Chapter Nineteen

Prior to leaving New York, disturbing dreams had plagued Laura. A psychiatrist had diagnosed her with post traumatic stress syndrome.

The panic attack that hit a few minutes before three in the morning left her drenched in sweat. She lay in bed, thinking about all of it—Jolly’s death, Elio Casper’s threat, falling in a grave and landing on top of a skeleton, the white roses—and at the same time trying not to think about any of it.

Her skin was on fire. She peeled off her pjs, stepped into the shower, and scrubbed herself from head to toe. For a full thirty minutes she stood there letting the warm water flow over her skin. She brushed her teeth, gargled with mouthwash, put on a fresh set of pajamas, and crawled back into bed.

She fought against the urge to do it all over again. This time she was cold and shivery, and the clothes touching her body felt scratchy and irritating. She struggled to ward off the panic. She got out of bed and paced the length of the room and back. She walked out to the sun porch. The monotonous clanging of the buoy escalated her tension. She turned to go back to bed and stubbed her little toe against the coffee table leg. “Ouch! Shit!”

A light went on from the other side of the porch. She had awakened her aunt.

“Laura?”

“Go back to bed, Aunt Philly. I’m okay.” And the tears came.

Phyllis folded Laura into her arms. She soothed her with cooing sounds. “How about a cup of my special hot chocolate?”

Laura nodded against her aunt’s shoulder. “Make mine with a double shot of amaretto.”

At four in the morning, she sat on the bed, shivering, cradling the mug of chocolate. “I hate not being able to control these attacks. It comes over me like a storm. I feel weak and out of control.”

“Listen to me, Laura Friday. You’ve had a trauma that most women will never experience in their entire lifetime. It’s barely been four months since you were shot. You lost your best friend, and you came close to losing your own life. Then you uprooted from everything familiar, moved here, and dove right into running a newspaper. Healing, both physically and mentally, takes time—months, maybe years.”

Phyllis scooted to the edge of the chair. She tucked the blanket tighter around Laura’s body. “It’s been eons since I’ve had a real vacation. Never had a reason to take one. It will do us both good to get away. So, when fall comes, I propose we take ourselves a Mediterranean cruise. Instead of mooning over the travel brochures collecting dust on my bedside table, I say let’s make it a reality. We both need a change of scenery. What do you say to that?”

Laura swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Works for me.”

Phyllis looked at the clock. She gathered the mugs. “Try to get some rest.”

When the shivering subsided, tiredness overtook Laura. She drifted off and slept.

The sound of birds tweeting jerked her awake. She opened her eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the open mini-blinds. The clock read eight forty-five. Two hours past her usual rising time. She awoke with the awareness that she was alive, and all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. She felt shattered. Completely exhausted. She forced herself to stand up and stretch. Limping to the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee, and took the cup onto the sun porch so she could see the trees. The branches swayed in the wind, dancing, the puffy white clouds behind them scudding along at a merry pace—the promise of a pleasant day.

She watched Benjamin Noone with his hedge clippers trimming the topiaries, and then Maudie Perry approached him with the usual morning cup of coffee and the little white sack, which Laura knew contained a bagel with cream cheese and lox. The odd relationship between Maudie and Benjamin stymied her.

Her cell phone chimed. She half hopped, half limped to the bedroom. Mitch’s cell number. She answered on the fourth ring.

Her voice was breathless when she spoke. “Mitch?”

“Good morning, Friday. Thought you’d like to know the ME faxed his report to me this morning.”

Her heart quickened. “And?”

“Dental analysis confirms our skeleton is definitely Lynnette Braswell. He also faxed a copy of the forensic artist’s composite, which is a close match to the photo in the newspaper article. Exact cause of death—cervical fracture.”

“What happens now?”

“The ME will put out the usual seventy-two-hour search for family members. If no one claims the body, he’ll see to the cremation.”

“Was there anything in the report to point a finger toward who might have killed her?”

“Ten years is a long time. The ME’s report was thorough. Unfortunately, nothing. At least our girl is no longer a Jane Doe.”

Laura sat on the bed to take the pressure off her leg. She sighed. “It’s too bad she remains a cold case. Guess we can be thankful part of the mystery is solved. Anything more about the peeping tom?”

“Case closed. But, Friday…I do have another piece of news. It’s about Elio Casper.”

Unease rippled over her. Bitter bile from the coffee rose in her throat. She swallowed, closed her eyes, forced herself to take slow breaths.

“Okay.” Her voice came out in a gravelly whisper.

She listened, uncertain she’d heard his words correctly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “I don’t think I can, Mitch.”

“Gotta go. Louise is signaling that I have a call on the office line. We’ll talk later.”

A queasy discomfort gurgled in Laura’s stomach, like when she’d had one too many gin and tonics. Placing both hands over her mouth, she swallowed the scream. Her heart pounded in her throat. Her legs felt rubbery, and she wasn’t sure she could make it to the bathroom.

Shrugging out of her pajamas, Laura cranked on the shower taps and stepped under the spray. She stood there with her head hanging down and Mitch’s words sifting through her mind. Elio Casper was dead. Stabbed during an exercise session in the prison yard. And Mario Gombiani, drug lord? Gunned down in a feud over territories.

Her entire body trembled, her breaths weren’t breaths at all but hiccup-like sobs. And then she felt something amazing. Peace.