All Fixed Up (6 page)

“He went all drill sergeant on me,” I said, squelching my stupid guilt. “And here I'd been thinking Laura was tough.” I shoved some pizza in my mouth and concentrated on chewing.

Billy put his slice down, and took mine from me. He dropped it beside his.

“Hey, I'm not finished!” I mumbled, chewing faster.

He took me by the hand and led me back upstairs. “Neither am I,” he said, a determined gleam in his eye.

*   *   *

I woke to a jarring clash of cymbals followed by my mother's voice saying, “Answer your phone!”

Gah.
Ringtone hell. Odds were ten to one Billy helped Mom install it on my phone when I wasn't looking. Great in the sack or not, I might have to kill him.

The cymbals crashed again. “Answer your phone!”

Was it my imagination, or did the recording sound more insistent that time?

Thomas and Laura must have told her the news. I pried my eyelids open and looked at the clock beside my bed. They'd made incredibly good time. Maybe if I didn't answer she'd give up and call Auntie Mo to lord it over her instead.

Auntie Mo was Billy's mom. Well, stepmom. (Not that it makes a bit of difference, except to cement the whole cousin issue with Billy as Absolutely Not Perverted.)

Crash!
“Answer your phone!”

I sighed. Nothing could douse the sleepy afterglow like a conversation with my mother. Billy had left me practically radioactive when he'd had to skedaddle back to his job; the glow was finally calming down enough for me to relax into the land of Nod. Frankly, after the two workouts I'd had—professional with Mark, recreational with Billy, both physically exhausting—I really needed some shut-eye.

I stared at the phone, debating whether I could get away with ignoring it.

Crash!
“Answer your phone!”

I yawned until my jaw cracked. Oh, hell. She'd keep trying every five minutes until she got through. Mom was nothing if not persistent. I reached for the phone.

“Hey, Mom. Wow,
great
news, huh?” I said, thinking, in my groggy state, a preempt would be a good idea. Maybe if Mom found out I already knew, she'd hang up fast and call someone who didn't. “Welp, gotta run—”

Yes, I know I told Thomas not to let on they'd told me first. Trust me, all of us Halligan siblings are accustomed to the view from under the bus. It's a survival mechanism that kicks in when dealing with our mother. Thomas would no doubt claim I'd wheedled the news out of Laura. Since Laura is a saint in Mom's eyes, she wouldn't get in trouble over it. So really it wasn't as much of a betrayal as it might appear.

“Ciel Colleen Halligan, how could you say such a thing? It's
terrible
news. And how did you hear about it? I just found out myself.”

“Um, Thomas told me,” I said, scrubbing my face with one hand, trying to chase away the residual sleepiness. Regardless of Laura's immunity from Mom's wrath, she hadn't been in the family long enough for me to throw
her
under the bus. Besides, sisterly solidarity. “I've never heard him so happy,” I added. “Wait a second—why aren't you happy? You're supposed to be thrilled.”

“You think I'm some sort of monster?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I would never think—”

“And how did Thomas find out?”

“Well, how do you think? Laura told him.”

“Laura? Why on Earth would she—oh, my God! The CIA is involved?”

Okay, what the hell was going on?
“Mom, let me talk to Laura for a second, okay?”

“Why would Laura be here? She's working, and so is Thomas.”

Uh-oh
. “Mom, what did you call to tell me?”

A heavy sigh came through the line. Mom composing herself. “It's Aunt Helen. She's dead.”

Crap.
A picture of Aunt Helen popped into my head and gave my heart a squeeze. Elderly, frail, and unable to sustain a decent aura for longer than fifteen minutes at a time anymore. We all loved her dearly.

I took a breath and leavened my voice with a hefty dose of sympathy. “I'm so sorry. It's not entirely unexpected, though, is it? Given her age and all,” I said.

“She was murdered.”

“What?”

“Somebody used a stun gun on her in Central Park, then stabbed her while she was still twitching.”

Thanks for the visual, Mom.
“What kind of fucking sicko does that?”

It was a measure of how upset I was that I let “fucking” slip out while talking to my mother. It was a measure of how upset
she
was that she let it pass without a comment about God punishing me right away.

“How could the police know such a gruesome detail anyway?” I added rapidly, in case she was only pausing to frame an adequate threat of heavenly retribution.

“There was a witness. He was too far away to get a good look at the guy's face, but he definitely saw the stun gun, and then the stabbing. Which I wouldn't know, except Junie Sorensen volunteers at the library where the wife of the police officer who was first on the scene works. Oh, God, Ciel, what is the world coming to when a harmless little old lady can't even take a walk—in the middle of the day!—in Central Park?”

I knew she didn't expect an answer. “How's Dad taking it?” Aunt Helen had been like a second mother to him when he was a kid.

Mom switched gears from impending hysteria to deep sadness with a heavy sigh. “You know your father. He's being strong for me.” There was a small pause—a sniffle and a deep breath. “Enough tragedy. What's this ‘great news' you were talking about?”

I might have known a simple thing like the murder of a relative wouldn't keep Mom from pursuing a trail.

“Uh … nothing.”
Crap, Ciel, think of something!
“Look, now isn't the time—”

“Ciel Colleen, now is exactly the right time to tell me some ‘great news.' Spit it out this instant!”

“Laura's pregnant.” The words were sucked out of my mouth by the force of my mother's will before I could bite my tongue.

I
know.
It was awful enough I'd been willing to admit I'd known something before she did, but then not to wait for Thomas and Laura to tell her? Bad me.

I heard a
thunk
—that would be the phone dropping—followed by a happy squeal.

“Mom!” I yelled. “Mom, pick up the phone right—”

“Oh, this is such wonderful news!” Mom's voice was loud and clear again, glazed with joy. “If it's a girl, they'll have to name her Helen. Well, middle name at least. And Mo will throw a shower, of course, and we'll have a fabulous christening party—”

“Mom! Stop a second, okay? Listen, you can
not
tell Thomas and Laura I spilled the beans. They're on their way up to tell you in person.”

Mistake. Mom shifted gears faster than a NASCAR driver on race day.

“Why did they tell you before me? Shouldn't grandparents be the first—”

“They wanted to see your face when—”

“Would it have killed them to wait to tell you? Who else have they told? James? Brian?
Mo?
Am I the
last
one to find out?”

“No! Nobody else knows.”
If you don't count Billy
, I thought, crossing my fingers and glancing ceiling-ward for stray lightning bolts. “And the only reason I know is because Laura had to cancel her lesson with me to go to the doctor. She wanted to explain why she ditched me, is all.”

“Well … I suppose I understand. Still … never mind, it doesn't matter.” Thank God for Laura's saintly immunity. “Listen, honey, I have to go. I need to call Mo!”

“Mom, you
can't
tell Mo yet!”

“But she'll want to start planning the shower.” Mom was already a million miles away, somewhere deep in Baby Land. In fact, I heard the telltale sound of her fingers tapping away on her computer. She was probably already scouring the Babies“R”Us website.

“
No,
” I said. Loudly, to break through her haze. “You have to wait until Thomas and Laura tell you. And you have to act surprised when they do. Promise me!”

“Promise what, sweetie? Listen, I'll call you later. So much to do!”

 

Chapter 5

Aunt Helen's funeral was a suitably somber affair, unless you counted the flashes of joy in Mom's and Auntie Mo's eyes every time they glanced at Laura. They were starting to make me queasy. Seemed like I was feeling queasy a lot lately. Which made me wonder … no. I was
not
going to go there, and damn Billy for planting the seed of the idea in my head, anyway.

The seed-planter himself (okay, even as a random thought, that
so
didn't sound right) squeezed my hand reassuringly.

I glanced at Laura, whose auburn hair had grown into a sleek bob, presently shining in the morning sun. She'd met Aunt Helen only once, at the wedding, so her forest green eyes were focused on my brother Thomas with concern for him more than sadness for herself. His dismay lessened perceptibly when he looked at her. The skirt of her dark burgundy suit showed not a hint of a baby bump yet, but her hand still gravitated toward it unconsciously, like she was already protective of it.

I jerked my eyes away from her, fighting the roil in my belly. There was no way … was there? I mean, I used birth control. Religiously. Then again, going by Thomas's slip on the phone, so had Laura. If someone as meticulously careful as I knew CIA spooks to be could get caught …

Crap. Where were horrible cramps when you really needed them? I did a quick calculation in my head, trying to remember how long it had been since my last period. Had I even had one since Thomas and Laura's wedding? Things had gotten pretty messed up with the client I'd had then, and afterward the rift in my relationship with Billy had upset me so much I hadn't exactly been paying attention to my internal calendar. If I hadn't had a visit from good ol' Mother Nature since—

Holy shit! No, it couldn't be.

I looked at Mark with something akin to terror flowing through me. It had been a stupid, stupid misunderstanding on my part. I hadn't even known at the time he was the one who—holy hell, God
couldn't
be so cruel. Could He?

Billy once again squeezed my hand lightly. “It'll be over soon, cuz.”

Would it?
I thought weakly, and then gave myself a shake. This was ridiculous.

I nodded up at Billy and tried to smile. Forced my mind to focus on Aunt Helen. Which didn't make me feel one whit better. Funerals sucked, no matter how long and good a life the deceased had had, but then to be taken out in such a senselessly violent way … damn. It wasn't right.

Mom and Mo had (naturally) arranged everything. They'd tried to respect Uncle Foster's wishes for a small graveside service with only the closest friends and family members in attendance, difficult as it was for them to plan anything low-key, but there were still a lot of people in there, most of them adaptors.

At least the setting was beautiful, I thought, trying my best to find something positive to focus on. Aunt Helen and Uncle Foster had bought a double plot at the Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx back in 1974, when Duke Ellington was buried there. They were big jazz fans. The weather was crisp and clear—cold enough to be seasonal, but not to give you frostbite.

The only disconcerting thing about the morning was the presence of several undercover security guards posted around the perimeter, trying to blend in with the mourners. Mark had insisted on it. He was working with the police on the murder case (if by “working with” you mean “had taken it over entirely”) because it involved an adaptor. He hadn't told the local law enforcement officers that, of course. He'd merely flashed his government credentials, said something about “national security” and “need to know” (big surprise), and set them to doing the mundane groundwork, without allowing them to follow any trails that might lead to discovering the existence of adaptors. (Yeah, I'll bet the local LEOs
love
when the feds come to visit.)

I put it all down to Mark's tendency to be extra cautious where the anonymity of the adaptor community was concerned. (Thomas had once hinted that Mark's extreme caution had something to do with his family—whom none of us knew—but refused to discuss it more than that.) Still, somebody purposely singling out Aunt Helen? It was a ridiculous notion. She was the most inoffensive person you could imagine. There was no possible reason anyone would kill her, other than pure random malice.

When the minister—a friendly older woman who looked like she'd be right at home baking cookies in Santa's kitchen—finished listing all the wonderful things about Aunt Helen (it was a long list), Uncle Foster picked up the saxophone from a stand between two huge wreaths of anthuriums. The waxy red flowers, with their obscene protrusions, had been Aunt Helen's favorite—she said they always looked happy to see her.

If there'd been tears before, the floodgates opened on everyone when Uncle Foster handed his prized possession to my brother Brian, the musician in our family, who started playing “In a Sentimental Mood,” Aunt Helen's favorite. Uncle Foster closed his eyes, holding on to my father and mother for support, an achingly sad smile on his face as he swayed, ever so slightly, to the melody. I buried my face in Billy's shoulder (yeah, that suit jacket was going to need a trip to the dry cleaners) and momentarily lost myself in memories of the sweet old lady who'd snuck me candy and told me scandalous stories about her days entertaining the soldiers as a USO volunteer.

My snuffling was interrupted by an extra hand on my shoulder. Mark.

“To your left, Howdy,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Recognize anyone?”