Eyewitness. Carol EricsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Since she’d lost her fiancé and given birth to their son alone, she’d learned to find joy in the smallest pleasures of life.
As she loaded her towels, the door to the laundry room slammed shut. She jumped and spun around with her heart pounding. Lunging for the door, she swung it open and peered into the hallway just in time to see the security door to the building click shut.
Probably that annoying kid in the corner apartment upstairs. Last week he kept practicing skateboard jumps off the front steps of the apartment house.
Devon kicked down the door stopper and returned to the washing machine. She dumped her detergent into the receptacle and punched the buttons for a warm-water wash.
As she left the laundry room, she nearly bumped into Sharon Mosely, mother of the obnoxious teen. “Oops, excuse me, Sharon. Hey, did your son just come this way?”
Sharon squeezed past Devon with her own basket. “No. He’s at the skate park. Sorry for the incident on the steps last week. Just wait until your little one is a teenager. Enjoy him while he’s young and sweet.”
Devon rolled her eyes. “I plan to.”
She passed Mrs. Del Vecchio’s door and then backtracked. Pressing her ear against the panel, she tapped lightly. “Mrs. Del Vecchio?”
Silence.
Devon knocked louder. “Mrs. Del Vecchio, are you in there? Are you okay?”
Holding her breath, Devon grasped the door handle and knocked again. It was a huge ordeal for Mrs. Del Vecchio to venture outside, so she had to be home. Besides, hadn’t Devon just heard a big thump from her apartment?
She twisted the door handle and let out a breath when it turned in her hand. Bumping the door with her hip, Devon called, “Mrs. Del Vecchio?”
The sound of running water filled the small apartment along with the overpowering scent of lemon. Drawing her brows over her nose, Devon crept farther into the room.
A couple of sofa pillows lay scattered on the floor. A desk drawer gaped open, its contents littering the carpet. Books tilted helter-skelter on a built-in shelf.
Devon folded her arms, her fingers pinching into her biceps. A chill inched its way up her spine with each step into the disordered apartment. “Mrs. Del Vecchio?”
Devon followed the sound of the water coming from the kitchen. She reached the kitchen entryway and grabbed on to the doorjamb for support as she gasped and swayed forward.
Mrs. Del Vecchio’s body lay in a crumpled heap on the tiled floor. Water flowed over the lip of the sink and streamed down the cabinets, creating a pool of bubbles where the lemon-scented dishwashing liquid dripped.
With her heart racing, Devon peeled her hands from the doorjamb and stumbled toward Mrs. Del Vecchio. She must have slipped and fallen, but how did her entire head get wet?
And why was her apartment a mess?
Devon’s training as a nurse kicked in, and she willed her legs to stop trembling. She knelt in the soapy water and brushed away the damp gray strands of hair clinging to Mrs. Del Vecchio’s neck to check her pulse.
“Mrs. Del Vecchio!” She didn’t figure her neighbor was conscious, but she had to make sure.
Mrs. Del Vecchio’s head lolled to the side and Devon gritted her teeth. The old woman’s eyes were wide open and her skin had a bluish tinge. She hadn’t fallen and hit her head.
Devon’s gaze darted to the sink overflowing with water and back to Mrs. Del Vecchio’s neck, where red welts were beginning to turn purple. She slid Mrs. Del Vecchio onto her back, tilted her chin up, and pumped her chest. She paused, pressing her ear against her neighbor’s heart.
A woman screamed behind her, and Devon’s head shot up. Sharon sagged in the doorway to the kitchen, a white-knuckled fist pressed against her mouth.
“Sharon, call 911. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do for her.”
Even though Devon was an obstetrics nurse, she knew death when she saw it. But what kind of death? Strangulation? Drowning? Both?
However Mrs. Del Vecchio died, it was no accident.
* * *
SQUEEZING HER SON’S clammy hand, Devon glanced over her right shoulder at the white van that had rolled into the coastal lookout area and parked next to her car. Her heart lurched painfully as she bent toward Michael’s dark head.
“It’s okay now, sweetie. We’re home. Bad things don’t happen in Coral Cove.”
Devon sealed her lie with a kiss on Michael’s sun-drenched hair. Even though her hometown of Coral Cove had endured its share of tragedies, it had always seemed like a safe refuge—until those murders last month. But the killer had died, the tourists were back for a summer of sun and surf, and it sure beat the heck out of San Francisco in the safety department.
Her son responded by gripping her hand even tighter and nestling his body against her side. Devon sighed and ruffled Michael’s curls. The instant she’d discovered Mrs. Del Vecchio’s dead body two weeks ago, Devon had known it would hit her son hard. Mrs. Del Vecchio had been like a grandmother to Michael, a wacky grandmother, but a grandmother nonetheless.
But Devon didn’t realize the murder would devastate him, altering his personality from outgoing little boy to this nervous, withdrawn stranger.
She swung her silent son’s hand and skipped, hoping to inject a little enthusiasm into his demeanor. “I’m taking you to one of my favorite places in Coral Cove.”
When her statement failed to elicit a question from Michael, she continued, forcing a cheery note into her voice. “It’s the oldest house in Coral Cove and it even has a name. Columbella House.”
Devon pointed to the cliff around the next bend. “The house overlooks the ocean, and there’s a path to the beach just before we reach the house. Do you want to go down to the beach?”
Michael nodded and Devon released a breath. The family therapist they’d seen in San Francisco had told Devon to give Michael time to recover from the shock. Devon figured he’d have a better chance of doing that away from their apartment in San Francisco where he’d woken up from his nap just in time to see Mrs. Del Vecchio’s body wheeled out beneath a white sheet.
Devon led Michael along the familiar curve of the road, their sneakers scuffing against the sand and gravel on the shoulder. She didn’t dare tell Michael that most of the residents of Coral Cove thought Columbella House was haunted. A month ago her son’s eyes would’ve widened at that pronouncement and he would’ve begged to explore. Now—her gaze shifted to Michael’s stiff, little face as she swallowed hard—he’d freak out.
“There’s Columbella House. Nobody lives there now, so I don’t think anyone will mind if we use the private access to the beach.”
She glanced back at the lookout. A silver sedan had joined her car and the van. Maybe they were waiting for the sunset.
The little wooden gate that opened onto the path to the beach squeaked as Devon unhitched it and pulled it toward her, a piece of rotten wood breaking off in her hand. She jerked her head up and narrowed her eyes at the shuttered windows on the second story of the house.
The hair on the back of her neck quivered, but the windows stared back at her blankly. Sweeping her hand across her sweatshirt, she grimaced. Michael’s skittishness had infected her—that and the fact that the police suspected Mrs. Del Vecchio’s killer was the one who slammed shut the laundry room door on his way out of the building.
No need to feel nervous here. Columbella House had never felt menacing to her. She was probably one of the few people left in Coral Cove who cherished fond memories of the house. One of the few people left alive who cherished fond memories.
Rubbing the back of her hand across her tingling nose, she grabbed Michael’s wrist. “The path’s not too steep,