California Demon (2 page)

My second reason originated from a more altruistic place: The folks at the nursing home absolutely adored the little bugger. Makes sense. They didn’t get that many visitors, and even fewer from the preschool crowd. Besides, as toddlers go, mine was practically perfect. Not that I’m biased or anything.

Finally, I’d brought Timmy along because today was Family Day at my daughter Allie’s school. As soon as Laura and I were finished with the decorating, we were going to pack up Timmy, swing by the bakery to pick up the PTA- MANDATED two dozen cupcakes, and head over to Coronado High School where we would do our best not to embarrass our freshman daughters by mentioning boys, grades, teachers, boys, television, politics, boys, movies, food, or any other potentially disastrous subject.

Laura concentrated on trimming the tree while I stapled garland to the archway, trying my best to drape it artistically but failing miserably. Martha Stewart, I’m not. Below me, my little boy entertained the elderly by abusing the Christmas ornaments, rummaging in my purse, singing “Jingle Bells,” and demonstrating his well-developed skill at blowing raspberries.

I carefully lined up a twist of garland, pulled the trigger on the staple gun, gave the garland a satisfied tug, then checked my watch. Not quite eleven.

“Why don’t you go on, honey? I can take care of hanging the rest of that.”

The suggestion came from Delia Murdock, who’d just celebrated her ninety-first birthday. She was standing at the base of my ladder, one hand on the frame, ostensibly holding it steady. As a general rule, the woman spent her life listing slightly to the left, and there was no way I was letting her climb a ladder.

“We’re not in any hurry,” I lied. “Are we, Laura?”

Laura stared at me as if I was insane because, of course, I was. We were due in the school’s gymnasium—cupcakes in hand—in exactly one hour and fifteen minutes.

“Five minutes,” I said as I descended the ladder, then dragged it to the next archway. “The girls will understand if we’re a teensy bit late.” Another lie. Allie had reminded me of this command performance at least three times a day for the last two weeks. She’d left reminder notes on my bathroom mirror, on the coffeepot, and on my steering wheel.

Apparently Family Day is a big enough deal at the high school to overcome the typical teenage mortification that comes from having a parent nearby. And I knew that if I arrived late, there would be hell to pay. I deal with hell every day. And believe me, the fire-and-brimstone variety is a lot more palatable than what my fourteen-year-old is capable of dishing out.

Laura looked dubious, but didn’t argue, so while Bing Crosby crooned on about White Christmases, I
ker-chunk
ed the stapler in time with the music, speeding up considerably when Bing faded away and “Jingle Bell Rock” blasted out from the media-room speakers. Behind me, I could hear Timmy counting (“one, two, free, four, six . . .”) as Mr. Montgomery burst out with “atta boy,” and “smart as a whip, that kid.” My heart did a little twisting number. I have great kids, and today my mommy pride was working overtime.

The tightness in my heart increased, as it so often did when I thought of the kids, especially Allie. Tim has his daddy, but Allie and I lost Eric, my first husband, to a brutal mugging five years ago. And although I’m happily remarried and wouldn’t trade Stuart for the world, not a day goes by that I don’t feel the loss, like someone had taken a cookie cutter and stolen an Eric-shaped piece of my soul.

The shrill ring of my cell phone jarred me out of my melancholy. I steadied myself on the ladder with one hand, then pulled my phone out of my pocket with the other.
Stuart.
I frowned, fearing I knew what he was calling about.

“Don’t tell me you’re not coming.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I’m coming. Allie’s been bugging us about this for weeks.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a bit guilty for doubting him. I had cause though. My husband was about to formally announce his candidacy for county attorney, and his days (and nights) had been filled with all manner of schmoozing, politicking, and fund-raising. The kids and I had gotten the short end of the scheduling stick on more than one occasion.

Being a wonderfully supportive wife, I tried not to let it bother me. Some of the time, I even succeeded.

“So,” I said, trying again. “What’s up?”

“Just reporting in,” he said. “And I wanted to see if you needed me to get anything for you. The cupcakes? Eddie? Ibuprofen for a migraine?”

Is he an incredible man or what? I mean, how many husbands actually commit their wife’s PTA obligations to memory? Or volunteer to pick up their daughter’s pseudo-great-grandfather despite the fact that—truth be told—the two men really don’t get along that well? I figure not many, and I’m lucky that one of the few belongs to me.

“Eddie’s taking a cab,” I said, figuring both Eddie and Stuart would thank me for that one. Eddie’s a retired Demon Hunter who’d recently taken up permanent residence in my life and temporary residence in my guest room. Due to a misunderstanding that I never bothered to clear up, my family believes that Eddie is Eric’s grandfather. Just one of those little
Forza
-related obfuscations that makes my life so interesting.

The cupcake question required a bit more consideration, but in the end I declined that offer as well. I love my husband, but I don’t trust his taste in pastries. I may not be able to cook worth a damn, but I can shop with the best of them. As for the painkillers, I’ve learned to carry my own supply.

“You’re sure?” he asked, when I told him he was off the hook.

“Totally. All you have to do is show up and you’ll be golden.”

“No problem there,” he said. “Clark’s got a potential contributor waiting to meet me in his office, but that’s the only thing on my plate. After that, I’m heading to the school.”

Clark Curtis is my husband’s boss. He’s also the lame-duck county attorney who favors my husband to step into his shoes. When I’d met Stuart, he’d been slaving away as an underpaid government attorney in the real-estate division with no political aspirations whatsoever.

Clark, however, had seen some potential, and had plucked my husband from relative obscurity and thrust him into the political limelight. Great for Stuart, not so great for me. Selfish, maybe, but I’m not crazy about the trappings of political wife-dom. And I’m
really
not crazy about the sporadic hours that my newly politicized husband has been keeping.

All of which meant that the mention of Clark didn’t exactly send ripples of warm, fuzzy confidence racing through my body. The opposite, in fact, and I kept my grip tight on the ladder as I closed my eyes and breathed deep, weighing what to say. Now wasn’t the time for a spousal tiff, but at the same time, a tiff would be small potatoes compared to Allie’s silent, sulky disappointment if Stuart didn’t show. Finally, I settled on diplomacy. “Just don’t lose track of time.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I know my priorities.”

“Okay,” I said, but not entirely comforted. I started to say more, but my attention was grabbed by a rousing chorus of “Na-KED baby! Na-KED baby! Naked baby! Naked baby! Na-ke-ed ba-A-A-A-BEEEEEEE,” screeched more or less to the tune of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” For this, I have no one to blame but myself, and I twisted around on the ladder with a sense of dread coupled with amusement. Sure enough, my kidlet had managed to strip off his shirt, his pants, and his Pull-Ups.

I said a quick good-bye to my husband. He’d either make it or he wouldn’t; and if he didn’t, then he’d be getting the cold shoulder from both of the females in his life. In the meantime, I needed to focus on the younger male in my life.

He was marching in a circle, not a care in the world, his little legs pumping in time with the song that was blaring out of his mouth. Mr. Montgomery and the others were laughing so hard that I was tempted to call the nurse; I really didn’t want my son to be the catalyst for a spate of coronaries.

I watched for longer than I probably should have—What can I say? He was cute—then put on my stern face and said, “Timmy!”

He clamped his mouth shut, but his eyes were wide and innocent. “I sing, Momma!”

“You certainly do,” I said. I glanced over at Laura for support, but her entire face was flush with laughter, and the little Santa ornament that dangled between her fingers trembled with evil glee.

So much for a little help from my friends.

I focused on keeping a firm expression. “The singing is fine, sweetie. But we wear clothes when we’re in public.”

“Not public. Inside!”

I swear, the kid was going to grow up to be a lawyer. Like father, like son.

“Yes,” I said, infinitely patient. “We are inside. But we wear clothes inside, too, don’t we? At home and at school and at mass.”

“And the mall,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said, completely proud. “And right now, you’re inside and have to put your clothes back on.”

My little boy wasn’t listening though, too fascinated with his own nakedness. I sighed and moved farther down the ladder, leaving the last bit of garland hanging like a sad tail from the middle of the arch. Apparently, I’d been wrong about the demons having left Coastal Mists. My own little devil was prancing away right there in the media room.

Before I reached the floor, Laura held up a hand, stopping me. “I’ll get Timmy dressed. You hurry.” She tapped her watch. “Cupcakes, remember?”

Timmy, meanwhile, was racing around the area rug, launching himself at the residents, who were laughing and egging him on. I had a sneaking suspicion a few had given him some chocolate. They might as well have passed him crystal meth; the effect couldn’t have been any more pronounced.

Laura saw where I was looking, and cut me off before I could protest. “He’s not even three, Kate. I can handle it. I have one of my own, remember?”

Except hers was now fourteen and dressed herself. Even so, I nodded. I knew better than to argue with Laura; she’s the woman who’d successfully returned outfits to Nordstrom despite the huge
75-percent Off, No-Return, Clearance-Final-Sale
signs plastered all over the store.

I watched, impressed, as she gathered up Timmy’s clothes, then gathered up Timmy. He started to struggle, but then she flipped him over, holding tight around his waist, as his head bobbed somewhere around her knees. His protests morphed into squeals of delight, and she marched past me toward the ladies’ room, shooting me a look of smug triumph as she went.

I turned back to the task at hand, hurrying since we still had to pick up the cupcakes on the way to school, and knowing the extreme wrath that awaited me if we showed up late.

From my ladder-top vantage point, I could see through the wide windows to the cliffs in the distance. I could even see part of the ocean, billowing and churning, the sun’s rays sending miniature rainbows flying each time the froth burst against the beach.

I love California. The weather. The beach. Pretty much everything. But as I stapled garland to the thickly painted wood, I realized that I was craving the white Christmas that Bing so convincingly crooned about. I made a mental note to buy hot chocolate, whipping cream, and some fluffy red-and-green throws. We might not be getting a blizzard this year, but at least I could crank up the air conditioner and wheedle Stuart into lighting a fire in our rarely to never used fireplace.

I was trying to justify a crackling fire despite the seventy degree weather, when I noticed that some of the residents who’d been in the media room were heading down the hallway toward the glass doors, where a uniformed man stood with a cardboard sign, a red gimme cap slung low on his head. I couldn’t read the sign or hear what he was saying, but since the residents were queuing up, I assumed they were heading out.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“Hmm? Who, dear?” Delia answered.

I pointed down the hall, almost losing my balance in the process.

“Ah, hmm. I think they’re going on that school field trip.”

“Which school? The high school?”

“Oh, yes, the high school.” Delia frowned. “I never did finish high school. Daddy didn’t think an education was fitting for a woman.”

While I was pondering that little bit of insight into Delia, Jenny rounded the corner, clipboard in hand and a crease on her brow. Jenny’s a candy striper, a little ditzy, and almost as tuned-in to the Coastal Mists gossip as Delia.

“Mrs. Connor!” she said, looking up at me waving wildly. “Wow. You’re doing a great job.”

I inspected my work, and decided that Jenny’s standards were way too low.

I was just about to ask Jenny if the bus really was going to the high school when Nurse Ratched stomped up, took Jenny by the elbow, and pulled her aside. I aimed a comforting smile in Jenny’s direction. I’d been on the receiving end of Nurse Ratched’s displeasure, and it really wasn’t pretty. (In fairness, I should add that Nurse Ratched is really Nurse Baker, and as far as I can tell, she’s not the demon-aiding sycophant I originally presumed. But I still don’t like her.)

Nurse Ratched has one of those gravelly voices that’s almost impossible to ignore. I liked Jenny, though, and it didn’t seem polite to bear witness to her dressing-down. So I tried to keep my mind on other things, doing everything short of sticking my fingers in my ears and humming.

Didn’t work. No matter how good my intentions, I couldn’t help but hear a few snippets. A good thing, too, considering the subject of their conversation. Good in that it clued me in to the possible presence of demons. Bad for the exact same reason.

The conversation I overheard went like this:

“Jenny, I’m tired of having this same discussion with you. You have
got
to concentrate. I can’t have you mixing up the patients.”

“But—”

“No buts. There is absolutely no way Dermott Sinclair got on that bus. Which means your field trip list is wrong, and we have one resident unaccounted for!”