“You’re not complaining, are you?” Sloane asked.
“I guess not.”
One of the joys of a small house is the modest exterior surface area, which Sloane and the speedy sprayer gobbled up. The transformation was remarkable; Sloane is the best company; and therefore, my mood improved accordingly. Amazing how that works.
Willow showed up as we were folding the drop cloths and swishing sprayer parts in buckets of clean water. If she noticed that I’d purchased the paint color she’d selected (from within my parameters), she didn’t say so. But she was genial and didn’t seem to be holding a grudge over our interrupted kayaking expedition the previous night.
“You on for lasagna tonight?” I asked.
She replied with a wide grin and a bob of her blue-hair topknot. Much better than the usual snorting.
The evening swelled into an even greater flurry of activity. Sloane waved good-bye so she could hurry home and clean up for a dinner date with Riley—they’d made detailed plans in order to take full advantage of Mrs. Tillman’s babysitting prowess while it was available. Willow demonstrated an extraordinary ability to splatter tomato sauce on the fronts of my upper kitchen cabinets, the side of the refrigerator, the floor, and the oven door. But she handled the onion chopping with aplomb in spite of the eye-watering and sniffliness it engendered.
It wasn’t until after the lasagna had been delivered to Cal and Willow had returned home to polish the play script she was developing from one of her space-opera stories which had a steampunk twist (I was still a little fuzzy on the plot details, although she had described her worldbuilding in depth) and I’d settled on the sofa in my richly-fragrant house (there’s nothing like fresh lasagna to overpower the odor of fresh paint) with a mug of peppermint tea that I remembered the odd folder Sloane had found on the backseat of my car.
And the video clips of Frank’s interviews which I’d promised Lila I would watch. I propped my laptop on my cross-legged lap to do that first. I don’t have television, but the news channels’ websites are just as good, and you don’t have to endure so many ads.
Frank is a golden boy, in every way. Short sandy-brown hair, a healthy skin tone that indicated he might have freckled profusely in his youth, glistening straight teeth, candid blue eyes, and an easygoing manner. Not at all camera shy or awkward. I didn’t know what Lila had been so worried about.
Three of the local stations played almost exactly the same cuts, just minor variations on a theme from slightly different vantage points. The fourth station played an even shorter clip which I assumed was the best of the best of the best, leaving all the ums and ahs and ear scratches and reporter microphone fumbles on the cutting-room floor. Through it all, Frank performed admirably as an upstanding businessman and concerned community member.
Check. I closed my laptop, shoved it away, and replaced it with the folder.
It took me about twenty minutes, but I ended up fairly confident in my final translation of the scratchy handwriting on the inside of the front flap: Didn’t mean to freak you out—if I did. Saw you taking notes at the press conference today. I’m taking a leap here, but I noticed you’re cozy with that detective too. For Ian’s sake, these reports need to get to the right people. Can I count on you? I can’t keep them anymore and I can’t take them to the police myself. You’ll never hear from me again. P.S. Your passenger-side rear tire is a little squishy. Might want to get that fixed.
Curiosity sufficiently piqued, I flipped through the pages. But it became clear that I would need something akin to a degree in biology or chemistry to understand them. Hg seemed to be a common notation, which required refamiliarizing myself with the periodic table of the elements to learn that it stood for mercury. Something called methylmercury was also mentioned. And it was pretty obvious that the levels of both were going up.
I had two calls to make. I chose the easier one first.
When Vaughn answered, I said, “When you searched Ian’s apartment, did you find documents related to some kind of river water quality study?”
He was silent for a long time.
I stretched my legs out on the coffee table and wiggled my toes while I waited. I was in need of a pedicure. In my current financial situation, it would have to be a do-it-yourself-er, but I couldn’t remember unpacking any nail polish.
Vaughn must have resolved his quandary, because he finally said, “I don’t have the analysis back yet. A professor down at Oregon State University is taking a look at it for me.”
“I either have a duplicate set of results or additional information,” I said. “Would you be able to tell by looking? I could bring them to you.”
“Eva,” he sighed, “how on earth—? You know what, don’t answer that. I’m coming to you. You have better coffee anyway.” He hung up.
Which was exactly what I’d hoped for, because I so did not want to make the second phone call. Any excuse—even the excuse of having to confess the indiscretions of a stranger to a grouchy detective—to postpone making that call was fine with me.
CHAPTER 11
Vaughn must have exceeded the speed limit because he was knocking on my door in less than ten minutes. Or else he lived really close by—but that was a question I wasn’t about to ask.
I’d spread the contents of the folder out on the kitchen bar and had the coffee ready to pour. Vaughn slid onto a barstool and hunched over the papers, elbows planted on the countertop and chin cupped in his hands.
I left him in peace. I mean figuratively, not literally. I stood quietly on the kitchen side of the bar and tried really hard not to fidget while he systematically absorbed the printed information.
He lingered over the hand-scrawled note and my penciled transcription beside it.
He finally took a break to gulp his coffee. “Okay,” he said, “where and how?”
“This afternoon. I think I was followed from the police department parking lot, but the first time I really noticed was when I left Home Depot. It was a navy-blue Honda Accord. I never got a good look at the driver. When I arrived here, the Accord sped past, but I assume he or she doubled back and slipped the folder into my car while I wasn’t looking.”
“You left your car unlocked?”
I nodded. “And wide open. I had to make a lot of trips. Stuff—you know.”
“You painted.” Vaughn sniffed and glugged the rest of his coffee. “Looks good.”
I swung into action to refill his mug. “It’s dark outside and the paint’s gray. There’s not much to see at the moment. But I’ll trust your deduction skills, Sherlock, and accept the compliment on my sister’s behalf. What about the documents? Look familiar?”
“A couple of them. The rest are different. I’ll pass these along to Dr. Ramsay as well. Frankly, they look older—the dates…” He dove into a renewed examination and shuffling. He seemed to be arranging the pages chronologically. “But this”—Vaughn stabbed a forefinger on the informant’s note—“is especially interesting.”
“Agreed. A sort of Good Samaritan stalker, I guess. I think it sounds like a woman. Would a man tell me about my squishy tire like that?”
“If he got a good look at you—which he did if he followed you through multiple shopping sprees—then, yes, he most likely would.” Vaughn shrugged. “I know I would.”
“My purchases were all necessities. Absolutely. Every one of them,” I groused. Then I pointed an emphatic finger at his chest. “You’re assuming he’s a nice guy. Like you,” I added with a smirk.
But my humor was lost on Vaughn. “Pays attentions to details, I’ll give him that.” He shook his head and scooped the papers back into the folder. “This research—the frequency of the observations—required a lot of dedication.”
“So, um…” I bit my lip. It was a sensitive subject, but ethics demanded that I bring it up. “Frank’s alibi. I know about that too.”
For the first time that evening, Vaughn’s little tilted smile made an appearance. “I figured you would, sooner or later
. Girls talk, right?”
My mouth was open for some kind of snappy, gender-bias-crushing retort—I don’t know which one, exactly—but Vaughn stood as if he was suddenly in a hurry.
“Walk me out to my truck. Bring a flashlight.”
“Why? Are you scared of the dark?” I snickered, proving just how far into juvenile snarkiness I can sink.
“I’m going to change your tire,” he said sensibly. And kindly.
I immediately deflated. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Consider it repayment for dinner last night.”
Right. No favors.
Our footsteps reverberated along the floating walkway, making it bounce in little skooshy slaps against the water’s surface. Otherwise, the night was quiet. The porthole in the cabin of Cal’s sailboat was a black circle. I hoped he hadn’t gorged so much on the lasagna that he’d made himself ill.
I wished it was daylight, because I would have liked to watch Vaughn scrounging around in the gravel, wrestling with my tire, but I couldn’t catch very much of the rest of his body in my flashlight beam as I concentrated on aiming it at his hands. However, it was clear he’d done this sort of thing before.
Fortunately, the spare tire in the trunk was sufficiently inflated. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d checked on its condition—probably never. Vaughn finished the operation with an economy of words, climbed into his truck, and drove off with the mysterious scientific folder tucked safely on the seat beside him.
As I trudged back toward the gangplank, I spotted the solitary orange glow of the burning end of a cigarette create a quarter-circle arc as the smoker holding it lifted it to her lips.
“He’s sure paying you a lot of attention,” Roxy said softly once the arc had been reversed. She followed the comment with a concentrated, audible exhale.
I veered in her direction. She was a darker lump in front of the darkened office building. I presumed she was sitting on the bench just outside the office door.
I found the bench by banging my knee on it, and I plopped down beside her. “Purely of a professional nature,” I asserted. “But Chief Monk specifically requested that I pass along his best regards to you.”
“Did he now?” Although I couldn’t see her face clearly, it sounded as though Roxy was smiling. Another deep inhale and the ember at the end of her cigarette flared. “We’ve had our moments.”
“Not all of them sounded pleasant from his report. Body watching? Why didn’t you tell me it was a common occurrence here at the marina?”
Roxy’s clothing rustled, accompanying what was probably a shrug. Her weight shifted on the bench. “It’s not the sort of thing one puts in brochures advertising a bucolic life on the river. Besides, it depends on your definition of common. Certainly not so frequently as to be bromidic. Four, five—maybe six. But I’ve been here for going on thirty years. This one was Willow’s first, though.”
I made a mental note to look up bucolic and bromidic when I got back to the house. Yet another demonstration of the value of keeping a word-a-day calendar in one’s office. I should take up the habit.
“Is she doing okay?” I asked.
“Far as I can tell. Keeps herself busy. She writes those disturbing fantasy stories anyway—has since she was about ten years old. Maybe that’s how she copes with all the frustration and anxiety that’s bottled up inside her. Her life’s certainly not been easy, poor kid.” Another deep inhale. Roxy savored her cigarettes, extracting every last carcinogenic molecule out of them.
“Did you know I took your advice?” I ventured. “I spread my business cards around Portland City Hall and got a job out of it. Public relations for Frank Cox.” I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
While her tone was mild, she didn’t bother to hide the edge of disgust in her voice. “The great finagler.”
“Did you encounter him at the community meeting about the development on the other side of the wildlife refuge?”
Roxy flicked her lighter to life, illuminating her opposite hand and a new cigarette nestled above the still-burning stub between her fingers. Apparently, her opinion of Frank Cox necessitated even more nicotine than usual.
“I did,” she replied once her lungs were smoke-filled. “Smarmy devil. In cahoots with Ross Perkins—the city commissioner—if you ask me.”
I’d been hesitant to broach that extended subject, so I was glad she’d volunteered. “I was afraid of that,” I whispered. “It’s all been a little too good to be true. But the development isn’t inside Portland city limits. In fact, it’s not in any city, just in unincorporated Multnomah County.”
“Ah, but Cox owns plenty of buildings and land inside Portland too. He has holdings all over the metro area, out to Hillsboro and Beaverton, plus over on the eastern side of the state in Bend. The guy’s a magnate of Oregon real estate. He makes sure he gets what he wants by buddying up with politicians of all stripes and locales. I suppose you could say he grooms them in case he ever needs favors down the road.”
Roxy’s information made the phone call I’d been postponing that much easier. In fact, I was now desperate to place it, regardless of how badly I needed an income.
oOo
It was awfully late, but Lila and I had already held several conversations well outside conventional business hours. Most of which had also included, at Lila’s instigation, girl talk, as Vaughn had so derogatorily termed it. So without any pang to my sense of propriety, I punched in her number.
But I got her voice mail. I had no idea how long it would let me babble. I should have written my own talking points before dialing, but that would have required delaying for a few minutes, and I couldn’t wait to quit.
Lila deserved an explanation, though, concerning my ethical qualms about the man she was probably cozied up with at that very moment. So I just said, in general terms, that some things had come to my attention regarding Cox and Associates and that the information presented a conflict of interest for me. Besides, I added, she seemed entirely competent in the realm of public relations, and my services were redundant anyway. That way, I appealed to her across the spectrum—practically (i.e. economically), professionally, and personally. A successful argument. And all before the voice mail service cut me off.
Duty completed, I still knew I wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. So I launched into the only reasonable substitute—hanging curtains.
All the lights were blazing in the loft because I needed to see what I was doing. But it also meant that anyone in the marina who was curious and awake at that late hour could also observe the adventure I was embarking upon. I was operating under the assumption that living in the public eye would have to get worse before it could get better. But if I worked fast…
Up, down, shove the ladder over two feet, up, down, with eyebolts clamped between my lips and cable and pipe sections pinned under my arms. Sloane had brought over Riley’s electric drill with some handy attachments that made the repetitive task somewhat easier.
Willow’s vision of hanging fabric panels to separate functional spaces in the loft was brilliant. Open, close, look out the expansive windows, or not—I’d be able to shift the curtains around at will for whatever level of privacy and view I wanted, not to mention controlling the degree of sun glare streaming in if I was working at my desk.
The arrangements were finally completed to my satisfaction in the wee hours of the morning. I’d also discovered muscles in my arms that I’d neglected for far too long, and they screamed for relief. I tugged several curtain panels into a cozy cocoon around my bed, kicked my shoes off, and slid under the duvet, fully clothed and unwashed.
oOo
Which is an unpleasant way to awaken. My mouth was fuzzy and my eyelids felt glued together. But somewhere in the not-too-distant reaches a phone was chiming “You Are My Sunshine” most obnoxiously.
I found it on the rug beside my shoes. Apparently, it had become a lumpy nuisance in the night, and I’d removed it from my pocket and banished it to the floo
r as well. The caller ID said Lila Halton. I groaned and flopped back on the bed. I certainly wasn’t at the top of my form at the moment, nor was I prepared to deal with anger or resentment or recriminations.
I gritted my teeth. “Good morning.”
“Eva, I totally understand,” Lila said.
Which made me sit up and rub my eyes fully open. “Really?”
“Of course. I’ll cut your check today. Frank just likes to cover all his bases, but he agrees that maybe this PR blitz has been overkill, especially since Detective Malloy called and asked to meet with Frank in an hour. Who knows, maybe the case has been resolved.” There was a forced cheerfulness to her tone, as though she was trying to convince herself of the truth of her own words.
I had no desire to dash her hopes, even though I had a pretty good idea what Vaughn wanted to question Frank about. “Thanks, Lila. Look, if you ever have any other clients, I’d love to work with you again. It’s been a pleasure.” Not to mention easy. But always good to leave things on a positive note.
“Oh sure,” she gushed. “Frank’s taking all my time right now, but yes, of course. So um…” A faint rustling sounded as though she’d switched the phone to her other ear. “I heard—Eva, was one of your conflicts that you found the body?”
I dropped back among the pillows again and squinted at the ceiling. “Not really. At least not at the time. I considered Ian and Frank completely separate, uh, situations. Until—that is…”
Talk about a conflict—here it was staring me in the face, and waiting none-too-patiently on the phone. Think, think, think—quickly. Vaughn needed to be able to handle the questioning of Frank in his own way and with the degree of surprise he judged appropriate. I was certain that whatever I said to Lila would get passed on to Frank immediately.
But Lila, who had never been comfortable with gaps in conversation, rushed on and gave me a reprieve. “How was he?” She breathed raggedly into the phone.
I rolled over and snaked an arm out to wiggle a gap in the curtains. Another gorgeous day. But apparently it wasn’t lending any more clarity to Lila’s thinking process than it was to mine.
Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1) Page 11
