What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (4 page)

Shana faltered as the coroner estimated the time of death. Frank had been killed sometime between two and three that morning. The scene was all too familiar. The crush of police, the dizzying sight of EMTs, hovering over a body too cold to respond. How could that be Frank lying there? Not when she still loved him so.

Shana dried her eyes. It would be different this time. It had to be. She had been the victim as a child. She had lost both her parents and her own anonymity to the ever-ravenous press. They had dogged her for months as long-lost relatives battled for custody. They weren’t real family. They had cared nothing for her. It hadn’t been pity. It was the fortune she was destined to inherit.

For the press, it had been all about the papers it would sell. Shana knew that for a fact. They’d reduced her parents’ demise to a financial windfall. Even as a schoolgirl, they’d hounded her until their readers’ appetites had been sated. Then they’d unceremoniously moved on, flitting back in turns with the waxing and waning of public interest. During Frank’s campaign for office, Shana had declared an uneasy truce with the media. Frank had only encouraged her to speak to them when it had served their political agenda.

She just had to read people. It would have been reckless to open the door to just anyone who tried to wheedle into her confidence. Growing up in the public eye had taught her that much. Virtually all of her life she’d been surrounded, constantly it seemed. For the most part, she consciously chose to distance herself, to remain at arm’s length. There were precious few she could genuinely trust.

Only one, really.

And now he was in a pool of his own blood.

It was impossible to accept. How could Frank be gone forever? Just the thought threatened to overwhelm her. Shana could not let that happen. As deeply as Shana’s heart ached, as much as she longed to sob uncontrollably at the feet of her slain husband, she could not allow herself that luxury—not while anyone else was present, let alone Grace.

Absolutely not. She would not break down. She would be there for Grace the way no one had ever been there for her. Shana drew in a deep breath. She wiped her face and turned from the coroner. Remember who you are, she coached herself. You can get through this.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Shana approached Frank’s assistant, where she stood to the side, attending to Grace. “Rene, I realize this is well outside your job description, but if you could take Grace home for me—”

“Of course, Mrs. Fischer.” Clearly beside herself, Rene took Grace’s small hand to go.

Grace looked up, her face swollen from crying. “But I don’t want to go with Rene.”

Shana leaned down lovingly. “Darling, listen to me,” she said. “I love you so much, and I know this is terribly hard, but right now I really need you to go with Rene, so I can take care of Daddy.”

Grace’s gaze shot toward her father’s office. “But is he…?”

“I’m afraid so, Darling.” Shana stroked Grace’s back. It was all she could think to do. “That’s why I need you to go with Rene, now, just for a bit so I can help the police. Daddy would want that.”

Understanding registered on Grace’s face. It almost seemed that Grace would have accepted the idea of going with Rene. But that delicate balance of possibility evaporated the instant Grace saw her mother emerge from the stairwell. As horrendous as the situation was, it had just gotten worse.

“Mommy! Mommy…” Grace cried as she ran into Laurel’s waiting arms. It twisted the knife already in Shana’s heart.

Across the office, Laurel scooped her daughter up in an embrace. Even as Laurel cradled Grace in her arms, clearly, she was surveying the sobering scene. Tears brimmed in Laurel’s eyes. “Oh, Baby… Shhhhh… I’m here.”

Shana turned away, but the unfolding horror in Frank’s office wasn’t any easier to watch.

“Mrs. Fischer.”

Shana pivoted in time to see Laurel respond to her former name. Detective McTier was back.

With a quick glare at Laurel, Shana strode toward the detective. “I’m Mrs. Fischer.”

Detective McTier’s eyes shifted between the women. He nodded toward Laurel. “Detective Gavin McTier, Ma’am.”

Laurel extended a hand. “Laurel Fischer.”

“Yes, I’m...” McTier turned back to Shana. “I’m sorry to have to do this now, but—”

Shana knew there was no way around speaking with the man. “No, of course.” She glanced over at Laurel with Grace.

“I’ll take her.” Laurel lowered Grace by her side.

Shana drew in a breath. Grace wouldn’t hear of going with Rene now, not with her mother here. “This is obviously an exception to our agreement.” A taut gaze punctuated her point. “I’ll pick her up myself as soon as I can.”

Laurel nodded. “I understand.” She took Grace’s hand and quickly led her away.

Grace went so willingly with Laurel, much more so than set easily with Shana. Only once did Grace turn back, and then only momentarily. Mournfully, Shana watched Grace go. The disturbing scene would be etched upon Grace’s young mind forever. Just like her parents’ scene was still etched on hers.

four

I
t was such a simple thing—fixing lunch for Grace—but Laurel was grateful for every moment of it. This was how it should be between a mother and her daughter. There was something in the ordinary acts of chopping celery and dicing carrots for tuna salad that affirmed her hope. Their lives would go on, despite the freshness of the tragedy.

After many tears for her father, Grace had said she wanted to help. Laurel let her stir in the pickle relish and scoop the mixture into pita pockets. Every action seemed so strange, in light of what had just happened.

Grace didn’t seem ready to talk about it. Laurel understood well. She was still in the throes of processing it all herself. There was something consoling about what was happening during that time of silence they shared. They could just sit quietly and eat. They could savor time with each other, more than the meal. They could weather their grief in the safety of each other’s sympathetic company.

Just because Frank had divorced and remarried didn’t make the loss any easier for Laurel. Frank was, in truth, the only man she had ever loved. He was also Grace’s father. That would never change. Laurel gazed at Grace’s sweet face. She wanted time with Grace. She’d wanted her back, desperately so. But not this way. 

There was something almost therapeutic about clearing the table and doing the dishes. There was no discussion about who would do what. They just eased into their familiar routine.

Grace accepted a washed plate from Laurel and began to dry it. “Where did Daddy go?”

Laurel put their tumblers into the sudsy sink. “Well, they had that ambulance. They probably took him to the hospital so they can try to figure out what happened.”

“No, Mommy, I mean… Will Daddy go to heaven?”

A heaviness pressed on Laurel’s heart. Where were the words? There had to be some way to comfort Grace, yet still give an honest answer. “I don’t know, Honey,” she started. “It depends on what Daddy chose, up to the very last second. And only Daddy and God know that.”

Grace seemed to take it in thoughtfully. She looked back, her brow furrowed. “But what do you think?”

Laurel let out a breath. “That’s a good question. Let me think about that.” Soberly, Laurel recalled the many ways Frank had rejected both God’s love and her own. He had believed on some level when they’d married. He had kept up appearances for a few years. But time, money, and politics had eroded what little faith he’d claimed in his youth. Laurel could only hope that somehow, in his final moments, Frank had made peace with his Maker.

Laurel grabbed a dishcloth and dried her hands. She sat down, to regard her daughter face-to-face. “Okay. As far as God and your father are concerned, I only know that... Gracie, God loved Daddy, much more than any of us did. Even though we loved him as much as we could. And what I know for sure is that God really wanted Daddy to come live with him in heaven.”

Grace’s swollen eyes still seemed to search for reassurance. “You think so?”

Laurel smiled softly. She brushed her hand over Grace’s silky hair. “I know so, Sweetheart. Nobody ever loved your Daddy more.” 

Just then, Laurel heard the chirp of a car alarm being activated. A glance out the window confirmed Laurel’s guess. Shana was already there.

Grace peered out of the glass, too. At the sight of her stepmother’s approach, Grace’s little face registered distress. “Please, Mommy. I want to stay.”

Laurel took her daughter’s hand in hers. “I want you to stay so much, too. But the judge…well, he thinks it’s best that you go with Shana.”

“But you’re my mommy, and Daddy, he’s…” Grace dissolved into tears, unable to say that her father was gone.

Laurel wrapped her arms around her weeping daughter. “I know, Baby. But this is just for now, okay?” Laurel drew Grace out to arm’s length. “Remember, I told you that secret last week, that I saw that we were going to be together one day.”

“But when?” Grace was trembling.

Laurel wiped Grace’s tears. How she wished she could be more specific. “I don’t know. He didn’t say. Maybe soon, though. Let’s hope it’s soon.”             

Shana’s knock came all too quickly for Grace. “Mommy, please…”

“Coming...” Laurel held Grace by the shoulders. “I want you to be strong for me. Be brave. Can you do that?”

Grace nodded tentatively.

“I’m always with you, Gracie. You know where?”

Tears streaming, Grace pointed to her heart.

Laurel nodded warmly, affirming what had become a very familiar exchange. “That’s right. And how many times do I think of you every single minute of every single day?”

“Whenever it beats,” Grace replied, the thought seeming to bolster her.

Laurel took Grace’s hand and led her to the door. “Whenever it beats. And even when it skips one. Can you say that?”

“Even when it skips,” Grace repeated.

Joe loped into his office at
Kickerton Press
. His hope that Debra would have been out to lunch when he finally arrived was far from realized. On the contrary, Debra had been waiting for him. That was just like her. She’d been sitting there watching the clock, no doubt, ready to give him a piece of her steel-trap mind.

Given Joe’s personal issues with the morning assignment at Zoring’s parole hearing, let alone Joe’s post-romantic baggage with Debra, he would have thought she would have let things slide. But Debra Bernet was Debra Bernet—as sharp as she was blunt. There would be no escaping her ire.

Debra’s brows lifted like a drawbridge in the middle. “You said you could handle this.”

“I did.” Joe dumped his keys into a drawer.

“Okay.”

It was not okay. Joe could tell. That “okay” from Debra was just a wind-up to the series of fast balls she’d start firing his way.

Debra rose. “So, how exactly do you spin mouthing off at the foreman and leaving before the parole board even ruled as handling it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Debra. I guess I was just busy trying to scoop the councilman’s murder.”

“I put you on Zoring. Not Fischer.”

Absently, Joe rooted through a pile of papers on his desk. There wasn’t anything in particular he needed to find. It just gave him a way of shifting his focus from her relentless glare. “Lou got the Zoring pics. I sent you copy. What more do you want?”

“I want you to do what you say you’re going to do.”

Joe continued to busy himself with nothing. “Why don’t we just admit that this is about me not calling you last weekend?”

Debra’s jaw dropped. Her face began to tighten, the way it always did. “Look at me. Stop futzing around with that avalanche you call a work-space and look at me.” She planted her fists akimbo on her hips. “I don’t wait for you to call anymore, Joe. You want your personal space? You got it. I do, however, expect you to follow through on time with your assignments.”

Adele Stedler popped her annoyingly perky head into Joe’s office. Adele was that copy editor Debra had been grooming. A bit too eager beaver for his taste.

Adele whispered, as if that made her presence less of an intrusion. “Are we still on for lunch, Debra?”

Debra checked her watch. “Sure. But can I meet you there in say, fifteen?”

Adele smiled broadly. “Perfect.” She turned to Joe. “I emailed that copy back to you this morning for your approval. Let me know.”

Joe gave her a half-mast nod. “Sure.”

“Okay, see you there, Deb.” Adele spun away, a cheery grin on her face.

Joe just shook his head. Great. First lunch, and now, Adele was calling Debra nicknames. Did Debra not see through this girl? Didn’t she know a world-class sycophant when she saw one?

Apparently not.

Debra pivoted back to Joe, barely missing a beat. “All right, fine. Run with the Fischer murder. The widow is giving a statement to the press today. One o’clock. Late councilman’s estate. Lou will shoot.”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t know, Debra. Sounds like hard news to me.”

Debra looked surprised. “Is that a complaint?”

Joe let out a cynical chuckle. “Just somewhat novel for this publication.”

Debra thrust a manila folder toward Joe. “I’ve already pulled everything we had from the archives on the ex-wife. High profile, messy divorce. Mother lost custody of their only child. Could be motive.”

Joe flipped through the file with mild curiosity. “How does a mother lose custody? She unfit?”

Debra’s expression confirmed Joe’s suspicion. “It seems she’s a bit around the bend. Sees visions. Claims she hears voices from the beyond. Chats it up with God. I want you to focus on her.”

A sardonic grimace crossed Joe’s lips. At
Kickerton Press
, there was always something hinky about the story, something that embarrassed Joe about working at the tabloid at all. “There’s that rag sheet angle again. Did I say hard news, Debra? I stand corrected.”

“Don’t start with me, Joe. Do you want this or not?”

Joe tipped his head. “Oh, more than anything. That is, if you’ll leave me to it.”

Debra cut her eyes at him and strode out of his office. She did that a lot these days, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t provoke him.

Since he’d worked for Debra at
Kickerton Press
, he’d interviewed more charlatans, degenerates, and fanatics than he could count. But worst of all were the religious wackos Debra seemed so bent upon sending him to profile. She’d walked him right into this one, well aware how they pushed his buttons.

As far as Joe saw it, anyone who claimed to have a special hotline to God was exponentially more suspect. Debra knew that, of course. It was the reason she pegged him for these assignments. As the most jaded of all of their reporters, she knew Joe was the least likely to be taken in, no matter how sympathetic or credible a person might seem.

Joe had to hand it to her on that point. His trust for human emissaries of God had ended cold, decades prior, at the hands of that defrocked priest, Tom Zoring. There really wasn’t any justice in this world, not with that pedophile back on the streets, enjoying his parole.

Joe opened the manila folder Debra had prepped. He glanced at Laurel Fischer’s photo in the file. She looked normal enough. Interesting eyes, pretty enough. Whatever. She was either woefully disturbed or a pathological liar. Worst case, she could also be her ex-husband’s killer.

Shana led Grace away from Laurel’s apartment by the hand. Purposely, she set a brisk pace. Lingering would only make parting harder for Grace. Without a firm hand guiding her forward, Grace would keep glancing back at her mother in the upstairs window, no doubt watching them leave. As far as Shana was concerned, the sooner she could get the two of them into her car and out of there, the better.

Shana scanned the street. Gratefully, there were no hooligans in sight. This was not the kind of place where Shana wanted to draw attention to herself. That freshly detailed black sedan of hers was incongruous enough in Laurel’s lower-middleclass urban neighborhood.

Why Laurel would choose to live in a place like that, Shana would never understand. It wasn’t safe. Not for an attractive woman like Laurel, much less for a little girl.

No sooner had Shana clicked off her car alarm than the trouble started.