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The Incumbent
Copyright © 2004 by Alton L. Gansky
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition June 2009 ISBN: 0-310-86261-2
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gansky, Alton.
The incumbent / Alton Gansky.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-310-24958-0
1. Political campaigns—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Women mayors—Fiction. 5. California—Fiction. 6. Abduction—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.A5195I53 2004
813'.54—dc22
2004012892
* * *
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
There were five of us, four members of the council and me, Mayor Madison Glenn. I seldom use the name Madison except on legal documents and even then only with reluctance. My father told me it was a good name, “strong, decisive, and majestic.” It was my misfortune to be born while my father, a history professor at the University of Santa Barbara, was reading a biography on James Madison. Dad got a good read; I was stuck with the name. I’m thankful that he wasn’t reading a bio of Ulysses S. Grant. It took years of gentle nagging, but now even he calls me Maddy.
Santa Rita is the place I call home, as do roughly 125,000 other people. A small city by most standards, it is large enough to provide everything a person needs: hospital, college, nice homes, wide streets, and an eye-popping view. Located on the ocean shore, eighty miles north of Los Angeles and just south of Santa Barbara, Santa Rita sits like a jewel against the usually brown coastal mountains. The azure Pacific waters glitter in the sunlight, cool the city in the day, and provide a warm blanket of air in the evening. Every day is picture-postcard material. To tourists Santa Rita is Eden; to the rest of us it is home.
The Chamber of Commerce promotes our town as “California’s Heaven.” On most days I agree; on others I can’t help but notice that a little hell oozes across our borders.
When I had left my office to make my way to the council chamber, the sun had already set and a slab of gray clouds had rolled in, veiling the stars and moon. An easy drizzle had begun to streak my window, sending sinuous veins of water coursing from header to sill. I hoped this was not an omen.
I’ve been the city’s mayor for two years—two challenging years. I am the town’s first elected mayor. Before the election twenty-four months ago, the mayor was selected from sitting council members, as with most cities our size. Last election, however, was different. Candidates ran at large, the first time since 1851, when our town incorporated. It was a hot race, full of contestants, each certain they were the best person for the job and that any other candidate would lead the city into utter ruin and degradation. I won. I don’t know how, but when they counted the last ballot, my name was on top. Perhaps it was because I had already served two four-year terms on the council. Or maybe it was because I was the only woman in a contest of six wanna-bes.
Two of the other candidates sat at the bench with me. Larry Wu, an accountant of Chinese descent, had come in third. He was a gracious loser and the least problematic member of the city government. Larry had spent his childhood in Texas and came to Santa Rita when his father’s firm transferred him. I’d known Larry for six years but still struggled to reconcile his Asian face with his southern accent.
Jon Adler had also fought hard for the seat. He had money and outspent me on the campaign two-to-one. A lanky attorney, he treated the campaign like the criminal cases he tried before local judges. He attacked the other candidates with the flair and joy of a hunter blasting pheasants out of the sky. He paid little attention to me, assuming I was the dark horse of the group. He shredded poor Larry.
They were able to remain on the council, since their seats were not up for election for another two years. That was two years ago. Both men were once again pressing the flesh, making promises, and leveling accusations.
The chamber was quiet and attendance sparse. When controversial matters are on the agenda, the darkly paneled halls can hold up to 250 agitated, and often loud, citizens. This night was low-key. The agenda was routine, with only one item of business that was close to contentious: an appeal for a conditional use permitfor a local church that wanted to move to a new site. Four people, three men and one woman, sat together close to the aisle. They were whispering to each other. I assumed they represented the church. Across the aisle that bisected the chamber sat Sue Holton, chairperson of the Planning Commission. She was there to speak against the appeal.
Santa Rita has only one newspaper, a daily called the Register. They had sent one reporter, who sat three rows back, head in hand. He looked ready to doze. Hard day at the computer, I assumed.
I let my eyes drift to the back wall of the chamber. It faces the concrete plaza and fountain that greets any of the public who make their way to the seat of their city government. The lights of the chamber reflected off the glass, making it difficult to see outside, but I could tell the drizzle had turned to rain. I could also see a man enter the lobby. He paused and brushed the rain from his suit coat as if he could sweep the water away like dust.
I forced my thoughts to the task before me. I am punctilious when it comes to time. Any meeting that starts late is off to a bad start. We were all present and accounted for and thus there was no reason for delay. In one minute, at precisely 7:00, I would call the meeting to order. The agenda for our session was light, and with a little luck we could be done in less than sixty minutes. That was fine with me. I had a double-chocolate brownie waiting on the kitchen counter at home. It had been a demanding day. A double-chocolate brownie was my due.
On the counter before me was a small digital clock with bright red numerals: 6:59 turned to 7:00. As I raised my gavel, the man in the lobby stepped through the back doors of the chamber. In full light I could see it was Bill Webb. He took two steps and raised a hand, mouthing the words, “Hold it.” I lowered the small oak mallet.
This had better be important.
Bill Webb was our chief of police and a fixture in the city. He marched to the platform, then sprinted up the few steps to the bench. This was unusual. You don’t just dash up the steps to where the council sits—even if you’re the police chief.
He leaned over my right shoulder. “I need to speak to you.” His breath smelled of peppermint. He had quit smoking the year before and had replaced one oral fixation with another.
“I was about to start the meeting; can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“What can be so important that it can’t—”
“There’s been a crime. It involves Lisa Truccoli.”
My stomach sank. “What? How?”
“I want to talk to you. Privately. Now.”
“Of course.” I turned my attention back to the chamber. “The meeting will stand in recess for ten minutes.”
“Wait a minute,” Jon Adler said. “You can’t recess a meeting that hasn’t been called to order.”
He was being his usual tedious self. I picked up the gavel and smacked it down. “This meeting of the Santa Rita City Council is called to order.” I brought the gavel down again. “This meeting will stand in recess for ten minutes.”
“But—”
I stood and exited the chamber, Bill Webb on my heels.
The news was disturbing and Webb was blunt. We were in my office, which is just down the corridor from the chamber. The rain was falling hard, splashing against the window like pebbles.
“We got a call from one of Ms. Truccoli’s neighbors, a Mrs. Ramirez, who had returned home from grocery shopping. As she passed the Truccoli residence, she noted the door was open. She thought it odd, especially since it remained open the entire time it took for her to unload the car. When she finished carrying her purchases in, she walked over and knocked on the open door. There was no answer. She went in and found the house empty. That’s when she called us.”
“And?”
“Just what you’d expect: Dispatch sent a patrol car. The officer investigated and noticed that several things looked out of place, as if there had been a struggle.”
“But the house was empty? I mean . . .” The words remained lodged in my throat.
“No corpse was found, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
It was exactly what I meant.
He paused, as if wondering whether to let the next sentence loose. “There was, however, blood.”
The acid in my stomach roiled. “Blood?” The word came out as a choked whisper.
“Not much. Very little. Just four drops.”
I looked at Chief Webb. He was a stern man whom I had never seen smile. He was fit for a gentleman of fifty-five, with just a slight middle-age paunch over his belt. He stood four inches taller than my own five foot six, and his gray-streaked black hair was combed straight back and held in place by some ancient hair tonic. He was not the kind of man who would use gel. The skin of his face was starting to droop, as if it had grown weary of hanging on to the muscles beneath. The scowl was there. It was always there. I’m convinced he was born with that pinched look: blue eyes narrowed, mouth turned down as if he were in chronic pain. He seemed to be in a perpetual state of emotional constipation. Red highlighted the end of his nose and his cheeks, like a man well acquainted with alcohol, except I had never seen him drink.
Chief Webb and I had history. I was not on his Christmas list and he certainly wasn’t on mine.
“Four drops? You found exactly four drops of blood?”
“That’s right.”
“That seems strange.”
“It’s much stranger than you think.” He turned to the window and looked out, staring into the distance. I was just about to ask him for details when he continued. “The drops of blood weren’t discovered on the floor or furniture, like you’d expect to find after a struggle. These were on a card—a white card—and they were evenly spaced.”
“I don’t get it. Could you be less cryptic?”
That made him turn. He eyed me for a moment, as if determining whether I was capable of understanding what he was about to say. “Blood from a fight is never evenly spaced, Madam Mayor. Nor is it perfectly round, as these drops were. Blood splatters and blood streaks, but it never falls in precise drops. These were four perfectly round, evenly spaced spots of blood on a white card . . . like the four corners of a square.”
“A card? What kind of card?”
“A business card, Mayor. Your business card.”
The phone on my desk buzzed. I jumped. Webb stood like a rock. I snatched up the receiver and barked, “Hello.” Dana Thayer, the city clerk, was on the other end.
“It’s been fifteen minutes, Mayor. The council is wondering when you’ll be returning.”
I was five minutes beyond the announced recess time. I was late. “This is going to take some time, Dana. Please inform the council that I won’t be in attendance.” I hung up before she could respond.
“This is an awkward time,” Webb said. I couldn’t tell if he was apologizing for the interruption or reveling in it.
“Larry Wu can handle the meeting. That’s what deputy mayors are for.” I paused, then added, “I suppose you have questions for me.”
He nodded. Then—I could hardly believe my eyes—he smiled.
Being mayor—even mayor of a small city like Santa Rita—has certain privileges. Technically, all the powerful people work for you. This means I can stretch the envelope of social courtesy more than most. I was sure Webb would have loved to walk me out of my office, his hand clamped on my elbow, and escort me across the back parking lot and right into the Police Station. What a sight that would have been. Even the dozing reporter from the Register would have sat up for that one. “Mayor Taken to Police Station for Questioning,” the headline would have read. That would have sold a few extra papers.
I took a seat behind my desk. “Ask your questions.” My desk is a wide, cherry wood affair given to me by my husband before his death. It dominates my small and orderly office. Any interview Chief Webb wished to conduct was going to take place on my turf, where I would gain the advantage. The desk is an extension of me, but more importantly, it is an extension of the mayor’s office. “Sit down,” I said, motioning to a burgundy leather chair opposite the desk. He remained on his feet.
“You knew Ms. Truccoli?”
“I still do know her.”
“How do you know her?”
I sighed. “You know the answer to that, Chief. She worked on my campaign.”
“This last campaign?” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants. Webb dressed with impeccable taste but always in gray. This night he wore a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and steel-colored tie.
“Yes, and my second city council run. She was treasurer in the last campaign.”
“Important position.”
“California election law requires every campaign to have a treasurer and demands frequent reports from them. A good campaign must have a great treasurer.”
“So she handled the money?”
“She did.” I leaned forward. “She was exceptional, organized, focused, and a clear communicator.”
“So you had no reason to be unhappy with her?”
“None at all, and let me save you some time, Chief. The books balance perfectly. Nothing missing. Nothing extra. Are you assuming that because my business card was found in her home, I had something to do with her disappearance?”
“These are questions I have to ask, Madam Mayor.”
“She would naturally have my card; she worked on the campaign. All my key people had them. There’s nothing unusual about that.” I was getting defensive and reigned myself in.
Webb stared at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing to slits. I could almost hear his brain chugging. “It’s not the card that interests me, Mayor; it’s the fact that blood—which for the moment we must assume is Ms. Truccoli’s—was found on your card and on your card only.”
“You’re not suggesting—”
“No, I’m not. It’s too contrived . . . too obvious.”
“So why question me?”
“Because it needs to be done, and I thought better me than Detective West. It’s not unusual for the chief of police to talk to the mayor. A homicide detective is another matter.”
“You’re trying to spare me embarrassment?”
“I’m trying to spare the office embarrassment.”
“That’s decent of you,” I said, making no effort to conceal the sarcasm. “Who is Detective West? I don’t think I’ve met him.”
“He’s a new man. We got him from San Diego PD. He did homicide work for them.”
“He left the big city for us?”
Webb nodded but offered nothing more. As he started to ask another question, his cell phone rang. He removed it from his inside coat pocket. “Webb.” He listened, his face a plastic mask of indifference. I would get no information that way. “Give me the name again.” More listening. “Hang on.” He turned to me. “You know Ms. Truccoli’s daughter, Celeste?”
My heart stuttering, I rose to my feet. “Yes. Where is she?”
“At the house. She’s upset.”
“You think?” I rounded my desk and stepped quickly to a coa-track I kept in the corner, removed my coat, and slung it over my shoulders.
“Where are you going?”
“To Lisa’s house. Celeste must be beside herself—she needs a friend.”
“We’re not done here.”
“Wanna bet?” I started for the door.
“I’m going with you. I don’t want you contaminating the crime scene.”
“Suit yourself.”
I turned to see Webb raise the phone to his ear again. “Keep her there.” The phone went back in his pocket. “I’ll drive,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion. “I’ll arrange to have your car delivered to your home.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I do.”
He didn’t explain.
Lisa Truccoli lived in the Shadow Hills area of the city, a community of older but upscale homes on the gentle slope of Shadow Hill. Her house, like all homes in that neighborhood, overlooked the ocean. The sea, under its heavy gray shroud, was dark as India ink.
Rain fell in cold sheets, pelting Webb’s city-issued Lincoln Continental. The air was chilly and the breeze stiff. California gets its rain from two sources, depending on the time of year. During the summer months, the rare rainstorm crawls up from the south, first showering Baja Mexico before working its way up the coast. In the winter, storms drop down from Alaska like brakeless freight trains. Those have a sour and chilling impact. This February day a monster was visiting us from the north.
The drive had been easier than expected. The rain had driven most people indoors to warm themselves in the glow of the television. Webb piloted the car over the slick streets with confidence. He said nothing. The chief was puzzled and I couldn’t blame him. Our city is large enough to have its share of crime, but abductions and murders are rare, at least when compared with bigger cities.
This crime was an enigma for Webb. It didn’t take a psychologist to realize that. While I found him to be annoying and egotistical, he was a good chief of police. I had to hand that to him. I’d never found his work wanting or improper. What he thought of me I could only guess, and I never wasted time worrying about it.
Light from street lamps spilled in through the windshield at regular intervals, like a strobe light in slow motion. With each influx I could see my reflection in the passenger-side window. Staring back was a thirty-eight-year-old woman with shoulder-length brown hair, narrow nose, and weary hazel eyes. My complexion looked pale but that was to be expected. The window was a poor mirror, its impromptu image unintentional. Still, I felt pale.
“Why Lisa?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“Don’t know. If it’s a murder, then it could be many reasons: passion, greed, anger. If it’s a kidnapping, it could be profit-motivated. Did . . . does she have money?”
“Some, I suppose. Her ex-husband is an executive in one of the oil companies. He used to work on the offshore drilling rigs. Years ago he started taking night classes in business. He worked his way up.”
“So she’s divorced.”
“He grew tired of family life and went off to find himself; took a twenty-four-year-old receptionist with him so he wouldn’t lose his way.”
“Conscientious, eh?”
“That would require a conscience. He left Lisa and Celeste . . .” I paused to think. “About four years ago, or so.”
“So she was supporting herself?”
“She works as an accountant for a construction company, but I remember her saying that she gets a large alimony payment. I don’t think she needs the money; probably just wants to stay busy. I imagine she spends much of her time alone.”
“Why’s that?”
“Celeste is nineteen and attending the University of Santa Barbara. She’s gone a lot. Maybe that’s why she works, to pay for her daughter’s college.”
“Do Ms. Truccoli and her daughter get along?”
“Oh, come on. You can’t be implying—”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking questions, that’s it.”
I took a deep breath. I was taking this harder than I realized. “I’m sorry. This has me on edge.”
“Do they get along?”
“As far as I know, but I’m not her confidant. We meet for lunch about once a month. I take my key volunteers out from time to time. Good helpers are hard to come by and I want to keep them on my team. A few lunches throughout my term keeps everyone in touch. Last time we met, she was saying how proud she was of Celeste. Still, if there had been problems, I wouldn’t have known.”
“And the husband?”
“Never met him. They were still married during my last council race but divorced sometime during my term. I’m guessing here, but I think they were at odds long before I met her.”
“Do you know where the husband is now?”
“Not specifically. Lisa said something about Texas, along the Gulf, I think.”
Webb grunted.
“He might be worth investigating,” I said.
“I’ll leave that up to Detective West. He’s the investigator; I’m just lending a hand.” He turned down a street that I recognized as Lisa’s. “Ever been here?”
“Once. Lisa held a fund-raiser. I haven’t been back since.” My stomach knotted and my breath shortened. I had never been to a crime scene before. Worse, I’d never spoken to a young woman whose mother had been abducted—or worse.
Webb directed the car down the narrow residential lane: Dove Street. All the streets in the Shadow Mountain subdivision bore bird names. It fit the quaint houses that lined the roads. Unlike many similar streets in other cities, these had very few trees. Tress block the ocean view, which lowers property value. In Santa Rita the sea is everything.
Built in the mid-sixties, the houses were the developer’s idea of a tribute to Frank Lloyd Wright’s prairie style. Flat roofs topped every home, with overhangs that extended from the exterior walls farther than seemed right. Unlike Wright’s designs, these homes were small and were much less expensive to build. Still, any one of them would have sold for over half a million. A cottage with a view is worth as much as a mansion stuck at the end of an alley.
The community was too pricey for most newcomers, so there was little turnover in the neighborhood. The Truccolis, Lisa had told me, were numbered among the newbies. Her husband, Christopher, had made a good salary on the rigs, and she brought home decent money as an accountant. Through disciplined saving and help from both sets of parents, they had managed to pull off the purchase. I imagine keeping up payments had been a chore, at least until his career took off.
The car came to rest at the west curb. Lights, pushing past gossamer curtains, shone from the few street-side windows, but I could imagine the glow pouring from the much larger ocean-facing panes. A band of yellow tape surrounded the property like a gaudy belt, telling the world that here a peaceful life had been disrupted.
The front door was open and warm light decanted from it, splashing like paint on the small concrete porch. A thin, shallow silhouette appeared between the jambs. Even from the street I could tell it was Celeste. As she walked from the house, raindrops showered her.
I sprang from the car and started down the narrow concrete walk. “Celeste?”
“Go away,” she shot back, continuing her march.
“Celeste, it’s Maddy, Maddy Glenn. Where are you going?” I met her halfway down the walk. Rain fell in drops the size of raisins, cold raisins that stung the skin.
“Go away.” She tried to walk around me. Her head was down; blond hair hung around her young face, shielding it from view.
“No. Not until we talk.” I took her by the arms. “Look at me, Celeste. Look at me.” She did and I could see the pain. Water streaked her skin—water that had nothing to do with the rain. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know . . . Away.”
“Away to where?” I tightened my grip, fearing she would bolt.
“Away from here. I can’t stay here. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” The sobs came from the deepest place of sorrow, from the abyss of hopelessness. “She’s gone. She’s dead. I’m alone.” Her shoulders began to shake.
I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her. Her weeping came in waves that pounded the shore of my resolve. The sky seemed to be grieving with the young woman. Water ran down my forehead and face. I could feel my hair sag under the weight of it, and I felt the cold of the wind, but I was determined not to move until Celeste was ready.
I hadn’t gone into the house. There was no need. Chief Webb had told me what they found and that was good enough for me. My concern was Celeste. With her father in another state and her mother missing, she was alone. I had decided to take her to my place. I could make her comfortable and relay any information from the police. It was the least I could do.
Celeste had protested at first but without conviction. She was emotionally beat down—a dry leaf in a hot August wind. Who wouldn’t be? There are few feelings worse than abject helplessness.
Chief Webb had offered to drive us to my home, but I had insisted on picking up my car. I saw no need in taking an officer off the street just to save the few minutes it would take to drive by City Hall. Once Celeste and I were in my car, I made the thirteen-minute drive to my place.
My home sits on the beach. It is large, spacious, with entirely too many rooms for a woman who lives alone. I never planned to be alone. The house remains my source of comfort. It is a world unto itself. I work hard to make sure the reality of the outside never seeps through the exterior walls. My husband called the place his Fortress of Solitude. He read too many Superman comics as a kid.
Like many houses that line the coast, this one was built in the late seventies, an era when diagonal cedar siding was in. It is three thousand square feet of open space, with one room flowing into another, and only bathrooms and bedrooms constructed for complete privacy. Most of the lower floor is one big room with areas delineated by flooring and counters. Upstairs are four bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. My home office is also there, in what once was a game room. It’s an ample space, with large windows that overlook the rolling surf, and small panes facing the street.
The house was my husband’s dream. I grew up in much smaller digs and had been content. I’d never known poverty, but my father’s salary from the university, and my mother’s income as a high school teacher, was not nearly enough to pay for any house on the beach, let alone one this size. My husband’s family was a different matter.
I married Peter in my senior year of college. We both attended San Diego State University, where he was a year ahead of me. He had grown up in San Diego. Athletic and intelligent, he excelled in college and even made the baseball team, playing second base. After he took his degree in business, he joined his father’s company—Glenn Structural Materials—a manufacturing firm that makes flooring for commercial buildings. “Yup,” Peter used to say, “the rich and powerful walk all over our product.” His eyes twinkled when he said such things. His eyes always twinkled, and not a day goes by that I wouldn’t give up everything for just one more twinkle. Just one.
Eight years ago Peter was in Los Angeles on business. Nothing unusual in that. Most of the company’s product went into high-rise buildings. Peter was often on the road. In the last two years of our marriage I filled my time with city council work. It gave me a strong sense of purpose and passed the lonely hours.
At 10:12 that evening the phone rang.
“Mrs. Glenn?” The voice was polite and professional. It melted my strength away like a blowtorch on butter. No call after ten o’clock that begins, “Mrs. Glenn” could be good. This wasn’t. A police officer, in succinct but kind words, told me that Peter was gone, the victim of a carjacking gone bad. “He was shot,” the officer said. The words pummeled me. I told myself there was no way this could be true, yet I knew it was. I knew before I picked up the phone.
I was a widow at thirty.
The years have muted the pain, but I still hate the ringing of a phone at night.
Peter’s company had carried a large life insurance policy on him. The money was enough for me to pay off the house. My father-in-law still ran the company and still paid Peter’s salary. All that had changed was the name on the “To:” line. I told him the checks weren’t necessary. “Yes, they are,” Peter’s dad said. “I would have paid him anyway. This way I feel like I’m helping and . . . for the moment it takes to sign the check, I feel as if Peter is still alive.”
I’ve never brought the checks up again.
“Is this okay?” Celeste asked.
I was sitting on the floor of the living room, in front of the fireplace. The blaze warmed my body but could not drive the chill of memory away. Celeste had come down the stairs and was standing on the last step. Damp from the rain, I had shown her my closet and helped her find something comfortable. She was dressed in a blue sweatshirt with a Yale University emblem. I collected college sweatshirts. Why? For the same reason people collect saltshakers. I don’t know why, I just do. The sweatshirt was a little large on her. Although we were close to the same height, I still had an inch on her and almost two decades of life.
Celeste wore her body like most nineteen-year-old girls. She had grown into a woman but still retained a bit of a youthful spindle-look. She tugged at the jeans she wore; like the sweatshirt, they were mine. I recognized them. They were the pair that seemed a little too snug lately. She pulled them up again.
“It’s great. Do you feel warmer?”
“A little.” She lowered her head, as if making eye contact would crack the dam of emotional control she was trying so hard to shore up.
“Come sit down by the fire,” I said, patting the floor. “It’ll help dry our hair—of course, we’ll both end up with a terminal case of the frizzes.”
She smiled. Even across the room I could tell it was forced. I’ve forced many a smile in my day. Celeste crossed the carpeted floor, passed the white leather sofa and the wrought iron end tables, and came to my side. There she crossed her ankles and lowered herself like an elevator until she was seated cross-legged on the floor—a maneuver that would have broken something in me.
We stared at the orange and yellow flames, watching them dance like leprechauns on St. Paddy’s day. “I find fires relaxing,” I said. “They help me think.”
Celeste placed her elbows on her knees, cradled her round face in her hands, and gazed into the fireplace. I could see the light sparkle in her blue eyes.
I wanted to ask questions, but everything I could think of seemed insipid. “How was your day?” seemed inappropriate. I also knew that the police had questioned her thoroughly; she didn’t need another round of inquiries from me.
“Will they call if they learn anything?” she asked softly. She had begun rocking.
“Yes, they know to call here.”
“The waiting is hard.” There was a tremor in her voice. “I don’t like waiting.”
“Me either. A two-minute egg takes two minutes too long.”
She didn’t respond for a moment. Then she looked at me. “Do you think she is . . . I mean, do you think my mom is . . .”
I placed a hand on her knee. “I don’t know. We still have hope.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s . . . dead.” The tears washed over her lids and down her face.
“It’s too early to worry about that.” My own eyes were starting to swim. “For now, you’re welcome to stay with me. I have plenty of room.”
“Mom liked . . . likes you.” She fixed her eyes on the fire, as if mesmerized by the flame. “She said you were the smartest person she ever met, man or woman.”
“I like her. Her good work made my election possible.” Great, I sound like a politician. “What I mean is, she went above and beyond the call of duty. I always felt comfortable around her. I can’t say that about everyone.”
“You mean like Chief Webb?”
We exchanged glances. It couldn’t be that obvious. “What do you mean?”
“Mom said you two don’t like each other. How come?”
I hadn’t expected that. “It’s not that we don’t like each other; we just have different views. As mayor, I had to make some hard decisions and he didn’t like them.”
“Does he want your job?”
I chuckled. “A lot of people want my job, but Chief Webb isn’t one of them. He dislikes politicians. He’s mad at me for other reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Money, for one thing. The Police Department always needs more money.”
She nodded. “The police didn’t get the money they wanted?”
“Not all of it. The city didn’t have the funds. We did what we could.”
Celeste continued to rock, then asked, “Could they find my mother better if they had the money?”
The question pierced me. “No, sweetheart. That has nothing to do with this. The money they wanted was going to other things, like new radios and such. The police are doing everything possible to find your mother. They’ll ask for help from others if necessary. Chief Webb has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to me, but I’ve never known him to shirk his duty.”
Rocking, rocking, and more rocking.
“Did you hear me, Celeste?”
“Yes.”
“Everything is being done that can be done.”
“I miss her.” She sniffed and ran a hand across her cheek. I leaned back and found the box of Kleenex I keep near the sofa. I handed her one and then took one for myself.
“I know you do,” I said. I love words. They’re powerful, even life-changing. Now they were as weak as the tissue I held.
“We aren’t like other families.” Celeste blew her nose. “Most kids my age fight with their parents. Maybe it’s because Dad left us, but we never fought, never. All my friends can’t wait to move out of their homes; I can never wait to get home. She made it warm and safe. I . . . guess it wasn’t so safe after all.”
I put my arm around her and pulled her close. My chest tightened. “Do you need to call your dad?” I wondered why I hadn’t thought about it before.
“No. The police called him. I doubt he cares.”
I started to contradict her, but what did I know? The man did pack up and leave.
“He’s in Texas, isn’t he?”
“Galveston.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“No, and I don’t want to. It hurt Mom when he left. She used to cry all the time. I can’t forgive him for that.”
I nodded. This conversation was doing nothing to ease her distress. “How about some hot chocolate?” She agreed and I struggled to my feet. “Would you rather sit on the sofa?”
She shook her head and returned her gaze to the fire. Watching her sitting on the floor, eyes fixed on something only she could see, flooded my soul with maternal instincts. The sudden force of the emotion surprised me. I wanted to take her in my arms and assure her that everything was fine, that it would all work out. But everything wasn’t fine, and there was a good chance none of this would work out. Celeste could be a functional orphan at the age of nineteen. Nineteen was pretty close to adult but still young enough for a girl to need her mother.
I went to the kitchen and poured milk in a saucepan to heat. I could have nuked a couple of cups in the microwave, but this gave me time to think. What was I to do with Celeste? Having her in the house was no problem. There was more than enough room and I would appreciate a little company, but what of the long term?
As I stirred the white liquid, more questions came to mind. Why Lisa? Was it a burglary? Had she brought a stranger home? I knew little of what the crime scene was like, yet had gleaned enough from Webb to know there had been a brief struggle, but not the kind that leaves a room in shambles. And what of the blood? How does that happen? Four drops forming a square. That was certainly premeditated. Why my card? Surely that was just coincidence. Lisa must have had my card out for some reason, and the attacker or attackers used it to leave their appalling little message.
That was problematic, also. Why bother with such a macabre effort? Not only was it a sick thing to do, it took time. I shuddered to think of where the blood may have come from.
I poured the milk into a pair of mugs and mixed in a few spoonfuls of Ovaltine. Disturbing images swirled in my mind, like the chocolate in the milk. I tried to evict the mental pictures but they were persistent, digging their heels into my gray matter. An act of unknown violence had been committed against a woman, and as a lifetime member of that lodge, I felt a vicarious terror. And if I felt it, I knew Celeste must be awash in fear. More troubling still was the realization that there was nothing I or anyone could do about it. There was no unwinding the clock. Even if Lisa were found alive and well in the next ten minutes, the events—real and imagined—had already left searing scars in the mind.
I walked back into the living room with the mugs in hand. As I neared, I saw Celeste wiping tears from her face. The sight ripped away what little remained of my shredded detachment. Celeste sat alone on the floor, for the moment more child than adult. No matter how close I sat, no matter how much I tried to infuse my presence into her loneliness, she would still be as lost as a dingy adrift in the middle of the sea.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as I set the mugs on the hearth and retook my place on the floor.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m trying to be strong.”
I put an arm around her. “Stop trying.”
Celeste rested her head on my shoulder. She smeared a tear, sniffed, and then plummeted into convulsive sobbing.
A moment later I joined her.
The morning crept in, the sun oozing through the few residual rain clouds. The normal marine layer of clouds that blankets most evenings and mornings was missing. The sky was azure near the horizon and a deep cobalt blue overhead. The rainstorm had washed the air clean of Southern California pollutants, leaving the sky crisp, as if just created. I had come down from my bedroom, where I spent a restless night fighting the covers and unwanted dreams. When I wasn’t asleep, I lay in the dark listening to sounds I was certain were prowlers, ghosts, or some incomprehensible beastie. Several times I awoke to hear Celeste’s quiet sobbing in the adjoining guest room.
I stood in the kitchen inhaling the thick, rich aroma of coffee as it trickled from the drip coffeemaker. The smell infused the air, and I found a measure of comfort in the familiar morning perfume. While I waited for the last of the brew to make its way through the basket and into the carafe, I studied the ocean outside my window. It was calm, sending to the shore small rollers that caressed the sand with frothy fingers. The water was blue and gray, reflecting the sky above it.
It was a beautiful sight and promised a gorgeous day. I would have relished it more had there not been so much reality to deal with. The sky had changed, the air had cleared, and another day had been born, as had so many millions before. That was all the same, but the world was different. A woman was gone—a mother, a friend. The new day had not changed that. I had spent the night in a soft, warm bed; I shuddered to think where Lisa Truccoli had spent hers.
A faint padding sound came from behind me. I turned to see Celeste. She wore a pair of my flannel pajamas. Her feet were bare and her face was puffy, eyes swollen and red, betraying the unsettled night she had endured.
“Good morning.” I immediately felt stupid. What was good about it?
“Good morning.” It was a reflex response and I doubted she even knew she had uttered the words.
“Do you drink coffee?”
She nodded and went to the breakfast nook that adjoined the kitchen, and sat at the small rectangular table in the center of the room.
“Are you hungry? I have some croissants or I could fix some eggs.”
“No, thank you.”
She needed to eat. Grief was hard work. “I’m going to put some on the table anyway, and some fruit. You can eat whenever you want.”
“Okay.”
Celeste was a sad figure, the empty shell of a person. At her age she should have been vibrant, filled with energy and unbounded enthusiasm. Someone, by an act of cruelty, had drained her of that, had pirated away her youthful zeal for life. There was a special place in hell for people who did such things. I felt sure of that.
I poured two cups of coffee and placed them on the table, along with evaporated milk, which I use as a substitute for cream. “There’s sugar there, too.” Returning to the kitchen to retrieve the pastries and fruit, I found some grapes and two oranges. A minute later I sat next to Celeste, stirring my coffee.
“I’d suggest sitting on the deck, but the rain has left all the outdoor furniture wet.”
“That’s okay.” She sipped her coffee. It was black. She screwed up her face at its strong taste.
“You better put something in that. I tend to make coffee strong. Peter liked it that way.”
“How did you do it?”
I was puzzled. “You mean the coffee?”
She turned to face me as if I had just asked a profoundly stupid question. “No. Your husband. Mom said he was killed.”
“Ah. It wasn’t easy. No sense in lying about that.”
“How did it happen?”
I told her about the carjacking, trying to remain detached. Detachment was impossible. She was attentive, shifting her gaze from the ocean beyond the French doors to her coffee, which she had now whitened with the Carnation milk.
“Didn’t you just want to up and die?”
“Yes, I suppose I did. In my darkest moments I still do. I push on anyway.”
“Why?”
“It does no good not to. Besides, Peter would want me to live out my life, just as I would have expected him to if it had been me that day. Sometimes we live for our loved ones whether they’re alive . . .”
“Or dead.”
“We don’t know that your mother is dead, Celeste.”
“We don’t know that she’s alive, either.”
She had me there.
“Did they get the guy who shot your husband?”
I nodded. “They got him and his partner. There were several witnesses, and my husband’s car was distinctive—a yellow BMW Z3 roadster. Are you familiar with the car?”
“It’s a fancy sports car, right?”
“That’s right. It was a flashy thing and Peter loved it dearly. I sold it after the funeral. I couldn’t drive it . . . too many memories. Anyway, the LAPD spotted the car and gave chase. After a high-speed pursuit through city streets, the carjackers finally gave up. Two junkies, both in their early twenties. One struck a deal with the DA. The prosecution charged him with murder-two in exchange for testimony against the man who pulled the trigger. Both are in jail.”
“So they’re alive and your husband is dead. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not, Celeste. There are many things in life that are not fair.”
“So we just have to accept it? I’m not going to just accept it.”
I searched for the right words but found none. I was out of my element. I had no children of my own and I had no experience as a grief counselor.
There was a ring at the front door. My first thought was relief: saved by the proverbial bell. But I was puzzled about who could be on my stoop this early. I had checked the clock when Celeste came downstairs. It said 7:10. Not more than ten minutes could have passed since then. I put a hand on her shoulder, indicating she should stay put. Her face was hopeful as I rose and headed for the door.
The bell rang again.
My hope was that Maria had come early. Maria Rodriquez cleaned house for me once a week. She was a whiz, the best there was. I was glad that this was her day, because she could stay with Celeste while I went into the office for a few hours. I planned to pump Webb for more information.
My front door has a peephole and I made use of it. On the other side was a man, a stranger. He wore a tie and a suit. I turned the dead bolt, unlocking the door, then put my hand on the doorknob. I paused. Was this Lisa’s last action the night before? Did she open the door to a stranger? I removed my hand.
“Who is it?” I called, pulling my terry cloth robe tighter.
“Detective Judson West, Santa Rita police.”
I looked back through the peephole. He was holding up a badge in a leather case. Reassured, I opened the door. The man before me was tall, maybe six foot two. His hair was anthracite black with no sign of gray, an enviable trait. Dark eyes peered back at me from his narrow face, and a smile of Hollywood teeth spread above a chiseled chin. His cheeks bore a tan, in usual Southern California fashion. He wore a cerulean-colored shirt with a striped gold tie. On his shoulders hung a sport coat that was a shade darker than the blue of his shirt. His beige pants looked as if they had just come from the tailors, pressed and new.
“Mrs. Glenn?” He corrected himself. “I mean, Mayor Glenn?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”
Good-looking and polite. I invited him in. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this early. You’ve caught me . . .” I looked down at my robe and slippers.
“I apologize.” If the awkward moment made him uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “I’m an early riser and I have a busy day. If you want to change, I’d be happy to wait.”
“I think I’ll do that. First I want to know if you’ve discovered anything about Lisa.”
“Me too,” I heard from behind me. Celeste was standing a few feet from the staircase. I started to introduce them but remembered that they must have met the previous night at Lisa’s house.
“Miss Truccoli.” West nodded.
“Hi.” Celeste gave a polite smile, but it was clear there was no happiness there, just eager anticipation. “Do you have any news about my mother?”
The detective’s countenance darkened and he shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but we’re working hard on the case.”
“It will only take me a minute to change,” I said. “Can I pour you some coffee?”
“You go ahead. I can wait.”
“Well, why don’t you wait in the nook? The coffee pot is there if you want to help yourself.” I motioned toward the back of the house.
“That sounds good,” he said and walked to the eating area.
Celeste started up the stairs and I followed. “What do you feel like wearing today?” I asked as I caught up with her.
She just shrugged and continued taking one step after another. I put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll have Maria wash what you were wearing yesterday. In the meantime I think we can find something comfortable for you.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just wear what I wore last night.” She plodded up the steps as if concrete weighted her feet, her brief moment of hope torpedoed.
Ten minutes later we emerged from our respective bedrooms. Celeste was wearing the jeans and Yale sweatshirt she had changed into the night before. I had showered earlier and, not wanting to dress twice, I donned my clothes for the office.
We found West standing in front of the French doors, staring at the gentle surf.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I said.
“No problem.” He turned. There was a cup of coffee in his hand, black like his hair. He had taken me up on my offer. “It’s my fault for stopping by without calling. I wanted to catch you before you left for the office.”
“Have a seat.” I motioned to one of the chairs around the table. He did, setting his cup on the glass top, but he first removed a napkin from a holder I keep on the table and put it beneath the cup. A house-trained man; I was amazed. Celeste lowered herself into a chair.
“I wanted to bring you up to date and ask a few questions, if I may.”
If I may? He was a police detective; I wasn’t sure we had much choice.
“You don’t have any news about my mom?” Celeste asked again. “None at all?”