Cathy must have driven Larry to the BART station the previous morning, Artie thought. But her own Honda wasn’t there.
There were no lights on in the house, and Artie figured the outside Christmas lights were on a timer.
“Nobody’s home,” Mitch murmured.
“No surprise. She’s still away with the kids, then.” Artie felt relieved; they’d be spared an hour of tears and reminiscences about Larry.
Mitch was already out of the car. “No sense sitting here freezing. Let’s take a look.”
They walked down the stairs to the porch and rang the buzzer at the side door. There was the sound of chimes on the inside. Mitch waited a moment, then leaned against the buzzer again. Another long moment. No lights came on; there were no sounds of footsteps, no souhds of life.
“The glass doors overlooking the hillside,” Artie muttered. “Larry never locks them.”
They walked around to the front of the house that faced the ravine below. The hill was steep and clogged with brush and eucalyptus trees. Larry had been lucky; the fire of ’91 had spared this particular glen.
There was a two-inch gap between the frame and the leading edge of the glass doors. Artie put his fingers inside and pulled back until one of the doors obligingly rolled open a few feet.
“Cathy? Andy?”
No answer, though Artie hardly expected any. It was twilight now, the moon full, the ravine below thick with shadows. The wind had also picked up, rustling through the eucalyptus leaves.
“Let me find the lights … .”
Artie heard Mitch feeling his way around the wall and then the lights flared on.
The living room was spacious, with the glass doors and huge picture windows fronting on the balcony and overlooking the woods below. A long oak table was flanked by a couch and several black leather recliners, all of them facing the windows. A writing table, chair, and floor lamp were in the far corner. A brick stand-alone fireplace blocked off the kitchen from the living room, while an entertainment center hugged the far wall. Two VCR tapes were on the floor in front of the television set: Men In Black I and The Mask II, the evening’s entertainment for the boys. Bookcases lined the entry hall, and several shelves of CDs were half-hidden behind the large floor-standing speakers.
“Hey, Artie, in the kitchen.”
There was an urgency in Mitch’s voice and Artie turned away from the view and hurried into the large kitchen. Cathy was a gadget nut with the latest in fridges and a glass-topped stove where spills could be wiped off with a damp cloth. Spice racks filled the wall over the prep counter and pots and pans dangled from hooks on an iron wheel suspended from the ceiling.
Mitch was standing by the round kitchen table. It had been set for three. The serving dishes in the middle were still partly filled with food: sweet potatoes, ham, and broccoli with a small wicker basket of what looked like sourdough bread. On all three dinner plates, the ham and the sweet potatoes had been partly eaten; on two of them, the broccoli lay untouched.
Apparently neither Andy nor James cared for broccoli, Artie thought. Mitch lifted a plastic carton of milk from the tabletop, then set it back down.
“Feel it, Artie.”
The carton was warm, room temperature. Then Artie noticed the little things: the chairs that had been shoved away from the table, the container of now-liquid Dreyer’s strawberry ice cream sitting on the counter. Cathy had probably put it out to soften by meal’s end so it would be easier to serve. Susan did it all the time.
“From last night,” he murmured.
Mitch nodded. “Looks like they left in the middle of the meal.”
Artie glanced around the kitchen. No signs of a struggle, no signs of violence, no blood splashed around, all the knives still safely in the knife rack.
“They just got up and left?”
“Apparently,” Mitch said. Almost to himself he muttered, “She must have been terrified.” He picked up the milk carton to
There were no lights on in the house, and Artie figured the outside Christmas lights were on a timer.
“Nobody’s home,” Mitch murmured.
“No surprise. She’s still away with the kids, then.” Artie felt relieved; they’d be spared an hour of tears and reminiscences about Larry.
Mitch was already out of the car. “No sense sitting here freezing. Let’s take a look.”
They walked down the stairs to the porch and rang the buzzer at the side door. There was the sound of chimes on the inside. Mitch waited a moment, then leaned against the buzzer again. Another long moment. No lights came on; there were no sounds of footsteps, no souhds of life.
“The glass doors overlooking the hillside,” Artie muttered. “Larry never locks them.”
They walked around to the front of the house that faced the ravine below. The hill was steep and clogged with brush and eucalyptus trees. Larry had been lucky; the fire of ’91 had spared this particular glen.
There was a two-inch gap between the frame and the leading edge of the glass doors. Artie put his fingers inside and pulled back until one of the doors obligingly rolled open a few feet.
“Cathy? Andy?”
No answer, though Artie hardly expected any. It was twilight now, the moon full, the ravine below thick with shadows. The wind had also picked up, rustling through the eucalyptus leaves.
“Let me find the lights … .”
Artie heard Mitch feeling his way around the wall and then the lights flared on.
The living room was spacious, with the glass doors and huge picture windows fronting on the balcony and overlooking the woods below. A long oak table was flanked by a couch and several black leather recliners, all of them facing the windows. A writing table, chair, and floor lamp were in the far corner. A brick stand-alone fireplace blocked off the kitchen from the living room, while an entertainment center hugged the far wall. Two VCR tapes were on the floor in front of the television set: Men In Black I and The Mask II, the evening’s entertainment for the boys. Bookcases lined the entry hall, and several shelves of CDs were half-hidden behind the large floor-standing speakers.
“Hey, Artie, in the kitchen.”
There was an urgency in Mitch’s voice and Artie turned away from the view and hurried into the large kitchen. Cathy was a gadget nut with the latest in fridges and a glass-topped stove where spills could be wiped off with a damp cloth. Spice racks filled the wall over the prep counter and pots and pans dangled from hooks on an iron wheel suspended from the ceiling.
Mitch was standing by the round kitchen table. It had been set for three. The serving dishes in the middle were still partly filled with food: sweet potatoes, ham, and broccoli with a small wicker basket of what looked like sourdough bread. On all three dinner plates, the ham and the sweet potatoes had been partly eaten; on two of them, the broccoli lay untouched.
Apparently neither Andy nor James cared for broccoli, Artie thought. Mitch lifted a plastic carton of milk from the tabletop, then set it back down.
“Feel it, Artie.”
The carton was warm, room temperature. Then Artie noticed the little things: the chairs that had been shoved away from the table, the container of now-liquid Dreyer’s strawberry ice cream sitting on the counter. Cathy had probably put it out to soften by meal’s end so it would be easier to serve. Susan did it all the time.
“From last night,” he murmured.
Mitch nodded. “Looks like they left in the middle of the meal.”
Artie glanced around the kitchen. No signs of a struggle, no signs of violence, no blood splashed around, all the knives still safely in the knife rack.
“They just got up and left?”
“Apparently,” Mitch said. Almost to himself he muttered, “She must have been terrified.” He picked up the milk carton to
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