Molly fell into bed and almost forgot her nightly prayers. She opened her eyes and glanced at her father’s photo on the nightstand. It had been a while since she had found a need to tell him the latest news. She wondered if it was a sign of maturity, or just a dose of reality. Happy people didn’t talk to photos, even those of loved ones. Molly had been happy for quite a few months. But once again, events were piling up around her. The solace of speaking freely and from deep within her heart weakened her resolve to act with some semblance of normality.
“Carrie’s at it again,” she murmured. “Will she never leave me in peace? Why does she have this need to bedevil me? Why?” She turned away from her father’s photo, closed her eyes, and said her prayers. Since she was in a talkative mood, she decided her best bet was a chat with the Big Guy.
It’s
me,
Molly Doyle. You busy?
She hesitated for a moment. She punched her pillow into submission, then fussed with the duvet. She wanted to word her plea carefully. She didn’t want to sound whiny or ungrateful. The words would not form. She had so much to be thankful for already. With all the sorrow in the world, asking for anything would sound greedy.
Never mind. You already know what’s
on
my mind. You’ve already got a plan. Whatever you decide is fine. I can handle it. Just thought I’d drop in and say hello.
While trying to zip her mind shut and nod off, Molly thought she heard a noise outside on the balcony. She turned over to squint at the French doors and pulled off the duvet covering most of her head. Her brain tried to label the sound. She settled on wrought iron scraping on the terra-cotta tiles. A cat, no doubt jumping off one of the small bistro chairs she and Emma had found a months ago at a garage sale. Carmel, the locals liked to boast, had more cats per capita than any city in California. It might even have been one of those pesky raccoons. She was about to accept that scenario, when the next noise she heard was a loud thud.
Molly threw off the duvet and tiptoed to the French doors. She carefully pulled the drapery aside. She didn’t have time to have hysterics, or to worry about stepping outside in the long, ratty T-shirt she wore to bed. She unlocked the door, yanked it open, then tried to help Susan Jessop up. “Oh, God, what now?” Molly wrapped an arm around Susan’s waist and helped her into the bedroom. Susan was mumbling, but Molly couldn’t understand a word. She managed to sit Susan on the bed, then waved her hand in front of her face. “Hello? Susan? What happened?”
Susan’s eyelids fluttered. She took in deep breaths and finally managed to speak. “I didn’t know where else to go.” She grabbed Molly’s hands. “Someone...someone tried to kill me, Molly! He was in the apartment when I got home. I...I walked in and that’s the last thing I remember until I woke up. My head hurts.”
“Let’s get you to the living room. We need to call Chief Randall.”
“No!” Susan blurted. “No cops. I just needed a place to feel safe. I thought of you first. Please, Molly, if I could rest on your sofa for a little while. I...I won’t keep you up all night.”
Molly helped Susan to the living room and eased her gently onto the sofa. “I’ll get you some water. I’d offer something stronger, but it might not be a good idea if you have a concussion. You need to get checked out, Susan. At least let me take you to Emergency.”
“Just some water. I’ll be okay.”
When Molly returned to the living room with Susan’s water, she found Susan trying to comb her hair with her hands. She kept her voice low so Emma wouldn’t hear them. “What makes you think someone tried to kill you? It could have been a burglar or even a rapist.”
Susan took a long sip of water before replying. “Nothing is missing.” Her voice became harsher. “And if I’d been raped, I think I’d know it.”
Molly saw the fear in her expression and wondered why she refused to report this to the police. “Let me get you a blanket. Stay the night. But I have to tell you that if we don’t call Randall right now, it’s going to be tough for him to find whoever did this to you. If I don’t call him, then I’m in hot water.” Molly reached for the box on the coffee table and pulled out a cigarette. “I get into enough trouble on my own. I don’t need your problems adding to my ledger.” She lit the cigarette and stared at Susan. “Well? What’s it going to be?” When Susan looked away and didn’t answer, Molly said, “You’ve already lied to me once, Susan. How do I know you’re telling the truth now?”
Susan’s head jerked back. “I’ve never lied to you.”
Molly could have slit her own throat for that slip-up. “Okay, I’ll take that back. Let’s amend that to, what the hell is going on between you and Carla? I’m not buying into that commiserating act I saw at the tasting room.”
Molly watched Susan’s face for those tell-tale signs Randall had once told her about. He said liars usually furrowed their brows, avoided eye contact, fiddled with something in their hands. However, the really good ones, he’d said, gave you full eye contact: wide open with a hint of calm and sincerity. Susan leaned in and crossed her arms on her knees, as if narrowing the distance between them. She appeared to be moving closer, trying to establish a heartfelt connection. Her eyes were open and clear. “I called Carla a day or so after I saw you. I...well, I realized she had been fooled by Todd as badly as I was. He was dead, but we were victims as well. I thought if we showed a united front, well, it would be an inspiration to other women with rats for husbands.”
Molly took in every inch of her body language. She didn’t buy the story anyway, but she nodded sympathetically. “That’s awfully generous of you two.”
Susan sniffed. “We both agreed it was time to let women know they didn’t have to be adversaries in situations such as this.” Tears welled up, and she sniffled again. She looked around the living room. “My bag? Did you bring it in with you? I must have dropped it. I really need to blow my nose.”
Molly said, “I only brought you in. Are you sure you had it with you?”
“Of course.”
Molly rose. “Stay put. I’ll get it for you.”
She turned on the light on the balcony and saw Susan’s purse under the small round bistro table. Susan must have dropped it when she fell over the cat dish. Molly picked up the wallet and keys, put them in the bag, and then reached for a small notebook and several business cards. She was about to add them, when her eyes zeroed in on one of the cards. Molly bit her lip when she read the heading on the card. The
Enquirer?
She shoved everything into the bag and hurried back to the living room. “I found it. It was under the table.” She handed the bag to Susan. “I’ll get a blanket and pillow for you.”
Susan reached into her bag and pulled out a small packet of Kleenex. She smiled at Molly. “You’ve been so kind to take me in like this, but I can’t impose. I think I’ll go across the street to the Pine Inn and check in there for the night. I had a moment to think about things while you were gone. You’re right, I should call the police. It probably was a burglar. They should know in case that person comes back. I’m sure I surprised him and he panicked when he hit me.” She rose from the sofa. “If you could just walk me out?” She gave Molly a tiny smile. “Maybe watch me cross the street?”
Molly wasn’t that anxious to have Susan Jessop on her sofa, and she quickly agreed. “If you’ll be more comfortable, I’d be happy to walk over with you.”
“No, you’ve done enough.”
When Molly got back to the apartment, she was so revved up by this new discovery, she almost called Randall. She looked at the cat clock in the kitchen and was shocked to see it was almost two A.M. Her news would have to wait until morning. She climbed into bed but could not sleep. A cavalcade of events danced through her mind, teasing with possibilities so crazy they could possibly be true. Was Susan Jessop planning on selling her story to the
Enquirer?
Had they contacted her, or the other way around? Could the “Larry King Live” show be far behind? Was this act with Carla the beginning of a talk-show circuit and lecture series for discarded wives? The other thing that tugged at her brain was Susan’s makeup. It was perfect. At this time of the night? After a long, emotional day and an evening out? Had she stopped to freshen her lipstick after she’d been hit over the head? And why was she so reluctant to call Randall? Maybe because she was lying?
Chapter 28
MOLLY CALLED Randall and told him about Susan’s visit the next morning while Emma was in the shower. “I don’t believe a word of it,” she snapped, “and I hate being taken for a fool!”
“Sounds fishy to me, too. Okay, sit on it. Don’t let on I know. What time are you going to Mass?”
“I’m shooting for eleven.”
“I won’t see you then. I’m going up to San Jose with Loomis. We’ve got some leads to check out.”
Molly’s eyes lit up. “Oh? Anything you can tell me?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s not fair! Damn it! I tell
you
everything!”
Randall chuckled. “You’re supposed to. Later, okay? I’ll call you when I get back.”
Molly was no sooner off the telephone than it rang. It was Marshall Macomber.
“Would it be possible,” Macomber asked, “to move lunch up to noon? Some things have come up at my office, and I’ll have to return home later today.”
“Not a problem. I’ll change the reservation.”
Molly checked her watch when she hung up. It was already ten-thirty. The Mission San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo that she and Emma attended each Sunday was only five minutes away. Emma would have to change into her new clothes right away. Molly found her on the balcony. “Lunch has been moved to noon. Come in and change pronto, okay? We won’t have time after Mass. Call me when you’re ready to go. I’ll be downstairs with Bitsy.”
Molly had been dreading telling Bitsy about Macomber. She knew she couldn’t sit on the problem any longer. Bitsy adored Emma, and Molly was worried that she would be heartbroken if they lost her. Nonetheless, it was time to bite the bullet.
The shop had been open for a half hour and Bitsy was showing a customer the intricacies of an American Victorian burr walnut dressing table. It was a lovely piece with an arched beveled mirror, fitted with six small drawers and one secret compartment. Molly knew it was worth more than the eight hundred she marked on the tag, but as handsome as it was, the piece didn’t mix well with the English and French furniture Molly preferred to stock. She decided she would talk to Bitsy after dropping Emma off for lunch.
Mass was later a hazy dream for Molly. She hardly remembered when to stand, kneel, or sit. She barely heard the priest, and it almost bothered her to see how calm Emma was. Her gaze wandered around the simple, yet somehow elegant church. Emma was so taken after her first visit, she made it a point to learn the history of this second mission built in California. She had checked out a book from the library and given Molly the full rundown.
The several restorations over the years of the Moorish buildings and the now-beautiful grounds made it unlike the other missions up and down the coast of California. She remembered Emma excitedly telling her that even the walls inside this church were different from the other missions. Tapering inward, they formed a catenary (like the St. Louis Gateway Arch) instead of a Hat ceiling. Molly had been surprised to learn the mission had originally been built in 1770 in Monterey, and was moved to Carmel in 1771. Molly knew it was the resting place of Junípero Serra, the founder of the long string of California missions, but she pretended to be surprised. What she did know, she’d proudly told Emma, was that it is one of the most important in California, and is one of three basilicas on the West Coast.
Molly closed her eyes and ignored what the priest was saying. She had only one thing on her mind, and that was whether Emma would be swayed by Marshall Macomber. Time and again, Emma had said how much she loved living in Carmel. Molly prayed she would remember that.
Emma had barely said a word on the way to Mass or on the trip back downtown, which unnerved Molly no end. Her hands were clammy as she gripped the steering wheel. She turned off Ocean Avenue onto Dolores Street searching for a parking place. “Damn, town is loaded today. Maybe we can find something around the block on Lincoln.”
“Just let me off in front of Daria’s,” Emma said. “I can go in by myself. You don’t have to come with me.”
“I wouldn’t think of doing that. That would be rude. Besides, what would Mr. Macomber think? And you don’t know what he looks like.”
Emma turned away from Molly. “I remember him from the beach. I’ll tell him I insisted you didn’t come with me.”
Molly was stunned by the flat tone of Emma’s voice. She double-parked in front of Daria’s, then touched Emma’s arm. “I’ll be in the back room with Daria. Meet me there, okay?”
Emma opened the van’s door. “Have you told Bitsy yet?”
Molly sighed. “Have you been peeking into my mind? Not yet.”
Emma stepped out. She didn’t turn around but said over her shoulder, “Maybe you should do that first. When I go in, I’ll find Daria and tell her you’ll be back later.”
Molly wasn’t sure who the adult was here. She knew Emma was right, but it rankled her a bit to think she was being given a slight scolding for not doing her duty. “Good idea,” she finally said. “I’ll see you later.”