by Lora Roberts
That gray, early morning light always makes me want to tiptoe—and not just because the grass is wet. Birds were going crazy, calling from the redwood trees to the plums, hollering their good mornings and staking out their territories for the day. The air was still and cool, holding the scents of stock and evening primroses that release their fragrance at night. Nobody else in the whole world was awake to breathe that air—no one but me and the little black and white dog that pounced exuberantly through the grass.
I left the tote bag with my towel, swimsuit, and clean underwear on the front porch while Barker and I watered shrubs and flowers. I used the hose. He didn’t. We killed some snails and sprayed liquid kelp on the seedlings; it’s best to do this early so the sun won’t burn the leaves. I worked quietly, under the spell of the fresh newness of the day.
I was coiling the hose beside the front porch when the quiet ended. Barker started growling. At the end of the driveway a taxi paused, disgorging a woman and a big suitcase. The cabdriver didn’t even bother helping her; obviously he’d written off the tip. The woman plopped the bag down and turned to stare at Drake’s house.
She didn’t see me at first; that gave me some time to get my breath back and arrange my face. By the time she moved her laserlike glare around to the driveway, I had my gut reaction of dismay and foreboding well concealed. It had been many years, but I recognized my sister-in-law.
I waved feebly, and Renee, her face wearing a welcoming snarl, stomped down the driveway toward me. At least she hadn’t pounded on Drake’s door and made him decide to curtail my phone privileges.
Her eyes looked red, and her face was creased with sleep—or lack of it. The big shirt that matched her stirrup pants was rumpled and sported a fresh coffee stain.
“So.” She wasn’t going to indulge in any polite small talk. Her voice was the same strident bray. “I have to come all the way out here to get to talk to my daughter.” She kicked at Barker, who was writhing at her feet in the mistaken belief that she would find him adorable. “Where is she?”
The sun still wasn’t past the redwood trees that block the northeast corner of my garden. “It’s not even six-thirty, Renee. She’s sleeping.” I looked past her up the driveway. “If you leave your suitcase on the sidewalk, it may not be there when you want it.”
“I want to see Amy!” The words came out from between her teeth. Grinding them like that wasn’t good for her dental health, but this didn’t seem to be the right moment to share that information.
“See her all you want.” I picked up my tote bag from the porch. “I’m going for a swim.” Scooping up Barker in my free arm, I headed for my bus.
Renee no sooner saw me leaving than she wanted me to stay. “Wait! I’ve got some things to say to you.”
“I’ll be back after a while. Enjoy yourself.” I swung myself up into the driver’s seat.
Renee gaped at me. “You can’t just leave!”
I rolled the window down. “Look, you said you wanted to see Amy. She’s the reason you’re here, not me. I trust you’ll have everything settled when I’m back from my swim.”
I backed up the drive. Her suitcase was right at the edge of the sidewalk; I could have run over it “accidentally,” but I didn’t. She was jogging up the drive to rescue it when I sped away.
I don’t usually like swimming early in the morning. But during the summer, that’s when the lap-swim hours are—mornings, or noon, a very crowded time. I prefer the spring and fall afternoons, with the sun warm on my back when I get out of the water.
This morning the pool in Rinconada Park had never felt so much like a refuge. I did my twenty-five laps, and some dead man’s float at the end for total relaxation. I would have floated longer, but the pool got crowded with the prework swimmers, carrying their garment bags and all the rest of the paraphernalia—blow-driers, shoe bags, makeup kits for the women; they practically move in to go swimming. I showered and washed my hair, not enjoying the punishing hardness of the spray, but reflecting that it saved wear and tear on my frail water heater. Then I pulled on my comfortable sweats, combed the hair off my face and walked out of the dressing room.
Drake was coming out of the men’s locker room, suited up for swimming. I had wondered if I’d run into him, since he was one of the before-work crowd. He usually went home afterward to shower and dress and have a big breakfast. He was lucky that his house, his work, and his exercise were all within a couple of miles of each other.
“You’re up early, Liz.” He put out a hand to stop me. It was disquieting to stand next to his nearly naked body. I didn’t want to think about why that should be. He wore the skimpy kind of racing suit that reveals any figure flaws, like his love handles and a bit of tummy overhang. Still, his stocky body had lots of muscles; he had gotten a rowing machine for his spare bedroom a few months before.
“I’m always up early.”
“I was, too, today.” He smiled. “Lots of gravel crunching in the driveway. Who’s your charming visitor? I saw her with a suitcase that said at least five days’ stay.”
“Need you ask? I thought you were a detective.”
“Amy’s mom. Maybe she’ll take Amy away.”
“Maybe.” This idea didn’t thrill me as it would have a couple of days ago. Amy was not as frightening as I had expected a teenager to be.
Drake got serious. “You going to that place today?”
“I’ll finish the week. This weekend, finish the census. Then I’m just going to write for a while. Dead bodies don’t turn up at my computer.”
“Well, I’ll probably be seeing you at SoftWrite today. Unless you decide not to go back there.”
“They may have found someone else, but if not, I’ll be there. Unless my sister-in-law loses her cool and dots me one.’’
“But Monday you won’t go back to SoftWrite?” He put his hand on my arm. “I’m not just pushing you for no reason, Liz.” He looked at me warmly, without his glasses in the way, so I got the full impact. “That message—you know as well as I do that someone might be setting you up to take the heat if this turns into a murder case. I don’t want you put in danger.” He hesitated. “Try to keep a low profile.”
“I am keeping a low profile. You’re just concentrating on the ground too much.”
I walked away, leaving him there in his skimpy suit and his goose bumps. The swim hadn’t altogether suppressed a panicky feeling that someone was out to get me. I’d gone to sleep with that feeling the night before, and it had still been there when I’d awakened.
“Hey,” Drake called. I looked around. “Don’t forget we’re planting a hedge Sunday.”
“Sure we are. But not rhododendrons.” I walked on, my anxiety lessened. Drake didn’t act as if I were on the suspect list. He had me firmly in the role of victim—not much better, but since I had no intention of being one, I could handle it. Whether or not we put in the hedge Sunday—and I would bet we didn’t—at least we could still be friends.
Chapter 18
Barker had been good in the bus. He hadn’t even chewed on the book I’d left out. I drove home slowly, regretting that my swim had produced so little relaxation. An unpleasant scene with Renee was practically guaranteed at some point that day, unless she had managed to collect Amy and leave before I got back. And that, too, would be unpleasant.
The house was quiet when I pulled up. Barker wouldn’t jump down from the bus door so I carried him in one arm, my swimming things in the other. We pushed the front door open cautiously.
Amy still slept on the Hide-a-bed. Stretched out beside her was Renee, who hadn’t changed from the wrinkled clothes she’d worn at her arrival. She snored softly, her mouth open as she slept—the better to let the words out when she woke up. I kept a grip on Barker while I tiptoed into my bedroom; with any luck I could get away before the Sleeping Beauties woke.
I was past the point of caring what I wore to SoftWrite, and Amy had dibs on my skirt for her interview. I pulled on blue jeans and a T-shirt I
’d actually bought new at a North Face irregulars sale. I laced the high-tops and crept into the kitchen. Barker followed me to the back porch to hang my towel and suit in the sun. I carried the tote bag to the refrigerator and shoved an apple and a carton of the flavored yogurt I’d bought for Amy into it. A kitchen chair laid sideways in the doorway penned up Barker. Then I slipped past the muttering water heater and left by the back door, hoping Barker wouldn’t do anything horrible while my guests slept.
The sun was warm, but the air still held the cool freshness of morning. Walking toward University, the forebodings I’d felt earlier were replaced by an exhilarating sense of escape and freedom—and hunger caused by skipping my usual crunchy granola breakfast to avoid waking Renee. Under the circumstances, it seemed only right to splurge and have breakfast downtown, a frivolity that’s not often allowed in my budget.
I went to the Plantation because their sidewalk gets the morning sun, and they know how to do tea there. Some of these coffee places have no idea beyond a tea bag you can find in any supermarket. Apricot breakfast tea and a poppy-seed muffin cost almost as much as a whole day’s rice and beans, but I didn’t begrudge it. Avoiding Renee was worth every dollar.
Sitting at a little table in the sun, I watched the parade of businesspeople who thronged downtown in their expensive suits and fancy haircuts. They congregated around the tables, carrying newspapers and notebook computers; they streamed across the plaza toward City Hall and flocked into the banks and boardrooms. That morning I was one of them, with an office to go to. But I was better off than they were, because I didn’t have to come back to do it all again on Monday.
Finally I gave up my table and crossed the street to the post office. The lobby was unlocked, though the garage doors were still down along the counter where, during business hours, they make you wait and wait. I had several pieces of mail in my box. The big manila envelope addressed to me by a familiar-looking typeface—my own— went on the bottom of the stack. My fabulous proposal and clips had failed to impress the editors at Sunset magazine. However, there was a thin envelope from Smithsonian that I ripped open right then and there. They wanted to see the complete article I’d pitched in my query. The terms they discussed were princely. I tucked the letter tenderly into my tote bag, visions of a new water heater dancing in my head, and noticed that the last letter in my hand was from my mother.
Even after fifteen years, I recognized her handwriting. For a minute I just stood there, looking at it—the loopy way she made her capital Es and Ss, the cramped numbers. She’d meant to send it to my house, but had transposed the Street number, and some genius at the post office had redirected it to my box instead of returning it to sender.
Finally I stuck the letter in my tote bag, where it took some of the luster off the go-ahead from Smithsonian. During the block-and-a-half walk to SoftWrite I debated opening it. On the one hand, my mother’s keeping track of my address was a good sign. On the other hand, Renee was even then snoring in my living room. She’d worked herself up, and probably my whole family as well. I didn’t particularly want to read a blast of abuse from dear old Mom, who’d cast me off quite thoroughly the last time I’d heard from her.
By the time I reached the stairs to SoftWrite’s office, I had decided to wait until after work to open the letter. Then its contents wouldn’t throw me so much—and might even give me an edge in the Renee war.
Suzanne was unlocking the plate glass doors when I came up the stairs. She was wearing either the same clothes as the previous day or others much like them. The lines around her eyes were more prominent.
“Morning,” I said.
She jumped a little and swung around, staring at me. “I—didn’t think you’d be back.”
“Wore out my welcome, did I?” I didn’t follow her through the door. “If you’ve found someone else—”
“No, no.” She gestured me into the room, but didn’t immediately head for Door Number Two. “If you don’t mind the drama, it’s fine with me.” She came a step closer, peering at me, with the strangest expression on her face.
“I’m finishing out the week.” I walked over to the reception desk and slung my tote bag under it. “Then I’m out of here.”
She unlocked Door Number Two and then said, without turning, “Someone else has died.” Her back was rigid, her hand clenching the doorknob.
“How do you know?”
“A policeman came by last evening to ask about my movements. He said one of Jenifer’s neighbors had been found in his car on Skyline. Carbon monoxide poisoning.” She turned, slowly. “You knew about it, too, I see.”
“I was questioned, same as you. But I don’t know anything about it. It’s nothing to do with me.”
Suzanne’s mouth was twisted in that funny little smile. “That’s not how it looks. And given all the gossip and rumors floating around this office, you’re not going to be too comfortable here today. Why don’t you see if you can find a temp to replace you? A temp temp. We’ll just finesse the whole situation.”
She closed her office door. It was five after eight. I needed more caffeine to decide what to do. Carrying my tea bag, I went to the coffee area, and found the pots unplugged and empty. I filled a cup with water and put it in the microwave.
While waiting for the water to heat, I rummaged in the little refrigerator, looking for some milk to add to my tea. There was no milk, although there were a dozen or so strange bottles with unintelligible Chinese labels. Crammed in behind the bottles was a cloth lunch bag with the initials J.P. embroidered on it.
It gave me a little jolt to realize that it was probably Jenifer’s lunch bag, brought to work on the day she died and forgotten after her well-publicized bust-up with Ed. Drake might be interested in knowing about it.
I used a couple of forks from the cutlery tray to grab the bag and set it on the counter. The Velcro fastener rasped apart when I pried the top open with my tools. Inside was a container of yogurt, still sealed with foil, and an apple. It looked just like my lunch. Disappointed, I opened the bag wider, peering inside like a dental hygienist searching for plaque. Something rustled, but it wasn’t a napkin. Under the apple was a wad of paper, crumpled very small.
I stared at the paper, wondering if this really was Jenifer’s lunch bag, if the paper had anything to do with her death, if I could satisfy my curiosity without enraging Drake.
The answer to that last question was, regrettably, no. A key scratched in the lock of the back door beside the coffee area, and Mindy came in, looking crisp and efficient in a red-and-white-striped shirt belted over a long, narrow black skirt.
“Hello.” There was something guarded in her voice. She looked past me at the lunch bag.
“Hi.” I put down the two forks I was holding. “Is this Jenifer’s lunch bag?”
“Yes.” Mindy stared at the forks, fascinated, and then at me. “Yes, it is. Why do you have it?”
“I was looking for milk when I noticed it in the refrigerator.”
Mindy backed away a step. “I see.”
“No, you don’t.” Her suspicious expression made me impatient. “Come and look.”
Reluctantly she came closer. “Looks like lunch.” She shuddered a little. “God, it’s so—ghoulish! A dead woman’s lunch.”
“A dead woman’s note, too.” I used the forks to press the Velcro back together. “Is there a plastic sack or something I could put it in?”
Mindy rummaged beneath the table, and held a shopping bag open while I used the forks to maneuver the lunch bag into it. Her expression was lighter. “Are you going to give that to the police?”
“Right. I’m putting it in the file drawer in my desk and calling Drake right away to come and get it. I don’t know what’s in that note, but it might be important.”
The microwave dinged. I dunked my tea bag up and down in the cup. Mindy put her own lunch away in the refrigerator.
“Listen,” she said when I fished out the tea bag. “I wanted to tell you that Larry w
as going around after you left last night saying you were mixed up with those transients’ murders last year, and that you had something to do with Jenifer’s death, and a lot of guff like that. Mostly we don’t pay attention to Larry’s bizarre stories, but a couple of the software engineers got pretty giddy about it at the Rose and Crown after work, and they made up this poem and practiced it and everything.”
“Poem?”
“Doggerel, really. They’re always doing these really tasteless parodies and stuff. Just pay them no heed if you hear anything.”
“What would I hear?”
“Really, I don’t remember it all.” Mindy looked uncomfortable.
“Come on. I want to hear it.” I leaned against the table and crossed my arms, and at last, reluctantly, Mindy went on.
“Something about Larry coming on to Jenifer. It was gross, really. One look at Larry’s hide drove Jenifer to suicide—that kind of thing. Then you turn Larry down, and he throws his weight around. They’re like children, really.” Mindy sounded indulgent. “We just ignore them.”
“You’ve had more practice at that than I have. Sounds like Larry’s problem more than mine.”
“Right.” Mindy said this so fervently that I felt sure at least one verse of the doggerel must be dreadfully insulting to me, probably raking up my dubious past. However Larry had garbled the events he was gossiping about, the truth had been printed in the papers at the time, and it didn’t involve me except as the victim of a frame-up. True, a murdered bum had been found under my VW bus—and I had been sleeping in it at the time. True, a friend of his, also a bum, had been murdered—as had Vivien Greely, who’d left me her property. I still missed Vivien, still had a lot of ambivalence over profiting from her death as I had—but I didn’t cause any of those events. It was my being set up to take the rap for them that gave Drake the notion I made a good victim. But that was then, this was now. Now I didn’t give a rat’s ass about what a bunch of computer jockeys thought of me. Let them act like adolescents.
I carried the paper bag and my tea up to the front, leaving Mindy with the coffeepots.
