A soft knock snapped me out of my blissful nothingness.
“What now?” I whispered. I spent a second wondering what would happen if I ignored the intrusion. Only Mom would knock on my bathroom door. “What is it, Mother?”
A deeper voice than I expected answered. “It’s Detective West. Um . . . your mother was up to her elbows in the kitchen. . . . She said you were upstairs and sent me up. . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I mean . . .”
Annoyance melted under the heat of concern. West wouldn’t come by unless he had something important. “I’ll be out in a minute—make that five minutes.”
“I’ll wait downstairs. . . . I mean, of course I’ll wait downstairs.”
He sounded flustered. Not used to knocking on a lady’s bathroom door. “That would be best.”
I popped the stopper and rose from the tub. Water cascaded off my body like a heavy rain. I felt an odd embarrassment knowing that West had stood outside the door a moment before. More nonsense. I slipped from the tub, toweled off, and dressed in a pair of jeans and one of my husband’s old dress shirts. I often wore his shirts when I felt depressed or ill at ease.
I trotted downstairs barefoot and found West seated at the dining room table, a cup of coffee before him. Also seated there were my father and Celeste. Mother stepped from behind the kitchen counter. “Will you stay for dinner, Detective West? We have plenty of pork chops and I’ve made gravy for the mashed potatoes.”
“Not the best meal for the ol’ ticker,” Dad added, “but it’s a great way to go.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I have a deskful of paperwork to do.”
“Are you sure?” Mom pressed. “Jerry will be joining us. The more the merrier.”
“He is?” I said. This was news to me.
“Didn’t I tell you? He called a few minutes before you got home. He wanted to know how you were doing after all the excitement. I guess I forgot. I do that a lot lately.”
I took a seat at the end of the table. “He saw me at the hospital. I was fine then—”
“Hospital?” West said. “You were in the hospital?”
I shook my head. “Not in the way you mean. My assistant, Randi, was hurt. I was visiting her.” I related the events at the coffee shop, noticing that I was speaking of them as if they were part of my usual routine. I could tell West wasn’t buying the act. He pressed his lips into a line.
“You still with us, Detective?” I asked.
His head snapped up. “Yes. I have some news about Mrs. Stout. The blood tests came back. We’re a little surprised.”
“Surprised?” I looked at Celeste. She sat in sober silence.
“Yes. Her death may have been accidental.”
“She was tied to the pier,” I said. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“I’m not saying a crime wasn’t committed. Obviously one has—several, actually. But the autopsy and toxicology report show something different, unexpected.”
“How did Lizzy die?” I asked bluntly. It was time to get to the point.
“Anaphylactic shock.”
No one spoke. The pork chops sizzled in the kitchen.
“What’s that?” Celeste asked.
“It’s an allergic reaction to a substance.”
“She died of allergies?”
West shook his head. “She died because she was extremely allergic to something. Anaphylaxis is an extreme response to a substance. For example, some people are allergic to shellfish or nuts. The most common problem is with insects.”
“When I was teaching,” Mom said, “I had a student who was allergic to bee stings. He carried a little medical kit with a syringe in case he was ever stung.”
“Exactly. Lizzy died of something similar.” West paused, as if trying to convince himself of the statement he was about to make. “She died of an ant bite.”
He let the absurd announcement sink in, then continued. “We almost missed it. There was tissue-swelling from the time she spent submerged, and the mussels on the pier damaged her back. After the blood work came, Dr. Egan reexamined her body. He found a bite just below the right shoulder blade. There was one on the shoulder too. Remember, we thought it might be an injection mark?”
“You’re saying she wasn’t murdered?” my father asked.
“Not directly, but the abductor will be charged with murder anyway. Even an accidental death is considered murder if it happens during or because of a felonious act. This doesn’t change anything in our investigation, but I promised to keep you posted.”
I didn’t know what to make of his revelation. An ant! It was unbelievable. “You’re saying a bug killed Lizzy?”
“Not just any bug. Most likely it was a red imported fire ant.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Dad said. “They came from South America, right?”
West leaned back in his chair. He looked tired. “The Scientific Investigation detective contacted an entomologist for me. The ants were introduced to our country in the 1930s. They’ve been spreading ever since. I’m told their bite is vicious. Perhaps I should say their sting. The entomologist told me that these fire ants bite with their mandibles but then sting their victims with a stinger in their abdomen. They can sting more than one time. For most of us it would be painful, but Mrs. Stout was allergic to insect bites. I spoke to her husband. She’d had problems before, but apparently she was especially susceptible to this particular venom.”
“Why don’t I feel any better?” I asked.
“There’s only one reason to feel any better about all this,” West suggested. “Since Mrs. Stout was not intentionally killed, there is hope that, well—”
“That my mother is still alive,” Celeste said.
Mom put a hand on her shoulder. “We can hope and pray.”
“What now?” I asked.
“Things continue on,” West replied. “We continue our aggressive investigation. We continue the search.”
My head was beginning to ache again. The thought of something as small as a red ant killing an acquaintance of mine seemed fictional. Did such things happen in real life? The answer was obvious but it didn’t satisfy.
“How is Leo doing?” I wondered.
West shook his head. “Not good. He’s taking this very hard, and who can blame him. I spoke to him before coming here. He took the news without emotion but looked like he was going to melt right in front of me. He said he was going to stay with his sister in Thousand Oaks. He gave me the address and phone number. I think he just wants to get out of the house. Too many memories and all that.”
“Seems wise,” Dad said. Mom agreed.
“He knew how susceptible she was to ant bites?” I asked. I didn’t want to go further, but West picked up on my thoughts.
“You’re wondering if he could be the murderer.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Too much has happened. I’m not at my best. It’s wrong for me to even entertain such a thought.”
“No, it isn’t,” West said. “We’re investigating him. We investigate every possibility. My gut, however, tells me he’s nothing more than a heartbroken husband.”
I nodded but said nothing. I was feeling rung out again.
Silence hovered over the table for a few moments, and then West stood. “I must be going. Thank you for the invitation to dinner.”
“You won’t reconsider?” Mom asked.
He smiled and shook his head. “No, I really must get back to the office.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I said, rising.
“No need, I can—”
“I want to see my father.”
The words were so soft, it took me a moment to realize what I was hearing and who it was that said it. “What was that, Celeste?”
Celeste sat unmoving, her eyes directed at the table.
“I want to see my father,” she repeated louder.
The doorbell rang.
“That must be Jerry,” Mom said cheerfully.
A
fter her announcement, Celeste had gone to the guest room and refused to come out. Mom, who could talk a lobster into boiling water for a swim, was able to convince her to take the plate of food she had prepared. It took a while and several requests but Celeste agreed to meet with me. She refused to talk about her reasons for the sudden change but she was resolute in her decision. I used all my interpersonal and negotiating skills trying to convince her to let me set up the meeting, suggesting that Detective West should make the contact and that the meeting should take place in City Hall. If I couldn’t control the decision, I could at least attempt to control the venue. Celeste agreed quickly enough. I left worried.
The next day I rose early and, foregoing my usual workout, went downstairs and made coffee. The morning passed slowly. I went to the office, arranged for the conference room, alerted security, and placed a call to West. I learned that Truccoli had agreed to the ten o’clock meeting time I’d requested.
Decent of him.
West also said he would send an officer over just in case things went sour. I thanked him, returned a few calls, reviewed the next council agenda, and did anything that would help keep my mind off the pending reunion.
I could think of no reason why Celeste would change her mind. From the moment of her mother’s disappearance, she had insisted that she wanted nothing to do with her father. The anger I had seen in her eyes and heard in her voice was genuine. Why request to see the beast now? No explanations surfaced in the dark waters of my mind.
At nine-thirty I left the office and made my way to the car. Security, who had remained alert since the second abduction and tense since Truccoli’s last visit, insisted that a guard escort me from the office to my vehicle. I didn’t argue.
Ten minutes later I had Celeste in my car, and we made our way back to City Hall. When I arrived, the security guard was waiting for me. He was leaning against Jon Adler’s car and smoking a cigarette. I considered telling him he shouldn’t lean against a councilman’s car but then tossed the idea.
He can slice Adler’s tires for all I care.
“We’ll meet in here,” I told Celeste as we exited the private elevator used by council members and staff and entered the conference room. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
I started to press her for a reason but stopped. “I can still stay, can’t I?”
She nodded.
I led her to the head of the table and let her sit. Placing a hand on her shoulder, I said, “I’m here for you. I’ll be right behind you. If you want the meeting to end, just say so. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
She looked like a steel spring too-long wound. Something was going to give.
The phone buzzed and I picked up. “Yes.” It was Fritzy. I listened, thanked her, hung up, and took a deep breath. “He’s here.” I didn’t think it possible but Celeste tensed all the more.
It would only take a minute for Fritzy to lead Truccoli from her desk in the lobby to the conference room. Not that he needed leading; he had been here before. That time, however, he had left in handcuffs. The image brought me a moment’s pleasure.
The door opened and I saw Fritzy come in and stand to the side. Two men filled the entry: Truccoli and a stranger in a dark suit.
Lawyer.
“Madam Mayor, Mr. Truccoli is here for his meeting.” Fritzy tended toward the formal when nervous.
“Thank you, Ms. Fritz.”
“Can I get anyone something to drink—”
“No. We’re fine.”
The two men entered. I made eye contact with Truccoli and felt a strong urge to look away. I rejected the desire. We were on my turf; I refused to give away that advantage, little as it was.
“Madam Mayor,” the stranger said. He was a short man with ruddy skin, dark eyes, and thick brown hair. He carried a calfskin briefcase. On his wrist was a Rolex. “My name is Matt Stover of Stover, Richman, and Newcomb, Attorneys at Law. I’m here in my capacity as counsel to Mr. Truccoli. Thank you for meeting with us.”
I gave a polite nod.
Truccoli stood just at the foot of the table. He was wearing a dark-blue polo shirt and tan pants. He appeared calm, even friendly. The sight of him made my gut twist. He turned his eyes from me and looked at Celeste. At first his face showed no expression; then a slight smile pushed up the corners of his mouth.
“We appreciate this meeting,” Stover said, stepping to the table. “I know there has been some tension between you and Mr. Truccoli, but there is no need for this to be an adversarial gathering.” He pulled out a chair, set his briefcase on the table, and began to seat himself. Then he noted I was still standing. To his credit, he remained on his feet. Someone had instilled manners and a sense of protocol in the man. “Should we sit?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
He pursed his lips, then folded his hands in front of him. “Mr. Truccoli would like to express—”
“Celeste,” Truccoli said, his smile now Cheshire cat wide. If only he would have disappeared as quickly. “Celeste, I’ve missed you.” He held out his arms and approached her.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare touch me.” I could see her eyes puddle and her jaw set tight.
“But, baby, it’s been a long time and we’ve been through so much together.”
“Long time is right! Too long. And we haven’t been through anything together. You’ve been gone. No calls. No letters. Nothing.”
“I came as fast as I could, sweetheart. I hopped the first plane out of town and came to Santa Rita. I came to be with you.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can hop the next plane out. I don’t need you. You didn’t need Mom, you didn’t need me, and now I don’t need you.”
“Miss Truccoli,” Stover said, “if you’ll give your father a chance, I’m sure—”
“He doesn’t deserve a chance.”
Truccoli’s smile melted and his eyes hardened like stone. My mouth went dry. I was simultaneously proud of Celeste and frightened for her. Her words and the power with which she fired them were surprising.
“Listen, baby, your mother and I had our problems. Things didn’t work out and we went our separate ways. This tragedy should pull us together. I want to be here for you.”
“I don’t want you!” Celeste shouted, her voice rebounding off the walls. I flinched and Truccoli blinked hard. “As far as I’m concerned, you are just one tragedy in my life. What has happened . . . is happening to Mom is another.”
Truccoli’s spine stiffened and his mouth drew tight. I had seen this look on his face before and I didn’t like it.