“It just means that Uncle Cade will have dinner with us another time,” Hattie explained, though she realized she was probably lying.
“No!” McKenzie protested.
As was her most recent custom, Mallory, again, crossed her arms over her chest in defiance. “When?” Mallory asked. “When is he coming over to dinner?”
Hattie shrugged. “Up to him.”
“Soon,” Cade promised and was already backing toward the door. “You girls”—he waggled a gloved finger at his two nieces—“don’t you give your mother any trouble. Okay?”
“ ’Kay,” McKenzie agreed, but Mallory didn’t acquiesce. She’d heard empty promises before and recognized this one for what it was.
“He’s never coming over,” she complained as Hattie herded her daughters past the board listing the day’s specials. They walked into a cavernous dining area filled with tables and booths. Mounted high overhead, above the wagon-wheel chandeliers, were stuffed heads of animals indigenous to the region. As Mallory climbed into a booth beneath the glassy eyes of a bighorn sheep, she said, “Uncle Cade’s a big liar.”
If you only knew, Hattie thought, sliding onto the bench across the table from both girls. But then no one’s a bigger liar than I am. No one.
Chapter 17
The judge’s house had been built over a hundred years earlier. Constructed high on a hill overlooking the Grizzly River, the two-storied Victorian sat across a broad avenue from the park. Though the official street name was Hillside, the locals referred to these eight blocks across from the park as “King’s Row.” With a view of the falls, the judge’s manor, like all of the other homes along King’s Row, was decorated with strings of clear Christmas lights, some of which were already aglow as twilight had settled in.
The house was two-toned, its upper story a darker green, typical, Pescoli thought, of the era in which it was constructed. Just like the other homes facing the park. The wide porch led to a pair of double doors that were inset with oval windows and crowned by a small balcony above. A plaque mounted near the door told them this was a historic residence, built in 1916 by John Adams Thompson, one of the founding fathers of the town.
The house was locked tight, of course, but Pescoli entered using a key from the ring they’d found in the Lexus parked in the judge’s cabin’s garage.
Inside, the Victorian was as neat as the cabin had been, though the house in town was more cluttered, holding a lifetime of paraphernalia and memories.
Through an archway was what had once been a parlor and now was a den, the old tiled fireplace the focal point in the room, a stack of kindling and logs in a carrier on the hearth. A writing table was pushed beneath the windows, and a small television was hidden among the books lining shelves built to the ceiling. She could see everything from atlases and tomes on the law, to paperbacks with broken backs and dog-eared pages.
And yet there was a feeling that this room hadn’t been used in a long while, that the lingering scent of old fires and forgotten cigars was little more than a memory.
“Her husband’s den,” Alvarez said as she walked to a back wall where pictures of a dark-haired man in uniform was prominently displayed among artifacts of wars throughout the ages, everything from crossed swords mounted near the ceiling to medals pinned to velvet and kept under glass at eye level. George Piquard, his name originally Georges, according to his dog tags, which, along with his medals, were on display.
Pescoli said, “Like a shrine.”
Alvarez was already walking through the rest of the house, where an artificial Christmas tree, its lights connected to a timer and shining brightly, stood in the living room, unopened packages spread around its base. Antique chairs and a leather couch with an oversized ottoman were positioned around an ornate marble fireplace edged with decorative tile and currently covered with a hood as it wasn’t in use.
Tiffany lamps were interspersed with more modern pieces, and holiday candles and bowls of colorful glass balls reminded them that, for the owner of this home, Christmas was far from over. Pescoli felt a jab of sadness as she looked at the packages with their big bows and surprises tucked inside. Yes, Kathryn Samuels-Piquard had been a hard-nosed judge who took it as her personal mission to mete out justice, but she was a person, too, a woman with friends and family.
“You okay?” Alvarez asked.
“Fine.” She walked up the stairs to the bedrooms and cursed her newfound sensitivity. She hadn’t even liked the judge and now she was getting all maudlin. The attack on Grayson had really laid her low, but she needed to be tough and strong. It didn’t help that Santana had delivered her an ultimatum, or that Bianca was starving herself, or that Jeremy wanted to be a cop. No wonder she was stressed and having nightmares that set her hair on end. In some ways, it was a wonder she was functioning at all.
She looked around the first bedroom, then stepped back into the hall and called down the open stairs, “Found another computer. Desktop.” Then she stepped back into the room and to the walk-in closet where the judge’s clothes were pressed and hung, similar colors kept together. Neat and tidy, just like the rest of the house.
She looked through three other bedrooms, then met Alvarez downstairs in the kitchen.
“Anything interesting?”
“Just this calendar,” she said. “I would have thought the judge with all her electronics would have a virtual calendar, you know, hooked up to all her devices.”
“Me too.”
“Then why have this?” she asked, pointing to a slick, printed calendar hanging on the wall near her phone. “See, there’re even entries on it.” She indicated the fifteenth of the month, where a time and the name of a local dentist had been scratched.
“The only entry.”
Alvarez rifled through the pages. “Uh-huh.”
“Maybe she’s old school. Keeps this fr