The Sanctity of Sloth

by Greta Boris

  There was one message from the principal's office at St. Barnabas, the school where she worked. The head librarian had come down with the flu, and the secretary was wondering when Abby would return. The last two messages were from Detective Sylla, both requesting Abby contact her as soon as possible.

  She made herself a pot of coffee. She'd slept hard the night before, but she hadn't slept long. She didn't think she could face the police without caffeine. She doctored a cup with a dollop of half and half and sat at the table.

  What would she say if Sylla wanted to know where she'd been? She could give her the same story she'd given everyone else about the Big Bear cabin. But what if she wanted to know who owned the place? Wanted the address? It didn't seem like a good idea to lie to the police.

  She should be vague. Why would it matter to Sylla where she'd been? As far as the detective knew, it wasn't relevant. She'd say she was away. She didn't need to say anymore.

  Abby picked up her phone with more confidence, but her finger hovered over the "call back" message. She was approaching this call all wrong. She was on the defensive, focused on hiding information. She set the phone down.

  Weren't investigators trained to pick those kinds of things up? She'd watched enough episodes of Criminal Minds to know they all studied psychology. She had to get her head on straight before she called. She blew on her coffee and sipped.

  What if she had been away at a cabin in the woods working on her book? What if she'd come down the hill to find her father in the hospital and two messages from the police on her phone? She narrowed her eyes. She'd be frantic. She'd rush to call them, full of worry and questions. She would think of them as allies.

  Detective Sylla was an ally. She had to remember that. Sylla wanted to find the person who'd hurt Abby's father. She wanted to find the men who'd left that poor girl to die. She wasn't after Abby. Abby picked up the phone and dialed.

  After speaking with two different people at the Sheriff's department, she found out Sylla wasn't in, but was supposed to return within the hour. Abby told the man on the phone she'd come by. She had to go out to run errands anyway. She hung up, made a grocery list, grabbed her car keys, and left the house.

  ***

  When she returned two hours later, Abby could see the Rojo Landscaping truck from the street before she turned up the driveway. Carlos had come to see her. He must be ready to apologize, to reconcile. Relief washed over her, but it was short-lived. When she got to the top of the hill, she saw he wasn't parked in her father's driveway. He was parked at the house next door.

  Her gaze strayed to the neighbor's as she unloaded groceries. She listened for his voice as she traveled back and forth from the car to her father's house. She wouldn't go over. She'd wait for him to come to her. He was the one who'd created the rift between them. Yes, she'd run, not told him about the anchorhold. How could she after the things he'd said? But she missed him, missed being able to talk things out with him. Especially now.

  When Abby arrived at the police station, Detective Sylla had seemed concerned, compassionate even. But the longer she was there, the more pointed the investigator's questions became.

  She began by inquiring about Abby's father's health, his disposition, moved to questions about his normal routine and relationships, and finally, asked whether he had any enemies. A disgruntled employee maybe? When Abby asked why she wanted to know, she was evasive.

  The conversation had left her feeling uneasy. There wasn't anything specific she could put her finger on, but a sense of disquiet came over her while she was at the station. It followed her out the door when she left, and clung to her like a bad odor while she ran errands.

  Abby finished putting the groceries away, and locked the house. Next on the agenda was a trip to her apartment to pack the things she'd need while she was at her father's house. Sharona would be delighted she was moving out again. She hadn't been exactly overjoyed to see Abby when she stumbled out of her bedroom that morning.

  Sharona had greeted her with a terse, "What are you doing here?" She'd softened up a bit when she heard Abby's father was in the hospital. But Abby knew she'd been counting on having six weeks of uninterrupted time alone with her online friends. Sharona was even more of an introvert than Abby.

  As she walked to the car, Abby saw Carlos standing under the shade of the big oaks. Their gazes locked, but it was Mimi Jackson who called out to her. "You must be Abby." She strode out of the shelter of the trees with her hand extended. "I'm Mimi Jackson, your father's new neighbor."

  A momentary confusion passed through Abby's mind. Why was she introducing herself? Abby already knew who she was. Then in a flash, it hit her. She'd seen Mimi from her anchorhold. The woman had been completely unaware of her presence.

  Abby shook. "Nice to meet you."

  "I heard about your father's accident. I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?" Mimi said.

  "No. He's still in the hospital. Thanks, though."

  "How's he doing?"

  "Surprisingly well. The doctor said I can bring him home in a day or two."

  "That's such good news," Mimi flashed her a broad smile. "I'll bring something over when he gets here."

  "You should take her up on that." Carlos moved into their circle. "She's the descendant of a Chinese herbalist."

  "Don't worry." Mimi held up a hand. "I'm descended from one, but I'm not one. I plan to bring chicken soup."

  "Chicken soup would be great," Abby said.

  "Where are you headed?" Carlos said, a coolness in his tone she was unaccustomed to.

  "To my place. I have to get some clothes and things."

  "Are you moving in?" Mimi said.

  Abby nodded. "Just for a few weeks. Until Dad is up and around and can take care of himself." She turned her gaze on Carlos. "I just spoke to the police."

  "Did they tell you who else was involved in the accident?" he said.

  "Not really." Abby widened her eyes, hoping Carlos would understand this wasn't something she could talk about. The police had asked her to keep it quiet until they learned more about the perpetrator.

  Mimi looked shocked. "Was it a hit and run? Who would do a thing like that? Do they have any leads? Witnesses?"

  "I don't think it was a hit and run. They didn't say who the driver was. I didn't think to ask."

  "That's good then," Mimi said. Abby agreed, and Mimi launched into a story about a distant cousin on her husband's side whose son was the victim of a hit and run. Part way through the list of surgeries the poor kid had to endure, Abby's mind flitted away.

  She wanted to talk to Carlos, by himself, but she couldn't figure out how without seeming rude. Carlos solved the problem for her.

  "What time will you be back?" He turned to Abby when Mimi finished her story.

  "I'll be in and out all day. But I'm sure I'll be ready for a break around 5:00," Abby said.

  "I should be done here by then. Is it okay if I come by?"

  "I'll make a pot of coffee."

  "Do you have anything stronger?" He smiled for the first time since he'd gotten her out of the anchorhold. He had a great smile.

  "Wine." Abby's father had a cupboard he kept stocked.

  "That'll work," Carlos said.

  Abby said goodbye to Mimi and drove away with a lighter heart than she'd had for days. Carlos wanted to talk.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 3:00 PM

  CARLOS WROTE CILANTRO, papalo, tomatillo, jalapeno, and tomato into slots in the diagram he'd drawn, and put his pencil behind his ear. This area must have been Sage's salsa garden. The cilantro had bolted, and there was nothing left of the other plants but dry twigs and wilted leaves, but it was enough for him to recognize them. It was a good spot for a salsa garden. Sunny, but sheltered.

  He'd spent the afternoon making an inventory of the plants he needed to buy and creating a diagram his guys could follow when planting. He used the original garden plan as a template, because he couldn't improve on it.<
br />
  He brushed a hand across a scented geranium. Its warm, spicy smell brought a rush of memory to his mind. The Getty Villa, Abby's smile, the leaf she held. It may have been that moment eight months ago that he'd decided to ask her to marry him. "A rose-scented geranium," she said. "I've been studying."

  As they’d toured the garden, she pointed out plants with that smile on her face—playful and proud. She did that for him. Read up on things she'd not had any interest in before, for him. By the time they reached the museum doors, he was imagining a life together.

  He dragged his thoughts back to his work. The only big change he had planned for Mimi's garden was to add two plots for the herbs her grandmother had used. One would be in the kitchen garden for Chinese cooking herbs: ginger, Thai basil, galangal, garlic chives, and lemongrass. The other would be in a corner of the medicinal garden and contain ginseng, astragalus, ashwagandha, and other herbs he was less familiar with.

  He heard a scratch of hinges and glanced toward the door to the kitchen. Mimi came out, and right behind her was a man maybe ten years her elder. "Carlos, I want you to meet my husband, Bradley."

  Husband, that explained the last name then. He didn't look the least bit Chinese. Carlos wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans before shaking.

  "I finally meet the famous Carlos," Bradley said. The South? The Northeast? An island somewhere? Whatever he was from originally, it wasn't California.

  "I don't know how famous I am," Carlos said.

  "In this house you are a legend."

  "Bradley wanted to see your plans for the garden. I think he's a little worried." Mimi rubbed her middle finger against her thumb to let Carlos know money was the concern.

  "Now, Mimi, I'm not worried. I'd just like to be included in some of the decisions."

  "Of course." She pursed her lips and looked at him through wide eyes. "Carlos and I were debating about whether to plant the coriander in the Chinese garden or the salsa garden. Do you have an opinion?"

  His face went blank for a long moment before understanding dawned. "You're teasing me. Okay. Maybe I'm more interested in the financial decisions, but I care about the rest."

  Carlos flipped pages until he came to the diagram of the kitchen garden. But whatever he said, Bradley didn't care about the rest. He did get a big grin on his face when Carlos told him the plans didn't include any major renovations though.

  "So it shouldn't cost too much. Right?" The wrinkles in Bradley's forehead disappeared.

  Mimi petted her husband's cheek. "No, darling. Nowhere near as much as your golf clubs."

  Carlos said goodbye, left through the side gate and dropped his tools into the back of his truck. Abby's car was in the driveway. Good. He wanted to hear about her talk with the police. He could tell she'd been holding back when they were with Mimi.

  She opened the door before he knocked, and he stopped dead. He'd forgotten how beautiful she was. Before she'd gone away, they were fighting. No one looked beautiful when you're fighting with them. When he'd helped her escape from her hiding place last night, she was covered with dirt, and her hair was greasy and matted. This afternoon, he'd been focused on work and hadn't really looked at her. But seeing her there, in the doorway, he did look.

  Her hair was clean and combed and curled at her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes, those eyes that had snagged him when they first met, were looking straight at him.

  She moved toward him, and he thought she was going to kiss him. But she didn't. She made room for him to walk past her into the house. "I opened a red blend. It's not one of Dad's usual wines, so I hope you like it." She sounded nervous. He got it. She made him nervous too.

  They hadn't talked about the fight yet. Hadn't used the word, "us". Paul's accident had pushed everything else to the side. But he was out of danger now.

  He followed her into the kitchen. There was a small lamp lit on the counter, and the last rays of the sun slanted through the window. It looked cozy. Nice. She put a wine glass into his hand, and they sat at the table.

  "Want cheese and crackers?" she said.

  "No." He couldn't help notice the way the lighting made her pale skin glow.

  "I'm glad you're here."

  He was glad he was there, too, but didn't say it. He sipped his wine instead. "Wow. This is good." He must have sounded surprised because Abby laughed.

  "It is. I'm afraid I must have opened something Dad was saving for a special occasion. This isn't his usual ten dollar a bottle stuff. It's called Red Ravish." She rolled her r's and her eyes when she said the name.

  "It is a special occasion." Carlos wished he wouldn't have said the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

  Abby raised her eyebrows.

  You're home. Out of that damned anchorhold. And, maybe, just maybe, you've had second thoughts about the book considering everything that's happened. He thought all that, but he said, "Your dad is going to be all right."

  "Yes. But I wish we were sharing this wine with him."

  "He's on too many pain meds. I'll buy him another bottle when he's better." Carlos rested his elbows on the table leaned forward. "Tell me what happened at the police station."

  As Abby told him, Carlos grew more and more worried. When she finished, he said, "It sounds like the police don't believe it was an accident."

  Abby gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

  "It sounds like they think someone ran him over on purpose."

  "The detective didn't say that."

  "But she asked about enemies, unhappy employees."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Did the witnesses say how the accident happened? Did it seem like your dad was targeted? Or was the car driving erratically before it hit him?"

  "I didn't ask." Abby's voice grew quiet.

  "Maybe you should."

  "But Dad doesn't have any enemies. Everybody loves him." Carlos shook his head. Paul was a good guy, but he wasn't Mother Teresa. "Okay, well not everybody, but certainly nobody dislikes him enough to kill him."

  "Maybe it has something to do with the girl."

  Abby stood, walked to the wine bottle on the counter, and brought it to the table. "How could it?"

  "Your father was the one who said he'd seen two men near the Mission wall the night the girl was left there. Maybe those men are afraid he'll I.D. them."

  "But nobody knows that. Sylla said the police kept his identity quiet."

  "Maybe your father said something to someone. News travels fast around this town."

  Abby poured herself more wine, gulped, then set her glass down hard. "I'm going down to the station."

  "Why?" Alarm bells went off in his head.

  "Because I'm going to tell them the truth. I'm going to tell them it was me, not my father, who saw the men. Then we'll have to make a public announcement. I can't allow him to be in danger."

  "Is it better you're in danger?"

  "He lied to the police for me." Abby took her purse from the counter and moved toward the doorway.

  Carlos felt a headache coming on. "Hold up a minute. Sylla won’t even be there at this time of night. We have time to think this through." She returned to the table but didn't sit. "If those men staged the accident, and we don't know that's true, what's to stop them from coming after you?"

  "That's not the point."

  "It is the point." Carlos shot her an exasperated look. "Your father would no more agree to exposing you to killers than I would. He loves you. You're his kid."

  "I love him."

  "I know you do, and he needs you now, here, to help him when he comes home from the hospital. Not only that, but we don't know what will happen if the police find out you guys were lying to them. What if you or your dad end up in jail, or named in a lawsuit? He could lose his job."

  Abby dropped onto the edge of her chair. "So what do I do to protect him?"

  "What do we do, you mean?"

  "I can't let you get involved with this. It's bad enough my father is in the h
ospital because of my poor decisions."

  "Shut up." Her head snapped up. Carlos softened his voice. "I mean it. Shut up and listen. I don't know what's going on between you and me. We'll have to figure that out when all this is over. But you and your dad are family. This is what family does."

  Abby's eyes looked wet. "Thanks."

  "Your father is safe while he's in the hospital. I'm pretty sure it's only in the movies that hit men dress up like doctors, sneak in, and kill patients. And these men are no pros."

  "How do you know?"

  "If they were, he'd be dead, and the girl would be at the bottom of the Pacific."

  "Okay. But what about when he comes home?"

  "We keep a close eye on him. Keep the doors locked. We stay alert and aware."

  "I have to go back to work in two weeks."

  "Hopefully he'll be back to work then too."

  "But will he be safe at work? That's where the accident happened."

  "I don't know. But I think this will blow over. Either the guys will get caught, or they'll think your father is too scared to nail them."

  "I don't like it."

  "I don't like it either, but it's the way it is."

  Abby closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them, she had that stubborn look that always made Carlos nervous. He got ready for a fight, but she said, "I'm going to get some dinner and go check on Dad. Are you hungry?"

  Carlos pushed away from the table. "I promised Mama I'd be home for dinner." As Abby walked him to the front door, a thought hit him. "Maybe you should stay at your apartment tonight."

  "Why?"

  "It might be safer."

  "I'll be fine. Nobody's after me."

  He was about to argue but changed his mind. They'd argued too much lately. "Goodnight," he said, and walked through the dark front yard to his truck.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 8:45 PM

  ABBY PUSHED OPEN the front door, then kicked it closed behind her with one foot. She was finally in for the night. The house was dark, but Abby's arms were too full to manage the light switches. She'd gotten used to living without electricity though, and made her way by the light coming through the windows without a problem.