Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  The living room was heavy with heat, sun beaming through Venetian blinds, the rays laden with dust motes floating listlessly like dead ideas. She dropped her tote bag on the worn, maroon studio couch and headed for the kitchen.

  She would wash her uniform later. If she hung it in the bathroom, it would dry easily in two hours.

  The tiny kitchen still reeked of the bacon she'd fried that morning to leave for Miguel. He'd slept through the small sounds she'd made getting ready for work. He'd held her until early in the morning, trying to soothe her, telling her the police wouldn't find out, wouldn't arrest her and send her back.

  The ring of the telephone clamored through the weighted air and spurred her heart into double time. She waited until it rang again and lifted the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"

  "Jita, how'd it go?"

  She leaned against the kitchen counter. "Okay. I think. La policia left before lunch. Senora Garrett, she goes out in the afternoon and doesn't come back."

  "Did the cops bother you?"

  "No, they ask for coffee, that's all."

  Miguel's voice eased into its usual light tone. "You see, I told you. You're nothing to them, just part of the scenery."

  "Maybe." She paused, and then spoke quickly. "Miguel, before she goes, Senora Garrett is muy agitato and she is crying to Senor Bartholomew. He yells back, he is mas loco que una cabra."

  "Why was he so mad at her?"

  "No sabo."

  "Damn." He was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly. "All right. Just do what you normally do. Go to work, don't ask any questions. And don't be afraid. They're not going to notice you, jita, unless you make them. Comprende?"

  "Si."

  "Good. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "You'll be late?"

  "That wedding, remember?" His voice was soothing again. "I'll take the pictures, then I'll be home. You just sit tight, okay?"

  "Okay, Miguel." She held the receiver after he hung up, wishing she didn't feel so afraid.

  Chapter 6

  The memory of MacKenzie Bartholomew's stonewalling still rankled over dinner. Finny barely tasted the chicken cacciatore Barelli had fixed. "It was the smoothest bum's rush I ever got." She pushed a thigh bone to one side of her plate with her fork. "I might as well have tried to crash the mint."

  "He was right; it isn't any of your business." Barelli picked up the wine bottle. "You want any more?"

  Finny pushed her glass toward him. "What kind of lawyer will let his client confess to a murder?"

  "Usually one who hopes to cut as good a deal as possible with the DA, meaning that his client's chances are roughly comparable to hell's own snowball." Barelli poured too fast and cursed under his breath as the wine splashed out of her glass. He wiped up the spill with an abrupt swipe of his napkin. "What makes you so damned sure she didn't do it?"

  "You met her." Finny put down her knife and fork. "I've known her for years, and in all that time I've never known her to deliberately hurt anybody. How many people can you say that about?" She pushed back her chair and stood up. "No matter how I try, I can't see her committing murder. That's the bottom line, Chris. Besides, I still think she didn't have time." She picked up their dinner plates and carried them to the counter. "I don't know what she's up to, but I've got a feeling..."

  Barelli got up from the table. He made a reflex gesture toward the pocket of his green t-shirt, sighing as he dropped his hand to the pocket of his faded jeans for a roll of Lifesavers buried there. Quitting smoking hadn't been easy for him. "If you're going to talk intuition—"

  Finny scraped a plate viciously. "So help me, if you say one sexist word about women's intuition, I'll—"

  "You'll what?" Barelli came up behind her, reached past her to turn off the faucet. "Gut feelings get no argument from me. Half my job involves hunches." He turned her around so he could see her face. Water dripped from her hands onto her legs, bared by the cutoffs she wore. Her brown eyes were troubled under frowning black brows as dramatic against her forehead as Chinese letters on parchment.

  Her lips were soft under his short, hard kiss. "What else have you got?" he challenged softly. "Hunches, gut feelings, even good old women's intuition will take you only so far. Then you've got to have the hard facts to back 'em up, babe."

  "Right." Finny pulled out of his arms and tore off a paper towel from the roll to wipe off the drops of water scurrying down her legs. "And what I've got after today is nothing. I thought if I could talk to Twee I'd figure out what she's up to."

  "So you ran into some brick walls. Now what?"

  "I don't know." Finny picked up their full glasses from the table and went through the swinging door into the dining room, then through the archway to the living room and the big, brown corduroy couch. "Theorize? Guess?" She set the glasses on the coffee table and plopped onto the sofa.

  The cushions gave a little under Barelli's weight as he sat down beside her. He handed her glass over and she leaned against the armrest, propping her legs across his lap.

  "What drives me wild is the size of the party last night. There must have been a hundred people there."

  "We counted seventy-three." Barelli took a sip of wine. "It was wall-to-wall."

  "And any one of them could've killed Sarandon."

  "Maybe. Given the opportunity and a modicum of good taste."

  His voice was serious. He drank the rest of his wine and leaned forward to set his glass on the table. He glanced at her, read the assessment in her eyes. "Well?"

  "You sound like you really hated him."

  "He was an asshole. Judges like him make my job a hell of a lot harder than it has to be."

  "The Parmetter case?"

  "That's just the latest in a roll." He patted at his shirt pocket. "Shit. Sarandon never could figure out which side to come down on. Remember the Billy Houghton case a couple of years ago? Guy beats a seventeen-year-old boy half to death and Sarandon sentences the son-of-a-bitch to the max—everything except pillory in the Civic Center—gives a blood-'n-guts sentencing speech that has the whole courtroom ready to lynch the guy. His lawyer files an appeal—undue influence on the jury, biased management of the case, looking cross-eyed at the defense—you name it. Houghton gets a new trial and everybody tiptoes through it after the first disaster. Houghton was out on the streets in less than two years. He killed a social worker ten days after he got out."

  "God, Chris."

  "Sarandon was a lousy lawyer and a worse judge. He never could decide if he was Roy Bean or Dear Abby—balls out or a slap on the wrist. He drove us crazy."

  "How'd he get appointed?"

  "Probably the usual political nod after mucho contributions to the dear old party, I can't remember which one. Not that it matters. Rumor has it the governor's been trying to get him to resign for the last two years."

  "Poor Cuffy."

  Chris looked at her. "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, she was pretty defensive about the Parmetter case. Guilt by association."

  Barelli relaxed more deeply into the sofa cushions. "It wouldn't be easy being his kid. Although I suppose wealth softened the blow."

  Finny raised a brow. "From being a judge?"

  "From having money up the wazoo. The source of the contributions, don't you know." His eyes closed, and he looked as if a nap wasn't far off. "By the way," he said after a few moments, "some of that money came out of a partnership with Herbert Garrett."

  "Hmmmm." Finny drank more of her wine, thinking. "But Twee isn't the only person who might have been interested in killing him."

  "Not by a long shot." Barelli lifted her legs off his and levered his way out of the sofa. "You want some more wine?"

  "Yeah. Bring the bottle." Finny leaned back against the sofa arm. The evening air was beginning to cool as the sun neared the Front Range; the haunting scent of honeysuckle whispered in with a breeze through the side window. The sheer lacy curtain waved like a spiderweb in the movement of the air.

  Barelli had
described the judge. What was the man like? The William Sarandon she'd met had seemed rigid and humorless. Hadn't Cuffy said that he took pride in his manners? Although he certainly wasn't demonstrating them last night. He acted as if she'd deliberately set out to harm him. He'd been as edgy as a convention of razor blades.

  "Scoot over." Barelli slipped back beneath her legs and filled her glass. "You look thoughtful enough. Come up with anything?"

  "Oh, hell, yes. Got it solved already. Had to be suicide."

  "Brilliant. What's your proof?"

  "He had good enough taste to find himself offensive. Q.E.D."

  "Never could stand their shoes." Barelli rested his head on the sofa back. "Come on, what're you thinking about?"

  Finny rubbed an index finger around the edge of the wineglass. It didn't hum. "Eddie said today that you'd forgotten the 'tricks' I pulled when Elliot died."

  Barelli turned his head to look at her. "Tricks? You?"

  "Did you?"

  "Forget? No."

  Finny looked at the red liquid in her glass. The deep color glowed with the back lighting from the window. "I never thought of what I did as trickery." Her gaze lifted to meet his eyes.

  "You were doing what you had to do."

  "Yes. It was a question of what the right thing was."

  "I know that. Eddie does, too, or he would if he stopped to think about it. He tends to mother-hen me sometimes."

  "He's still afraid you'll retire and he'll have to break in somebody else."

  Barelli chuckled. "That's not so far from the truth."

  The short silence between them was broken by the distant sound of siren.

  Finny rubbed at the beginnings of an itch on one knee. "I have to look into this, Chris."

  "I know." Barelli picked up her hand, cushioned it in a measuring gesture against his larger hand. "This time I think you may be right."

  She looked at him, surprised. The last time she'd tried to figure out a case he was working on, he'd gone into a John Wayne imitation that wouldn't quit. "I thought I'd start out at her house, see if there's anything to get me going."

  "We were pretty thorough."

  Finny reclaimed her hand but laid it on his leg. "Not thorough enough to find out who did it."

  Barelli's eyes narrowed. "Whoever did it, if it wasn't Twee, was careful and smart. And lucky, since Twee copped to it."

  Finny sighed. "If I'm going skating on thin ice"—she hunched a shoulder at his twisted grin—"and theorizing that Twee's protecting someone with this confession, then the first place I'll look is at Paige Dexter." She met the mocking light in Barelli's eyes. "She is Twee's goddaughter."

  "And you can't stand her."

  "And she's still married to Sarandon. Don't cops usually say that family ties are the ones that kill? I wouldn't want to undermine your confidence."

  "Fat chance, I've got male superiority on my side." He caught both of her hands before they could connect with his ribs. He held her until she gave up trying to tickle him, and brushed a kiss against her lips. He pulled away and looked at her, his eyes unfathomable. "You didn't say anything about the chicken."

  Finny frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

  "Did you like it?"

  "Of course, it was great. Didn't I say that?"

  "No, you hardly ate it."

  "Chris, it was fine. You know I'm upset about Twee." She ran a hand down his arm.

  He got up from the sofa, not looking at her. "Monica always said the thing she hated most about me as a husband was that I didn't do anything around the house."

  "I'm not Monica." Finny stood up. "Now the thing I hate most about you," she murmured provocatively, "is altogether different."

  He looked quickly round. "What—"

  "You hardly ever throw me over your shoulder and cart me off for wild sex."

  "And they say a woman works from sun to sun..." He scooped her up, ignoring her shriek. "Oof, you've been skipping your exercise class, haven't you?"

  "You jerk—"

  "Hold still. I mean it—if you don't, I'll end up with a disability pension after all."

  "I'll give you disability—"

  Chapter 7

  "So, I'll come out this afternoon as soon as I can," said Finny. She paused. "Oh. Well, if you're not going to be there..." She listened again. "Okay, then, tomorrow. Thanks, Corinne." She set the receiver back onto the phone.

  Barelli tossed his comb onto the dresser, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Good-bye construction, hello detection?"

  "Yeah. I hate to miss the whole day. But she's got a doctor's appointment this afternoon and said to forget today." Finny turned around. "Hold still." She tugged down the edge of his collar to cover his tie. "Power red?"

  "Right. Gotta use every advantage for the corporate climb." He cupped her cheek with one hand. "Are you going out to Twee's place first?"

  "Mmmm hmmm." Finny tucked her shirttails in and turned to give herself a quick once-over in the mirror. Her camp shirt was pale pink, the pleated pants a dark rose. She'd add the cream-colored jacket when she had to. She could start a whole new fashion trend—the Snoop Look. Did Sam Spade ever worry about color coordination? "I want to look around again," she said. "Try to get a better sense of what happened and when. I just don't think there's any way Twee could've had time to do in the judge."

  "It only took one fast, hard shove. What if nobody's there? The lady of the house being in jail, and all." Barelli tied his shoes.

  "Servants, remember?" Finny headed for the bathroom. "There won't be any trouble about my taking a look out there, will there? I assume the police lines are down."

  "They ought to be by now. We got a confession." He stood in the bathroom doorway as she applied her makeup. "I can check if you want."

  "As long as I don't get somebody on my case for messing with the evidence." Finny waved the mascara wand through her lashes.

  Barelli came up close behind her as Revlon brought a hint of blush to her tanned cheeks. "You didn't seem to mind the last time."

  "There's no more vacancy on my case, sweetie." She turned around to meet him head on. His shirt was crisp against her cheek and his skin was scented with soap and aftershave. "You smell good."

  "Like a rose and that's the way I want to stay."

  "Meaning?"

  "Roses are for happy, and you're the one who makes me that way. I want you to watch your ass, and if you find anything"—he pulled back a little and looked directly into her eyes—"anything that confirms what you think Twee's doing, you tell me. No heroics. Agreed?"

  Her lips curved. "You sound like Miss Kitty."

  "Huh?"

  "You know: 'Be careful, Matt.' "

  "Beats sounding like Chester." He planted a kiss on her lips. "Be careful, Finny."

  Traffic on the Valley Highway was thickening like a gourmet's arteries. If the irregular rhythm of the cars was sufficient grounds for diagnosis, cardiac arrest wasn't far off.

  Finny slowed down to allow a florist's truck into the stream of traffic off Colorado Boulevard. The Continental behind her honked its disapproval, and she glared into her rearview mirror. Cream 'em, slam 'em, but don't slow down: the Commuter Code.

  She fled for her life at the Hampden exit, then wound her way through quiet streets bordering the Wellshire Golf Course. As she drew closer to Twee's neck of the woods the houses took on stature like a wedding cake takes on frosting, and the lawn verdancy ran the spectrum from chartreuse to emerald.

  When she drove through the brick and iron gate that lacked only St. Peter, she felt the usual disbelieving appreciation. Twee's house—make that estate—sat on a gentle hill like a monument-in-the-making, a doily of grass at its base, the Front Range of the Rockies spread out in the distance like a stage set created by the Sierra Club on speed.

  Gravel rattled beneath her tires as she pulled around the circle drive and stopped before the portico. Finny once again regretted her lack of a coach and four: a Toyota pickup was so low-rent. As sh
e headed for the entrance, she gave the fender a pat. "Sorry, baby."

  The chimes that announced her presence were probably on loan from a European cathedral; the woman answering the door, the maid who'd had so much trouble with trays at the party, was a more local product.

  She was a Chicana of about twenty. Her black, wavy hair was barely restrained in a loose knot at the back of her head, her dark velvet eyes were colored with fear, and her mouth threatened to tremble. The blue pastel uniform was pallid against her golden brown skin.

  She listened silently as Finny introduced herself, her gaze skittering around Finny as if she were reading unseen information in the air. "What do you want?" She had a heavy accent.

  "I don't know if you remember me from the party Sunday night." She waited in vain for a nod. "I'm trying to help Twee—Mrs. Garrett. You know she's confessed to killing Judge Sarandon?"

  Now the maid nodded, eyes lowered.

  Finny began to feel uncomfortable at the girl's refusal to look directly at her. "I'm trying to find out what happened," she said. "I'm not satisfied that Mrs. Garrett is guilty."

  The girl's gaze glanced off her. "You are policia?" she whispered.

  "No. But I am investigating the judge's murder," she added quickly as the girl took a step back and started narrowing the open doorway. "What's your name?"

  The girl stopped the door's movement. She looked down at the hemp doormat. "Bianca," she finally said in a low voice.

  "Bianca who?"

  "Lopez."

  What was this? Why was she so afraid? Finny took a step closer. "Will you help me, Bianca? Mrs. Garrett has been good to you, hasn't she?"

  The downbent head nodded minutely.

  "Then won't you let me in, please? I just want to look around, see if anything's been overlooked. Please?" She caught a quick glimpse of anguished dark eyes, and then the slight figure in blue was moving aside. The poor kid was really upset over this, Finny thought. She entered the house quickly, before the girl could change her mind.

  "Thanks." Finny looked around the entrance hallway as the maid closed the door. The house was perfumed with its usual scent of furniture oil and sandalwood and held a feeling of comfort, the product of space, cleanliness, and the carefully chosen furnishings.