The Sleeping Doll

over human, life. People were so fascinating, helping them, reassuring them, taking away their pain.
    Kill me  . . .
    Stuart would be back with the children soon. She loved her grandchildren, of course, but she also truly enjoyed their company. Edie knew how lucky she was that Katie lived nearby; so many of her friends had children hundreds, even thousands, of miles away.
    Yes, she was happy Wes and Mags were staying here, but she’d be a lot happier when that terrible man was arrested again and thrown back in jail. Katie’s becoming a CBI agent had always bothered her a lot—Stu actually seemed pleased, which irritated her all the more. Edie Dance would never suggest a woman give up a career—she’d worked all her life—but, my God, carrying around a gun and arresting murderers and drug dealers?
    Edie would never say it, but her secret desire was that her daughter would meet another man, remarry and abandon police work. Katie had been a successful jury consultant. Why not go back to that? And she and Martine Christensen had that wonderful website, which actually made a little money. If the women devoted themselves to it full-time, think how successful it could be.
    Edie had loved her son-in-law dearly. Bill Swenson was sweet, funny, a great father. And the accident that had taken his life was a true tragedy. But that was several years ago. Now it was time for her daughter to move on.
    Too bad Michael O’Neil wasn’t available; he and Katie were a perfect match (Edie couldn’t see why on earth he was with that prima donna Anne, who seemed to treat her children like Christmas decorations and cared more about her gallery than her home). Then that FBI agent at Stu’s party,Winston Kellogg, seemed pretty nice too. He reminded Edie of Bill. And then there was Brian Gunderson, the man Katie’d dated recently.
    Edie never worried about her daughter’s good sense when it came to picking partners. Her problem was like the one plaguing Edie’s golf swing—the follow-through. And she knew the source. Katie’d told her about Wes, his unhappiness at his mom’s dating. Edie had been in nursing for a long time, both pediatric and adult. She’d seen how controlling children can be, how clever and manipulative, even subconsciously. Her daughter had to approach the subject. But she simply wouldn’t. Her approach was duck and cover. . . .
    But it wasn’t Edie’s role to talk to the boy directly. Grandparents have the unqualified joy of children’s company, but the price for that is abdicating much of the right to parental intervention. Edie’d said her piece to Katie, who’d agreed but, apparently, ignored her completely by breaking up with Brian and—
    The woman cocked her head.
    A noise from outside, the backyard.
    She glanced up to see if Stu had arrived. No, the carport was empty, except for her Prius. Looking out the front window she saw the police officer was still there.
    Then she heard the sound again. . . . The clatter of rocks.
    Edie and Stu lived off Ocean, on the long hill descending from downtown to Carmel Beach. Their backyard was a stepped series of gardens, boarded by rock walls. Walking the short path to or from the neighbor’s adjoining backyard sometimes set loose a tiny spill of gravel down the face of those walls. That’s what the noise sounded like.
    She walked to the back deck and opened the door, stepped outside. She couldn’t see anyone and heard nothing else. Probably just a cat or a dog. They weren’t supposed to run free; Carmel had strict pet laws. But the town was also very animal friendly (the actress Doris Day owned a wonderful hotel here, where pets were welcome), and several cats and dogs roamed the neighborhood.
    She closed the door and, hearing Stu’s car pull into the driveway, forgot all about the noise. Edie Dance walked to the refrigerator to find a snack for the children.
    •    •    •
    The interview with the Sleeping Doll had come to an intriguing conclusion.
    Back in her office, Dance called and checked up on the girl and her aunt, both safely ensconced in the motel and protected by a 250-pound monolith of a CBI agent who carried two large weapons. They were fine, Albert Stemple reported, then added, “The girl’s nice. I like her. The aunt you can keep.”
    Dance read over the notes she’d taken in the interview. Then read them again. Finally she called TJ.
    “Your genie awaits, boss.”
    “Bring me what we’ve got so far on