This was weird.
A second later Sam came out of his office, which opened into Patricia's. He looked at her desk and then he looked through the glass at me. He pointed at his secretary's empty chair and raised his hands, palms up, to ask a question.
I shrugged. I pointed to the back door and made walking motions with my fingers.
Looking unhappy and disturbed, Sam wandered back into his office. He left the door open, so he could see his paragon returning. Pale, fair, and losing hair at an alarming rate, Sam seemed an unlikely poster boy, but there was no doubt that he and Patricia had formed a mutual admiration society.
I was back at the return desk when I remembered an odd fact.
Patricia's son didn't have braces. In fact, Jerome was blessed with teeth so even and white I had remarked them. So how come she was taking him to the orthodontist?
Robin was waiting for me at Trixie's. We ordered, and while we waited for our food I told him about my house situation. Somehow it didn't seem so dire after I'd told him, and I could feel myself begin to relax. When our pizza was in front of us, he carefully wriggled a piece onto his plate and said, "We need to talk about what the police told me this morning."
This wasn't a happy opening. "Okay," I said. "Shoot."
Tracy, it turned out, was on probation ... in California. She'd just gotten out of jail for another stalking incident with another mystery writer, Carl Sonnheim. Her pursuit of him and her jealousy of his girlfriend had ended up with Carl in the hospital, his girlfriend on a plane to Canada to put some distance between her and Tracy, and Tracy in jail. While she'd been in jail, Tracy had trolled through the prison library and ended up with all of Robin's books. She'd transferred her attentions to Robin.
"Lucky you," I said.
"Right." He looked grim.
"So she came to Georgia, and got a job with Molly's? How'd she find out Molly was going to be the caterer?"
"She'd done catering work in the past and still had some professional connections. They didn't know about her troubles."
"Sheesh."
"Molly couldn't believe it, Arthur Smith kept telling me. Said Tracy was one of the best employees she'd ever had."
"Do they think Tracy killed Celia?" I had to ask.
"The drugs, the pillow... they say that doesn't sound like Tracy."
"The Emmy does?"
"Well, it's more in line with what she did to Carl. She's been spotted around town. They don't think she'll leave."
Now I felt cold all over. "Then why don't they grab her?"
"Various people have seen her, but none of those various people happen to have been cops."
"Oh."
"So... you're going to be careful, right?" He put his hand over mine.
"I'm thinking it's you who should be scared," I said.
"I'm thinking it's both of us."
On my way to rendezvous with my mother, I remembered that when I'd walked up to the catering table the morning of Celia's murder, Tracy had been changing into a fresh jacket.
What if the soiled jacket had had Celia's blood on it? I shuddered again, and found myself looking at everyone I passed, on foot or in vehicles, trying to spot a head of auburn hair.
But it's not my way to keep scaring myself. I didn't see Tracy, and I told myself that the odds were good I never would again.
I met my mother in front of a house on Andrews Street. This was a fancier house than the others I'd looked at, and the price reflected that. But it looked good from the curb, and I was feeling optimistic.
Thirty minutes later, I was disillusioned. How could people put so much emphasis on floor space in a bathroom, and so little on kitchen room? The master bath would have held a Third World family, while the kitchen existed to rotate around the microwave. However, it was a pretty house in other respects, and I needed a house in the worst way. I mentally short-listed this one.
The ranch on Swanson Street was beautifully decorated, but too small. Poky.
McBride Street was full of trees. Even in the October night, I could tell that both sides were lined with oaks. I'd known someone who lived here—who was it? One of my girlhood friends, I thought. When I got out on the sidewalk in front of the house, the memories poured over me. This had been her house! I couldn't quite recall her name, but it would pop into my head soon. I had always loved spending the night with her.
"Who owns this now?" I asked my mother.
"David and Laurie Martinez," she said, peering at the fact sheet in the light from the streetlight. "They got transferred to Colorado. So the house is empty."
"How much?"
Mother told me.
"Okay," I said, "that's not too scary."
Mother had unlocked the door while I hung back, trying to recall what had made the house so special.
We stepped into the entrance. It was floored with red tiles. The carpeted area to the left was the formal living room. The red tiles ran down the hall to culminate in the kitchen, a large room with an eat-in area. Along the hall were doors to a formal dining room, a bathroom, and two large closets.
The kitchen had just been updated with new cabinets and a new dishwasher. There was a large walk-in pantry. It lay open to a sizable family room with a fireplace. There were sliding glass doors to a patio. I was remembering as I looked. Debbie, the girl who'd lived here, had had an older brother who made my heart throb with adolescent passion. I smiled as I thought of his utter obliviousness to my adoration.
"Okay," I said again, sounding, to my own ears, cautiously positive. I didn't like the carpet in the family area, but that was easy to change. Not cheap, but easy. I pointed out its poor condition, and Mother nodded.
To the right, off the kitchen and family room, were three bedrooms. One was a huge master bedroom with its own bath, and the other two, somewhat smaller, bedrooms shared a bath.
Then—and this was the neat part—a hall ran from the kitchen further back into the property. There were cabinets on both sides of the hall, making it into an elongated storage area. At the end of the hall, with its own door, was an office lined with built-in bookcases. Debbie's dad had been an architect, and he'd done a lot of work at home. I didn't need a home office myself, but... I stood in the office door, suppressing every thought that popped into my head.
I looked at everything again. I looked at the huge windows in the master bedroom, wishing the house weren't in town. It would be necessary to keep the curtains drawn most of the time. Though I thought I remembered extensive planting outside the window—that would certainly help.
"Is there a fence?" I asked. Mother stepped to the light switch panel by the door of the bedroom, and began flicking. The outside lights came on. Yes, the backyard was fenced and the enclosed area included that outside the side master-bedroom windows. Yay!
"There's another couple who say they're going to make an offer on this house after they sleep on it tonight," Mother warned. She sat on the window seat and reached up to smooth her hair. It must have been a full working day for her, but she looked, as always, smooth and composed.
"No, I think I'll take it now."
Mother's head snapped up as though I'd popped her with a rubber band.
"Let me see the utilities," I said, holding out my hand. She put the fact sheet into it somewhat dazedly.
The electric bills were a little high. I wondered how long it had been since someone had blown insulation into the attic. "Where's the attic access?" I asked, and Mother told me it was out in the garage. We trailed out to the garage, to the west side of the house, which more or less faced south. The room was just a big old bare garage with the usual oil stains and battered cabinets, but it did have a door that raised and lowered. "Is the attic floored?" I asked, and Mother had to confess she didn't know. I let down the attic access steps and mounted. There were planks over about a third of the available area.
"Who are the next-door neighbors?" Back on the ground, I dusted off my hands on my pants.
"Ah, the Cohens on one side
; they're retired, they have grandchildren. On the other side the Herman sisters. They're in their forties. Both widows. I forget their married names."
Sounded quiet.
I really liked the house and its layout. The square footage was comparable to the house I had now; a little less, but I didn't need any more. This house was in a good part of town, and I would have no trouble selling it if it didn't suit. I loved the red tile floors, and the redecorating would be minimal. The paint in almost every room looked as though it had just been redone.
"I'll take it."
Mother said, "It's not a coat, Roe."
"I believe I understand that."
She sighed. "You're right. You're a smart girl, and you know what you want. You always have."
Haven't always been able to get it, I told myself.
Mother pulled out her cell phone, consulted a list from her purse, and punched in some number. "David? Hi, good evening. This is Aida Queensland."
Mother listened. "Yes, I do have some good news. I have a client who's made an offer." She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. I tapped the selling price with my finger, then held up three fingers. I pointed down with my thumb.
"Three thousand less than the asking price," Mother said into the phone. "She said she'd need to replace the carpet in the family room." Pause.
"I can always counteroffer," Mother said next.
I wondered how many people had owned the house between Debbie's family and the Martinezes. I wondered where Debbie was now. Mother was doing some more listening.
"She doesn't have to wait for a loan," Mother said. "In case you think later that I was being devious, I have to tell you that the buyer is my daughter, Aurora Teagarden. She plans to pay for the house directly."
"Yes, I know, she's lucky to have that much available cash."
"Yes, it'll take a few days to get the paperwork done. But with no loan to apply for... I'll FedEx the agreement to you."
"Okay, we have a deal."
Those were my favorite words.
She hung up and nodded.
I took a deep breath.
Well, there was nothing like jumping off a cliff. In fact, I'd gotten a running start.
Chapter Twelve
Robin called Thursday morning, while I was lying in bed trying not to be terrified at the magnitude of what I'd just done.
"What are you doing this morning?" he asked. "I called the library and they said you weren't scheduled to work this morning."
"No, I go in this afternoon and work this evening. I'm just lying here trying to make a list of what I need to do. I bought a house last night."
"You what?" He sounded as though he thought he'd misheard me.
I explained.
"Wow. I just called to see how you were feeling after being knocked down in the parking lot. I didn't expect to find out you were changing your life."
"Yet again. Oh, I have a bruise on my face, and my knees are a little sore, but I think I'm going to live," I said, scaling my news to a more expectable level. "Have you heard from the police again?"
"No more sightings," he said. "That's good. That Detective Smith, he can hardly stop asking me questions. Um, I'm not trying to imply anything, but was he formerly some significant male to you?"
"That's a nice way to put it. Yes, he was, briefly. Until he got another detective pregnant and invited me to the wedding."
"Ouch. Painful."
"It was, at the time. I'm over it." Though I was beginning to wonder if Arthur Smith ever would be; his continued emotional absorption with me seemed strange, since I'd been the injured party in our little triangle. Of course, I hadn't known I'd been in a triangle. Oblivious me.
"When do I get to see the new house?"
"Right now, if you want. I need to go make a list, have a look in the daylight."
"Give me the address."
Forty-five minutes later, I was walking up my new sidewalk, carrying two cups of coffee I'd picked up at the drive-through of one of Lawrenceton's fast-food places. I had some cholesterol-packed sausage biscuits in a bag. Luckily, Robin pulled up right behind me, and was able to take the bags while I unlocked the front door. My mother had given me the key, not without a sharp look or two, since she really wasn't supposed to be doing this. The privileges of being a realtor's daughter are few and far between.
Robin looked around curiously while I put our breakfast on the counter.
"How come you're not at the set?" I asked.
"They don't want me," he said casually. "The new actress is having her first morning of shooting, and she's pretty nervous. Actually, they never want me to be there, but they have to put up with me, from time to time."
"Then why did you come to Lawrenceton at all?"
He swung around to face me. His hair was as much of a mess as usual, and his glasses sat on his face crookedly. His cheeks were as smooth as a baby's bottom, and he smelled good.
His silence made me move restlessly. "What?"
"I came because of you."
I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how I felt.
"I wanted to see you again. I wanted to see if I really felt so comfortable with you, or if I was remembering it as better than it was. I had never slept with you; I hadn't seen you in years. You'd been married. What if it had all been something I made up when I couldn't find anything better?"
This was almost too much honesty.
"What do you want?" I asked hesitantly. "From me?"
"I want us to date," he said simply. "I want to go to bed with you sometimes. I want us to have a chance. If it doesn't work out, so be it. I can move back to California, I can get another teaching job, anything. I'm self-supporting, and I can work anywhere. So right now, I want to work here in Lawrenceton."
I couldn't seem to move. After a year of feeling empty, suddenly I felt full. After a year of grief, suddenly I felt a secret sort of joy. And I was terrified. I never could seem to do relationships like anyone else.
"Go look down the hall," I said. I pointed to the cabinet-lined hall leading out of the family room. He obediently strolled in that direction. I followed him. He looked at the cabinets approvingly, and then he opened the door at the end of the hall. The room had windows on three sides, and the morning light dazzled the eyes. The built-in bookcases that took up the remaining wall space were blindingly white with new paint. There were electric plugs in the floor where a desk would logically be placed, for a convenient computer plug-in.
A huge smile lit up Robin's face, and he spun to face me. "Come here," he said, falling to his knees and opening his arms. I crept over to him. He wrapped his arms around my waist, hugging me so tightly it almost hurt. I laughed and laughed. Then he kissed me, and I stopped laughing.
The phone rang about thirty minutes later. I had forgotten my cell phone was in my purse, and the little tune it played jogged me out of a lovely fog. Robin reached one long arm over to hook the shoulder strap of the purse. He dragged it over. I rummaged in it and fished out the phone.
"Yes?" I said.
"Roe, this is Sam," my boss said.
I tried to focus. I put my glasses on; everyone knows you can hear better over the phone if you're wearing your specs. "What can I do for you, Sam?" I asked.
"You sound funny," he said. "Were you asleep?"
"Oh, no," I said, my voice relaxed and slow. "No. Not asleep."
"I need you to do me a favor," Sam said.
"What's the matter?" I asked, finally picking up on the worry in his voice.
"It's Patricia. She didn't come in to work this morning, and she doesn't answer my calls."
"Gosh, that's not like her."
"No, it's not. She hasn't missed a day of work since I hired her. Her son's not in school, either. The school called here, looking for her."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to go over to her house and make sure everything's all right there."
"So, if there's a dead body, you don't care if I find it!"
"Roe," he protested, obviously offended. "I can't leave. It's work hours."
I sighed, not making any attempt to cover up my exasperation. Robin bent over me, doing something that made me bite my lip to keep in a gasp. "In a few minutes," I said, to get Sam off the phone. "I'll go, Sam, in a few minutes."
"Good," he said, obviously surprised I'd caved so quickly. He gave me the address. "Then let me know."
I hung up without saying good-bye. Sam wouldn't even notice.
Robin went with me, once I'd explained the circumstances to him.
I'd never known where Patricia lived before today. Of course I'd known where the street was. It was on the upper end of the scale for the largely black area of Lawrenceton that ran on the northwest side of town, literally following the old railroad tracks. Patricia's rental was a small, square house with minimal yard and no carport. Patricia's little car was nowhere in sight. There were two newspapers lying by the front steps.
I knocked, of course, but I didn't expect an answer, and I got none. I tried to peer in the windows but, literally, I wasn't up to that. Robin obligingly undertook the task, and he reported that the house looked very clean, but a little disordered—as though the Bledsoes had packed very quickly. The kitchen counter held none of the usual small appliances. A set of keys lay on the counter, along with a sheaf of money.
"Like she left the keys and the next month's rent so the landlord wouldn't feel any need to track her down," Robin said.
"Oh, man" I muttered, trying not to moan. "This isn't going to be pretty," I told Robin as I punched in the library number.
Of course, Sam was distraught when I told him Patricia was gone. He could not believe she would just cut and run with no warning.
"Did you do something to her?" he said accusingly.
I'd had enough. "Sam," I said sharply into the phone, "Patricia may have been the perfect secretary, but I am the one who's worked for you for ten years. I think you should have a little faith in me." We hung up on each other, equally unhappy. I was cudgeling my brain to think of what could have happened to Patricia and Jerome. It was eerie and frightening to admit that she had evidently packed up her clothes and some small goods, and vanished.
Last Scene Alive at-7 Page 14
