Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

“What time did you take the check to Merodie’s?” I asked.

Cilia hesitated before answering. “I honestly don’t recall.” She might have said more, except a voice coming from behind startled her.

“Aunt Cil, I’m taking off now.”

“Silk.” Cilia nearly shouted the name. She gestured for her niece to join us at the table.

Silk St. Ana was now wearing a navy blue one-piece swimsuit under blue shorts; red letters with a white border spelled USA across her chest. She was carrying a gold and maroon equipment bag with UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA GOLDEN GOPHERS Stamped On it.

“Have you met Mr. McKenzie?”

“Not formally,” Silk said.

I offered my hand. She squeezed it just enough to be polite.

“My niece, Silk,” Cilia said by way of introduction. “She’s going to be an Olympic diving champion.”

“Aunt Cil,” Silk said between gritted teeth. “She’s always bragging to people about that,” she told me.

“Are you going to be an Olympic diving champion?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s not bragging.”

“We’ll see.”

“Mr. McKenzie is a private detective,” Cilia added. It wasn’t true, but I didn’t correct her.

“Really? That is so cool.”

“It sounds more exciting than it is,” I said without actually knowing if it was or wasn’t.

“Mr. McKenzie is helping our investment firm on a land acquisition project.”

“Really? I thought maybe he was involved in my mother’s murder case.”

Cilia sighed heavily, slumping in her chair. “I was lying,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”

Silk gripped Cilia’s shoulder reassuringly. “My aunt still thinks I’m four years old,” Silk told me. “She still thinks I need to be protected from the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Who and what my mother is.”

“Who and what is that?”

“A selfish drunk.”

Silk looked into my eyes when she spoke, deliberately trying to make me feel as uncomfortable as she did.

“When did you last see your mother?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Eons ago. I doubt she would even recognize me.”

She didn’t so much as blink when she said that, but Cilia sure did.

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Aren’t you awfully young to be an Olympic diving champion?” I asked.

“Actually, no. The Chinese girl who won gold in ‘92 was thirteen. She won again in ‘96 and 2000.”

“How long have you been diving?”

“I started when I was four years old—on the same day I came to live with my aunt. She had a swimming pool, and I couldn’t get enough of it.”

“This one?” I gestured at the pool in the center of the patio.

“No. We were living in Andover up in Anoka County back then. Actually, I think it’s hereditary. I inherited my love of swimming from my aunt.”

Silk was standing directly behind Cilia now, her hands resting on the older woman’s shoulders.

“She set a state high school record for women in the breaststroke that stood for six years,” Silk said. “How long ago was that, Aunt Cil?”

“Never mind how long ago that was. Don’t you have practice?”

“I’m going to work off the ten-meter diving platform at the university aquatic center. Coach is going to videotape me again.”

“Is that helping?”

Silk nodded. “Helps with visualization. I’m getting much better control of my take-offs.”

“My niece, the Olympian.” Cilia smiled.

Silk smiled right back. “If I keep progressing, if I don’t get hurt, if I do well at the nationals . . .”

“No problem.”

“Whatever you say, Aunt Cilia. May I take the Mazda?”

“You always do.”

“That’s because I look so good in it.”

Silk pecked her aunt’s cheek, said, “See ya,” then added, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McKenzie.”

She moved away from the table, hesitated, and turned back, her smile fading. “How much trouble is my mother in?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “The fact she hasn’t been charged yet is a good sign. It means the county attorney’s case isn’t even strong enough to take before a grand jury.”

Cilia reached up from her chair and stroked the girl’s bare arm. “It’ll be all right,” she said softly.

“I know, I know.”

The girl nodded another good-bye and moved across the patio toward the French doors. “Oh, by the way,” she called over her shoulder. “I won’t be home for dinner. I’m meeting Mark.”

“Wait a minute.” Cilia was on her feet now. “Excuse me,” she said before crossing the patio. Both her face and her voice were stern while she spoke to her niece. I pretended not to listen.

“Who’s Mark?” Cilia asked.

“A junior at the University of St. Thomas.”

“Diver?”

Silk shook her head.

“JO major. Remember when I did that exhibition last spring, the school newspaper ran a story about me? He wrote it.”

“College junior. That makes him what, twenty, twenty-one?”

“Twenty.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“I look twenty.”