Home for the Haunting(23)

Why learn how to swing a hammer when you can talk anyone with a Y chromosome into doing it for you?

After graduating from high school (in her senior year, she was voted homecoming queen, “most popular,” and “prettiest eyes”; in my senior year, I was accidentally left out of the yearbook entirely), Cookie enrolled at San Francisco State with vague plans of becoming a teacher or an interior decorator. She left without a degree but with a husband, Kyle, who was the nicest guy in the world. Kyle Dopkin was patient where Cookie was impulsive, reserved where she was outgoing, and responsible where she was flighty. I could not imagine what the accomplished IT professional was drawn to in my sister—other than the obvious—but he seemed convinced he had won the marital lottery, so I was happy for them. They had two beautiful children and a long-haired cat, and every December sent out holiday cards featuring photos of the entire well-coiffed family posed in front of their marble fireplace in what Cookie referred to as “The Condo in Redondo.”

In this instance, she was being ironic—she and Kyle actually owned a gorgeous seaside home in Manhattan Beach. Since I’m not familiar with the LA area, I wasn’t clear on why this joke was funny, but Cookie assured me it was.

“So . . .” I continued, filling my favorite to-go cup with strong coffee and noting the matched set of designer luggage sitting near the back door. More bags than one person would need for an overnight visit. Then again, Cookie never traveled light. “To what do we owe this unannounced visit?”

“Why, Mel, it’s almost as if you weren’t happy to see me!” Cookie gushed as she rooted through her Gucci handbag for her smartphone. “Oh, hey, Daddy, look at these pictures!”

She held up the device and started flipping through images.

I peered over my father’s shoulder, expecting to see photos of my adorable towheaded niece and nephew.

Instead, it was a major appliance of some kind.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My new wine refrigerator, silly!” Cookie said, as though it should have been perfectly obvious. “Kyle wanted a different model, but I insisted on stainless steel and glass, which I think is just the thing, don’t you? It keeps our wine at the perfect temperature, not too cold, not too warm. Our dinner guests love it!”

“We’ve got a wine refrigerator, too,” I grumbled. “It’s called the basement.”

Stan barked out a laugh, and my dad chuckled. Cookie left me in the dust in the good-looks and perfect-life categories. But I was not without charm.

Cookie wrinkled her nose and immediately recaptured the limelight.

“Daddy, you know what I would love? Would you make me some of your super-duper waffles? I dream about those waffles.”

Stan made a sound between a chuckle and a cough and hid his grin behind the newspaper.

“Waffles, eh? What do you think I am, a short-order cook?” Dad groused happily as he crouched and began rooting around in the cupboard under the stove for the ancient waffle iron. “I haven’t made waffles in ages. Your sister Mel doesn’t deign to eat my breakfast.”

“It’s not your breakfast I refuse to eat, Dad, it’s any breakfast,” I pointed out for the millionth time.

Cookie shook her golden head and frowned adorably, laying her hand on my shoulder. “Mel, I worry about you. You need to take care of yourself, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Now, tell me, are you seeing anyone lately? You’re not still bitter over the divorce from Daniel, are you?” Before I could answer, she continued. “You know what you need to do? You need to—”

“Boy, will you look at the time!” I topped off my travel mug and screwed on the sippy top. “Love to sit here and chat but I have got to run. You’ll be here for a while, though, right? I want to hear all about Kyle and the kids. We can have a nice visit when I get home.”

“Of course! We’ll spend some quality girl time together. Oh, I know! How about a mani-pedi? My treat?”

“Um, yeah, maybe. Soon as I have a free day. Busy, busy, busy this time of the year; you know how it is. Bye, Dad, Stan.”

I darted out the back door, hurried down the flagstone path to my car, jumped in, and gunned the engine. After a not-so-great weekend, I was looking forward to getting back to my work routine. Since the police hadn’t called, I was hoping the body in the shed had been a drug overdose. Heartbreaking, but it would have nothing to do with me or my volunteers’ jobsite.

But as I neared the approach to the Bay Bridge, I started to wonder what my sister’s sudden arrival meant. I was guessing trouble in paradise.