Page 26 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

r /> It was fine for sitting on.

Great for watching television.

Perfect for making out.

But sleeping all night, no way.

Jack woke with a crick in his neck and a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t dare go upstairs and wake his wife, so he walked into the small bath off the foyer and cleaned his teeth with some of the soap from the dispenser and his finger.

He thought about making a pot of coffee and carrying it up to Cissy, maybe even finding a fake flower and placing it between his teeth in an effort to make her smile, but thought better of it. Part of their deal was that he would leave before she awoke. Cissy was not a “morning person” and was still too pissed at him to even think about forgiving him. He walked into the kitchen, ground some beans for coffee, found the filters, and poured in a carafe of water. With a press of a button, java was on its way.

Just as the first fragrant drips were working their way into the pot, his cell phone jangled. He flipped it open and spied his sister’s name and number. Not a good sign. He almost didn’t answer, but knew that wouldn’t stop her. Jannelle—tall, blond, and five years older than Jack—had been a print model before opening her own school for girls who were on the fast track to the runway. She was tunnel-visioned to the nth degree and relentless when she wanted something. If she was calling at six in the morning, it wasn’t just to say hello. She had to be on some damned mission.

“Hi, Jannelle,” he said in a whisper so as not to wake his wife, child, or the yappy dog.

“What’s this about Cissy’s grandmother being murdered?” Jannelle demanded.

That was Jannelle, never one to sugarcoat anything. “Good morning to you too.”

“You know about this, right? It’s all over the news! Jesus, Jack, did someone really kill Eugenia Cahill?” She sounded nervous, anxious. He heard her breathe in hard, then the distinctive sounds of her lighting a cigarette, though she’d quit smoking a good six months earlier.

“That appears to be the current line of thinking,” he said, leaning one hip against the corner of the cabinets in the kitchen. The coffee was really doing its thing, percolating and sputtering and hissing and filling the small kitchen with a warm, rich scent.

“Was it Marla? Did she knock off her mother-in-law?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t really know, Jannelle. Enough with the interrogation.” He heard his voice rise with impatience and made an effort to bring it back down. “It’s early. Slow down. For all I know, Eugenia could have fallen down the stairs. It doesn’t look that way, but who knows?”

“I’ve already had a reporter call here. Can you believe it? I think the jerk knew you were Cissy’s husband, couldn’t find you in the book, and was calling anyone named Holt with a ‘J’ for the first initial. Jesus, I’m going to have to change that. You know, Dad probably got a call too. And J.J. Brace yourself. They’re bound to be as pissed as I am about it. Probably worse.”

“I’m braced.” Jack wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear. He was already rooting around in a cupboard for a cup, came up with a mug from his days at UCLA, and pulled the pot out of the coffee machine before it was ready.

“So this guy didn’t call you?”

“Not yet. But our house…Cissy’s place is unlisted. I don’t have a phone at the apartment. Just use the cell.”

“They’ll track you down.”

Of that much, he was certain. He poured himself a cup while some of the black brew drizzled from the reservoir and through the filter onto the hot plate, where it sizzled. Quickly, he returned the carafe to the coffee machine and listened as Jannelle barraged him with more questions. Rapid-fire, she demanded:

“When did it happen?

“How?

“Who would have done this?”

A bit of conscience hit her, and she asked, “Jesus, how is Cissy? You’ve talked to her, right? You…Oh God, that’s why you’re whispering! You’re with her, aren’t you? Oh, Jack, no!” He heard her take another long drag. “Didn’t I tell you to divorce the bitch and be done with it?”

Jack wasn’t in the mood. “What is it you want, Jannelle?” he asked coldly.

“Answers.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know what to say if the damned media calls again.”

---