Deadly Accusations (13 page)

“Maybe that was a mistake.” He started to leave, but stopped. “If you want to play detective, then check out Eisler's alibi. Remember when I got back from the root canal that morning and you wouldn't tell me what was going on?”

“Yeah.” She still felt bad about that.

“Well, I saw him barrelling into this lot just after you took off, acting all nervous and scoping the place out like he was worried about being seen. He sure didn't look happy when he saw me watching him.” Roberto tossed his apple on the ground. “Makes you wonder, don't it?”

Roberto marched to his Corvette. In the decade she'd known Roberto, he'd never been angry with her, and she felt bad for making a friend feel like a suspect. Casey sighed as she watched him peel out of the yard.

“He has no right to judge you or David,” Lou said, “especially when he just lied.”

“What?”

“He couldn't have had a root canal that morning.” Lou looked at the discarded apple. “I saw him eating an apple right after he got to work. Just thought about it when I saw him toss that one.”

“As soon as he got out of his car, he asked me where Jasmine was.” She lowered the cold pack. “Think I should tell someone?”

“I guess.” He turned to the sign. “I find it hard to believe Robert would . . .” He shook his head.

Casey placed her hand on his shoulder. “I'll phone Lundy, though he might want to talk to you.”

“Whatever.”

She knew Lou hated the thought of ratting on a friend as much as she did. Yet this wasn't about swiping office supplies, or using Mainland's computers for personal reasons. This was murder.

RELIEF SWEPT THROUGH CASEY. SHE
was moments away from a hot bath and her comfy bed. When she turned off Violet Street and saw the familiar green Subaru parked behind her home, relief vanished. What the hell was Summer's grandmother doing here on a Wednesday? Winifred always came by on Sundays. Anxiety propelled Casey out of her car and up the steps. When she flung open the back door, the smell of frying liver and onions made her gag.

“Finally home, are you?” Winifred removed two dinner plates from the cupboard.

“It was a tough shift.” If Winifred was cooking, things couldn't be that serious. “What brings you here? Is Summer okay?”

“No, my granddaughter is not getting proper care.”

Casey tossed her purse and cold pack on the kitchen table. “Where is she?”

“In her room, presumably doing homework like I told her to.” Winifred picked up a wooden spoon and began stirring the food.

Summer hated doing homework before supper. “What's happened?”

Winifred smacked the spoon on the stove, and then turned around. “Her principal called. It seems that Summer left the grounds at lunchtime without permission and didn't return.”

“He should have called me.”

“Apparently, your cell phone wasn't on.”

Oh, hell. She'd shut it off before she boarded the M10. The ride was short and the job had required her full attention. Besides, Summer was supposed to have been in school. She turned the phone back on.

“What did Summer say about it?”

“That she'd been in a park with those delinquents she calls friends, and I could smell the smoke on her.”

Casey stared at the tall, scowling woman. “Summer's friends smoke, but she doesn't. We talked about it last Sunday.”

Winifred gave her a sarcastic smile. “You assumed she was telling the truth?”

Casey had counted on it. The thought of Summer resorting to more lies and deeper acts of rebellion was too unsettling to think about.

A pouting Summer shuffled into the kitchen, Cheyenne trailing after her. Casey gaped at the dirty jeans drooping below Summer's hips and the pink tank top exposing her midriff. She hadn't gone to school looking like that. In fact, Casey hadn't seen those clothes before.

Winifred said, “The principal told me that you've been late for school a number of times, Summer, and have been using foul language in class.” She removed a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter from her sweater pocket. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Everyone swears,” Summer replied. “It's no big deal.”

Casey hoped she didn't look as shocked as she felt.

“Is that supposed to justify your behavior?” Winifred lit the cigarette.

Cheyenne padded up to the stove, raised her snout, and sniffed the air.

Winifred glared at the retriever. “Must that dog be in the kitchen?”

Casey clapped her hands. “Come, Cheyenne.”

Wagging her tail, the dog approached her.

“You look awful,” Summer said to Casey. “Bad day?”

“You could say that.” Casey sat as she briefly described what had happened on the bus.

When she was finished, Summer slumped into the chair opposite her and said, “People need to fight sometimes.”

“Speaking of your job,” Winifred said as she switched off a burner and placed her cigarette in a saucer, “I heard that one of your colleagues was killed.”

“Yes.”

Winifred didn't approve of her career choice, nor did she like Mainland Public Transport's “lousy service and painfully hard seats.” Whenever the company received bad press, she always brought it up. Since Winifred used public transit only as a last resort, Casey didn't care what she thought.

“Summer shouldn't be exposed to violence.” Winifred poured boiling water out of a pot. “Hasn't she had enough—”

“No one should be exposed to violence,” Casey interrupted. “But it happens.”

“Summer needs stronger supervision.” Winifred shook potatoes onto two dinner plates. “So, I've moved into Rhonda's room.”

Casey and Summer exchanged horrified glances. If Rhonda had wanted her mother living in the same house with Summer, she would have asked her.

“You can't do that!” Summer sat upright.

“Moving in is unnecessary,” Casey said, trying to stay calm.

“You're both wrong.” Winifred dumped broccoli next to the potatoes. “Look, Casey, you're not here when she comes home from school, and now you're working nights, too. No wonder this child is running wild.”

“I'm not!” Summer shouted.

“The extra shifts are temporary.” As Casey's anger rose, her head pounded harder. “Lou or Mrs. Nally are always with her if I'm working late.”

“A man,” Winifred muttered. “You let a man stay with her. That has to stop.”

“Winifred, I really don't think—”

“I help pay the taxes on this drafty old house, so I'm entitled to stay here now and then. I've already moved my things in and that's that.”

The old bat had a point. When both of the second floor studio suites were rented out, the income covered Rhonda's mortgage and living expenses. When Rhonda had trouble keeping tenants, as she often did, Winifred helped out. This year, she'd paid the property taxes. Casey had hoped to pay for everything herself, but she'd shelled out big bucks to have the plumbing fixed, which had nearly cleaned out her savings.

When Mother died four months ago, she didn't leave a will, just a boatload of debt which would take time to sort out, according to the lawyer Casey had retained. Her deceased father's West Vancouver home—which she'd only learned about last spring—apparently came with its own set of problems, including two joint owners (one recently deceased) with legal and financial problems. She was still furious with Dad's former business partner for misleading her about this.

“You want to spy on me!” Summer jumped up. “Make me live your way, but I won't! I'm not old and boring like you.”

“You've become much ruder since Casey took over,” Winifred said.

Summer started to say something, but Casey raised her hand. “Summer, no.”

“You need stronger guidance,” Winifred added, scooping liver and onions onto a plate, “especially when it comes to appropriate clothing.”

Casey wanted to pull every gray curl out of the woman's skull. “I can help her with the clothes, Winifred, but the serious mistakes are happening at school, not here.”

“Behavior at school reflects behavior at home, or doesn't university teach you that?”

Casey's patience wilted. “I'm her legal guardian. She'll live by my rules, not yours.”

Winifred dropped Casey's handbag and pack onto a chair. She plunked the plate in front of Summer.

Casey tried to ignore the brown chunks and chopped bits of limp, translucent onion. As a kid, she'd been forced to eat this stuff whenever her own grandmother had decided she needed an iron-enriched meal. She'd sit at the table, long after everyone had finished, until those cold, slimy chunks finally wobbled down her throat.

“I'm not eating that shit!” Summer yelled.

“Summer!” both women replied.

Tears dripped from her chin as she turned to Casey. “I'm not living with her!” Summer swept the plate onto the floor and tore out of the room.

Before anyone could react, Cheyenne was gobbling up the liver.

“Stop that disgusting beast!” Winifred ordered.

Casey reached for Cheyenne's collar. “Come on, Cheyenne. Onions will make you sick. Let's get you some real food.”

“I might as well wash this filthy floor. Don't you give that child chores?”

“She's been busy with school.”

Summer had neglected too many chores since Rhonda left. Letting her get away with it was a mistake, but Summer had been so devastated by Rhonda's departure that Casey had been afraid to argue over it. Ensuring that she finished her homework was enough of a challenge.

“I gather you're also too busy to keep this place clean?” Winifred asked.

“I take care of my own apartment and vacuum the rest of the house. I also keep this kitchen tidy. Summer looks after her room and we do the rest when we can.”

“Her bedroom is a pigsty. That child is deteriorating into an irresponsible and unstable delinquent. If we don't intervene, she'll become as violent as her mother. Rhonda's actions have nearly destroyed her!”

Leave it to Winifred blame her own daughter. For as long as Casey could remember, Winifred had criticized Rhonda for every flaw, mistake, and mishap.

Winifred took a drag on her cigarette.

“If you're staying, you can't smoke inside,” Casey said. “This house is my responsibility and everyone has to follow the rules. If our two tenants see you smoking, what will keep them from doing the same?” She picked up her purse and cold pack. “And wouldn't it be less hypocritical if you didn't smoke in the first place?”

Casey marched out of the room, wondering how in hell she'd calm down a troubled twelve-year-old sinking into more misery and rebellion. Summer probably felt that every adult close to her had either betrayed her or let her down. The awful part was she wouldn't be wrong. She hadn't spent nearly enough time with this child lately.

She hadn't really wanted the rock-throwing assignment, but Stan had insisted. The guys in security—most of them part-timers—weren't available, and Marie was a single parent who wouldn't work nights unless absolutely necessary. What choices had she or Summer been given over Rhonda's absence? What options did they have now?

As much as Casey hated the idea of sharing a house with Winifred, the woman was Summer's family. If grandmother and granddaughter spent more time together, maybe they'd find a way to bond or at least understand each other better. Besides, help with housework would be welcome.

Casey had nearly reached her apartment when her cell phone rang. She stopped and rummaged through her purse.

“Hello?” No response. “Hello?”

“Stop investigating the murder.”

The raspy, hostile whisper took her breath away. “Who is this?”

“If you don't, then Summer dies.”

Fear slithered up her spine and tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. “I'm not investigating! I just asked a couple questions for a friend, and I'm done.”

“You've been warned.” The line went dead.

Casey plunked onto the carpeted step. She stared at the screen's “Call One” message. She tried star sixty-nine to find the number and heard “We cannot complete your call as dialed.” She looked up the call log. No numbers displayed. This is what she got for buying the cheap package. Her cell phone wasn't listed in any directory that she knew of, nor had she added it to her business card. The only people who knew this, or about Summer, were friends and coworkers.

Casey thought she'd be sick.