by Janet Dawson
“Did I tell you I was going to be a vet?” he said softly. “That’s why I wanted to go to UC Davis. They have the best school.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking of lost hope, lost dreams.
“I have a cat, sort of.” He straightened and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “It’s a stray that hangs around the shop. I feed it.”
“It’s trying to adopt you. Why don’t you take it home?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid of the commitment.”
I smiled. “Hey, cats are easier than people.” I scooped some cat food into Abigail’s dish and set it on the floor. She attacked it with vigor.
Mark was in the living room, looking at the furnishings and the pictures on the wall. He ran his hand over the oak sideboard that had belonged to my grandmother. “This is a beautiful piece.”
“Grandma Jerusha left it to me. She was the one from Jackson.”
He looked at the books in the bookcase without really seeing them. Then he sighed, a long shuddering sound.
“I thought I was all right,” he said. “I thought I’d done a good job of putting my life back together after I got out of prison. Of course, you can’t really put anything back together after it’s broken. The cracks show. You have to create something new.”
“You have.”
“I wonder. The cracks started showing when you walked into my shop Saturday. Asking questions about that old life. Making me think about things I’d decided to ignore. You see, Jeri, I thought if I ignored my past it would go away. Instead it’s staring me in the face. I didn’t think I’d be in Oakland tonight, with the police breathing down my neck. Karen dead, and Betsy...”
“Maybe I set this all in motion,” I said, “with my questions. But I told Vee I’d find Elizabeth. I had to check out the available leads.”
“Available leads.” He laughed. “Of all the women I’ve met in the past three years, you interest me the most. To you I’m an available lead.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. We’d never have met if it hadn’t been for your damned case,” he said. “I don’t imagine it’s a good idea for a private investigator to get emotionally involved in a case.”
“A lousy idea,” I agreed. But I was already emotionally involved in this one. I walked past him to the front door and slipped the chain lock into place. I’d left the light on in the kitchen. Now I switched it off. “Let’s talk in the morning.”
I went to the linen closet in the hall, intending to get sheets and a blanket so I could make up the sofa bed. Mark followed me. He shut the cupboard I’d opened and turned me around the face him. He threaded his fingers in my hair and kissed me, the pressure of his mouth at first gentle, then hard and urgent. I moved as if to pull away, but his hands left my hair and he wrapped his arms around me, pressing my body hard against his. I kissed him back.
“This is not a good idea,” I murmured against his mouth. In the back of my mind I heard a voice telling me why I shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t professional. He killed his parents fifteen years ago and he might just have killed his sister tonight.
But my mind was out of synch with my body. My hands left his tangled dark hair, stroked his shoulder blades through his knit shirt, his buttocks through the worn seat of his faded jeans. I slipped my hands between denim and skin as I pressed him close, feeling the hard lines of his body against mine. The tip of his tongue explored the roof of my mouth as his hands tore at the buttons of my shirt. He slipped it from my shoulders, down my arms to drop unheeded on the floor. He found the fastener of my bra and unhooked it, tossing it aside. His fingers moved delicately over the exposed flesh of my breasts.
Then he saw the bruises on my abdomen and looked up. “Is this what happened last night?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked troubled as he kissed me again. His mouth left mine and traveled down the sweep of my neck, his lips gently seizing first one nipple, then the other. I gasped and caught my breath, unsteady on my feet as sensations rippled through me.
We swayed together in the hallway, then moved in a clumsy two-step through my bedroom door. I heard drumming on the roof as the rain started again. Light from the surrounding apartment buildings filtered through the blinds. Mark pulled his shirt over his head. My hands brushed the hard planes of his chest. His skin had a slight musky scent. It was smooth under my tongue, with a salty tang. My hands moved to the fly of his Levi’s and unfastened the metal buttons. I pushed him to a seated position on the edge of my bed and pulled off his shoes and socks and pants. Then he watched me with an intensity I could feel rather than see as I took off the rest of my clothes.
We stared at each other for a tiny space of time. Then I reached out and pulled down the comforter on the bed. I lay back on the sheets, cool against the growing heat of my own body. Mark stretched beside me, his own flesh warm and silky, then damp with perspiration as we explored each other’s bodies with hands and mouths. The rain outside fell against the roof in a steady rhythm.
Twenty-two
THE ONLY THING CLEAR THE NEXT MORNING WAS the weather. I sat on the sofa with my legs tucked under me, wrapped in my thick white terrycloth bathrobe. I had showered and washed my hair. Abigail curled into a smooth ball of cat on my lap, her face covered by her paws, her tail lying just so along her flanks. I’d been sitting here long enough for my hair to dry while I sipped my way through a large mug of coffee. I wanted another cup, but I didn’t want to get up, at least not yet. Abigail had spent so much time arranging herself I hated to disturb her.
I thought about Mark, still asleep in my bed, about the urgent, swept-away rush of passion tempered by the awkward reality of fumbling in the medicine cabinet for condoms and diaphragm. Sex is a dangerous thing. I don’t mean getting pregnant or catching diseases. It’s the emotional baggage that goes along with the physical act. Lately I was used to sleeping with a cat instead of another human being. With the intimacy of bodies came the intimacy of emotions, nakedness of a different sort. Apart from fearing that my thighs revealed my weakness for pasta and my lack of sensible, regular exercise, I wondered if I had shown Mark too much of myself. It made me feel vulnerable, and right now I didn’t need to be vulnerable. I had too many questions without answers, and too many things to do.
I heard a noise from the bedroom. Mark came out, barefooted and barechested, his jeans low on his hips. He ran one hand through his dark hair, then over the stubble on his chin, regarding me with sleepy blue eyes.
“Coffee?” he asked, hope distilled into one word.
“In the kitchen. Get me another cup, will you?” I held out the mug and he took it without a word. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a mug in either hand, balancing them carefully. I took mine, then watched as he took a mouthful of coffee, holding the mug with both hands as though the brew were necessary to life. He took another swallow and a slow smile spread over his face as the caffeine did its work.
“Hello.” He leaned over and kissed me gently on the forehead. “I’m not very coherent first thing in the morning.”
“Neither am I. I’ve been up awhile, though.”
“I know. I missed you.” He sat at the other end of the sofa, leaning on the arm, his legs stretched out in front of him. “I woke up earlier and you were there. Next time I woke up the cat was on your pillow, so I went back to sleep.”
I raised the cup to my lips, recalling the pleasant tangle of limbs, the hard comfort of his body against mine as we made love and as we slept nestled together, all the feelings I’d been dissecting as I sat here on the sofa.
“Are you thinking of all the reasons you shouldn’t have gone to bed with me?” Mark’s eyes searched my face.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Logical, hardheaded, practical reasons.”
“There’s nothing logical about sex.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Want to talk?”
“Not now. It’s likely to b
e a long conversation. We don’t have time. Cassie’s picking you up at nine-thirty. There’s a disposable razor in the medicine cabinet, so you can shave.” I shifted the sleeping cat from my lap to the sofa and got up, leaving my coffee mug on the end table.
While Mark showered I put on a pair of pants and a knit pullover. Then I went to the kitchen and scrambled some eggs. Neither Mark nor I had eaten anything last night. I wasn’t sure about Mark, but I knew I didn’t want to face this day with an empty stomach.
Mark came into the living room, newly shaved and his hair still damp. “Smells good,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
“So am I.” I handed him a plate and filled another for myself.
“Tell me about your ex-husband.” Mark picked up his fork and dug it into the eggs.
“There’s not much to tell.” I looked down at my plate. Picking up my toast, I buttered it and washed down a bite with some coffee. “Sid and I were married for three years. It didn’t work out. I still like him. But it’s not enough to sustain a marriage.”
“Why did you split up?”
“Our idiosyncrasies didn’t mesh,” I said lightly. I’d used that line on my mother. She gave me the same look Mark was giving me now. “Neither did our jobs. Private investigators and cops have different ways of looking at right and wrong and things in between. We had a few disagreements about that.”
“He seems determined to pin Karen’s death on me.”
“Not if your story checks out. Cassie’s a good lawyer, Mark. Just listen to her, do what she says.”
Cassie arrived as Mark and I were washing the dishes. I buzzed her through the security gate at the front of the courtyard and she hurried across the flagstones and up the steps to my door. She wore a dark blue suit with pearls and a determinedly cheerful expression on her face.
“Half a cup,” she said, when I offered her coffee. I handed it to her and she drank a quick mouthful. “I checked with CHP first thing this morning. That three-car accident yesterday on the Bay Bridge was reported to them at four-fifty-five. Traffic was screwed up for the rest of the evening commute.” She waggled a finger at Mark. “If your frame supplier confirms that you left his place between four-thirty and four-forty-five, I think we’re home free. There’s no way you could have gotten onto the freeway and across the bridge ahead of that accident.”
I walked with them out to the street. Mark opened the passenger door of Cassie’s red Honda. “Where can I find you later?” I asked him.
“Assuming your ex doesn’t arrest me for murder? I’ll be at Vee’s house. She was in pretty bad shape last night. I should go see her.”
He got in and fastened his seat belt. Cassie gunned her engine and headed down the block to the stop sign at the corner. As she turned right, I saw another car pull away from the curb, a dark blue Ford that made a running stop and turned right.
A tail, I thought. I wondered if it was the same car I’d seen following us last night. Sid must have put a tail on us last night when we left police headquarters. It was a prudent thing to do from his standpoint, but it irritated me to think of a cop sitting outside my apartment building all night, reporting to Sid that Mark had spent the night at my place.
I turned toward my own car, thinking of the times over the past week when I felt I was being watched. The first time was that evening outside Kinney’s office, a prelude to the attempted break-in at my own office. There’d been a blue car following me the next day when I left Karen Willis’s apartment building in Berkeley. At least it looked that way until I lost sight of it. Then Monday night, when some anonymous tipster called the cops to report that Jeri Howard was being attacked. It was almost as though the watcher wanted me to know I was being watched.
I drove to Alameda. Lenore Franklin was in the front yard of her house on Gibbons Drive, kneeling on the damp grass with trowel in hand as she dug in the soil of a flower bed. A wooden flat beside her contained petunia sets, their bright velvety petals a riot of yellow, red, pink, and purple. When she saw me coming up the walk, she stood up, grass stains on the knees of her tan slacks. She took off her gardening gloves and smiled at me uncertainly as she said hello.
“I need to talk with your husband, Mrs. Franklin.”
“He’s playing golf,” she said with a little shrug of her shoulders. “He plays golf every morning.”
“A little damp, isn’t it?” I said, surveying the still-spongy lawn. “After all that rain.”
“That’s nothing to a true fanatic.”
“Which course?”
“Why, the Alameda municipal one. At Harbor Bay Island. Is something wrong?”
“Karen Willis has been murdered.”
“Dear God.” Shock filled her eyes as she raised one hand to her mouth. “Why do you want to talk to Joe?”
I didn’t answer. I left her standing in the yard. Harbor Bay Island is really a peninsula between Oakland Airport and Alameda proper. What used to be marsh is now landfill covered with houses, condominiums, and golf links. I drove across the steel-surfaced drawbridge on Otis Drive and took a right on Island Drive. The golf course sprawled on my left, an expanse of lush emerald grass, sandtraps, and ponds populated by geese and ducks. I made a left turn up the road leading to the clubhouse and parked my car in the lot. At the caddy shack I asked about Admiral Franklin. One of the caddies said he’d just seen Franklin and his partner at the tenth hole. I set out in the direction he’d indicated.
I found the Admiral at the twelfth hole. His partner was a short man with a round belly stretching his bright yellow golf shirt and a cigar stuck in his mouth. Franklin was taking his stance, a golf club in his hands. I hung back in the shelter of a tree and watched him swing his club at the ball, knocking it far down the fairway. He handed his club to the caddy as the short man assumed the position in front of his own teed-up ball.
As Franklin poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos, I examined the caddy. He was about five-six, with dark hair and a slender build, clean-shaven, and wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He laughed at something the Admiral said, then reached up and scratched his head with his right hand. I saw the blue lines of a tattoo running from his hand to his forearm — a flock of butterflies.
Franklin’s companion finished his shot and twirled his club before handing it to the caddy. The caddy hoisted the golf bags as the party prepared to leave. I stepped away from the tree into the morning sunlight and Franklin saw me, a frown clouding his face.
“We need to talk, Admiral.”
He drew himself erect as though he were addressing a seaman recruit. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Really? We could start with breaking and entering. Your caddy fits the description of the guy who tried to get into my office last week. Right down to the tattoo.” I drilled the younger man with a look. He went white under his tan. “I don’t think it would take much effort on the part of the Oakland police to get him to roll over. On you. So let’s talk.”
Franklin’s eyes blazed with fury but he didn’t deny it. He turned to his partner. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I dispose of this matter.” The short man looked avidly curious as he and the caddy trundled away in the direction of the balls. When we were alone Franklin faced me.
“What the hell do you want?”
“It’s about your daughter.”
“Ruth?”
“Karen Willis,” I said. “She’s dead. Somebody cut her throat in an Oakland alley last night.”
Joseph Franklin stared at me with a mixture of shock and grief. Then his face and body sagged, his straight-backed military posture slipping. He looked around as though searching for a life raft and spied a wooden bench under a tree. He walked slowly to it and sat down, hunched forward with his hands on his knees.
“How did you know?” he said.
“Mark told me. He had it figured out years ago.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “I was so concerned about the adults finding out I didn’t consider the childre
n.”
“Is that why you sent Tattoo over to burgle my office? So your wife wouldn’t find out you were sleeping around twenty-five years ago? I have a feeling she’s known all along.”
“I wanted to find out what you knew.”
“I know plenty. You can tell me more. About Franny and George and their relationship with their children.”
His eyes held the same anger he’d shown when he asked me to leave his house a few days before. “I refuse to believe that Franny could have abused her children.”
“You may refuse to believe it, but I have evidence to the contrary. I know Franny drank. There was an incident at the officers club when she climbed up on a table and started disrobing.”
“Gossip. Blown out of proportion.”
“You seem very determined to protect the reputation of a woman who’s been dead for fifteen years.”
“Her reputation is all she has left.” Franklin’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps she was a strict disciplinarian. I know George was. So am I.”
“Did you ever burn your kids with the lighted end of a cigarette?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I saw the scars, Admiral. On Mark Willis’s arms.”
“She was murdered, damn it. Both of them shot down in their own house. Slaughtered. Nothing excuses that.”
“Of course nothing excuses it,” I said. “But don’t you want to know why? I do. Because I think that will tell me why Elizabeth disappeared, and why Karen was murdered.”
He looked away from me, across the green in the direction his golfing partner had gone. He was still handsome, despite his years. His gray hair and the lines in his face made him look distinguished. He must have been quite a looker twenty-five years ago, when he and Franny Willis caught each other’s eyes.
“You had a long-term relationship with Franny, lasting several years. When did it start?”
“I’d been attracted to Franny for a long time,” he said reluctantly. “She was vital, sensual.”
“Did she feel the same way about you?”
