After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 55

If she could get through another night.

She’d already called the owner of the apartment and explained about the key going missing and asking that the locks be changed at her cost. Doug Peterson, who lived in the main house and was retired, was a handyman and promised to replace the dead bolt. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked a million questions about Allie.

As she drove to the local post office Cassie’s stomach growled. Somehow she’d missed dinner, opting instead for the Moscow Mules Holly had ordered and which had, as far as she could see, zero nutritional value.

Her plans for the day were simple: First grab her mail, then find coffee followed quickly with food. Next, she planned to double-check with a jeweler about the earring. Then the rest of the day she would spend trying to connect with acquaintances of Allie’s, people Cassie hadn’t talked to since entering the hospital. She knew her chances of finding out anything new, anything the police could have missed, were nearly nonexistent, but she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d reached as many people as possible. Why? Because she loved her sister. Oftentimes it was a love/hate relationship, sibling rivalry at its worst, but she did care about Allie. That was a fact.

And, of course, there was the story surrounding her disappearance and the fact that Cassie was already blocking it out in her head.

At the post office she went through her mail, tossed the junk in a recycle bin, and kept the bills and anything that looked important before grabbing coffee and a scone at a drive-through coffee shop. She pulled into a park and rolled down the windows to let in a soft little breeze, eased her seat away from the steering wheel, then made several phone calls, starting with the people who had recently worked with Allie.

As she watched a nanny playing with toddlers at a slide, Cassie dialed Little Bea, then Dean Arnette, followed by Cherise Gotwell. No one answered. “Great,” she said, leaving voice mail messages and texts for each of them. She then tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and opened the paper bag she’d brought from the coffee shop.

Picking at her scone, she kept her eyes on the scene in front of her, the group of little children running, skipping, and screaming with glee as they darted in and out of the play structure. With an effort she ignored the emptiness that threatened to crawl through her soul. A boy of around four and a girl a couple of years younger prattled at each other as they took turns on the small slide, then, with the nanny pushing the empty stroller, they ran for the fountain, which was little more than a grid of spouts shooting jets of water high into the air. The kids giggled and screamed in delight as they tried to anticipate where the next stream would appear.

They were wet, happy, and adorable.

Cassie smiled and took a sip of her coffee. Being the oldest she could remember playing with Allie at that age, here in California. Her sister had been a toddler, cute, plump, and delightful, and their parents had been, at that time, happily married. Before Robert had started cheating, or at least before Jenna had realized it. God, it seemed like ages ago, another lifetime.

Nearby the nanny lit a cigarette, blew smoke away from the children who were paying her no attention, then checked her cell phone as she sat on a bench, just out of reach of the spray. She was young. Maybe twenty. Maybe not quite. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she wore tattered jeans, a T-shirt, and a bored expression, but she kept her eyes, for the most part, on her charges.

Cassie glanced at her own cell. Of course there were no new messages.

She wondered if anyone she’d called would phone or text her back.

Unlikely. Very unlikely.

How could she ask questions or find out anything when no one would give her the time of day?

Figure it out. There has to be a way.

As if she were in the throes of trying to quit smoking or hide her habit, the nanny quickly dropped her cigarette onto the concrete and crushed it with the heel of her sandal. Then, while the kids were distracted, she walked to a trash can situated near the restrooms and discarded the butt.

Cassie watched while a thirtysomething man in shorts and a T-shirt jogged along a path. He passed by on the opposite side of the fountain, where beneath a shade tree an older woman sat on a bench. She was busy breaking a crust of bread and tossing crumbs to a few small birds and a crow that inspected each morsel before pecking quickly and cawing for another tidbit. “Enough,” the woman yelled as if the bird could understand her. Then she crumpled her sack and stuffed it into her collapsible shopping cart, dusting her hands. “Tomorrow,” she said, then climbed off the bench and, rolling the cart in front of her, headed to a little Volkswagen Beetle parked in a handicapped space.