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  “Drunk driving, domestic abuse, bar punch-ups — there’s plenty here.”

  Plenty of crime, but not the sort that pays for Armani. Something didn’t add up. I sat at the table, turning the mug in my hands. “Are you from the area?”

  “From San Francisco, but I’m based now in Angels Camp.” He sat and pulled a yellow pad from his briefcase, a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Tell me about the morning you and your sister discovered Mrs. Duarte.”

  I ran him through it, and he took notes, asking probing questions. “Was the alley door locked when you arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both locks?”

  I rubbed my chin with my knuckles. “Jayce had to unlock the bolt and the lock in the doorknob. It’s the same key.”

  “To your knowledge, what was the relationship between Alicia Duarte and your sister?”

  “They were friendly acquaintances.”

  “And with her husband?”

  “My sister and Mr. Duarte were friends.”

  “Only friends?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Only friends.”

  “Ms. Bonheim—”

  “Karin.”

  “Karin. If I’m going to help your sister, I need to have the truth.”

  “That is the truth. They were friends, as I’m sure Jayce told you.” I tapped my foot beneath the table.

  “But Brayden wanted more.”

  “Jayce didn’t encour…” I clamped my mouth shut. Damn, I was slipping. “I don’t know what Brayden wanted.”

  “But you know something.”

  I hesitated. “I went by Brayden’s house yesterday.”

  “You did? Why?” he asked sharply.

  “A condolence visit. I brought him a casserole.”

  “Awkward, since your sister’s the prime suspect in his wife’s murder.”

  Prime suspect? I crashed to earth. A part of me had clung to the hope the sheriff had other ideas. “Yeah. I asked him if he knew who might have wanted to hurt his wife.”

  “And did he?”

  “He was certain Jayce didn’t.”

  “Too certain?”

  “What do you mean?” I knew exactly what he meant. Why was I dragging my heels on this?

  “Was he covering for her?”

  “My sister didn’t kill Alicia.”

  “But how would he know that? Why would he be so sure? His wife has been killed, found in the café of a woman he knows, a woman he may or may not have an interest in. He’d have to be a blind fool or a liar to say he’s certain your sister wasn’t involved.”

  I pressed my lips into a slash. “Do you believe my sister’s innocent?”

  “What I believe doesn’t matter. We need to make sure a jury believes.”

  “A jury.” My grip tightened on the mug. “This is going to trial?”

  “Alicia Duarte died in your sister’s café. Your sister lives above the café, and her apartment has a stairway leading into the kitchen. If Jayce is innocent, a jury is going to wonder why she didn’t hear anything downstairs.”

  “She was out late the night before, and she’s a heavy sleeper. And maybe Alicia got into the café after Jayce left to pick me up from the hospital.”

  “It’s unlikely,” he said. “Alicia left her house at ten o’clock that night. What was she doing between then and five a.m. the next morning, when your sister went to collect you?”

  Fear coiled in my chest. The lawyer was right, dammit. “You don’t sound convinced by Jayce’s story. Will you be able to present a strong defense?”

  “That’s what I’m paid for.” He rose. “I’ve already said this to your sister, but stay away from Brayden Duarte. Mixing with him now doesn’t look good, and you can’t trust the man.”

  “What do you mean?” I set the mug on the table too hard and winced.

  He smiled, shark-like. “The most likely suspect is always the spouse.”

  “My visit to Brayden’s house wasn’t a waste. According to Brayden, the sheriff had a reason to want Alicia dead. She’s investigating the case. It’s a conflict of interest.”

  “How does he figure that?”

  “Alicia ran an investigative story about the sheriff’s husband. Apparently he was involved in a corruption scandal. Because of her story, he went to jail.”

  He snapped shut his briefcase. “Stay away from Brayden.”

  What I wanted to say: You’re not the boss of me!

  What I said: “Fine.”

  Suddenly, he grinned. “You’re not going to stay away from him, are you?”

  “Maybe,” I said, feigning indifference.

  “By the way, what do you think of Jayce’s assistant manager, Darla Ashfield?”

  I nodded. At least he was thinking. Jayce wasn’t the only person with a key to Ground. “Darla also has a key, but I have a hard time seeing her involved.”

  “Why not?”

  Jayce’s assistant manager was smart, hardworking, and considerate. None of those traits were reasons to assume her innocence. But disaster seemed to follow in Darla’s wake, along with broken plates and mugs and plumbing. I no longer wondered why Jayce kept the young woman. My sister was a scavenger at heart, bringing home stray animals and plant clippings and the unemployable, such as Darla. What I wondered was how she could afford it. “Darla’s not very lucky.”

  “You don’t strike me as superstitious. Does it take luck to be a murderer?”

  So much for him being a good judge of character. “Someone got Alicia inside Ground and killed her, either while Jayce was asleep upstairs or when she went to get me at the hospital. I’d say that would take luck, brains and grit. Darla’s only got two of the three. Besides, as far as I can tell, there’s no connection between Darla and Alicia.”

  “But you weren’t close to Alicia, were you?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Let me handle this case.” He smiled briefly. “Don’t worry. I’m smarter than I look.”

  I hoped so. Because he looked awfully good.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My hands in a death grip on the steering wheel, I turned into the alley behind my sister’s café.

  Lenore had called. Our aunt was sleeping, and the doctors said she could be released at one o’clock. I should have been relieved. I guess a part of me was. But all I could think about was my coming loss and Jayce. The sheriff had released her, but I knew this wasn’t over.

  I pulled into a narrow parking space beside a dumpster and rested my head for a moment on the steering wheel. Not bothering to lock up, I walked toward Ground’s rear door.

  A pile of rags slumped beneath an exterior stairway, and I paused. Leery, I slowed, and a pair of worn shoes came into view. The homeless man from yesterday. Could he have seen someone around the time of the murder?

  I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”

  The man raised his head, his startling blue eyes locking with mine.

  I drew in my breath, smiled. “My name’s Karin. I noticed you here yesterday morning.”

  He rose, knocking a garbage can sideways. It clattered to the ground, and he righted it.

  “Did you see anyone else here, before my sister and I arrived yesterday morning?”

  He shambled off.

  “Wait, please!”

  I hurried after him.

  He whirled, snarling, fists clenched.

  I drew away. He stank of urine and rotting things. His muscles vibrated with tension, his blue eyes blazing above hollowed cheeks.

  Eyes watering, I swallowed. “It’s important,” I said in a low voice. “Did you see anyone yesterday aside from my sister and me?”

  He batted a garbage can toward me.

  I skipped backwards, and the lid rolled past my feet. “Hey!”

  The man lurched down the alley, turned a corner.

  Unsteady, I returned the garbage can to its place, wiping my hands on the front of my slacks. I wasn’t going to chase after him — not without male backup. Nick Hea
thcoat? I made a face. There was no way Mr. Armani would dirty his hands chasing a homeless man.

  I walked to Ground and rattled the knob. Locked. I rapped on the door.

  After a minute, it opened, and Darla Ashfield stuck her blond head into the alley. Her toffee-colored eyes crinkled in a smile. “Karin! Hi.”

  Balancing a tray of coffee mugs on one arm, she let me inside. The tray angled sideways. Mugs cascaded to the flecked linoleum floor and shattered. “Damn it!” She flushed, the freckles in her fair skin darkening, and grabbed a broom off the wall. Darla whipped around. Something yanked her head backwards. “Ow!” The broom clattered to the floor, and she reached behind her, writhing.

  Baffled, I stared. “Uh, need some help?”

  The assistant manager struggled, the back of her head seemingly pinned to the wall. “My hair. It’s stuck.”

  I reached behind Darla and disentangled her bun from the broom hook. “I’ve heard of bad hair days, but this is ridiculous. There you go.”

  Wincing, she rubbed her skull and motioned down the narrow hall. “Come on in. Jayce is in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” I left Darla sweeping up shards of broken mugs. At least they’d been empty. This time.

  Jayce paced in the small kitchen, her long, carob-colored hair loosely knotted. She wore a low-cut tank and jeans. A silver dream-catcher pendant hung low between her breasts.

  Darla entered the room and emptied the dustpan into a bin.

  My sister gestured through the open curtains toward the entry to the café, blocked by police tape. “They said we can’t open today.” Jayce halted in the doorway, staring into the café. “I can’t open, can’t clean up. It’s a total disaster!”

  “If Ground’s closed today, what are you doing here, Darla?” I asked.

  The assistant manager shrugged. “It’s my day to manage the café. I wasn’t sure if it would be open or not, so I came. Do we need to hire a crime scene cleanup crew?”

  “No. I don’t know.” Jayce spun on her heel and opened a drawer. “Every damn knife is gone from my apartment and Ground. The police took them all.”

  Darla disappeared into the entry hall.

  “Knives?” I asked. “Was Alicia stabbed?” I’d thought it was a blow to the head.

  “I don’t know, but the knives are gone.”

  Darla returned to the kitchen and angled another dustpan full of broken mugs into a garbage bin.

  Jayce slammed the drawer shut. “This is crazy! Are you sure you didn’t lend someone your key?” she asked Darla.

  “Of course I didn’t.” She leaned the broom against the sink. It slipped sideways and clattered to the floor. “It’s against the rules. I wouldn’t do that.”

  That, I believed. Darla was a dedicated rule follower.

  “Then how did Alicia get in here?” Jayce jammed her fists on her hips.

  “There’s the spare key,” Darla said.

  Jayce darted to a drawer and rummaged through it. “Here!” She held up a brass key with a bit of blue tape on the end.

  “But it’s in the drawer,” I said. “The doors were locked when we arrived — both front and rear. The killer would have needed the key to bolt the door.” But the key had been lying in a drawer, forgotten. Could someone have made a copy of it and returned the original?

  Jayce slumped against the metal counter. “Dammit. This is crazy.”

  “Were any of the windows open?” I asked.

  Jayce jolted upright. “My bedroom window, upstairs. I always leave it open in the summer. Someone could have gone out that way.” She dashed upstairs.

  Darla and I shared a look and didn’t follow. Opening a closet, she reached inside. There was a clatter, and one side of the shelf crashed down. Cleaning supplies scattered across the linoleum floor.

  Darla buried her face in her hands. “What next? Everything I touch falls to pieces.”

  Kneeling beside her, I grabbed for a rolling bottle of cleaning fluid. “That shelf was always wobbly.”

  “But it fell when I opened the cupboard.” She set the cleaning products in a neat row along the wall and rose to examine the shelf. “Bad luck follows me everywhere.”

  “Luck’s an attitude,” I said. “You can change it. It’s been scientifically proven.”

  “Has it? Look at what’s happened. It’s not just stuff breaking. Now Mrs. Duarte has been killed in Ground.” She laughed hollowly, examining the dangling metal brace. “I’m cursed. At the legal office I worked at, we lost every case when I was a secretary. At the SPCA, someone let loose all the animals, and guess who was blamed? I tried waitressing, but my clients’ food always seemed to be burnt or wrong. The tips were miserable. If Jayce hadn’t hired me…” She blinked rapidly. “This is the longest I’ve kept a job. I don’t know what I’ll do without it.”

  “Then help us figure out who killed Mrs. Duarte,” I said. “Did she come in here often?”

  She nodded. “Lots of times. She’d use Ground as a meeting place. So it isn’t true what people say about Jayce and her husband. Mrs. Duarte wasn’t jealous of her or anything.”

  My jaw tightened. So people had talked about Jayce and the murdered woman’s husband. Not good.

  Jayce clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen. She crossed her slim arms over her chest, frowning. “The killer could have gone out through the window, but he’d have to be an acrobat. It’s gotta be five feet between the stairs and that window — or that window and any safe landing place.”

  “We’ll figure this out,” I said. “There must be a logical explanation.”

  “Oh, logic!” Jayce paced. “You can’t always logic your way out of problems.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Something’s happening. Can’t you feel it?” Jayce’s voice lowered. “There’s something more, something wrong.”

  A chill lifted the hair on the back of my neck. So Jayce had sensed it too. But Jayce’s problems were manmade. Someone had killed Alicia. Too bad that didn’t make them any easier to deal with than magical crises.

  The cell phone in my purse rang, and Darla yelped, startled.

  I dug in my purse, pushing past a soft, skein of green yarn to take the phone from its pocket. “Hello?”

  “Are you with Jayce?” Lenore asked.

  “Yes, what’s going on?”

  “You both need to come to the hospital. Now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lenore met us in front of the hospital’s blue-tinted, glass doors. Reaching behind her, she unstuck her white t-shirt from her back. Her notebook slipped to the gray paving stones, the pen rolling into a flowerbed.

  We’d reached the zenith of a late summer afternoon in the California foothills. The heat was stifling. A squirrel darted along the paving stones and up a redwood tree.

  Jayce trotted to Lenore. “You’re sure Ellen’s okay?”

  Bending to retrieve the notebook, Lenore tucked free strands of blond hair into her loose bun. “They’ve changed their minds. They’re keeping her for at least another day. But Ellen’s lucid, more lucid than I’ve seen her in weeks. She wants to talk to us all. And since she’s got only a few days left…” Swallowing, she stared into the nearby redwood glade. The squirrel spiraled up a tree trunk, vanishing into the branches.

  Days. My chest tightened, and I looked at the gray paving stones. I picked up the pen and handed it to Lenore. The doctor had said days or weeks, but there was a certainty to Lenore’s tone. Lenore would know.

  “We should go inside.” Lenore rubbed her palms across the front of her drawstring, khaki-colored slacks.

  The hospital doors slid open, and a man emerged, pushing his wife in a wheelchair. She cradled a newborn in a yellow blanket.

  I started. It was the mother who’d insisted her child had been kidnapped. They passed, and a stuffed rabbit tumbled from the flap at the back of the wheelchair.

  I darted forward and picked it up. It was white and unbearably soft, and I smoothed its ears, frowning. The
rabbit warned me.

  The husband stopped the chair and walked to me, his hand outstretched. “Thanks.”

  “Oh.” I handed him the stuffed animal. “You’re welcome. I’m glad everything worked out okay.”

  His brow creased. “Worked out? What do you mean?”

  “The postpartum… Never mind. You have a handsome son.”

  He grinned. “You’ve got a good eye. How can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl at this age?” Without waiting for a response, he took the rabbit and hurried to his wife.

  I frowned after them. Strange that he hadn’t remembered me after the scene his wife had caused. Or maybe he was too embarrassed to admit it.

  “Come on.” Jayce tucked her arm inside Lenore’s, her lush curves a contrast to Lenore’s delicate frame.

  They strolled inside, and Jayce flashed a smile at a young doctor. He stumbled, his handsome face suffused with longing, and in spite of myself, I smiled. Jayce’s power over the opposite sex would be irritating if she wasn’t my sister.

  Sweat trickled down my back. In the elevator, I flapped the fabric of my black blouse to cool myself. “Did they say why they’re keeping her another day?”

  Lenore hugged her notebook to her chest. “Her temperature’s gone up. It’s stupid. She’s dying and wants to go home. But they’ve got rules.” Her lip curled.

  “I’ll stay with her tonight.” Jayce ran her fingers along the long chain about her neck. “She shouldn’t be alone in this place.”

  The doors slid open on the third floor, and we walked past the nurse’s station to Ellen’s room. A curtain was drawn across the door, and I pushed it aside.

  The bed was empty.

  I swayed. No. She couldn’t be…

  A toilet flushed, and the bathroom door opened.

  “Ellen?” I hurried to her.

  Ellen clung to the knob with one hand and to a walker with another. Her ropy arms trembled, bare in the thin hospital gown.