Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [77]
Phyllis smiled. “That’s why we’re best friends. No one else can put up with us.”
They all laughed, passing Ellen’s car on the main drag, then taking a left onto Surfside Lane again, lapping the block.
“Here’s my theory about waves.” Phyllis extended her arms, palms up. “Bad things are like waves. They’re going to happen to you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. They’re part of life, like waves are a part of the ocean. If you’re standing on the shoreline, you don’t know when the waves are coming. But they’ll come. You gotta make sure you get back to the surface, after every wave. That’s all.”
Ellen smiled, considering it. “That makes a lot of sense.”
Suddenly Phyllis and Linda fell silent, their gaze on the open door of a wooden contemporary on the left side of the street, catty-corner to the Bravermans’. A pretty redhead was emerging in a crisp black dress, with a black bag on her arm. She locked the door, then clacked in stylish black pumps down a concrete path to her driveway and a silver Mercedes.
“Who’s that?” Ellen caught the mischievous look Phyllis and Linda exchanged. “Someone we don’t like, evidently.”
Phyllis burst into laughter. “I forgot my poker face.”
Linda looked over at her. “You don’t have a poker face. I know, I play poker with you.”
“Fill me in, ladies.” Ellen smiled. “I love to dish.”
“She’s a big snob,” Phyllis answered, with the trace of a smile. “Her name is Kelly Scott and her family has more money than God. She’s from Palm Beach.”
“Pink and green country,” Linda added with a naughty giggle, and Phyllis nodded.
“I’ve met her at least four times, and she acts like she never met me before. I hate that.”
“Me, too,” Linda said.
“Me, three,” Ellen said, and they all laughed again. But she was watching the Braverman house as they walked by, looking past the yellow ribbons and the Timothy memorial and the curtains. Inside was Carol Braverman.
And Ellen needed her DNA.
Today.
Chapter Fifty-five
The sky began to cloud over, cutting the temperature, and Ellen sat low in the driver’s seat of the car with the window open, watching the Braverman house. It was 10:36 A.M., but there’d been no sign of Carol, and the red flag on her mailbox was still down.
Ellen was still hoping that she’d mail a letter. She checked her BlackBerry, and Marcelo hadn’t emailed or called. She wondered if she still had a job to go back to, or a crush.
Please tell me what is going on. I can help you.
She kept an eye on the house and straightened up as a mail truck appeared on the main drag and began stopping at the houses, delivering packets of mail. No sign of Carol with an envelope to be mailed, and now it was too late. The mail truck turned onto Surfside, traveled up the street on the right side, and delivered the mail to the Braverman house.
Damn.
Ellen felt on edge. Hot and testy. She sipped warm juice, then dug in her purse for the notes from the DNA test, reminding herself of the sample possibilities. Gum, soda can, cigarette butt, blah blah blah. She tossed the list aside and glanced back at the Bravermans’ house, where there was finally some activity. Carol was stepping out the front door.
Ellen’s senses sprang to alert. She couldn’t keep waiting for something to happen. She had to make something happen. She got out of the car in her sunglasses and visor and went into her I’m-just-a-walker routine, strolling across the main drag and entering Surfside. She walked slowly, staying on the opposite side of the street as Carol walked from the front door and disappeared into the garage.
Ellen cut her pace, taking smaller steps, and the next minute, Carol came out of the garage with a green plastic gardener’s tote. She had on a cute sundress and another visor, with her dark blond hair in its ponytail again.
Ellen kept her eyes straight ahead, but watched Carol cross the lawn to the memorial to Timothy, then she knelt down, setting the gardener’s tote next to her. She slid on a pair of flowery cotton gloves and began to weed in front of the memorial.
It’s as if