All Fall Down (3 page)

I
t was nearly seven that evening before Melanie was able to leave work to pick Casey up at her sister's. It had been an exhilarating, exhausting, eye-opening day. She had learned more in the past twelve hours than she had from all her classes at the academy combined or from the police manuals she pored over at every opportunity.

Homicide investigation, she had discovered, was a tedious process. It required patience, logic, intuition and tenacity, qualities that could be honed but not necessarily learned. Dealing with the victim's family and friends called for not only a sensitive and deft hand, but a thick skin and quick mind as well.

Those closest to Joli had painted the portrait of a happy, well-adjusted young woman, one who liked men and who liked to party. From those interviews, Melanie had assembled a list of the clubs Joli had frequented and of the men she had dated in the past year. The list of both had been extensive.

Everyone Melanie had spoken with had either been in shock or been grieving. Dealing with their pain had been the most difficult part of the day for the Whistlestop cops, perhaps even more upsetting than the crime scene itself. She'd been unable to remain de
tached—she had looked into their eyes and felt their loss keenly.

After a time, she had found herself avoiding their gazes.

Melanie pulled up in front of her sister's palatial, plantation-style home. Like Melanie's ex-husband, her sister had chosen to reside in southeast Charlotte, an area populated by the very affluent and dotted with one exclusive, gated community after another. Melanie had always found the area too grand, almost overwhelming in its obvious wealth.

She climbed out of the car. Casey was playing with action figures on the front porch; Mia was on the porch swing, watching him. Smiling, Melanie took a moment to drink in the picture they made. The breeze stirring Mia's fair hair and filmy cotton dress, the gentle rock of the swing, Casey's happy chatter. Nice. Domestic and warm. Like something out of an Andrew Wyeth painting.

Melanie cocked her head. Most of the time, when she looked at her twin, she simply saw her sister, Mia. But sometimes, like now, she experienced a strange sort of déjà vu. A sense that she was looking at herself. A different version of herself, from her previous lifetime, before her divorce.

Casey glanced up and caught sight of her and jumped to his feet. “Mom!” he shouted and tore down the steps to meet her.

She opened her arms; he launched himself into them, hugging her tightly. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged him back, his sweetness chasing away the ugliness of the day.

She loved him so much it hurt. Before Casey she hadn't believed such a thing possible. How could loving someone hurt?

Then her obstetrician had laid Casey in her arms and against her heart, and she had understood. Instantly. Irrevocably.

“Did you have fun?” she asked, loosening her grip on him and gazing into his eyes, eyes the same bright blue as hers and her sisters'.

He nodded excitedly. “Aunt Mia took me for ice cream. Then we went to the park an' she pushed me on the swing. I went down the big slide, Mom!”

“The big slide?” She widened her eyes to show that she was properly amazed and impressed. He had been wanting to go down that slide for weeks, but each time he had started up the ladder he had chickened out before he reached the top.

“I was really scared, but Aunt Mia followed me up. And she went down right behind me, just like she promised.”

She kissed his cheek. “That's my big, brave boy. You must be really proud of yourself.”

He bobbed his head, grinning from ear to ear. “But you hav'to be careful, 'cause you can fall like Aunt Mia did. She hurt her eye.”

Melanie lifted her gaze to her sister, standing at the edge of the porch, facing them. Melanie made a sound of dismay. Her sister's right eye was black and blue, the right side of her face swollen. “You fell off the slide?”

“Of course not.” She smiled at Casey. “Silly Mommy. Actually, I tripped on a shoe.”

“One of Uncle Boyd's big, stupid boots,” Casey chimed in.

“We don't say stupid,” Melanie corrected, frowning at her son, then returning her attention to her sister. “It's not like you to be clumsy.”

Mia ignored the comment. “Have time for a glass of wine? Boyd has a meeting tonight, so I'm fancy-free.”

As when they'd spoken on the phone earlier, Melanie picked up on something in her sister's tone that troubled her. “After this day?” she said lightly. “I'll make time.”

She ruffled her son's hair, an unruly mop of golden curls, then nudged him toward the porch. After collecting his toys, the three went inside. Melanie switched on the Cartoon Channel, then headed into the kitchen where she found Mia opening a bottle of Chardonnay.

Melanie sank onto one of the iron and wicker bar stools that lined the breakfast counter. “You want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Talk about what?” Mia poured a glass of the chilled wine, slid it across to Melanie, then poured another for herself.

“I don't know. Whatever it is I'm hearing in your voice. Something's bothering you.”

Mia gazed at her a moment, then turned and crossed to the breakfront, slid open the middle drawer and came out with a pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and, hands shaking, lit it.

Melanie watched as her sister took a deep drag, holding the smoke in a moment as if it had medicinal
powers before she released it. She said nothing, though she despised her sister's habit—one Mia resorted to only when troubled. “It must be bad,” Melanie murmured. “I haven't seen you with a cigarette in months.”

Mia took another drag. She looked at Melanie. “Boyd's cheating on me.”

“Oh, Mia.” Melanie reached across the counter and covered her sister's hand with one of her own. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” She sucked in a trembling breath. “He's out at night, a lot. Sometimes until really late. He always has a plausible excuse for going out. A meeting with the hospital administrators. Or the hospital board. Or one of his medical societies.” She made a sound of disgust. “It's always something.”

“And you think he's lying?”

“I know he is. When he comes home…the way he looks…the way he…smells.” She made a sound of shame, turned and crossed to the sink. She bowed her head. “Like cheap perfume and…sex.”

Melanie dropped her hands to her lap, angry for her sister. She hadn't wanted Mia to marry Boyd Donaldson, had tried to talk her out of it. Despite his good looks and professional reputation, something about the man had always seemed off to her, like a picture slightly out of focus. She hadn't trusted him, had resented the prenuptial agreement he had forced Mia to sign.

Now she wished she hadn't been quite so vocal with her criticisms. If she hadn't been, maybe Mia would have felt free to come to her for help sooner.

“Have you checked up on him?” Melanie asked. “Hired someone to follow him or called the hospital when he's supposed to be there? Anything like that?”

“No.” She flipped on the water, doused what was left of her cigarette, then dropped it in the trash. “I've been afraid to. It's like a part of me…doesn't want to know for certain.”

Because faced with proof, she would be forced to act. Not exactly her twin's strong suit.

“Oh, Mia, I understand. I do. But you can't stick your head in the sand with this one. If he's cheating, you have to know for certain. From the standpoint of your health alone—”

“Don't start with me. Please, Melanie. I feel awful enough already, thank you.” Mia passed a hand over her face. “It's my life and my marriage and I'll muddle my way through somehow.”

“So butt out?” Melanie said stiffly, feelings hurt. “Fine. Just don't expect me to be your sounding board, because I can't sit back and do nothing. It's not my way.”

“But it's mine?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Maybe you didn't have to.”

The two women locked gazes; Mia backed down first. “Actually, I took your advice already. I thought, okay, what would Melanie do? So I confronted him. And guess what?”

Melanie swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “What?”

“He went berserk.” Mia indicated her black eye. “You see the result.”

Melanie stared at her sister a moment, not wanting
to believe what she was hearing. “You don't mean…he hit you?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“That son-of-a-bitch!” Melanie leaped to her feet. “That no-good, two-timing… I'll kill the bastard. I swear, I'll—”

Melanie bit back the words, struggling to get hold of her anger. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Growing up, she'd had a reputation for being a hothead. Her temper had gotten her into trouble time and again—once nearly landing her in reform school. If not for an understanding social worker, she would have ended up there.

As an adult she had learned to control her hair-trigger emotions. To think before she acted. To consider the consequences of her actions.

But old habits died hard. And when it came to her sisters, particularly Mia, she had always been ferociously, even blindly, protective.

“What are you going to do?” she managed to ask through gritted teeth.

Mia sighed, the sound too young and helpless for a thirty-two-year old woman. “What can I do?”

“What can you…” Melanie made a sound of disbelief. “Call the cops. Have his butt hauled in, then press charges. Leave him, for heaven's sake!”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is. You just do it.”

“The way you left Stan?”

“Yes.” Melanie went around the counter to her sister. She caught her hands and looked her straight in the eyes. “Leaving Stan was the hardest thing I ever
did. But it was the best. I knew that then. I know it now.”

Mia started to cry. “I'm not strong like you, Mellie. I'm not brave. I never have been.”

“You can be.” She squeezed her sister's fingers. “I'll help you.”

Mia shook her head. “No, you can't. I'm just a sniveling, stupid excuse for a—”

“Stop it! That's our father talking. And Boyd. It's not true.” She searched her sister's gaze. “You don't think I was scared when I left Stan? I was scared shitless. I'd never had to take care of myself, let alone a child, too. I didn't know how I would support us, if I could. And I was terrified he'd try to take Casey away from me.”

Melanie shuddered, remembering her terror, the way she had second-guessed her every decision. Her ex-husband was a prominent lawyer, a partner in one of Charlotte's top firms. He could have wrested custody away from her without even breaking a sweat—he still could. As it was, he had pulled strings and gotten her application to the CMPD academy denied.

She had left him anyway. For herself. And Casey. She hadn't been the person Stan needed or wanted, though for a long time she had tried to mold herself into that woman. One who needed a man to lean on, one who was satisfied to sit back and let her husband call the shots while she tended to house and home. She had failed miserably. And in the process had become a person she had neither known nor liked.

Their marriage had become a battleground. And a battleground had been no place to raise a child.

“You can do it,” she said again, fiercely. “I know you can, Mia.”

Mia shook her head, her expression defeated. “I wish I were like you. But I'm not.”

Melanie drew her sister into her arms and held her tightly. “It's going to be all right. We'll get through this.
I'll
get you through this. I promise.”

W
hen Melanie and Casey arrived home an hour and a half later, after a quick stop for fast food, they found Ashley waiting for them. Melanie wasn't surprised to see her. A drug company rep, her territory the Carolinas, she often dropped by Melanie's on her way back into town.

“Look who's here, Casey,” Melanie said, drawing to a stop in the driveway. “Aunt Ashley.”

McDonald's Kid's Meal forgotten, the child bolted out of the car the moment Melanie got his safety buckle undone. “Aunt Ashley! Look what I got from Aunt Mia! A megaman!”

Melanie smiled as she watched her son launch himself into her sister's outstretched arms. Her sisters had always been the most important people in her life and their love for Casey warmed her heart.

Melanie collected her purse and the Kid's Meal, then crossed to the two. “Hey, sis, have a productive trip?”

Ashley lifted Casey, propping him on her hip, then turned to Melanie. She smiled. “You know pharmaceutical sales—drugs, the wave of the present.”

Melanie laughed. Her sister was a paradox. Although extremely successful at what she did, she was
a believer in natural and holistic healing. Whenever one of them got sick, she suggested herbs, roots and teas instead of one of the miracle drugs she made a living selling.

They climbed the front steps to the house. “You could have let yourself in. Less mosquitoes.”

“I know.” She hiked Casey higher on her hip. “But it was too pretty a night to wait inside.”

Melanie unlocked the door and flipped on the foyer light. They made their way to the kitchen, turning on lights as they went. It was a small house, a cottage really, with two bedrooms, family room and kitchen. Though it would practically fit in the master-bedroom suite of her ex-husband's home, Melanie loved it. In her opinion, what it lacked in size, it made up for in charm. Located in one of Whistlestop's older neighborhoods, it had an abundance of windows, hardwood floors throughout and high ceilings.

And best of all, she had paid for it herself, no help from her ex or anybody else.

“Did you eat?” she asked her sister as she got Casey settled at the breakfast counter. “I was going to throw together a salad. I have enough for two.”

“Thanks, but I'll pass.” She shrugged out of her suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “I had a late lunch with a doctor.”

Melanie glanced at her sister and frowned, noticing how thin she looked. Slightly taller than her and Mia's medium height, Ashley had also been blessed with a more curvaceous build. Tonight, however, her tailored trousers seemed to hang on her. “Have you been ill?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“You look thin.”

Ashley cocked an eyebrow. “Compared to what? The way I usually look?”

“No, silly.
Too
thin.”

“There's no such thing.” She crossed to the refrigerator. “Have any cold beer?”

“Think so. Help yourself.” Melanie unwrapped her son's cheeseburger, laid it and his bag of French fries on a plate and set it in front of him, snitching a fry as she did.

“Juice, Mom.”

“Milk,” she countered. “Then juice if you're still thirsty.”

Casey only grumbled a bit—he knew it would be a losing battle—and dug into his burger. Melanie poured him the milk, then retrieved the salad fixings from the refrigerator. “You heard about Joli Andersen?”

“On the radio.” Ashley poured a beer into a chilled mug, took a sip and made a sound of appreciation. “Nothing like an ice-cold beer at the end of a long, hard day.”

Melanie grinned. “You sound like a commercial.”

“I do, don't I? Maybe I missed my calling.” She took another sip, then set the glass on the counter. “So, tell me about today.”

Melanie tore off a hunk of iceberg lettuce, washed and patted it dry, and began ripping it into pieces over her bowl. “What do you want to know?”

“Just the basics. You know, was it really gruesome? Did you kick major CMPD butt? If you ruined your shoes when you threw up.” The last she said with a
laugh, but at Melanie's expression, brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Mel, I was just teasing. You didn't really—”

“Totally humiliate myself? Try again. I puked my guts out in front of everybody.”

“Oh, sis, I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay, I—” A lump formed in her throat, and she cleared it. “It was the worst thing I've ever seen, Ash. And to everyone else it was…no big deal. Business as usual, I guess.”

She began peeling a cucumber, no longer because she wanted to eat but for something to do with her hands. “They talked about what happened to that poor girl so cavalierly. With so little, I don't know, care. That's what finally did it. Until then I was holding it together, focusing on the job.”

Ashley gave her a quick hug. “Tossed cookies or not, I know you were great. My sister, Super Cop.”

Melanie smiled and shook her head. More than anyone else, Ashley had supported her decision to become a police officer. She had always seemed to understand not just Melanie's want to do it, but her need to as well. “I'll tell you this, Ash, the work was fascinating. There was this guy at the scene, a profiler with the FBI. The way he worked was amaz—”

“Mom, what's the FBI?”

Melanie looked at her son, realizing not only that he had been listening, but that he was fascinated. “It's a law enforcement agency, honey. A big, important one.”

“That's what I thought.” He stuffed a French fry into his mouth. “Are you talking about that lady?”

Melanie frowned. “What lady?”

“The one who was muttered.”

Murdered.
“What do you know about that?”

“I heard Aunt Mia talking with my teacher.”

Ashley made a sound of disgust and Melanie glanced at her son's plate—it was clean save for the pickles he'd peeled off his burger and a hunk of the bun. “Honey, are you finished?”

He nodded, then yawned. “Can I watch TV now?”

She leaned across the counter and wiped his mouth with a napkin, feeling a pinch of guilt at having kept him up so late. “Sorry, sweetie, time to hit the sack. It's already thirty minutes past your bedtime.”

“But Mom—” he dragged the words out, part plea, part whine “—I'm not tired.”

“I'm sure you're not, but it's still your bedtime.” She helped him off the tall stool and nudged him toward the door. “Tell your Aunt Ashley goodnight.”

Casey did as she asked, managing to wheedle the promise of three bedtime stories from her before they cleared the kitchen.

Melanie glanced apologetically at her sister. “Be right back.”

Ashley smiled. “No problem. I'll be here.”

When Melanie returned to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, she found Ashley standing at the sink, staring out the window above it, her expression almost unbearably sad.

Melanie took a step toward her, concerned. “Ash? You okay?”

Her sister turned, expression lifting. “Sure. Our little tiger asleep?”

“Not yet. He was so revved up.” She frowned. “I can't believe I was so indiscreet earlier, talking about my work that way. He was listening to everything we said. I have to be more careful what I say around him, he's not a baby anymore.”

“Sounds as if our sister and his teacher have to be more careful as well.” Ashley plucked a chunk of cucumber from Melanie's salad bowl. “Now, tell me more about this FBI guy?”

“The way he worked was fascinating, that's all. He looked at the crime scene, analyzed it, then drew a conclusion about what had happened. I found it nothing short of amazing.”

Ashley grinned. “Goodbye dog-poop patrol, hello homicide.”

Melanie thought of all the calls she had taken from citizens irate over a neighbor's dog pooping in their yard, or trampling their flowers, or chasing their cat up a tree; she thought of all the traffic tickets she had issued and of how she had longed to do real police work. Now, finally, she had her chance.

But at what cost?

She looked at her sister, feeling guilty. “Being so grateful for this murder makes me feel like an awful person. You know what I mean?”

“Don't be a dork.” Ashley reached around her and helped herself to a baby carrot. “You had nothing to do with Joli Andersen's murder.”

“I know, I just—” She sighed and reached for the bell pepper. “One thing I already know, when this case is solved it's going to be difficult to return to business as usual around the WPD.”

Ashley made a face. “You wouldn't be stuck in that rinky-dink department if not for that bastard you married. Someone needs to teach that prick a lesson.”

“Ashley!” Melanie glanced over her shoulder toward the family room and bedrooms beyond. “First off, watch your language. Casey could hear. Second, remember, Stan is Casey's dad.”

“And that's the only reason we let him live.”

“Very funny.” Melanie sprinkled grated cheese on her salad, then held the bag out to her sister.

Ashley helped herself to some of the cheddar-jack. “I can't help it, Mel. I hate him for keeping you out of the CMPD academy. That was your dream for as long as I can remember, and he stole it.”

“The Whistlestop force isn't the CMPD, but I'm still doing police work.” She crossed to the refrigerator for the salad dressing, choosing Italian. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Which is a constant thorn in Stan's side. He can't stand the idea of the great Stan May's ex-wife being a cop. The fact that I wear a uniform drives him nuts. I love when I'm wearing it and run into one of his colleagues' wives.” She laughed. “They always look horrified.”

The truth was, she disliked the uniform almost as much as Stan did, and not because it was unflattering and too masculine, but because it identified her as a small-time, small-town cop. In the WPD, unlike the Charlotte/Mecklenburg force, there was no such thing as working “plainclothes.” Her chief wanted his force to be immediately recognizable to the community and for citizens to see his officers out and about, all the time.

She drizzled dressing over the salad. “Besides, who knows what the future might bring? If I distinguish myself in the WPD, I don't think Stan's influence with the CMPD will be as likely to keep me out. That's why it's so important for me not only to be working this murder, but for me to help solve it. Just taking up space isn't going to cut it.”

“It never does.” Ashley's smile faded. “Sounds like you have it all figured out. Of course, you always have.”

At the quiver in her sister's voice, Melanie frowned. “So have you, Ash. You've always gone after what you wanted, what you believed in with heart and soul. It's only Mia…” Melanie let the thought trail off, thinking of her other sister, of the predicament she had gotten herself into.

Melanie sighed. “You haven't talked to Mia in a while, have you?”

“At least a week. Since our last coffee klatch.” Ashley drew her eyebrows together. “Why? What's wrong?”

The salad that a moment ago had looked so appetizing suddenly lost its appeal. Melanie laid down her fork and shoved the bowl aside. “Boyd hit her,” she said, then filled Ashley in on her and Mia's conversation.

Angry color sprang to Ashley's cheeks. “That bastard! What did she do?”

“Take a guess.”

“Nothing, right? Because she's scared.”

“You got it.” With a sound of distress, Melanie stood and crossed to the window. She stared out at the
night for a moment, then turned back to her sister. “What are we going to do?”

“What
can
we do?” Ashley lifted a shoulder. “It's her marriage, Mel.”

“But he's hitting her! We can't allow it.”

“She's the one who's allowing it. Not us.”

“How can you say that?” Melanie shook her head, angered by her sister's attitude. “You know how dangerous this is for her. It would be for any of us, because of our pasts. All three of us are susceptible to the victim mentality and to being sucked into a relationship of escalating abuse.”

“Speak for yourself.” Ashley plucked another wedge of cucumber out of Melanie's salad and popped it into her mouth. “Our father was a monster. But he's dead now and I'm over it.”

“Right. That's why you steer as far away from men and relationships as possible.”

Ashley narrowed her eyes. “This isn't about me and my dating habits.”

“No, it's about helping our sister. Something
you
don't seem interested in doing.”

For a moment, Ashley was completely still. Then she rose to her feet. Melanie saw that she was shaking. “I love our sister as much as you do, Melanie, so don't you even think about going there.”

“I wasn't suggesting—”

“Yeah, you were. In your way.” Ashley looked her straight in the eyes. “You want the truth? You've made her too dependent. You're always taking care of her, rushing in to save the day. You've been doing it since we were kids. What does she expect you to do
this time? End her marriage for her? Arrest him? Shoot to kill?”

“Very funny, Ash.”

“I'm not laughing. You've got to let her grow up.”

Melanie stiffened, fighting to keep her temper in check. “So, you think I should just stand back and let her be victimized. Very nice, Ash. Sisterly.”

“Until she does something to help herself, yes, that's exactly what I think you should do. Be there for her, sure. Offer advice. But stop trying to save her.”

“Maybe
you
can do that, but I can't.”

Ashley sucked in a sharp breath. “Cut the sanctimonious act. The reason you're so protective of her is because you feel guilty.”

“Guilty?” Melanie repeated, arching her eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. “What do I have to feel guilty about?”