As I watched the EMTs set Tammie on a stretcher and hoist her into their vehicle with a Los Gatos policeman standing at the ready to help, I reflected on how people told themselves lie after lie, and ultimately, started to believe them. That was how they survived. With blinders on. Tammie had lied to herself for years about her daughter, just as she’d lied to herself about the rationale behind her extortion scheme.
“How are you feeling?” Detective Sergeant Quincy asked. Minutes after he’d appeared, he’d peppered me with questions, following which he’d arrested Mia Smith and tucked her, handcuffed, into his Atherton P.D. vehicle. He offered me a bottle of water. “How’s the head?”
“I’m okay.” I had allowed the EMTs to cursorily check me out and declare me fit to drive. I was bruised and battered and I ached to my core, but I wasn’t broken. I would go to the hospital of my own accord and get checked out fully after Quincy and I discussed everything. “How’s Herman Hoek?”
“He’s feeling better, but he’s still not remembering much.” Quincy smoothed the lapel of his jacket.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He doesn’t remember Miss Laplante’s daughter hitting him, although he does repeat in singsong fashion the words Brandt and plant.”
I held up a hand. “I’m afraid I might have put that rhyme into his head.”
“What he does remember,” Quincy continued, “is earlier that morning, before he was attacked, he was combing Viraj Patel’s backup data. He’d found a backdoor and was able to access Patel’s files and information on his cloud account. He didn’t remember what he’d found, so I had one of our tech guys scour it, and it turns out Patel had created a file for Tammie Laplante. In it, he’d recorded all of her outstanding debts. In addition, he’d located her private lender as well as the lawyer for whom Miss Laplante was, let’s say, doing specialty work. Subsequently, we’ve contacted that lawyer, who feebly admitted that he has been in contact”—Quincy mimed quotation marks—“with Miss Laplante. Needless to say, he clammed up and requested his own representation. I’m pretty sure he was taking a commission.”
I thanked Quincy for his help in solving my parents’ case.
He brushed my upper arm. “I know full well who did the solving, Miss Adams. I’m simply glad you have closure.”
I mentioned Dale Warwick’s death to him. “You might want to look into it.” I explained Warwick’s connection to William Fisher.
Quincy tapped his chin with his water bottle. “Interesting that you should mention that. We already have an answer in that matter. Warwick made a few enemies besides Fisher. Particularly in the gambling world, if you catch my drift. Fisher is blameless.”
Despite the fact that Fisher had taunted me with the baseball bat, I was actually glad to hear that he was innocent. His son would need his father to continue to fight for his freedom.
“Whenever you’re in town, stop by,” Quincy added. “Say hello.”
As he climbed into his SUV, I scanned the area for Kurt Brandt so I could thank him. He’d slipped away.
• • •
Feeling freer than I had in years, I swung by the hospital and got bandaged up in the emergency room. No stitches. No broken bones, although they insisted on splinting my finger. And they advised me to see my dentist when I got home. No teeth had fallen out, but one was loose. I returned to the rental house, packed my things, and leaving the house nearly as pristine as when I’d arrived, other than the shutter that I’d removed, I drove to Lake Tahoe.
As I was passing through Auburn, I found the energy to call my sister. Rosie picked up after three rings. She sounded groggy.
“Hey, little sis,” she slurred. “S’up?”
Despite her state of mind, I plowed ahead, recapping the showdown with Mia and Tammie.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “Mia?”
“Can pack a punch.”
“You’re okay?”
“Tougher than I look. Listen, Rosie, I don’t mean this in a bad way, but when you sober up—”
“I’m not wasted.” She coughed out a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m halfway wasted. I’m not good at waiting for answers.” She ended the call abruptly.
I worked the tension out of my shoulders, wincing as I moved the right one, and then phoned Nick. Yes, I’d spoken to him the moment I’d concluded with Quincy, but I wanted to hear his voice again.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asked.
“A kiss.”
“And?” His voice was warm and sexy.
“Steak. Rare.”
“Consider it done.”
I hoped I could chew.
• • •
When I arrived at the cabin, Nick, Candace, and Max were waiting for me. Cinder, too. Nick held a tight leash on the dog so he wouldn’t knock me over with his exuberance. Candace hugged me gingerly, as if I might break in two. Max stroked my cheek.
Nick waited his turn and kissed me gently on the lips. “You look pretty decent for a piñata,” he murmured.
Smiling hurt.
Candace said, “Did you call Mom?”
“Yes. She and I will talk in a few days.” I didn’t mention Rosie’s current state of health. “She was very excited to hear that the case was solved. She—”
“Whoa,” my aunt cut me off and pointed at my hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
I held out my arm, the ring sparkling in the foyer’s light. “It is.”
“You and Nick are engaged?” Candace squealed. “When? Why didn’t you tell us until now?”
“I wanted to do it in person.”
Max said, “Congratulations.”
Candace peppered Nick and me with questions. How? When? What did Nick say? Did he drop to one knee? She wanted specifics. A few minutes into our account, Max received a text and had to leave. She kissed me on both cheeks, whispered that she was as pleased as punch that I was alive, and forbade me to come to work tomorrow, advising me to take a day off to let it all sink in.
When Candace had exhausted a list of questions, she said, “I’m going to call Waverly. Is that okay? I want to tell her the good news.”
“Sure.”
In the kitchen, Nick stroked my back. “How was your sister really?”
“Not good.” I ran a hand through my ragged hair.
“Wine?”
“A goblet, please.”
Cinder, now off his leash, brushed my leg with his nose. I pulled a piece of dog-friendly jerky from a jar and handed him one. “Pillow,” I said, pointing to the living room, but he didn’t listen. He wouldn’t leave my side. “Fine. Sit by the door. Not under foot.” He understood that command and hunkered down.
Two hours later, after enjoying every bite of a delicious dinner of baked potato, asparagus, and grilled steak—the trick was cutting my steak into small pieces—I felt as if my jeans had suddenly become two sizes too small. I switched into my sweats, threw on a parka, and ambled to the back porch. I nestled into one of the patio chairs, inhaled the scent of pine, and let the cool breeze lick my face. Tahoe. Heaven. Home.
Nick passed through the kitchen door and let the screen door swing shut. “I solved the ski resort murder.” He handed me a snifter of brandy.
“Good for you. Who did it?”
“His ex-wife,” he said. “He’d jacked her in the divorce settlement. She wasn’t pleased.”
“Isn’t it amazing what people will do for money?”
“Glad I split mine down the middle with my ex.”
I took a sip of the brandy. It burned my throat but in a good way. I peered up at him.
He bent to kiss my forehead. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“Me, too.”