Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (cool books to read txt) 📗

No, no, no. First we needed to talk about how we were going to keep someone from murdering us in our beds. “Mother—”

She waved me off with her fork and poured more wine for herself. “Fine. Show me those papers.”

I shuffled the pages into alphabetical order. I would get to the vision and the DNA in a moment. “These are names and accompanying data that I’ve, uh, borrowed from the Winters campaign files.”

Mother looked horrified. “You’ve stolen their data? They could prosecute you.”

I ignored her. “Something’s not right. I’m not sure what it is, but you know these people. And something Loretta said…” I shook my head. It was right there. I just couldn’t catch it.

Mother peered at me over the rim of her glass. The wine distorted her, as if half her face had aged faster, the jaw softening and warping. The lines had deepened around her eyes and mouth, enhancing that same sad expression of loss. As Loretta said, things happened to people and they never fully recovered. What had happened to Mother?

Sharply, a slash of light rent my vision and I felt as if I were burning. Where had that come from? Just as quickly, it passed, leaving only a sheen of sweat.

She saw, but she didn’t ask, as usual. I pushed the papers across to her. She settled her glasses on her nose and started to read. About halfway down the first page, she frowned. “Get me a pencil?”

I rummaged in my purse and found a pen. She made a check mark and flipped to the next page, reading, frowning again, checking again. I cleared the table. By the time I’d packed everything away in the refrigerator and dishwasher, her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose and she was staring into space, ticking the pen absentmindedly against the wooden chair arm.

“Well?” I prodded. “You see them, right? Those notations? BRK? BSA? and so on?”

She nodded. “I think I know what they are. Can you call Bailey tomorrow? I’d like to run it by both of you, but I want to think about it a little more first.”

“You know she’s his campaign lawyer.”

“That’s why she should know.”

“She’ll be at Richard and Paul’s tomorrow for Christmas Eve. We could talk there.”

“I’m invited?” She looked genuinely surprised.

“It’s Christmas, Mother.”

“I know, but…I didn’t assume you would want to spend it with me. I made plans with Ernie and Loretta.”

“I’ll call Richard to see if there’s room for two more.”

She looked grateful, so grateful I almost couldn’t bear it. How could this be the mother I thought I knew? She was totally self-sufficient. She didn’t need anyone or anything. She could have gone to Richard and Paul’s whether I wanted her to or not. I turned away before she could see my tears.

Then, foiling me yet again, she swept the pages up and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, firmly closing the door. There would be no more discussion of anything tonight.

Chapter 20

Christmas Eve dawned brilliantly white and cold—unusual for Connecticut, which for the past few years had preferred its Christmases almost green and in the forties. Bailey was working; we would have to wait for Paul and Richard’s party to confer. I was worried we might not have a chance to get away—Paul and Richard’s parties could get very festive—but Mother reassured me that we would find time.

As for the other topics, she said, “It can wait until after Christmas.” She raised an eyebrow. “It will be all right, Clara.”

Screaming my frustration wouldn’t help anything, so I shoved it down and hoped the dreams would cooperate with Mother’s plan. The slug was still lurking, sloshing lazily at the back of my brain.

At seven, we arrived at the party: Richard and Paul were opening the first bottle of champagne, and playing Earth, Wind & Fire on the stereo. They’d just gotten glasses in our hands when the doorbell rang again. A blast of cold air blew in Bailey, Sondra, Joellen, Alcott, and Morrie. Sondra and Joellen were Richard’s last remaining friends from the office, a pair of bottle blondes with expertise in computer languages I’d never heard of.

Alcott and Morrie, looking like a pair of mimes with their dark, slicked down hair and fair skin, had known Paul—and me—since grade school. They had barely gotten their scarves unwound when Loretta and Ernie arrived, bringing a large covered dish.

Everyone carried brightly colored packages and bags and bottles. Richard poured glasses of bubbly, everyone got kissed, and Paul took care of the food and directed the packages to the tree.

“We’re so sorry about Hetty,” Morrie said to Loretta. The group hummed their agreement.

Loretta glanced at Ernie, her eyes tearing up. “We’re still trying to figure out how to talk about it.” She put her hand on his arm. “We don’t even know what to say to each other yet.”

Morrie responded by doing the perfect thing: he folded Loretta into a bear hug for several moments, then kissed the top of her head as he released her.

“Nothing I can say will make it better,” he said. “Do you want us to talk about it tonight or not?”

She shook her head. “If you have nice memories of Hetty, yes, but I don’t want to talk about her death. I want a little joy for us, for all the time we had with her.”

They nodded, almost as one, and each of them hugged her on the way into the living room. We’d settled around the fire when the doorbell rang again. Richard and Paul glanced at each other, then at me.

“What?”

Richard shrugged coyly. Paul said, “Bailey mentioned that you’d ­probably forgotten to invite him yourself.” He opened the door to Chief DuPont. “Shining Star” started playing. I looked daggers at Bailey.

The chief handed a large bottle of Bombay gin to Paul. “I thought, since you were entertaining Clara, you might need this.”

Oh yeah, very funny.

Paul barely suppressed a smile. “Good