Page 69 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“So what have you got?” She nodded toward the Cahill file, open on his desk.

“Nothin’. You?”

“Same as you.” She rested a hip on the corner of his desk and uncapped her bottle. “I’m still going over the things we found in Eugenia’s safe. Stock certificates, cash, jewelry, the will, and a few other personal items.”

“Such as?”

“A family history, I guess you’d call it. Or maybe Eugenia’s memoirs. She was pretty meticulous. As if she was going to write a book someday.” She took a long swallow of her water, then recapped the bottle.

“Anything good?”

“Nothing that means anything. At least not that I can sort out. There are pictures too. Some look about a hundred years old. I’m trying to do a little who’s who and figure out all the major players.”

“Interesting?”

“Not so far, but I’m not quite through it yet.”

“Good luck,” he said.

“What about tips? Anyone seen our Mary Smith?”

“Nah. Nor Marla.” Marla Cahill’s photo had been circulating through the media ever since her escape. Now the police had released the artist’s sketch, and all the tips that had come in had turned out to be either mistakes or freakoids who wanted to be a part of the investigation. They were looking for their fifteen minutes of fame any way they could get it. Well, not on his watch.

“Maybe something will turn up.”

He leaned back in his chair as she grabbed the strap of her backpack and walked to her desk. As she dropped into her chair, her cell phone spewed out some tune from the eighties. God, he hated those special ringtones. Waste of time and money. He cracked his neck, winced, and picked up the sketch of Mary Smith again.

Who are you?

On Monday morning, Cissy decided to leave the house and finish her article at the coffee shop. She hadn’t been back to Joltz since she’d seen the weird man in black, but she told herself that her encounter with the creep was just an anomaly, a product of timing and over-heightened senses.

Things were crazed right now, that was all. As she scraped her hair away from her face and snapped it into an untidy knot at the back of her head, she told herself to buck up and get on with her life.

Sooner or later she’d have to deal with the lawyers and her grandmother’s house, but today she was going to work for a couple of hours, jog if the weather permitted, then spend the rest of her day with Beej while going through the cards and flowers and donations to Cahill House that had been sent after Gran’s death.

Tanya, still eyeing Coco dubiously, had arrived and promised to take B.J. to the park if the sun dared peek through the clouds. Cissy’s resolve to replace the young woman had wavered since Tanya had helped out so much at the funeral.

Looking at the weather, Cissy figured Tanya was off the hook for the park. The sky was gun-metal gray. No rain was falling yet, but with the approaching thick clouds, it was only a matter of time.

Traffic was thick, and Cissy had to circle the neighborhood a couple of times before she found a parking spot two blocks down the hill from Joltz. Hauling her laptop with her, she hiked to the coffee shop, telling herself the exercise was just what she needed to get her blood pumping and her mind clear.

Though she knew she was being stupid, she couldn’t help but keep an eye out for the man in black with the creepy smile. Isolated incident or not, the confrontation still bothered her.

“Get over it,” she told herself a

s she ordered a mocha from Rachelle, thanked her and Diedre again for helping out with the post-funeral gathering, then settled into her favorite table in the corner. There was a lull in the activity at the popular shop. Most of the pre-work crowd had already been in, then out, and it would be a few more hours before the lunch crowd gathered. Right now only a few patrons were sitting at the tables or at the counter. Some were reading a paper, some were talking, while others just sipped their hot beverages as they gazed out the window on the cold, gray day.

One woman who always came in and ordered a frozen coffee-and-cream blend was at the counter. She made small talk and placed a dollar in the tip jar while Diedre arranged croissants and scones in the glass case. A man Cissy didn’t recognize was seated near the window. His black beret was cocked upon a head that had been shaved bald, and he was working feverishly on a Sudoku puzzle with a tiny pencil usually used for marking golf scorecards.

Not much happening. Nothing out of the ordinary.

No man in a dark trench coat and with a cold grin.

Of course Selma showed up. Either she lived in the area or was following Cissy, because every time Cissy spent any time at the coffee shop and deli, Selma arrived as if on schedule.

She seemed to always be here.

As Cissy surreptitiously watched, Selma, the slim, reddish-haired funeral crasher, ordered her usual latte, then stopped by Cissy’s table and asked about Marla. Cissy murmured a noncommittal response, then Selma drifted to her favorite chair, where she sipped her drink and read a paperback thriller. Or peeked over the top at Cissy and the other patrons, almost as if she were gathering data, like some kind of Gen-X spy.

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