Page 34 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“It’s not mine to sell, Sara.”

“Then who’s the legal owner?”

“Maybe my uncle or brother…. I don’t know.” She tried to hide her irritation. “Gran just died. Let’s not even speculate.”

“You’re right, of course.” Sara pulled a face. “I tend to get ahead of myself sometimes. I don’t mean to be insensitive.” She actually appeared sympathetic. “I’ve got to go. You okay?”

“Sure. Thanks for the ride.”

Sara hugged her without pressing a business card into her palm; about as sincere as she could get. She then marched back to her Lexus, climbed inside, yanked out her cell phone, and was already talking a blue streak as she backed out of the driveway.

The minute the sleek car was out of range, Cissy reached into her own car and pushed the remote button to close the gates. With a grind and whir, the old iron behemoth swung into position. “Fortress secure,” she told herself, but paused before heading into the house again. If someone had killed Eugenia, how did they get in? The front door had been locked, the gate closed when she arrived. True, there was a code everyone employed at the estate knew, the code that electronically released the locks and swung open the gate. Punch the same numbers on the way out, and the gate would close. The same was true of the garage. Her grandmother changed the codes every two or three months, just to keep the house more secure, but someone must have learned them. How else had they gotten in?

As she was looking at the gates, they clicked and began to open, groaning with the effort. She whipped around. Her heart nearly stopped.

Paloma was walking toward her, pocketing her remote control for the gates. Cissy released a shaky breath and tried to smile at the newcomer. Tall, almost regal looking, with shiny black hair clipped away from her face, sporting a long, spy-type trench coat, she walked up the street smartly in high-heeled boots. She seemed unconcerned, on her way to work as normal, earbuds plugged into her ears from the iPod hidden in her pocket. She was humming, her voice right on key, but when she caught a glimpse of Cissy through the opening gate, her face immediately crumpled, the humming stopped, and she yanked the earbuds from her ears. Her demeanor changed in an instant. “Miss Cissy, I’m so sorry,” she said, one hand splaying over her heart. “Even though a policeman called me, and you called me, too, I…I still can’t believe it!” She wasn’t crying but was shaking her head sadly.

“I can’t either.”

“And the authorities, they think it could be murder?”

Cissy saw Eugenia’s neighbors, Dr. and Mrs. Yang, in their town car as it backed onto the street. Their grand house was a little lower on the hillside, on the other side of the street. She’d met them before; he was a retired dentist, his wife was a quiet woman who had regularly beaten Gran at mahjong.

“I should speak to them,” she said to Paloma. “Just give me a minute.”

She crossed the street, and as she approached the Lincoln, Mrs. Yang rolled down her window. “Cissy,” she said softly. “This is so awful. Are you okay?” Concern etched a face that had few natural wrinkles. Her hair was short, its black now shot with silver, her glasses small and dark-rimmed.

“I’m fine,” Cissy lied. Then, while Dr. Yang let the car idle, she gave them a quick report, promising to let them know when the services were. Mrs. Yang sympathetically patted her hand, which was resting on the open window.

By the time Cissy recrossed the street, Paloma was finishing a cigarette. As Cissy approached, she tossed the remains of her filter tip onto the driveway, crushed it with the toe of her leather boot, then picked up the butt.

Cissy said, “Let’s go inside before I have to talk to any more of the neighbors.”

They went through the garage.

Paloma discarded the cigarette into a trash can as they waited for the elevator. Then they rode up in silence while the old car ground its way to the main floor before stopping with a bit of a bump.

Bracing herself, Cissy stepped into the house again.

Once again, the place felt empty.

Lifeless.

Almost tomblike.

Then there was the foyer.

Paloma’s hand jumped to her mouth. She swallowed hard and paled, her gaze moving from the landing to the stairs and then once again settling on the dark near-purple stain on the floor. “This is horrible.”

Cissy couldn’t agree more, and when Rosa arrived five minutes later, the plump little woman began sobbing and making the sign of the cross over her chest and speaking rapid-fire Spanish to Paloma. Cissy caught some of the phrases, though she didn’t need an interpreter to realize that Rosa was upset and grieving.

“Dios! Oh Dios!” she sobbed into several tissues, her face red, her dark eyes watery and full of misery. She shook her head over and over, as if in her vehement denial she could change what had happened. Then, just when she had nearly controlled herself, she glanced at the stain on the floor and wailed even louder.

Paloma, calmer, spoke softly to her and hugged her, but the woman was inconsolable.

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“Coco? Where is my little Coco?” Rosa asked around a hiccup.

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