All Things Considered Read online

  The TV cameras tracked the white Bronco one more time.

  Don’t say a word. She opened but then snapped her gaping mouth shut, forcing the wonder and resentment into the back of her throat. Don’t remind him he gave her and Lavender the seed money to establish Esperanza House. Don’t remind him the women adored him for the frequent rehearsal concerts he performed for them before kicking off a major tour.

  Legs shaking, she inched to the edge of her chair and sat there for a second, willing him to look at her. Tell her what was going on. Let her share his grief for Lavender. Or whatever was driving the wedge between them deeper and deeper.

  He muted the TV, and her heart pumped blood to her head so hard and fast she missed his first words. He kept talking as if she were hanging on his every syllable. But. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t give any facial or body clue he wanted to cut through the tension coiled like a snake. Whatever he was saying … she nodded. When the shaking in her legs stopped, she stood and said good night.

  Mesmerized by yet another re-run of the white Bronco, Stone either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her remark. She escaped to the foyer. Light bathed the pale apricot walls in a soft glow. Exhaling, she felt the boulder roll off her back. Still hard to believe a twenty-six–room mansion belonged to her. She’d told Stone the house was too much. He’d insisted, “No, it’s not. But if you really feel guilty taking it, then marry me.”

  At the top of the circular staircase, Ryn looked down the wide curve at the closed doors into the media room. Should she have married him? He’d begged her—and even persuaded Lavender to plead his case.

  How many papers had the sleazoids sold portraying Ryn alternatively as a female Rasputin, a musical genius in her own right, or a groupie-cougar only after money?

  “I don’t care what they say about me,” Stone told her one night in bed. “I’m fair game because I get up on that stage. You don’t, and you deserve privacy.”

  Ryn entered the master bedroom, and YerMajesty, her orange and white tiger cat, raised her head, opened her mouth, and furled her tongue. Ryn scooped the feline into her arms and kissed the top of the furry head.

  “Banishment doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?” Five months ago, Stone had declared their bed off limits to The Fanged Beast—as he called Maj.

  The cat meowed.

  “Think he’d notice if we left?” Ryn scratched Maj’s chin. “Think he has a clue I almost left before Lavender …”

  She squeezed the cat to her chest, but The Fanged Beast yowled, leaped out of her arms, and raced for the open door. Ryn called, “Sleep tight.”

  A few minutes before one, Stone entered the bedroom. “Rip and Repeat say anything about going out tonight?”

  Ryn put a finger in the book she was reading. “Not to me.”

  “Dammit!” He took a step and then swung his foot up. His black loafer arced high in the air and bounced off the ceiling. He ripped off his gray silk shirt and dropped it in the middle of the floor. “They should’ve told me they weren’t hangin’ at home tonight. They know we need more practice for South America next month.”

  You don’t own them because they play in your band. Ryn opened her book but watched him parade around at the foot of the bed like a naked Hamlet, rising on the balls of his feet, flexing his fingers toward the ceiling.

  “If you ever agreed with me, I’d drop dead from shock.” He bent, picked up a shoe, and pitched it toward the dressing room. It thudded off the wall, and he stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door.

  The steady rat-ta-tat-tat of the shower synchronized with the furious disbelief tangoing in Ryn’s head. Now, she’d never sleep. Not in the same bed. Chest tightening, she jerked open her bedside table and pulled out the bottle of melatonin. She read the label, following the fine print with her fingernail. The safety seal fit tightly—too tightly to work loose.

  In the bathroom, Stone turned on the extra showerheads. Her headache ratchetted up. “A brain tumor,” she whispered. Undiagnosed. Rare and terminal. In its final stage. Stone will be so sorry.

  She sucked in air to manage the pain and her imagination through deep breathing. Either she didn’t remember the technique or her brain tumor was beyond the benefits of deep breathing. She pawed through the papers, pens, and junk in the drawer. Worked her nail file out of its leather case. Stuck the sharp end under the plastic seal.

  The seal coiled around itself, but she tossed it on the floor and dug out the thick cotton plug and tapped half a dozen identical white pills into her palm. She popped one into her mouth. Her nose wrinkled as the bitter flavor dissolved under her tongue. The extra pills she returned to the bottle, twisted the cap, and set the bottle on the bedside table.

  She flipped off her lamp, slid down in the bed, and turned on her right side to face the wall opposite the bathroom. If there was a god, Stone would spend another half hour gargling, singing, washing. And if the planets were in harmonic convergence, the melatonin would knock her out. Eyes closed, she relaxed her muscles. The drum of the shower faded …

  “C’mon Ryn. You’re faking.” He smelled of the lavender and citrus aftershave she’d had especially made for him in Paris three years ago. His tongue traced the ridge of her ear. His teeth nipped at the spot behind her earlobe.

  She lost the battle with common sense, turned, and opened her eyes to meet his. He came into her embrace and nuzzled the hollow of her throat. She arched her neck. His tongue followed the path along her collarbone.

  “Goddammit!” He made a spitting sound and sat straight up, pushing away from her. He bellowed, “When in the name of Christ you gonna get those damn things taken off?” He jerked the neck of her nightgown and poked at a place on her collarbone.

  Her fingers found the spot where she had six small moles. All clumped together, they were barely visible—except in a low-cut dress or a nightgown.

  “For god’s sake, Stone.” She rubbed the moles; they felt subatomic. “You—”

  “I hate those fuckin’ warts.”

  “So you’ve said.” She re-buttoned her gown. “Like all the other deaf folk within a ten-mile radius, I heard you the first dozen times.”

  “So why didn’t you get the fuckin’ things removed—like I told you a hundred times?”

  “How about because I’m not a Barbie doll? They’re moles—not an extra head.”

  “Hell, I wouldn’t complain about an extra fuckin’ head. Maybe then you’d show a little common sense.”

  Ryn kicked back the covers. “What would it take for you to show a little common courtesy?” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, probing with her toes for her slippers. “Or a vocabulary that didn’t include the F-word?”

  “Excuse me, Your Ladyship, but I’ll fuckin’ well use as many F-words as I fuckin’ well please. Since I’m in my own fuckin’ house. In my own fuckin’ bedroom.”

  Head down, Ryn fumbled with the belt on her robe. She would not let him see her cry. “Fine. But I need some sleep. I don’t intend to stick—”

  “Aw, fuck off, Ryn. You think I give a fuck what you do?”

  Halfway to the guest room, she heard a click. Like a soloist in a Greek chorus, the TV announcer’s recorded voice followed her. “What a night of ups and down. We’ve witnessed history tonight. Let’s take one more look at that LAPD caravan led by OJ’s white Bronco …”

  Chapter 2

  As soon as Ryn walked into the master bedroom the next morning, she saw red.

  Propped against the mountain of pillows, Stone sat with his head at an odd angle and stared at the damn TV—turned up way too loud.

  “Good morning,” she chirped. She’d be cheery if it killed her.

  Of course, he didn’t speak. It was his subtly mature way of telling her he was still pissed.

  A spurt of irritation burned her throat, and she opened her mouth to tell him to stop acting like a spoiled brat. But the lush, red hibiscus blooming on his chest shattered thought and froze her tongue to the bottom of her mouth.
The metallic smell—sweet and vaguely familiar—punched her in the stomach like a boxer’s fist. She inhaled through her mouth, gulping for oxygen. Stone wasn’t really sitting across from her, pale and handsome, blood on his chest, not breathing.

  A nightmare. I’m having a nightmare. A bad one.

  A noise—clothes rustling?—whipped her around to stare down the long, dim dressing room. Unable to move, she strained to see Maj, her tail shifting the dresses and shirts and slacks. They hung in perfect, straight rows. Nothing moved.

  “Maj! Come out here.” Her voice quivered. She’d spooked herself. She was dreaming Maj was playing hide-and-seek among the shoes. Stone was playing a game, too.

  Dry-mouthed, she faced the bed and took a step forward. The floor tilted. The two black centers in the middle of the red flower came into precise focus. Grabbing at air, her sweaty fingers caught the satin bedspread. Her legs buckled. She toppled forward. C-R-A-C-K. Her cheek bounced off the foot of the bed.

  “Ryn?” A light tap on the door followed the repetition of her name, but she couldn’t raise her head. Her cheek throbbed. Opening her eyes brought a blinding kaleidoscope of strobe lights. Facedown, squinting, she studied the little valleys in the carpet. Off to her right, Stone’s loafer caused her heart to jump. Icy sweat ran down her face, stinging her eyes.

  Was that awful smell coming from her?

  “What the hell …”

  … was she doing on the floor?

  “Ryn?”

  “Stone?”

  The door handle clicked and the door swung open. A draft sent goosebumps jockeying up her legs.

  “Ryn? Celia Ramirez is on the pho—Ogod. Omygod. Omyyyy—”

  A scream exploded the pain in Ryn’s cheek and head. Bursts of electricity detonated along her spine. Close to panic, she couldn’t think. Shutting her eyes again, she saw only the red hibiscus on Stone’s chest. The color—imprinted in her brain—blotted out all sound and thought.

  An hour later, dressed in jeans and an old plaid shirt she had no memory of putting on, Ryn sat in her favorite wing chair in her study. She pressed an ice pack against her pulsating cheek.

  She was asleep. Wasn’t she?

  She nearly convinced herself she really was sleeping. Except her face ached too much—even for the worst nightmare. Across from her, Astrid wailed and blew her nose on a crumpled tissue. A square-shaped man stood in the middle of the room and scribbled in his little black book.

  A TV homicide detective. Ryn’s mind stuttered on homicide, but lasered on this detective’s name. Lieutenant Adam Jericho. A name Stone would love. As if paralyzed in front of an oncoming train, she stared at the door to the hallway. C’mon, Stone. Walk in here. Wake me up.

  Jericho waved a stubby finger in front of her nose and asked how she’d found the body. … his third time. She shook off the thought.

  “I went in our bedroom. To get dressed ...” Her voice drifted off. To sneak out before Stone woke up. “I had an appointment, and I was late.”

  “What time was that? When you entered the bedroom?” Jericho clarified, his yellow eyes hooded by heavy, reptilian lids.

  “Nine-thirty.” How long had Stone been— Her mind jumped away from the word.

  Nightmare. Has to be … I’m asleep. Asleep. Stone was asleep.

  “You’re sure?” Jericho walked with a slow, sideways pace. A musky, heavy cologne preceded him. He closed the distance between them in measured inches.

  He smells like the alligator farm Stone and I visited after that Miami concert. Jericho’s sigh jerked her mind back to the study. “The clock in the guest bedroom said nine—”

  “Excuse me,” Jericho interrupted, checking his notes, sounding as apologetic as an alligator. “Tell me again why you were sleeping in the guest bedroom?”

  “Stone and I argued.” Ryn’s fingers twitched. She wanted to slap his lizard face. He knew damned well why she’d slept in the guest bedroom. She’d told him right away.

  “That how you got the gash on your cheek? During the argument?”

  “No!”

  Astrid’s pale blond eyebrows jumped

  Ryn caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She swallowed and continued—her voice shaky despite her determination to show Jericho her self-control. “I told you. I hit my cheek on the bed when …”

  When she’d realized Stone would never again feel pain or anger or joy.

  “When what, Miz Davis?” Jericho drawled, his head coming up from his notepad.

  “I hit my cheek on the bed whenIfainted.” The admission fell out of her mouth in an incoherent rush.

  “After you found Mr. Wall, right?”

  Stone. Are you hurt?

  An invisible knife sliced out a section of her heart. She rubbed the left side of her chest and whispered, “Yes.”

  How had she forgotten anger and death went together? She’d already learned that truth. With Mama. Her fingers—massaging the pain under her breastbone—erased the memory.

  Jericho consulted his notes. “How’d you know he was dead?”

  Her stomach rolled. She tasted salt. “I don’t know.” No way she’d mention the smell. “The blood, I suppose.”

  Muted thumps—accompanied by hushed voices—floated in from the hall.

  The body. Are they moving Stone’s body? A shudder rippled in her stomach, and the sounds in the hall amped up. Her ears buzzed. Another shudder raced into her chest. She hugged her waist and focused on Jericho.

  “You ever see a corpse before?” He didn’t seem to register the hall noises.

  “Yes.” Ryn held onto the wide arms of her chair. On her desk, a gold-framed picture of Stone grinned at her, and she fought the impulse to scream, “Stone’s not a corpse.”

  Jericho’s yellow eyes slitted. “Murder vics?”

  “No.” Cold all over, she kept her voice even and let her hands fall loosely into her lap. Astrid was still crying into her limp tissue.

  “Sooo,” Jericho paused, his pupils widening, “how did you know Mr. Wall was dead?”

  “The blood? It was everywhere.” Jericho’s mouth twitched, and Ryn’s stomach dropped as if she’d stepped off a cliff. She pushed her back into the chair. She couldn’t lose control. Not over such a stupid point. “I’ve said the blood four times now.”

  “How far is the guest bedroom?”

  How far from where, you idiot? The North Pole? Patagonia? Ryn let the silence hang for another second before saying, “The guest bedroom is at the opposite end of a forty-eight-foot-long hall.” She knew this factoid because she’d measured the length for the carpet herself.

  “The carpet’s got a thick pad under it, I noticed. How about the door?”

  “I don’t understand the question.” She didn’t care what he meant as long as he stayed away from asking her again about the blood. If she talked about the carpet for hours, could she forget Stone would never walk on it again? He’d loved “skiing” barefoot from one end of the hall to the other—yipping like a kid.

  Jericho’s head—mostly square because of his bad crew cut—came up from examining the blue and cream Chinese runner. She’d swear dollar signs danced in his yellow eyes. “Excuse my lack of clarity, Miz Davis. I understand my questions are stressful.”

  Something snapped in Ryn’s brain. She heard it—a neuron misfired. Or maybe her brain simply adjusted for flight from Jericho by zapping her with a mega-dose of adrenaline. More adrenaline than she’d felt the times Stone had called her on-stage to dedicate a song to her. She dug her heels into the rug, fighting her body’s reflexes.

  Stay calm. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t respond to his sarcasm.

  Jericho arched his brows, silently asking, Something wrong? When she didn’t take the bait, he said, “How thick was the door in the guest room?”

  “Four inches.”

  “Is that to accommodate your insomnia?” He ambled to the study door, opened it, and measured the thickness against his index finger.

  “No.” Why di
dn’t Jericho come right out and ask her if she killed Stone? Why should she even bother explaining why they’d replaced every door in the house when it was obvious he’d already made up his mind she was the killer?

  She clenched her teeth, and a black pain bit through her cheekbone. She said, “The band practiced here. A lot. The doors made the house more livable during the day and at night.” God, how was she going to tell Beau and the others about Stone?

  “Is that why you went in the master bedroom, Miss Hansen?” Jericho whipped around to face Astrid, who was patting her eyes. Her white eyelashes had completely disappeared in her raw, puffy lids. “Because you didn’t think either Mr. Wall or Miz Davis could hear you knocking?”

  “Yes, sir. The doors are exceedingly tyk.” Astrid’s blue eyes filled with tears as she looked at Ryn. Unlike English, Danish had no words with th. Under normal circumstances, Astrid could have said thick with no more accent than Jericho.

  But The Jughead didn’t wait for Ryn’s translation. “I agree the doors are exceedingly thick.” He threw Astrid a smile that turned Ryn’s stomach. “But I still find it hard to believe that an insomniac slept through two shots from a .38.”

  Astrid looked from Jericho to Ryn and back to the lieutenant. He sat perched on the arm of the sofa, his legs crossed casually in front of him. Even with her puffy eyelids, bloodshot eyes, and blotched skin, she was a lovely young woman.

  “It’s all right, Astrid.” Ryn forced her lips to turn up in what she hoped was a facsimile of a smile. “I think the lieutenant is addressing that comment to me.”

  Astrid swallowed, gulped, and nodded. Tears streamed down her scarlet cheeks. “Yes. I-I-I see.”

  How much longer before I can cry?

  Jericho stood, bending at the waist toward Astrid. She was taller sitting than he was on his feet. “I don’t have any more questions for you right now, Miss Hansen. I’m going to ask a policewoman to accompany you to the carriage house. I’ll call you when I need to speak to you again.”

  Oil coated each syllable.

  “… when I need to speak with you again.” The phrase echoed in Ryn’s brain, playing and replaying like a tape in a loop. Astrid was an amazing housekeeper, far too mature and dependable for a thirty-year-old who could have made a small fortune over the past three years by leaking details about Stone to the sleazoids.