There had to be a connection, a thread he could start pulling so that the entire tapestry of lies surrounding Pam’s death could be unraveled.
Careful to disturb nothing, he walked through the lower level, two bedrooms, a bath, and a family room turned into a den. Complete with a freestanding fireplace and surrounded by bookcases filled to overflowing with Pam Delacroix’s personal law library, the room was walled in dark paneling. A sliding door opened to a deck, beyond which was the bay.
Her computer sat on a corner desk and images of her daughter marched across the monitor.
Paterno didn’t hesitate and snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then, careful so as not to disturb anything, looked through Pamela Delacroix’s personal files. Neither Marla Cahill’s phone number nor address was listed. There were no notes about her. On the date of the accident, nothing was scribbled on the calendar.
“Great.”
There were books spread on the desk, legal references and manuals on police procedure and adoption, case histories of parental rights and, in the word processing programs, several chapters of a book that Pam had been working on. It looked like another legal thriller. So Pam Delacroix was hoping to cash in on the trend as so many other ex-lawyers before her.
The answering machine was blinking, so he hit the switch. Whoever had called had hung up without leaving a message.
Paterno made a mental note to check Pam’s phone records.
He left the den and climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor living area. Kitchen, living room and master bedroom and bath were as neat as her office was messy. Not a floral pillow out of place, not a crumb on the counter.
He glanced at the pictures in the bedroom, scattered along the bureau top. Sure enough there was the kid, Julie, in her graduation cap and gown, holding a white cat with black and orange patches.
Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. The closets were so neat as to have outfits arranged by color, the kitchen cup
boards and drawers looking as if Pam had been expecting a photographer from House Beautiful or her mother-in-law to make a surprise appearance.
But not so the den.
Returning to the work space, he did a little more digging, checked into the files that were listed as having been last used on the computer’s menu, but found only the roughed-in chapters of her book. Then he printed out the computer’s address book and calendar.
Pocketing the papers, he let himself out and locked the door behind him. The next time he showed up he would play by the rules.
He walked up the ramp to his Cadillac and glanced across the Bay to the Tiburon Peninsula, a posh, scenic jetty of land. Marla Cahill’s father, Conrad Amhurst, lived over there in a rest home. Paterno’s eyes narrowed and he slid into the Caddy, throwing it into gear and driving out of the parking lot. His kids called the car a boat and wanted him to trade it in on a newer model, but he loved the red leather interior and the spot on the dash where his father’s little statue of the Virgin had stood for nearly thirty years.
He didn’t think he’d sell the car. Not for a while.
“Mon dieu!” Helene, Eugenia’s personal hairdresser, took one look at Marla and nearly fainted right through the floor of the foyer. “But what happened?”
“I told you about the accident,” the older woman said.
“No. I mean . . . her hair.”
“Did it myself,” Marla said, somewhat amused at the tiny woman’s expression of sheer horror.
“Well, well, we will see . . . Oh, I will need to think on this.” Then, as if she realized how her words might affect her new client, she smiled. “It will be no trouble, though. I can do wonders. You have a beautiful face, one you should not hide, let me see . . . You are satisfied with the color?”
“I just need a trim,” Marla said, “something to even it up.”
Helene sent her a sly, if-you-only-knew look as they took the elevator to the suite and the hairdresser set about working her magic. She insisted upon shampooing, conditioning and cutting what was left of Marla’s hair. Her expression grim, as if her job was tantamount to sculpting a fifth face at Mount Rushmore, she worked, muttering under her breath, shaking her head and finally drying what, in Marla’s estimation, was a masterpiece. Soft wisps of mahogany locks nearly covered her scar then tapered in layers to her nape.
“You are lucky,” Helene said, tilting her head to admire her work. “Natural beauty.”
Marla cast her a wry look in the mirror where her face was still swollen and slightly bruised.
“Oh, yes,” Helene insisted. “This discoloration will soon disappear and with your cheekbones and eyes—you will be gorgeous. This I know.” She threw up one hand and rolled her expressive eyes. “You should see what I have to work with at times.”
“Thank you,” Marla said, and felt herself blush, warming under the compliment. Tonight, damn it, she’d actually take dinner with the family. So she had to have soup. So she still had the wires. It was her family and she needed to feel part of it, to connect with her daughter and her husband.
And she did look better, she thought, catching her image in a hall mirror as she walked Helene to the front door.
The telephone rang and she didn’t think twice about answering.