Discovering (Lily Dale #4)(42)

“I’ve never personally worked with a police psychic before, but a lot of detectives do.”

Kearney nods vigorously—so vigorously that Calla wonders if he’s worked with police psychics himself.

“Are you using a police psychic?”she asks. “You know, on this case?”

“Oh, no. No.”Lutz’s chins waggle as he shakes his head. “I just want you to know that we’re taking very seriously what your friends—your acquaintances—told us.”

“Did they tell you something new about Sharon Logan?”

“Not exactly. But there does seem to be some kind of consensus that she might have committed another serious crime before she came after you.”

“You mean, that she killed my mother? Because—”

“No, before that,”Kearney tells her. “Both Patsy and Bob mentioned—independent of each other—that they sensed another death around Sharon Logan.”

“I know whose it was.”

The detectives look at Calla in surprise.

She pulls the folded death notice from her backpack.

“His name,”she says flatly, “was Darrin Yates.”





SEVENTEEN

New York City

Thursday, October 11

4:59 p.m.

Sitting behind the receptionist’s desk, bare except for a message pad, a pen, and a gigantic vase filled with waxy white calla lilies, Laura answers the incessantly ringing telephone again.

“Good afternoon, Overseas Corporate Funds, where may I direct your call?”

“Extension one-five- two, please.”

She transfers the call and glances at the clock as she presses the next line. “Good afternoon, Overseas Corporate Funds, where may I direct your call?”

Less than a minute to go.

“Extension one-eighteen.”

Transfer. Next line.

“Good afternoon, Overseas Corporate Funds, where may I direct your call?”

No reply.

“Good afternoon?”

Nothing.

Her hand stiffens on the receiver. “Hello?”

There’s a click, and then a dial tone.

Laura’s heart pounds erratically . . . and for no good reason, she tells herself. When you’re a receptionist whose job it is to answer the phone hundreds of times a day, a percentage of those calls are going to be wrong numbers, cranks, hang-ups, whatever.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Still . . .

She’ll ask the temp agency not to send her back here tomorrow. Just in case.

She looks at the clock again.

It’s five.

I’m out of here.

She sets the phone system to go into automated answering, pushes back the rolling chair, gathers her things, and goes to find the office supervisor, Ellen.

“Leaving already?”she asks when Laura hands her the agency’s time sheet for a signature.

“It’s five o’clock. Those were the hours, right? Nine to five?”

The woman merely gives her wristwatch a pointed glance before scribbling on the time sheet and handing it back to Laura.

“Thank you. Have a good night.”She makes a beeline for the elevator.

Funny how all the companies she’s worked for over the past few months have stressed the importance of a punctual arrival for their office temps but apparently don’t expect the temps to make a punctual departure.

Ordinarily, Laura might have offered to stay later if they needed her.

But not tonight.

Not here.

Not after that strange phone call.

Not so strange at all. You’re being paranoid.

It was just a hang-up.

Nobody knows where you are. Least of all, her.

And even if she’s somehow found out . . . she’s in jail. There’s nothing she can do about it.

You’re safe here, Laura reassures herself as she steps out onto West Fiftieth Street and is gladly swallowed up by the rush hour pedestrian crowd.





EIGHTEEN

Lily Dale

Thursday, October 11

6:22 p.m.

“You know, Odelia, when you said you were making something special for dinner tonight, I really wasn’t sure what to expect.”Dad sets down his fork and pushes his empty plate away. “But this was good.”

“I’m glad you thought so. Did you like it, Calla?”

“Um . . . sure. Most people wouldn’t think to mix ham, cheese, bananas, and potato chips in a casserole,”she says, hoping to deflect their attention from the fact that she’s barely touched her food once again.

“Oh, I can’t take the credit,”Odelia says, absently toying with her paper napkin. She, too, has barely touched her food, Calla notices.

She’s been pretty quiet all night. Much more so than usual.

“What do you mean you can’t take the credit?”Dad asks. “This isn’t takeout, is it?”

“No, but I didn’t make up the recipe. I saw it on the Food Network.”

“Well, I’m sure most people who saw it on the Food Network wouldn’t dare give it a try,”Dad says, “so you still get a big thumbs-up from me.”

“Who am I to argue with that kind of reasoning?”

Odelia starts to get up, but Dad stops her. “I’ll get the dishes. You just relax and get your poker face on. Ramona said she’ll be over at eight with the cards and a couple of rolls of pennies. The stakes are higher tonight.”