Liquid Lies Part 8

At six am, I got out of bed, having tossed and turned the whole night. After taking a quick shower, I took Skipper for a walk. Afterward we came back inside the house.

On my way to the kitchen, I smelled fresh coffee and the sweet warm aroma of baking. Aunt Estelle's dear grey head was bent over the oven door, her oven mitted hands pulling out a golden cake as Skipper and I entered the room. "I cried all night," she said. "What dreadful news about Francesca."

My heart felt leaden as I took in the enormity of Francesca's death. "Me too." A box cake mix, along with eggsh.e.l.ls, oil and a container of milk was strewn over the counter. No extra weird ingredients in sight. This cake had a chance of being edible.

She shook her head as she sidestepped to the counter and set the cake on a cooling rack. "You know me, when I'm sad and don't know what else to do - I bake. By the way, this cake is for Francesca's dad. He must be absolutely beside himself."

"I'm sure he is. And I'm certain the whole town is in shock too," I said.

"How could this happen? And why?" Estelle handed me a cup of coffee as she mopped her moist eyes with the skirt of her flowered ap.r.o.n.

"From what little I know, Francesca's death could have been intentional," I said. "Also, I don't see how a beheading could be an accident."

"Murder? In our little town? You've got to be kidding." Estelle shook her head and sniffled. "Who could do that? And why, goodness gracious, dear sweet Francesca? Good Lord, this is a dark day for Round Lake."

"The police are working on solving the crime. Not that it'll bring her back. If they could at least find the murderer, we could all find some peace." The words came out of my mouth, but my heart didn't believe them. How could you ever find any sense of solace in a murder?

Estelle's face was contorted in a way that I knew was filled with fear and worry. I switched the subject. She didn't need to have this on her shoulders. "So what does your day look like?"

"Oh. I have to bake lasagna for a meeting this afternoon. And I have this cake already done and don't have time to run it over to the mayor. Could you please? As a gesture of condolence from us."

Actually, I was thinking of running away. "Sure."

As I rounded the corner of the Pike's property, I saw a boy riding the old bike trail that Francesca and I used to scoot around the lake when we were his age. With a lump in my throat I remembered those carefree days. Francesca's pigtails flew out behind her, the playing cards fastened to the spokes of her bike boldly identified her approach. Those long warm summer days, both of us giggling and playing without a worry in our minds, seemed so very long ago.

As the boy drew closer, I saw with misgivings the stamp of Down's syndrome in the small widely-s.p.a.ced eyes and the tiny hands clutching the handlebars. He looked to be about thirteen, although he wore a Blue's Clues backpack that indicated a much younger child. I wondered if anyone knew he was out here. With a murderer on the loose, would he be safe?

"I'm Doug. Who are you?" He dismounted his bike, letting it drop to the ground. He strolled next to me, touching my arm.

"Hi Doug, I'm CiCi."

"You have two letters for your name? That's funny," He said.

"It's a nickname for Cecelia Coe."

"Where are you going?"

I pointed to Francesca's house.

"Barbie's house? She's my neighbor. She's got long yellow hair. So pretty like angel hair. Don't you think?"

"Yes," I said. Although my last image was of her wet hair tangled around her decapitated head bobbing in the water. I quickly pushed the image away.

"You know I'm sad. My doll is broken." He opened his backpack, pulling out a headless Barbie doll.

Goose b.u.mps covered my arms and legs.

"Barbie went swimming last night, and lost her head," he said.

Did he mean Barbie as in Francesca? "Your doll?" I asked.

"My doll can't swim, she just floats. But Barbie is a good swimmer. She's like a mermaid," he said.

"Did you see her recently?" I asked.

"Of course. She's my neighbor."

My gut instinct told me that he might know something about what happened to Francesca. "Do you remember if you saw her last night?"

"Yes. The streetlight was on, so I had to be inside. That's the rules. Streetlight on, me in."

"But you saw Francesca. I mean Barbie?" I asked.

"I was watching Blue's Clues. Do you like that show?" he asked.

"I've never seen it, but I hear it's great."

"Yeah, it is. The mail song is my favorite." Doug then sang the mail song.

Trying not to be impatient with the sweet kid, I had to get him back on track. "So while you were watching Blue's Clues you saw Barbie by the dock?"

"Silly. I told you that. That is her house and that's where she swims. Or sometimes she lays there to let the sun change her skin color."

I pointed to the Pike's dock. "From there?"

"Yes, that's where she dives in. Like a b.u.t.terfly in the air, then a fish in the water."

"Did you see her dive in last night?"

Doug looked distracted as he swayed back and forth looking at a tree. He did not answer me.

"Was Francesca there last night?" I asked.

A whistle blew.

"That's my mom. Maybe Mom can fix Barbie and make her better," Doug said.

He must mean the doll. Maybe he doesn't know about Francesca's, or as he calls her, Barbie's, death yet.

"I have to go now, all right, CiCi with two letters. Nice to meet you. Maybe you could be my friend too?" Doug asked.

"Nice meeting you too," I said as he left his bike and skipped away and disappeared into the house up the hill. I pulled the bike up the hill, to his back porch.

Could Doug be the last person to have seen Francesca before she died?

The Pike mansion sat on several acres of lakefront property. An ornate wrought iron fence bordered their estate. The large front gate opened to a winding brick driveway, which cut through a manicured lawn adorned with vibrant flowers. Nestled on the lake end sat their stately Victorian red brick mansion, with large white columns and double wrap-around porches.

The last time I was here, Francesca and I hid in the bushes. We were drunk and wanted to avoid Juanita, the Pike's perennial housekeeper, who always seemed to have a sixth sense when we had partied. Juanita always scolded us far worse than the mayor or Estelle ever had. I remember sometimes we stayed crouched behind the bushes for hours until the kitchen lights went out. We knew that Juanita did that right before she left to go home. We took it as our signal that it was safe to go inside.

I navigated through the maze of police vehicles on the long driveway. Some officers walked to and from their cars parked around the property, radios sputtering. Knowing full well that Detective Wurkowski might be here too, a knot formed in my stomach.

I rang the doorbell.

"Good morning CiCi," Juanita said after opening the door and ushering me into the foyer. She was a stout Mexican woman whose uniform was a starched light blue dress with a crisp white ap.r.o.n. She wore her ashen hair in a loose bun. In her broken English she burst into a talking sob. "Our Francesca is gone. She's gone. Lord Jesus, she's gone."

"I know." I hugged the sobbing Juanita with one arm, while still balancing the cake in the other. "I'm so very sorry. It's so tragic. Really, I am so very sorry. Can I do anything?"

Juanita sniffed. "No. No." She took her ap.r.o.n and dabbed her swollen eyes, then straightened her back. "I have to pull myself together. There's so much to do. Here, let me take this cake from you." Juanita left sniffing as she carried away the cake.

The cake should be good- Estelle had used a box mix and had not improvised.

"Who's that? It sounds like CiCi," Mayor Pike said as he entered the marble floored foyer. He was dressed in pressed navy shorts, a green designer polo shirt, and brown boat loafers. His eyes were swollen and red. His graying hair tousled.

"I'm so very sorry about Francesca." A cavernous grief filled me as I thought about how it must be for him to lose a daughter. I've heard it's worse than losing a parent, and I knew too well how horrendous that felt. It had to be the worst feeling in the world. And condolences seemed so useless when all you wanted was for the person to be alive again.

"CiCi, don't leave yet. Wait in the living room. I need to speak with Juanita for a moment," Mayor Pike said as he ushered me into the living room.

While Mayor Pike talked to Juanita, I took a quick inventory of the place. It has been four years since I had been in this house. Yet, it was pretty much as I had remembered it. Polished hardwood floors were draped with oriental rugs. Designer curtains adorned the expansive two story windows facing the lake. Rich mahogany furniture flanked the black baby grand piano. Gold framed pictures adorned the top of the piano and tables. Ivory painted walls were decorated with, what I knew to be from Mayor Pike's love of fine art, all original oil paintings and artwork. Francesca had always told me she felt like she was living in a museum. She preferred a more unpretentious lifestyle.

Within a few moments, Mayor Pike stood next to me and reached out his tanned arms and wrapped them around me. "Isn't this horrible? My baby is gone."

"I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?" I realized a second after I said it how lame it sounded. But h.e.l.l, if condolences weren't awkward. What I really wanted to say is 'Wake me up from this nightmare. Let Francesca be alive. Let everything be back to normal.'

"Not right now, but thank you. Everyone's been showing up here since early morning, bringing food, and calling. So many people reaching out to us, it's been overwhelming." Mayor Pike dabbed away a tear.

"Just the person we wanted to see." Detective Wurkowski stepped into the living room next to us. "Excuse me Mayor Pike. I'm sorry to interrupt."

"No, it's okay. I've got a lot to do," Mayor Pike said. Juanita reappeared holding a phone in her hand, motioning to him that he needed to take the call.

"Mayor Pike, do you mind if I take Ms. Coe for a while?" Detective Wurkowski asked.

"No. By all means do. Did you find anything yet?" Mayor Pike brushed his hair off his forehead.

"We've developing a couple of leads. We'll keep you posted. We sure do appreciate you giving us access to your home," Detective Wurkowski said.

"Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to help." Mayor Pike's swollen eyes watered up. He cleared his throat and took the phone from Juanita.

Detective Wurkowski led me to the kitchen. "You like yours black." He poured a mug of coffee and handed it to me.

The kitchen table was filled to capacity with a smorgasbord of pies, cakes, and baked goods. It smelled like a bakery. A silver coffee pot, a crystal carafe of orange juice and a variety of mugs and gla.s.ses sat on the dark granite counter in the s.p.a.cious, well-appointed kitchen. A handful of officers roamed in and out of the kitchen grabbing drinks and food. The background hummed with conversations and the pounding of footsteps.

Juanita scuttled about in perpetual motion as she answered the constantly ringing phone and took messages. She rushed to the door every time it chimed, which was often.

I slumped in a chair, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed and forget the past twenty-four hours had ever happened.

"Is there anything you want to tell me about your relationship with Ms. Pike?" Detective Wurkowski sat next to me.

Nothing like getting right to the point. "No, sir," I replied.

"Ms. Coe, we found Ms. Pike's journal. Anything you want to tell me now? Anything that you want to add or change from last night?" he asked.

"No sir. I can't think of anything," I said.

His eyes narrowed. "Really?"

I shifted in my seat and looked into the coffee mug. "Yes sir. Nothing more to add." The thought crossed my mind to get a lawyer. I let the thought go. I was innocent, at least of this crime. My strategy with the detective was to be safe and cautious with honest answers. I had my own suspicions that Francesca's murderer could be linked to the truck stop blackmailer. I felt I needed to explore that option on my own before involving the police. If I was wrong, then I would have disgraced the Pike family, and that's the last thing I wanted to do.

"Have you ever heard of the term obstruction of justice?" Detective Wurkowski got up and stood over me.

I felt his breath on me. This is how a matador must feel when the bull is next to him. He seemed to stare at the top of my head. Beads of perspiration formed on my temples.

"We need you to cooperate with us," Detective Wurkowski said as he turned on his heels and walked over to the kitchen window. He pulled a small floral covered notebook out of his jacket. He flipped open a page, turned to me and began to read, "This is a recent entry. 'Today I saw my best friend, CiCi, she had almost drowned. Maybe that would have been better.' Interesting, huh?"

Yeah, and for a fleeting moment I wished I would have drowned too. Avoiding answering, I took a sip of my coffee.

"Best friend, huh? So you knew the victim much better than you led us to believe last night. Explain this to me," he said.

Attempting to not sound like a smart aleck but striving to get my point across, I said, "If I remember Detective, I said we were former friends from school. Did it really matter if we were best friends? Isn't that a minor detail?"

"Not in a murder investigation. Details are important." Detective Wurkowski dragged a chair next to me, and then straddled it. "Yesterday the victim saw you after you nearly drowned?"

"Sort of. She might have been in the crowd of gapers after Mark pulled me from the lake."

"Yes or no?"

"She was in the crowd."

"Did she see you?"

"Maybe she did. I saw her."

"Did you talk to her?"

"No," I answered.

"Let me see here." He flipped open his notebook. "Last night, I asked you when the last time you saw Francesca alive was and you said it was at H&K's."

"Yes. That's what I said."

"Yet, you didn't tell me that earlier in the day you saw her too."

"But you asked when the last time I saw her alive, not what other times I saw her."