Читать книгу Getting Off On Frank Sinatra - Megan Edwards - Страница 15

Driving through the gate at the entrance to San Ramon, I felt I’d left a little of the horror behind me. I checked my cell phone while I waited for a light to change at Silverado Ranch Boulevard. God, it was after ten. I’d been stuck to that leather couch for over three hours.

Hoping my brother and his wife would be home and awake, I drove directly to the vicarage. This was one of those times when family might be a wonderful thing, especially with everything that was going on between David and me. I couldn’t help thinking about how different things would be if he hadn’t screwed things up. The high point of my evening would have been beating him at backgammon—a far cry from finding a fresh corpse.

Lights were on in the living room when I pulled into the driveway next to Michael’s Jetta. I rang the bell.

“Copper!” my brother said when he opened the front door. “Is something wrong?”

Sierra was stretched out on the sofa, and the television was on. “Come on in,” Michael said. “We’re waiting for the eleven o’clock news, to see what—”

“You already know?” I said. “You’ve heard?”

“Know what?” Sierra said, and Michael looked just as baffled.

“About the murder,” I said. “Isn’t that—?”

“Murder?” Michael said. Sierra jumped up and crossed the room to join us.

“Who got killed?” she asked. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Come on, Copper,” Michael said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Come sit down.”

For the second time that day, I was escorted to a sofa and seated at one end. For the forty millionth time, I told the story of how I came upon a body in a closet.

“Copper, are you sure you’re all right?” Michael asked when he had recovered from the shock of learning what had happened to Marilyn. “I’m willing to bet this is the first time you’ve ever seen the aftermath of a murder.”

I nodded. “You’d win that wager.”

“You’re still in shock,” Michael said.

“I’m fine. Just a little dazed.”

“Exactly. I can arrange for counseling—”

“Thanks, bro,” I said. “But I think Curtis might need it more than I do.”

“Holy cats!” Michael blurted. “Does Curtis know?”

“I have no idea. He’s in Palm Springs.”

“Really?” Michael said. “When I talked to him around seven, he said he was in Henderson.”

I shrugged. “All I know is what Sean told me.”

“If you’re positive you’re okay, I’d like to call Curtis,” Michael said. He looked at his watch. “Where’s my cell phone?”

“You left it in the kitchen,” Sierra said, and Michael headed through the dining room.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Copper?” Sierra asked. “Do you need anything?” She was making a real effort to be nice.

“I’m getting there,” I said. “Still in ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ mode.”

“Well, I guess now we have two reasons to watch the eleven o’clock news,” she said. “Although the murder might mean Michael’s problem doesn’t get mentioned at all.”

“Michael’s problem?”

Just then, my brother returned from the kitchen.

“I can’t raise Curtis,” he said. “Voice mail everywhere. I’m heading down to the South Central police station—it’s the nearest one to the Weavers’ house.”

“Are you sure you can’t wait until morning?” Sierra said. “It’s pretty late.”

“I’ve got to go,” Michael said, “Cutis is a good friend, and he’s just lost his wife. Given how things work with murder investigations, it’s possible he’s being held.”

Oh, my God. Maybe Sean was “being held,” too.

“I’ll check on him,” Michael said when I mentioned my concern. “I’m going to change.”

“A local philanthropist has been found dead in her home.” The eleven o’clock news had just begun.

Sierra and I watched as a young female reporter described the scene from the end of the Weavers’ block.

“Police aren’t saying whether it was an accident or foul play, but Marilyn Weaver, founder of the Anna Roberts Parks Academy, has died. Her body was found by her son this evening in her home here in the San Ramon development in Silverado Ranch.”

Interesting, I thought. Untrue, but I liked it. I had been dreading hearing my name. An unexpected wave of relief washed over me. I was anonymous. With luck, my connection to Marilyn’s murder would still be a secret when I went back to work tomorrow.

“Human remains have been discovered at the construction site of the new downtown homeless service center.”

With no more details to reveal about Marilyn’s death, the newscasters had moved on to their second story.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “Michael found a body, too?”

“Just bones,” Sierra said. “Old ones. A couple of laborers found them when they were digging a trench this morning. At first they thought they might be an animal’s, but then they found a human skull.”

“It’s a mess,” Michael said. He had reappeared, clad in his clerical shirt and collar. “We’ve had to suspend construction while a forensic anthropologist checks everything out.”

“Maybe it’s Jimmy Hoffa,” Sierra said, but Michael did not smile.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said. “Don’t wait up.”

“Sean’s last name is DuBois,” I said, suddenly remembering I hadn’t told him.

Michael grabbed his briefcase, and as he headed out the door, I felt a rush of gratitude that I had a brother whose calling in life was providing kindness to strangers.

“I’ll be right back,” Sierra said after Michael left. “I’ve got to check on Nicky.”

I was trying to pay attention to the rest of the eleven o’clock news when she returned with a glass in each hand.

“Thought you could use this,” she said, handing me one. “I know I can.”

I took a sip of something sweet and minty.

“It’s a mojito,” Sierra said. “Good medicine on a hot summer night.”

She was right, and I forced myself not to drain my glass in two swallows.

Michael had still not returned by the time I thanked Sierra for taking care of me and headed to bed. With luck, I’d even be able to sleep.

“I’m making breakfast early, if you’d like to join us,” Sierra said. “Pain perdu.”

God bless my sister-in-law. She could be a thorn in my side when she wanted to be, but she could also whip up the best breakfasts this side of New Orleans.