“Couldn’t you read them to me over the phone?”
“I could, but I’d prefer to have you look them over in person, sitting next to me. I wasn’t making up the part about missing you.”
“Neither was I.”
“Can you do it?”
“I’ll be by in about an hour, is that okay?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
<><><>
Faye was napping on the living room couch when I left to see Michael. She’d dozed off five minutes into the afternoon soap opera she’d dubbed the “silliest thing on earth” when she turned it on. I hadn’t asked why, in that case, she bothered to watch it.
I left a note explaining that I’d gone out. On impulse, I covered her with the heathery green afghan she’d knit for us when Anna was a baby. “Knit with love,” she’d written on the card. “It will come in handy—for cool evenings and those dismal, droopy days when you wish the world would go away.” I thought Faye might be feeling a little that way herself at the moment.
Michael was at his desk in the midst of a yawn when I knocked on his open door. He looked up, smiled, and yawned again.
“You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.” He closed the door and gave me a kiss that more than made up for the yawns. Then he yawned again.
“If Don’s couch is that uncomfortable,” I told him, “you might find Faye the lesser of two evils.”
“The couch wasn’t the problem.” His tone was petulant. “I was up most of last night working on the Cindy Purcell murder.”
“The girl at the reservoir?”
He nodded, ran a hand over his chin. “We got a lead yesterday on a witness who saw her talking with some guy outside the video shop the night she disappeared. Told us he was sure he’d recognize the guy if he saw him again. So we bring our witness in, have him look through mug shots. Nothing. Then we call in a sketch artist, one of the best in the area. And our witness turns out to be a total flake. Can’t remember whether the hair was blond or black, long or short, whether his face was full or thin. Only thing he was sure of was that the person Cindy was talking to was male. He’d probably have caved on that as well if we’d pushed him.”
“Come sit down,” I told him. “I’ll rub your back.” While I stood behind him, kneading the muscles of his neck and shoulders, Michael read me the list of names from Julie’s computer. Seven names. Five definitely female, one male, and one that could be either. None of them sounded familiar.
“Have you checked the phone book?” I asked.
Michael sighed. “Your confidence in my abilities is astounding.”
I ran my thumbs across his shoulders and then kissed the back of his neck. “I take it that’s a yes.”
“We also checked with the DMV. Several matches for a number of the names, none local. I was hoping they might ring a bell with you.”
“Sorry.” I peered over his shoulder at the list. “There’s a boy at school by the last name of Walker, but I don’t know a Claudia Walker. Maybe it’s his mother or his sister.”
“Walker isn’t exactly an unusual last name.”
As I continued to rub his shoulders, Michael’s head bobbed forward and his breathing grew thicker. Even without the benefit of exhaustion, Michael is able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, much like Max. It’s a gift I envy.
Fortunately, he could wake just as quickly.
The phone rang and he reached for it as though he’d been expecting the call. “Detective division, Stone here.” There was a pause. “Yeah, I got it.” He scribbled something on a pad of paper, glanced my way, then sighed audibly. “Give me half an hour.”
I could tell from the angle of his shoulders and the tension in his voice that the call hadn’t brought welcome news. Michael turned and took my hands.
“That was the Berkeley PD. They’ve discovered the body of a young woman who fits Julie Harmon’s description.”
His words hung in the air. I heard them first, then felt them in the pit of my stomach. “Body. That means she’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so.” He pulled me close and cradled me against his chest. “They don’t have a positive ID yet, so there’s still a chance it’s not her. They’ll have the Shepherds go by the morgue once the body’s been moved there.”
I closed my eyes and focused my attention on the steady rhythm of Michael’s heartbeat. “How was she killed?”
“Shot. A jogger found her body a couple of hours ago in the underbrush near the northern edge of Tilden Park. I’m heading there now.”
“Do you want me to come with you? I can tell you whether or not it’s Julie.”
He rocked back. “You don’t have to do that, Kate.”
“But it would help, wouldn’t it?”
I could sense his hesitation. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Just let me call Sharon and ask her to pick Anna up from school.”
Chapter 9
Tilden Park runs along the ridge line of the Berkeley hills. Hiking trails, both official and unofficial, crisscross the area, interspersed with picnic areas, play fields, and lakes. The terrain is gentle in some places, steep and rugged in others.
We pulled in at a group barbecue site off the main road. The small parking area was jammed with official vehicles, including the coroner’s car.
“You can still change your mind,” Michael said.
I shook my head. “I want to know.”
We headed across an open field and then followed a narrow dirt trail into the forested canyon to the west. About half a mile in we came to a flat glen and the buzz of human activity. I felt my stomach tighten.
“Why don’t you wait here for a minute,” Michael said. “I’ll be right back.”
He joined a group of three men, two of whom he apparently knew. They conversed for a few minutes, looking frequently at a spot of shrubbery some ten yards beyond.
After a moment, Michael motioned for me to join him. He introduced me to the detective in charge, Jim Gates.
“You ready to have a look?” Gates asked, squinting at me with steely gray eyes. His manner, though polite, was brusque and to the point.
I nodded
“The body’s been covered with leaves, out in the elements for a couple of days, so be prepared. She’s not going to look like her yearbook picture.”
She didn’t. At first glance, she barely looked human. Her entire body was mottled with leaves and grime. Her skin was purplish, her features swollen and distorted. But I was reasonably sure it was Julie.
I swallowed hard against the tightness in my throat when I recognized the pink sweater as the one she’d worn to school the day she disappeared. Only now it was blackened with dried blood. And something else that I identified too late as the movement of insects. I averted my eyes, took a deep breath, counted to ten. My legs felt like Jell-o and my body was seized by tremors. I looked back again when Michael swore under his breath.
Gates stepped closer. “What is it?”
My eyes moved from Julie’s stained sweater to her face and then back down to her slacks. And that’s when I understood what Michael had reacted to.
She was lying face up, hands spread at her sides like wings. Her clothing was fully intact but her feet were bare, and encased in plastic wrap. Her toenails were painted a deep blood-red. Just like Cindy Purcell.
“This looks a lot like the homicide we had out at the reservoir a couple of weeks ago,” Michael explained. “The pose, the feet, the fact that she was covered with leaves.”
Gates rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. “The young woman who was strangled?”
Michael nodded. “Did you happen to find a plastic toy skeleton near the body?”
Gates nodded. “About six inches from her left hand.”
Michael stepped forward, kneeling near Julie’s head. He pointed. “Looks like there’s a chunk of hair that’s been cut. That fits as well.” He looked at me. “Can you tell, Kate? See where it’s shorter there on the side. That wasn
’t the way she wore it, was it?”
I hadn’t noticed at first, but now that I was looking, I could see where a handful of shoulder-length hair had been chopped off close to her face.
I shook my head “She . . . she had ...” I brought my hands to the side of my neck to indicate length. I no longer trusted my voice.
Michael put a hand on my arm. “Why don’t you go find a seat over there?” He nodded toward the breadth of a fallen log. “I’m going to be a bit longer, but I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
I nodded mutely, realizing that I suddenly felt lightheaded. Gates called to one of the other officers, a black woman with a figure more befitting a fashion model than a policewoman.
“Can you see that Mrs. Austen finds a place to rest?” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled, although I wasn’t so sure. The woman took my arm and guided me to the log. “It’s never easy,” she said softly. “And kids are the hardest. Even when you haven’t known them personally.”
“She was a student of mine,” I mumbled. “A sweet, gentle kid.”
“You want me to sit with you awhile?” the officer asked.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
“You sure?”
I inhaled deeply, cleansing my lungs from the stench of death. “I’m sure.”
She hesitated before heading back to join the others. “My name’s Tira, Celeste Tira. You holler if you want some company, okay?”
When the woman was gone, I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. The afternoon sun was warm against my back. A picture-perfect fall day, a day for joy and laughter and ice cream in a cone. I thought of Julie standing hesitantly by the corner of my desk, troubled and unsure, reaching out for help the only way she knew how.
Tears dampened my cheeks. Julie Harmon, no longer merely missing, but murdered. Although that possibility had been in the back of my mind all along, it hadn’t prepared me for the harsh reality of knowing she was actually dead.
Chapter 10
Julie’s death didn’t make the six o’clock news, but it rated a front page headline in the following morning’s paper. The face in the accompanying photo, carefree and smiling, brought a lump to my throat. I scanned the story to see if it contained anything I didn’t already know. It didn’t.
I was still staring at the paper when Libby skittered into the kitchen. She glanced at the headline from across the table, then turned away and busied herself pouring a glass of orange juice.
“Are you okay, Libby?”
She mumbled acknowledgment without really answering.
I’d broken the news to her last night. She’d listened silently and then quickly retreated to her room. When I checked on her an hour later, I found her lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t want to discuss it right now,” she said. The message was the same when I knocked on the door a second time. I knew this was Libby’s way of coping, the way she’d dealt with the deaths of her mother and a friend the year before. But I thought that grief turned inward took its toll, especially in one so young.
“Do you feel like talking yet?” I asked.
Libby sat across from me and drank half the glass of juice. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Sometimes it helps.”
She shrugged.
“I know this is hard on you.”
“I’ll live.”
I touched her hand. “Julie was a friend, honey. It’s only natural that you’d be upset.”
“Some friend I turned out to be.” Her words were clipped, but her voice sounded on the edge of crumbling.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Libby stood, finished her juice, and hurried off, practically mowing down Faye on her way out of the kitchen.
Faye hugged her robe across her ample figure. She eyed the newspaper photo. “Is that the girl?”
I nodded.
“Such a young thing, and pretty, too. It’s a frightening world we live in.”
“It certainly is.”
Faye poured herself some coffee. “How’s Libby doing this morning?”
“I don’t know. She’s keeping it all inside.”
Libby made another sweeping pass through the kitchen, grabbing a carton of yogurt and an apple on her way. “Gotta run.”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“You think I’m stupid, Kate?” Libby’s voice spiraled in volume. “Of course I’ll be careful. There’s a murderer on the loose.”
“It’s just that I worry—”
“I’m fine, really. So stop breathing down my neck like I’m Anna’s age.” Her words were punctuated with the slam of the door.
Faye fanned her face with an open hand. “Goodness, such manners.”
“She’s upset,” I explained. “And scared.” What’s more she wasn’t the only one. I’d been awake half the night wending my way through the labyrinth of grief and apprehension.
I turned to Faye. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Don’t bother about me. I know how rushed your mornings are.”
“Not today. My class doesn’t meet until afternoon. I could scramble some eggs,” I told her. “Or whip up an omelet if you’d prefer.”
Faye folded her hands around her cup. “Don’t go to any trouble. Cereal’s fine.”
Anna arrived just then and settled the matter. French toast with half a bottle of syrup. Faye had several pieces of French toast herself, and almost as much syrup.
When I returned from dropping Anna off at school, Faye had cleaned up the dishes, and was tackling the remainder of the kitchen.
“You don’t always have to be cleaning,” I told her. “This should be a vacation.”
“I like to keep busy.”
I took the bottle of cleanser from her hand. I couldn’t tell if I was feeling guilty or simply irritated, but I wanted her out of my kitchen. “I don’t have to be at school until one o’clock today,” I said. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”
“I’m fine.”
“Shopping?”
“I can shop at home.”
“San Francisco?”
“I’ve been to San Francisco.”
Seen one tree, seen them all. “Why don’t you come with me then while I take Max for a walk. We can go into town and stop off for a cappuccino or something.”
“I’m not much on walking, and I’ve already had coffee.”
I sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d like to borrow a book?”
“Thanks, but I think not. Most of the stuff that’s written these days doesn’t hold my interest.”
“I’ve got a copy of David Copperfield. ”
She shook her head. “I heard him on Oprah last month.”
I started to set her straight, then wondered what purpose it would serve. Instead, I grabbed Max’s leash. He was at my feet in an instant, alternately sitting at attention and then hopping about with unequivocal joy. The jangle of the leash, like the opening of the refrigerator door and the click of the can opener, never failed to catch Max’s attention.
The day was crisp and clear. Max trotted along happily, sniffing every tree and post along the way. I tried to clear my head, to think of nothing but the vibrant palette of autumn’s reds and golds all around me. Instead, the darkness of Julie’s death was everywhere.
When we returned, Faye was still in the kitchen, lining shelves. I went into the bedroom and called Andy.
“Are you doing anything for lunch?” I asked.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
“Are you?”
His voice dropped a level. “I know it’s not my birthday. Must be the pleasure of my company that’s the big draw, right?”
“You might say that.”
Andy chuckled. “I knew someday you’d come to appreciate my finer qualities.”
His finer qualities had never been at issue. It was just that they were so heavily outweighed by the other
s. “You still haven’t answered my question. Do you have lunch plans, or not?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t be happy to cancel.”
“Good, you’re taking your mother to lunch.”
“What?” The warmth in his voice had evaporated.
“Someplace nice. You’d better make reservations ahead of time. I’ll bring her by your office a little before noon.”
“You never give up, do you? Always meddling, always trying to run my life for me.” The words were infused with the resentment of countless prior arguments.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” I told him.
Andy sighed. “Just how I want to spend my lunch hour. What in the hell will we even find to talk about?”
I grinned. “Your favorite subject. Yourself.”
Back in the kitchen I found Faye alphabetizing my spices.
“I just talked to Andy,” I told her. “He wants to take you to lunch. I said yes. I hope that’s okay.”
“Lunch?”
“You didn’t have plans, did you?”
“No, not really.” She looked at my cupboards almost wistfully. “I know how busy he is, though. I hate to be a bother.”
“He’s looking forward to it.”
“Well, in that case ...” Her hands drifted from the array of spices to her hair. “I guess I’d better think about getting ready.”
“You’ve got plenty of time.”
She frowned. “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I could get my hair done on such short notice?”
“Let me check on it.” The trendy salons were usually booked weeks in advance. And I didn’t think the cut- rate, drop-in place Anna and I frequented offered the rollers-under-the-dryer kind of styling Faye was after. Then I remembered Marlene’s, a tiny storefront salon near the pet supply shop. I called and got an appointment for later that morning.
I dropped Faye off in front, went to catch up on errands, and arrived back at the shop just as she was getting combed out and lacquered. Her hair certainly looked as though it had been done, although I couldn’t say that it was necessarily an improvement. Nonetheless Faye was pleased, and that was what counted.
“Now I feel presentable again,” she said as we headed for the car. “When I do it myself, it never looks as good.” My own experience was usually the opposite. I couldn’t wait to wash out what the stylist had so painstakingly sculptured.
Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Page 7
