“He’s a racist,” J.X. surmised. “He wouldn’t be happy about you marrying a Hispanic.”
I ignored the marrying comment because one battle at a time.
“First of all, you’re half Irish, so it would make as much sense to say he was anti-Irish—which, given my English grandfather’s views, might actually be true—except, secondly, hell no, my dad is not a racist!”
“What’s the matter with him, then?”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong with him.”
“He’s a Republican. He’s a right-wing looney—”
“Would you stop? No. And they’re not synonymous, you know.”
“I know they’re not synonymous.” His own family was extremely conservative.
“Anyway, he is not a right-wing looney. He’s just a little…corporate.”
J.X. laughed. “Is he?”
“Yes.”
“Did he and David get along?”
“Yes. They got along great. They both liked to golf and smoke cigars with their after-dinner brandies and bitch about how the morons at “Corporate,” meaning the head office, had no clue of how it was out in the field where the real action was.”
J.X. laughed again. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Our feet thumped on the wooden walkway leading to the restaurant entrance. The briny scent of the ocean—and cooking fish—filled the damp evening air.
“Also, don’t mention my mother.”
“Why would I say something about your mother? I haven’t even met her yet.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t mean don’t criticize her. I mean, don’t refer to her. Don’t mention her at all. Tonight let’s pretend I was raised solo. By my father.”
He gave me a sideways look. “Yeesh.”
“Yeah, it’s always worse when he’s in the middle of a divorce and she’s not.”
He blinked. “How many times has your dad been married?”
“Three times. Not including the times he married my mother.”
He stopped walking. “Your parents divorced more than once?”
“Three times.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Apparently it’s like murder. Once you’ve done it, it gets easier.”
He said cautiously, “What about your mom? How often has she—?”
“Twice. Not including the marriages to my dad.”
In answer to the look he was giving me, I said, “I told you the first time you brought this up that my family was not like your family.”
“Not like my family? They’re not like anyone’s family. With maybe the exception of Henry the VIII’s.”
“So far no spouses were harmed in the making of their relationship.”
He stared at me. “And you had the audacity to say my family was difficult.”
I hooked my hand around his elbow and drew him on. “Come on, we don’t want to be late. He likes punctuality.”
My dad was sitting in the faux Tudor-style bar of the Fog Harbor Fish House, drinking his usual martini and gazing out at the sunset. He glanced over as we approached, raised his hand in greeting, and rose to meet us.
As befitted a guy who was in town for the Santa Rosa City Amateur & Senior Championship, he wore khaki shorts and blue and white striped golf shirt—despite the fact that it was October and the evening was chilly. That’s kind of a SoCal thing. Clinging to shorts and T-shirts in the face of inclement weather. But then Southern California is home to both Hollywood and Disneyland, the twin capitals of make-believe.
I hadn’t seen Dad for a few months, but he looked unchanged: a deeply tanned and reasonably fit guy in his late sixties. He was taller and broader and a grayer than me. I could see J.X. sizing him up and trying to decide if I took more after my mother.
And…not really. I’m shorter than my father but blonder than my mother. I have my dad’s brown eyes and my mother’s button-shaped mouth. My dad is…blunt. Blunt in features and blunt in manner. My mom is…pretty much the same.
“Long time no see, Christopher,” Dad said as J.X. and I reached him. He thumped me on the back in greeting. “You look good. Lost some weight, I see.”
I patted him back briskly. We are not a hugging type of family. “You too. Keeping healthy?”
“Always, always.” He nodded cordially to J.X. “So this is the guy!”
“Dad, this is J.X. Moriarity. J.X. this is my father, Andrew Holmes.”
I made the introductions, and as they shook hands, my father said to J.X., “I can’t call a grown man by a set of initials. What’s your actual name, son?”
“Dad, he goes by—”
“Julian,” J.X. said calmly, giving me a look that said, Chill the hell out.
“Julian, there we go,” my father approved. “And you’re a writer too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Andy. Everybody does. Are you as successful as my son?”
I said, trying to usher them toward the waiting hostess, “Our table’s ready. If you want to postpone the third degree until we sit down…”
“I do reasonably well,” J.X. said.
“He’s being modest,” I said. “He’s enormously successful. They’re making a movie of his first book, and a couple of the others have been optioned.”
My father looked duly impressed.
We reached the hostess and were escorted to our table near the windows with their panoramic view of docked sailboats bobbing gently on the evening tide.
The candles were lit, drink orders taken, and we were off.
There was a bit of chitchat about the weather and Dad’s trip up north.
“Christopher’s…” Dad coughed and cleared his throat. “Reads his books. I’m not a reader. I don’t understand sitting around reading books when you can be outside doing things. He got me a book for Christmas.” He shook his head. “What was that damned thing called?”
“The Mysterious Montague: A True Tale of Hollywood, Golf, and Armed Robbery,” I answered. “You’d like J.X.’s books for sure. Although you’ll like the movie better.”
My dad laughed. “He’s always trying to get me to read books!”
“Christopher’s books are very entertaining,” J.X. said, ever loyal, ever misguided.
“Sure, if you like old ladies and talking cats,” my dad agreed. “Do you golf, Julian?”
I opened my mouth to point out that Mr. Pinkerton did not actually talk, but let it go.
I love my dad. I love both my parents. But I don’t have a lot in common with them, and frankly never did. Aside from their ongoing marital drama, I had a peaceful childhood and a relatively painless adolescence. I moved out as soon as I could and never looked back.
Well, when I say never looked back, that’s not to say I cut off ties. I saw my parents a couple of times a year, we exchanged birthday presents and holiday greetings and still celebrated the occasional holiday together, but I didn’t have anything near the close relationship J.X. shared with his family. Which was fine with me. You don’t miss what you’ve never had.
At least that’s what I’d always thought until I met J.X. Until J.X., I had figured most marital relationships were some variation on what David and I shared—ideally, minus the serial cheating.
The first time I’d met J.X., I’d had a taste of what love and romance could be, and frankly it had scared the hell out of me. It still scared me sometimes.
But I was trying. I wanted this relationship to work. Wanted to believe it was forever. I can’t deny that seeing David again had brought back memories. Not feelings for David. There was no comparison between what I felt for J.X. and what I’d once felt for David. But I had been reminded love is often not enough—and how much finding that out hurts.
Watching J.X. trying to charm my father made me smile.
It was actually a nice dinner. We had a good table with an excellent view of the evening harbor. J.X. was his naturally charming self, and I could see my father liked him, despite J.X.’s admission that
he wasn’t much of a golfer.
The food was great. We started with drinks and the shellfish tower, a stack of lobster, crab, oysters, and jumbo shrimp drizzled in cocktail sauce and light and tangy mignonette. We moved on to salad, which was followed by more drinks and then our entrees: linguine and clams for me, mixed grill for J.X., and New York steak for my old man.
“Seriously?” I said. “This is one of the best seafood places on the West Coast and you’re having the steak?”
“I like steak,” my father said.
J.X. grinned at me and said, “He knows his own mind. Who does that remind me of?”
“Gage?” I suggested tartly. My cell rang. I eyed the number suspiciously and then realized it was David’s. My suspicions grew. I must have muttered something because J.X. gave me a questioning look.
“I’ll take this outside.”
“What’s up? Do you need your plate kept warm?” J.X. asked.
“This won’t take long. It’s David,” I said, and his face instantly shuttered.
I sighed inwardly and clicked Accept.
“Tell him hello!” my father called jovially.
I nodded distractedly. “What did you need, David?” I inquired.
As I threaded my way through the crowded tables, I could hear my father regaling J.X. with the tale of how he’d helped David correct his duck-hook shot.
“Hello to you too!” David’s voice said in my ear.
“We’re in the middle of dinner with my dad.”
His tone changed instantly. “Oh hey. Tell Andy hi!”
I stepped outside and leaned against the railing overlooking the purple-blue water. “What did you need, David?”
“I remembered something. About Dicky. I was thinking about him last night. He had an older sister living in Florida.”
It didn’t ring a bell. I couldn’t remember if Dicky had siblings or not.
“What part of Florida?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Was she married?”
“I think so.”
“Damn. If you don’t know what part of Florida and we don’t know for sure what last name she might be using, I’m not sure what good it does.”
“We could start with her maiden name, right? I know what she did. I mean for a job. She was a RIPR coordinator.”
“RIPR? What’s that?”
“Reef Injury Prevention and Response. It had something to do with managing the coral reef.”
I felt a flash of interest. That was a pretty uncommon job description. “So that would be where? Southeast Florida?”
“I think so.”
I thought it over. “Okay. I don’t know if it’s useful or not, but thanks.”
He said quickly, “Were you able to contact that friend of his?”
“Not so far.”
“But you did try?”
“Yes.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“Not noticeably.” I added defensively, “It’s not like I’m a PI. I’m not actively looking for him. It’s just—”
“Yes, you are. If you’re trying to reach his friend, you’re actively looking.”
Hard to argue with that.
“It would be much easier if we put our heads together,” David urged.
“I appreciate the offer, but no.”
“Why not? I just gave you your best lead so far.”
Hopefully not. Because as much as I wanted to find Dicky alive and well and betraying other employers, it was going to be so very annoying if David turned out to be right about that.
“Thanks for calling.” I disconnected.
When I got back to the table, J.X. said, “Everything okay?”
I nodded, picking up my glass. “Just David being David.”
“I always liked David,” Mr. Tact said.
“I know.” I shook the ice in my glass and debated having another drink.
J.X. said, “I ordered champagne.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re celebrating.” He said to my father, “Christopher’s agent phoned him today with big news.” J.X. beamed at me.
My face warmed. “It’s not that big of news,” I protested. Although it had felt life-changing that morning. It still felt life-changing, if I was honest. I’d tried to downplay it when I told J.X, but it seemed he’d seen right through that.
The champagne came—Dom Pérignon, for God’s sake—we toasted, glasses clinking against each other with a sound as fragile as success.
“To Kit,” J.X. said. “And the next fifty books.” He was smiling, and the smile lit his eyes. All that warmth. For me.
“Hear, hear,” my father said. He was getting plastered as he—we—usually did during such occasions.
I felt silly, but at the same time, I was touched that J.X. wanted to make a thing of this new contract. I felt warm and happy, even if he was fussing too much.
After the champagne, we had dessert. Well, I did. I ordered the warm chocolate-fudge cake, and J.X. shared a few bites, and then we had coffee. Finally it was time to say goodbye.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, sir,” J.X. said as Dad’s Uber ride pulled up.
I couldn’t help smiling. He looked so earnest. Like a kid on his way to the prom. Don’t worry, I’ll have her home by eleven!
My father shook hands. “Good to meet you, Julian. I’m looking forward to that first round.” He jumped into the car, and we waved him off as they sped away.
“First round where?” I asked as we walked back to our car.
“Of golf. At your dad’s country club. The next time we’re down in SoCal.”
I tilted my head, directed a skeptical look at him. “Go on as you mean to continue,” I said.
“I will.” His smile was quizzical. “I don’t hate golf. And I like your dad.”
“Sure. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He seemed amused. “I won’t.” Then with less amusement, “What did David want?”
“Oh.” I groaned. “He had a possible lead on Dicky’s sister.”
“What does that mean?” J.X. stopped walking. “Kit, you’re not involving yourself in that investigation?”
“No. Well, not that investigation. Dicky’s disappearance isn’t part of that.”
“Finding Dicky is a job for the police. It’s a job for Missing Persons.”
“I agree.”
“Then what the hell—” We had reached the parking structure and were walking toward J.X.’s car. The building smelled of exhaust and oil and, more distantly, fish. Despite the grim lighting, there were a lot of shadows and dark corners at night, so it took a moment to see what had stopped J.X. mid-sentence and mid-step.
A tall figure stood by the Honda S2000. Impossible to know if it was male or female, but its face was painted white and a red ball protruded in place of an ordinary nose. The ball matched the bright red winged wig. The figure wore bright and baggy hobo-style clothes and purple, oversize, floppy shoes.
A clown.
The clown seemed to be searching through a yellow change purse and didn’t hear our approach until J.X. made an inarticulate sound.
The clown looked up. He seemed startled to see us. He opened his wide red mouth and pointed with his white gloved hand.
I didn’t hear what he said because at that moment J.X. made a guttural noise that was part rage and part fear, and launched himself at the clown.
The clown’s eyes and mouth turned into a terrified triangle of wide O’s, shaping the single word that escaped him: NOOOooooooooo.
Yes, a big cinematic NO! only this was the slow-mo gif version. As J.X. tackled him about the waist, the clown’s hollow voice rolled down the rows of parked cars, echoing out across the ocean. And as the pair of them crashed to the cement floor of the parking structure, I echoed that howl of protest.
“J.X., NOOOO. It’s the wrong clown!”
Chapter Fifteen
“Really, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” J.X. sai
d again.
“No, no!” Happy Harold said quickly. “An honest mistake. I understand!”
“Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
“No! No, I’m fine. Mustn’t be late for work!” Harold’s shaking hands fumbled over his head, tugging at his red wings of fake hair. His mournful eyes moved from J.X. to me. “Is my wig on straight?”
“Yes,” I said.
J.X. opened his mouth, met my gaze, closed it.
He looked genuinely mortified—like an illustration straight out of a graphic-novel version of The Mortification of Sin—and seeing all that dark anguish, Harold couldn’t help volunteering, “You’re not the first person who’s reacted badly to the unexpected sight of a clown. It happens all the time in my profession. I’ve been spat on, cursed, and punched. I’ve been kicked by seven-year olds and even thrown up on by babies. And it’s gotten worse since those creepy clown sightings began a couple of years ago.”
“Exactly,” I said quickly. “Those clown sightings really don’t help matters.”
J.X. flicked me a nice-try look and went back to his stricken observation of Happy Harold.
After realizing his mistake, J.X. had helped Harold to his wobbly feet and made him sit in the front seat of J.X.’s Honda, taking deep breaths with his head between his legs. Now fully recovered from being knocked flat on the cement floor, Harold climbed out of the car and brushed his costume down. He took his time about it. When he at last straightened, he looked directly at J.X. and said, “After what you people have been through, I can kind of understand your reaction. And I’ll ask around in the community. See if anyone knows anything about this rogue clown. Guys like that give all of us a bad name.”
Yep, in the first few shocked moments of realizing he had attacked an innocent bystander clown, J.X.—of all people—had poured out the whole sordid story of my being stalked and attacked by one of Harold’s tribe. Proof that he really was rattled by the whole situation—more so than he’d let on to me.
“That would be really kind,” I said.
“I believe it’s my duty,” Harold said with simple dignity.
J.X. handed him his card. “If you find that you’re more seriously injured than you realize now, here’s my number. And again, I’m so sorry for the…misunderstanding.”
In Other Words...Murder Page 13
