“What’s going on?” I came around the desk to meet him, and he locked his arms around me and buried his face in my hair.
“Hey, hey. I missed you too,” I said, patting his back.
He raised his head, and his eyes looked black in his pale face. “I thought—” He stopped, swallowing.
My unease grew. “You thought what?”
“Did anyone come to the door?”
“The doorbell rang a couple of times. I was on the phone. Why?”
He gave another of those jerky swallows.
“Were you expecting a delivery?” I asked.
He shook his head. “There’s a red heart-shaped balloon tied to the front gate.”
Chapter Twelve
You don’t solve four or so murders in a year and not make a few enemies.
People who hate your guts kind of comes with the Amateur Sleuth gig. That’s not me being nonchalant; that’s me explaining why the police couldn’t immediately arrest Jerry, despite my exhortations to do so at once.
“Who else would it be?” I demanded of J.X. after the cops had departed. We were watching the footage from our home security cameras for the fourth time. “I tell you, it’s the same clown who assaulted me.”
(Now that was a sentence I never thought to hear myself say.)
The jaunty black-and-white figure of a clown in ruffled polka dots climbed the steps to the portico, waved at the security camera, and rang the doorbell with an exaggerated index finger pressed to the button.
“Asshole,” J.X. growled, as he had growled at the same spot in our three previous viewings.
Definitely, but as J.X.’s former colleagues had regretfully pointed out, there was nothing remotely threatening in the clown’s behavior. Nor was it illegal to try to deliver a balloon or even leave the balloon tied to a garden gate. Even the Catch you next time message scrawled on the attached card was arguably innocuous.
Violating a restraining order was illegal, but to prove that, we had to prove the clown was, in fact, Jerry.
The clown waited, pretending to examine the fingernails of his gloved right hand, and rang the doorbell again, before finally waggling his fingers at the security cam. He sauntered down the steps and out of view of the camera.
“It’s Jerry,” I said. “I know it’s Jerry.”
“Tell me how you know it’s Jerry.”
I stared at J.X. in disbelief. He stared back, unmoved.
“I know. Jesus Christ. It’s obvious.”
“How is it obvious?” he asked with infuriating patience.
“What do you mean how is it obvious? Who else would it be?”
“Kit, listen to me. Is there anything we can use to identify this clown as Jerry? Something about the way he walks? His facial structure? His height, his build?”
I glared at the monitor. The height, build, and facial structure were all similar to my memory of Jerry, but it was crazy how effectively the exaggerated makeup disguised him.
“I believe you,” J.X. told me. “I think it’s Jerry. Izzie believes you too. But if we haul him in based on nothing more than your conviction that it’s him—and his girlfriend alibis him again… Do you see what I’m saying?”
I said tightly, “Yes.”
I felt his gaze but continued to scowl at the screen.
“Please don’t kill the messenger.”
“I’m not going to kill the messenger,” I said.
“Please don’t make the messenger sleep on the couch tonight.”
I grunted, trying to acknowledge the effort at humor, but none of this was funny. The sight of that red balloon tied to our front gate and bobbing merrily in the autumn breeze had scared the shit out of me. I was still scared, and that made me angry. There’s nothing worse than feeling helpless. Well, being actively tortured is probably worse, but this felt like a kind of torture.
“So what do we do? Wait until he tries to get into the house again? Obviously, the restraining order had no effect.”
“Practically every house on this street has a security camera on its front porch. Maybe one of those cameras picked up something like our visitor getting into or out of a vehicle. If we can get a license-plate number, we might have him cold.”
I nodded.
“The balloon and card are being examined for fingerprints.”
I made a pained sound. “There aren’t going to be any useful fingerprints on that balloon. Or the card. And they won’t be able to match that block-style print to Jerry’s handwriting.”
“And you call yourself a fan of true-crime TV? You have to know how often a partial print is enough to ID a criminal.”
As a regular viewer of The Forensic Files I was forced to acknowledge that.
J.X. kept talking, trying to reassure me. “Nobody is about to let this go. Okay? We’re looking into Knight’s past employment records. And we’re looking into how he’s currently spending his time when not at Sanderson’s home.”
“Try the circus,” I muttered.
By we, J.X. meant Izzie and his old pals at SFPD. Within five minutes of J.X. phoning SFPD, we’d had so many cop cars on the street, it looked like a hostage situation going down at 321 Cherry Lane. Which was probably how most of his friends thought of our union anyway.
I must have heard, “We’ve got your back, man,” four times at least in the first half hour of the investigation.
I was grateful for the extra care and attention we were being afforded, but it didn’t change the fact that there was not a hell of a lot that could be done for us. Not yet. Not until Jerry was caught actually in the middle of breaking the law. Like maybe the next time he came to kill me.
Reading my thoughts, J.X. said, “A patrol car will be driving past the house every few hours.”
“I know. I know everybody is doing what they can.”
J.X. drew a breath. “And I’m going to postpone my book tour.”
That got my attention. I transferred my glower from the monitor to him.
“Uh, no. You sure as hell are not.”
“Yes. I’ve already decided. I can’t leave with this going on.”
“You can undecide, then, because one of us needs to keep his career in good shape, and it’s clearly not going to be me.”
“First of all, that’s bullshit about your career.”
I said hotly, “Really? Because I haven’t written a word in over a year!”
He continued to regard me with full and serious attention. “You’re not going to distract me with an argument about your career versus my career. You’re on sabbatical, and my career is fine. If I need to cancel a book tour, I will. You come first.”
Well, hell.
I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, but he was right. I was instinctively starting an argument as a diversionary tactic—a pattern David and I had developed through the years. By the end, we had argued constantly, but never about what was really on both our minds.
J.X. said, “Of course you’re scared, Kit. I’m scared. This is something we need to deal with as a team.”
His gaze held mine. So serious. So sincere. So hard to sidetrack.
I exhaled slowly. “Okay, you’re right. We do need to deal with it together, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go on tour. I mean, come on. What sense does it make, you sitting around here on the off chance Jerry shows up again?”
“It makes sense because it’s the right thing to do.”
“No, it isn’t. It makes me feel like you think I can’t look after myself.”
He got that mulish look that reminded me of Gage at his least endearing: squinty eyes, outthrust jaw, thinned mouth.
“What sense does it make leaving you here alone to deal with this?”
“We’ve got a good security system, and the cops are on standby. I’m not sure what more we can really do—what you can really do—until we can somehow prove Jerry has violated the restraining order.”
Or Jerry was caught in the act of coming after me again.
J.X
. said nothing.
“Right?” I said. “Isn’t that what you’ve basically been telling me for the last half hour?”
He said reluctantly, “Maybe.”
“As much as I hate the timing on this, signings and book tours are part of the writing gig. Correct?”
He nodded reluctantly.
“It’s only for two weeks. I can handle that.”
“It’s not a matter of whether you can handle it. It’s a matter of you shouldn’t have to handle it.”
I so totally agreed with him. But they tell me adulthood is about putting other people first, so…
“Let’s say you postpone for a week or two and the situation still isn’t wrapped up. Are you going to postpone again? Cancel? Come on,” I scoffed. “Let’s be realistic.”
There went the chin again. His gaze grew steely. “I’ve got no problem canceling, if that’s what it takes.”
“But it isn’t what it takes. I can manage on my own for a couple of weeks. Seriously. I’m offended you think I can’t survive two weeks of my own company.”
His face twisted. “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
I sat back, smiling, though smiling was not how I felt. “Then we’re agreed?”
J.X. still looked troubled. “If this is how you want it, but I am happy to cancel that tour and stay here with you.”
“You’re happy to cancel the tour so you can ask for an extension on the book.”
“No.” He wouldn’t be distracted by weak attempts at humor. “I want to be here for you. Kit. Whenever you need me—”
I leaned over to stop him with a quick kiss. “Don’t be a goof. You are here for me.” I kissed him again. “Even when you’re not, you know, physically here.”
Despite the fact that the evening was cool and a bit damp with fog rolling in from the Bay, I grilled a plank of salmon and we had dinner on the patio. You really can’t beat fresh Alaskan salmon brushed with olive oil, garlic, and a dash of smoked paprika. I had pretty much given up on cooking by the time I’d reconnected with J.X., but he was not content eating out of the freezer section of the grocery store, and gradually I was rediscovering my love of good food prepared well. Which didn’t mean I wasn’t stocking our freezer with plenty of my favorites to tide me over while he was away. In fact, my taste buds were already snapping in anticipation of ice-cream sandwiches and frozen pizza.
“I guess summer’s over.” J.X.’s tone was reflective as I set his plate in front of him.
Our first summer together. It had been a good one, despite the occasional dead body.
“Maybe we should get a couple of heat lamps for out here,” he added. “We could extend our outdoor eating for another month at least.”
“Sure.” I took my place across from him and watched the blossom-shaped solar lights along the brick walk come on. This garden—our garden—was a magical place at dusk. I sighed. “It’s going to be too cool to swim before long.”
He was amused. “It’s already too cool for most humanoid life forms.”
“Ha.”
“I haven’t been in that pool since Labor Day. It must be your Scandinavian heritage.” He winked.
I was part Swiss, not Scandinavian, but that was one of our little jokes.
I helped myself to a summer salad made of fingerling potatoes, shelled English peas, asparagus, fennel, and arugula. “Or that very efficient pool heater.”
“True.” J.X. rose to get another glass of wine. “Did you want your G&T topped up?”
I shook my head. Tempting as it was to get blitzed, I would be keeping the drinking to the necessary minimum until the situation with the creepy clown, whoever he was, was resolved.
Across the hedge I could see lights shining cheerily in the upper-story windows of the home of our neighbor and friend Emmaline Bloodworth. If anyone had noticed anything amiss that day, it would be Emmaline. Had the police talked to her?
When J.X. returned from the kitchen, I said, “Was Emmaline interviewed?”
“They interviewed everyone on the street.”
I nodded and then sighed. “How did it go with Jerry today? You didn’t say.”
J.X. had accompanied Izzie to the Sanderson mansion, but had not been present when Izzie served the restraining order.
He made a face.
“That bad?”
“Yeah. Izzie said Jerry struck quite the pose. Why am I being persecuted by this crazy writer? Isn’t it enough he had me falsely arrested? Normal citizens don’t stand a chance against celebrities. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Celebrity? Me?”
J.X. said grimly, “That wasn’t the worst of it. Then he broke down and cried. Pretended to cry, at least.”
I gazed at him, aghast. “How would Izzie see all that? I thought process servers just handed the paperwork and walked away.”
J.X. looked briefly uncomfortable. “They do. Usually. Izzie may have added a word or two of caution.”
“Oh.” I thought that over, wondering uneasily if threats would be helpful with someone like Jerry or merely egg him on.
J.X. sipped his wine and then shook his head. “The Sanderson mansion is something. It looks like a historical monument. This place seems like a dollhouse by comparison.”
I glanced back at our own brightly lit windows and the glimpses of the comfortable, cozy rooms beyond. Our pretty little gated three-story Victorian was set back from the street in a private, almost parklike Tommy Church garden. But everything is relative.
“I like our dollhouse. As dollhouses go, we’ve got a nice one.”
He smiled faintly. “It really does feel like home now, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I went back to J.X.’s earlier comment. “You never know. Maybe Jerry will wear out his welcome with Ms. Snob Hill.”
“Maybe.” J.X. did not sound convinced.
Most nights after dinner we would take a stroll around the neighborhood. The mix of small, historic houses—many of them, like ours, noted for their gardens—the nearly hidden park, and the phenomenal views of the Palace of Fine Arts and the Golden Gate Bridge made it a pleasant and tranquil way to end the day.
It was especially charming this time of year with all the Halloween decorations. Pumpkin lanterns and cats with glowing eyes peeked out from windows. Skeletons and ghosts drifted lazily from tree branches. The occasional witch readied for takeoff from a rooftop. Tidy lawns were decorated with resin gravestones and plastic coffins.
But J.X. was once again closed in his office, trying to complete his book before he left on Saturday, and after our afternoon visitor, I didn’t feel comfortable walking the streets alone. That was one of the most aggravating things about being the victim of violence. Or even the victim of attempted violence. It damaged your confidence, undermined your sense of independence. I wasn’t living in terror, but I was constantly uneasy, jumpy. Every squeak of a floorboard had me on my feet, braced for attack.
And it was going to be a hell of a lot worse with J.X. gone for two weeks, although I would never tell him that.
I worked some more in my office. I found a box of awards and trophies, closed it again, and replaced the container on the closet shelf. Those things had meant a lot to me at one point. I’d enjoyed the recognition, of course, but more, the awards had felt like confirmation. Validation. Now, with the unceremonious ending to my career and Miss Butterwith’s legacy, the trophies felt counterfeit. Or maybe it was that they made me feel counterfeit. Like I hadn’t really deserved them after all. Just the sight of them depressed me.
I moved on to another box of old manuscripts.
I’d managed to empty two boxes and either file or trash their contents, and was well on my way to finishing a third box when the phone rang.
“I’ve got it,” I shouted, though it was likely J.X. couldn’t hear me—or the phone—over the pound of the Black Keys.
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Christopher Holmes, please?” The voice was feminine, stiff and snappish. The v
oice of someone used to getting her way.
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Holmes, you and I have not yet met, but I know all about you.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“Violet Sanderson. Jerry’s fiancée.”
Swell. And yet somehow, I was not surprised. It takes a lot to disquiet J.X., but something about Violet Sanderson had disquieted him.
“My condolences,” I replied.
She replied, “Predictable. Jerry said you would be sure to make some cheap comment.”
Predictable? Well, that hurt.
I restricted myself to a terse, “Why are you calling, Ms. Sanderson?”
“I’m calling to warn you, Mr. Holmes, and you can consider it a threat if you like. Jerry is not alone anymore. He is no longer your helpless victim—”
I sputtered, “M-m-my helpless victim!”
“I’ve known people like you. People who abuse their celebrity status and position in society to prey upon those with less power. You used Jerry. You tricked him and then made him your dupe.”
“My what?”
“You took advantage of his admiration for your work and pretended a friendship simply to trick and betray him.”
“I didn’t pretend any friendship. From the first, I considered Jerry a stalker—and I still do. Why don’t you ask him where he was about three o’clock this afternoon?”
“You are the stalker, Mr. Holmes.”
“Me?” I couldn’t help the note of indignance that crept in. Had she even read the official account of Jerry’s attack on me?
“What is this so-called restraining order but a deliberate and obvious attempt to harass and bully someone who already fears you?”
“Fears me? Madam, you have got the wrong end of the stick. Your fiancé has a long history of stalking and harassment. I was just the latest—”
She had stayed pretty cool up to that point, but after I accused Jerry, her thin voice rose. “You’re not going to get away with it. I know your boyfriend still has contacts within the police department. Well, I have contacts too, and they are far more influential and important than Inspector Ishwar Jones.”
In Other Words...Murder Page 11
