She kept the place whitewashed with green trim. It had been built right when Art Nouveau had been giving way to Art Deco. There were window boxes and arches and all kinds of charming little details in the architecture.
Using her remote control, she opened her driveway gate and pulled her little Honda into place.
As she exited the car, Bridget came flying out from her front door.
“Marnie! You’re back so early. Are you all right? I knew I should have gone with you. Oh, they weren’t rude or mean or anything, were they?”
“No, I’m fine, really,” Marnie said, and she really hoped that she was a good actress, good enough to pull off that kind of a lie to her cousin. “I just... I just needed to leave. To come home.”
“I’ll make tea. My side? Your side?”
“My side. I know it’s just getting toward evening, but I’m thinking about to going to bed really early.”
“Right after tea,” Bridget said. “Oh, and food. You’ll need food.”
“I just left a reception,” Marnie argued. “There was food.”
“And I know you. You didn’t eat any of it.”
Marnie hadn’t eaten. Neither had she had anything to drink.
Nope, not a drop of alcohol, and still she had seen and heard a dead woman.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m really not hungry,” Marnie said. “Honestly.”
“Yeah, but you have to eat something. This is terrible, tragic—but you have to go on living. If you’re going to get that children’s theater up and running on schedule, you’re going to have to start functioning again. That real estate agent, Seth Smith, called. I told him that you were a bit preoccupied right now, and he’s being understanding, but doing up a budget and taking care of all the details will take time—you have to start moving. He told me he has other offers. Of course, that could be a come-on, but...”
“I’ll go see the accountant tomorrow,” Marnie promised. She smiled at Bridget. Neither of them had siblings, but their dads were brothers and had become the proud parents of baby girls the same year. Marnie and Bridget were as close as siblings—maybe closer. They had never had to fight over anything since they’d grown up in different homes.
They weren’t, however, much alike in appearance. Bridget had very wild red hair and soft amber eyes in contrast to Marnie’s blue-green eyes and dark chestnut hair color.
At the moment, however, Bridget was sporting some swatches in aqua and pink—very in the now. So far, Marnie had chosen to retain her own hair color. Her future was still uncertain; she made a lot of her current income from commercials she’d garnered here or there, and she was afraid of doing anything a bit off—even if hair did fix easily—when needing that money was still a major part of life.
For Bridget, of course, it was different. She didn’t act—in fact, she hated acting. She also hated crowds, which was one of the reasons Marnie had talked her out of attending the funeral. Bridget was a writer; she had a great job as full-time writer for several shows on the new Sci-tastic cable channel, an outlet that specialized in sci-fi and fantasy themes.
Bridget followed her cousin into her side of the duplex and headed straight for the kitchen. Marnie loved her kitchen. It was painted yellow, with herbs and flowers growing in the huge tiled bay window that overlooked the yard.
Marnie walked into the living room and crashed onto one of her rich chocolate leather sofas.
“How was the reception?” Bridget asked. “I can imagine it was a zoo. Everyone who hadn’t had a second for Cara Barton in life probably was there—I mean, what self-respecting actor would miss out on an opportunity for exposure like that? There was a ton of press there, right?”
“Yep.”
“A zoo, I’m sure. Hey, did the police get anywhere yet?”
“No. I think they were at the funeral, but they all kept their distance. They were watching, I’m certain. I actually saw Detective Manning and her partner, Detective Vining, at the wake yesterday. They were...”
“Watching?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Well, someone killed Cara.”
“Yes, but those closest to her obviously didn’t do it. I mean, we were all there.”
“Water is on. Look, you have some little meat pies in the freezer. I’ll pop a few of those into the microwave. It’s not gourmet and maybe not even really too healthful, but it’s something.”
“Sure,” Marnie said, picking up one of the pillows on the sofa and holding it. She closed her eyes. Life was a nightmare. It was good to have Bridget in here, chattering away.
Someone had killed Cara. Why?
And why was she imagining that she saw Cara?
“Hey! Someone is here,” Bridget called from the kitchen. “And... Whoa. Be still, my heart! This guy gives new meaning to tall, dark and handsome. Are you hiring a hero type for the theater? Or did you get some kind of an offer? Did your agent send this guy? I mean... Wow. Wicked-wow!”
Marnie didn’t have to look out the window to see to know that Bryan McFadden had come to her house.
She groaned out loud, looking around her living room.
No. There was no dead woman there. Maybe it was him. Maybe he was somehow causing her to have some kind of a delusion.
“Don’t let him in!” Marnie said.
“Don’t let him in? Are you kidding? Who is he?”
“Bryan McFadden.”
“And who is Bryan McFadden?”
“He’s no one. His parents were actors. He thinks he’s some kind of a cop or something. Just make him go away.”
“Oh, Lord, I have done some things for you in my life, but make him go away? I’m not married, you know. I’m not engaged. I’m not even dating. And you want me to make this guy go away?”
“Yes. Do it, please.”
“McFadden, McFadden... Oh, he looks like that old matinee star Hamish McFadden. Is he—”
“Yes. Make him go away. Please... Oh. Never mind!”
She’d make him go away herself.
Marnie leaped to her feet and flew to the front door, opening it.
He was a solid six foot four, and in the dark suit he’d chosen for the funeral, he was definitely impressive in his size and stature. He had a way of looking at her so directly that it was unnerving.
He was attractive; that was certain. Very. In a land of attractive people, he had something else, as well. Maybe it was that very steady way he had of looking at a person. Rock-solid. More. She felt as if Bridget could create one of her sci-fi ray guns based on his gaze: a green ray of light that drew her to him while she wanted to run away—or at least slam the door on him.
Yes, his very stature was imposing.
He probably knew it. Maybe he even used it to bully people.
She didn’t let him speak.
“Mr. McFadden, I left the funeral reception to avoid you. I don’t appreciate you coming to my house to hound me. You may be working with the police, but if you harass me, I will get a restraining order against you.”
“You’re