’t ask. Things you won’t want—or need—to
know.”

I was on my feet. “Why didn’t you tell me
you’re my grandmother?”

Sophie shrugged, turned to face me, tears
filling her brown eyes. “I am here for you. I am
only
here
for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you need me. To accept these things
that happen to you. Not so much the how or the why—just to accept
them.”

A shiver of panic went through me. My
grandmother had died decades ago. Yet, impossibly, Sophie was here,
now.

She was right. I didn’t want to know the why
of it.

I looked away, my voice shaky. “I . . . never
knew my father, and now it’s too late.”

“I didn’t want it that way. He didn’t,
either,” she said, her voice filled with sadness. “Things sometimes
don’t work out the way we want. Only sometimes, if we work hard
enough, if we believe, we can reach out—beyond our usual
senses—beyond all disbelief. If you want to, you can find a way to
touch those you love. I know. I’ve done it.”

I didn’t know what to say—or to believe.

“You could try,” she said. “Please, just
try.”

Shame flooded through me. I’d been too afraid
to reach out—to touch—my father in his last moments. Was it too
late? I looked into the old woman’s eyes and wanted to believe. But
how? How could I connect with a dead man?

Through his daughter
said a tiny voice
in the back of my mind. I wanted to reject the thought—reject
Patty.

Sophie shook her head, as though reading my
mind. Maybe she did. She loved Patty, too.

“Please try,” she again pleaded.

“I will,” I said, unsure if I could. Suddenly
I was unsure of everything.

Sophie pulled out a wadded tissue from her
sweater sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It's time for you to go.
They need you at home.”

We walked toward the exit. “Please be
careful,” she said. “There’s still danger. Keep a sharp eye out
these next few days. Watch out for Brenda.”

“I will.”

“And take care of Patty. If only for me,
eh?”

I let out a weary breath. “I’ll try.”

Her expression brightened. “Come and see me
Tuesday night. I’ll make macaroons.”

“I’ll plan on it.”

She unlocked the door. I paused, looked into
her deep brown eyes. “I need you, Sophie Levin. I think I always
will.”

Her smile was beatific. “And I will be here
for as long as you do. I promise.”

I hugged her, felt the warmth of her body,
the depth of her limitless love, and reveled in it.

It was
almost eleven by the time I got
back to Richard’s house. I’d driven home, pondering exactly what I
should tell him and wondering why I even considered not telling him
everything Patty had said or intimated. I didn’t intend to mention
my visit with Sophie. I didn’t understand it—and I wouldn’t know
how to explain it.

I opened the door and Holly loped into the
dimly lit kitchen to greet me, with Maggie following close behind.
She was silhouetted in the doorway, dressed in a filmy nightgown
and robe, looking like something out of a wet dream.

“What did Patty want?” she asked.

“Richard—as a sugar daddy.”

“I hope you put her straight.”

“Maybe.”

The dog nosed my hand and danced around me in
a circle. “Does she need to go out?”

“Yeah.”

I let Holly out, and closed the door behind
her.

“Where are they?” I asked, unzipping my
jacket.

Maggie moved into the light cast by the lamp
on the stove hood. “They went to bed early. Brenda was worn out.
I’ve been watching TV and waiting for you.”

“Are you staying here or at my place?”

“Here.” She stepped close, trailing a finger
down my throat, toying with my shirt collar. “Will you stay with
me?”

I couldn’t see her eyes in the weak light,
but I caught the scent of her perfume, and felt her need for
company. I put my arms around her, letting my hands slide down the
silky softness of her thin robe. “Sure.”

I pulled her close, kissed her as my hands
trailed down her hips. Her warm lips brushed across my neck,
nibbled my ear. I was so tired, so ready to fall straight into bed
with her, reaffirm our connection, but I was also practical.

“I have to feed the cat.”

She pulled back, her smile seductive.

“I’ll, uh, grab some stuff and be back in a
few minutes,” I said.

Her lips pressed against mine. “Okay,” she
murmured, and gave me another long, sensuous kiss.

“You’re making it very hard for me to go—so I
can hurry back to you.”

She slid from my embrace. “Then don’t be
long.”

The wind was brisk as I crossed the drive.
Holly was nowhere in sight. Probably on the trail of another
squirrel.

I trudged up the stairs, opened the door, and
found Herschel waiting for me. Yowling, he wound round my feet as I
shook some dry food into a bowl. I needed to hit the grocery store
for litter and more canned cat food. I hadn’t stocked my own
cupboard in over a week. I gave him fresh water and left the cat to
his dinner.

Grabbing my shaving gear, I tossed some clean
clothes into a duffel and left the apartment, not overjoyed at the
prospect of spending the night in a strange bed. But sleeping with
Maggie was worth it, no matter where.

“Holly? C’mere, girl.”

No dog. Maggie must’ve already let her
in.

I entered the house and flipped the deadbolt
behind me. Then I armed the security system and turned off the
stove light.

Only the hall sconces blazed. I headed up the
stairs, and switched them off when I reached the landing. Light
from the open guest room door spilled into the hall. Maggie was
curled in bed, reading.

Nudging the door shut with my foot, I dropped
my duffel, yanked off my jacket, and tossed it onto a chair.

Maggie looked up over the top of her book.
“Where’s Holly?”

“Didn’t you let her in?”

“No. I came right up after you went out.”

“I called her, but she didn’t come.” I
grabbed my jacket. “Damn that dog.”

“Don’t yell at her. You’ll wake the
neighbors.”

The backyard was filled with shadows. The
security firm hadn’t yet installed all the new motion-sensor
lights.

“Holly! Holly!” She usually came when I
called.

I walked into the darkened yard and called
again. Still no dog. I hoped to God she hadn’t jumped the fence. I
wanted to go to bed, not search the neighborhood for her.

The sky was heavy with clouds—no moon. The
street lamps in the next road cast scant light. I ventured deeper
into the yard. “Holly!”

A low growl came from the bushes to my right.
I squinted in the darkness. “Holly?”

She sprang, but not at me. Someone—a
man—roared as she tore at his clothing. Her growling turned to
angry barking, then she yelped.

I dove at the figure, grappling with him. He
was shorter than me, skinny, with a wad of hair at the back of his
neck.

Lou Holtzinger kicked and bucked, his arms
flailing, but he wasn’t much of a fighter. His sour breath
assaulted me. Drunk, too. I pinned him in seconds.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to the doctor,” he panted. “I
got some information—about the shooting at the health center.”

“Why didn’t you come to the door?”

“The cops are all around. I don’t wanna go
back to the joint.”