I patted her arm and murmured automatically, “Please don’t cry. It’s all right.”
She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt and hiccupped, “No, it’s not.”
I handed her a napkin from among the coffee things. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes again, talking while she covered her discomfort with pats of the napkin.
“It’s just terrible, is what it is. The company always seemed to be doing so well, and we’re not extravagant people. We never lived above our income. Chet was always frugal. It ran in the family, I suppose. And then so many things went wrong all at once and, somehow, the company just couldn’t stay afloat. All the bills and the creditors and the contractors with their lawyers and lawsuits, and then the tax men. It was a nightmare. It’s still a nightmare—it’s worse! If Chet had just died, then the company would have been sold all as a piece, but instead, this horrible bankruptcy was already tearing the company into shreds. And then this! Well, all I can say is thank God Chet had a will or we’d be in a dreadful mess…” She sniffled again and shook her head.
She mumbled past the napkin, “I’m afraid I’m making a spectacle, of myself. I’m just overwhelmed… At suppertime I keep expecting to hear them coming up the back stairs and into the kitchen, stealing a taste out of the pots, their clothes smelling like bilge water and diesel oil, laughing and teasing me for complaining about them. And do you know what’s worst?” she asked, turning toward me.
Her eyes seemed to look into someplace I’d been too recently. I was startled and stammered, “No, what?”
“I’m afraid they will! It’s not that I don’t believe they’re gone—I can never, for a moment, forget—it’s that the house can’t seem to forget them… like the shape of them is worn into it, the same way walking up and down wears away the front step.”
She leaned forward, glancing about as if she thought someone watched us, and whispered, “I’m almost glad I’ll be selling the house. What would I need it for, except to plague me with these awful ideas?”
She sat back. “There. Now you think I’m a crazy old woman.”
I remembered the shape of the cat upstairs, and shook my head. “No, I don’t. Is it safe to guess that Tommy and your husband were both born in this house?”
She nodded and sniffed.
“I’d probably leave, too, if I were you. It’s hard to live with ghosts.”
She sighed. Her shoulders loosened. “Thank you. I’m glad someone understands. I’m afraid to tell my friends and family. I’m afraid they’ll think I’m trying to make Chet and Tommy disappear. They all think it’s the bills that are making me sell, or the sheer size of the place.
“Let them believe what they want. It doesn’t hurt you,” I suggested.
Mrs. Ingstrom nodded, then straightened her skirt and sniffed one last time, seeming to shift a weight off her shoulders. “Well, now you’ve put up with me acting like a watering pot, let’s see what I can do for you.”
She picked up a manila file folder that had been lying on the table and handed it to me. “The bill of sale is in here and a copy of the original bill of lading for the lien that was attached to it. I thought you might want that, too. I don’t need it, since it’s so old and long gone that not even the tax men are interested in it.”
I flipped open the folder and scanned the papers within, then smiled at her. “Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Ingstrom. I’m sorry about what you’re going through and I appreciate your digging into your husband’s records for me at a time like this.”
“It was pleasant to be doing something that wasn’t for an estate lawyer or a bankruptcy lawyer or a tax accountant, for a change. I hope it helps you.”
“I’m sure it will,” I said, rising. “Thanks again and thanks for the coffee, also.”
She rose to escort me to the door. “It’s the least I could do. And it was so nice to see you again.” She saw me out, acting the part of hostess on autopilot.
Once back in the Rover, I sat in the driver’s seat and fiddled with the seat belt, tired. From the corner of my eye, the Grey flickered, giving the house a writhing patchiness—its own personal fogbank. The cat, who now sat on the porch, was solid as a stone and staring at me with malevolent yellow eyes. Mrs. Ingstrom waved to me. I waved back and drove away.
I just drove for a few blocks and let everything in my mind drift. I felt a bit out of sync with something I couldn’t place and still under the weather. Maybe I had the famous flu RC had gone on about. Frowning, I headed back to the office. It wasn’t a solution to the problem of Cameron Shadley, but all I could think of was to call this Philip Stakis and try to make some ground on that case while I could.
No further depredations had been attempted on my office and no shady characters lurked in the alley or my hallway. I flopped into my desk chair and tried the phone number I’d got from Mrs. Ingstrom. No answer, no voice mail. I would try again after six. I typed up my notes, poked around my computer a bit, then checked my messages.
“Hi, Harper, it’s Mara.” She sounded more Irish than usual and rather hesitant. “I’m after wanting to mend our row this morning. I’ve been more the head teacher than the friend, I’m afraid. Anyhow, the little one’s at Granna’s and Ben and I were hoping you’d come for dinner this evening. A nice, grown-ups’ evening with no dirty nappies. I do hope you can come.”
Interesting. I couldn’t say I was angry at Mara. It wasn’t her fault I’d freaked. OK, yes, she pushed, but… what could I expect?
I looked at the phone and thought a while. Stanford-Davis hadn’t called and none of my other messages included dinner invites. I wanted to talk to the Danzigers, anyway. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Mara?” I checked.
“Harper! I’m so glad you called. Did you get my message?”
“Umm… yeah, I did. Look. This morning… sucked, but it’s not your fault. And dinner would be nice.”
She let out her breath. “Good. Food will be ready about six or six thirty. Ben’s on for lecture until five and I thought—that is, I was hoping you might come just a touch early so you and I could get in a chat before Ben’s oratorical powers are fully recharged. Sound all right?”
“Fine,” I answered. “Should I bring a bottle of wine or something?”
“Ooo, that would be lovely!”
“Red, white… green?”
She whooped her wild laugh. “Green sounds brilliant! But I’d settle for white or a nice light red. OK?”
“OK. I’ll probably get there between four and five.”
“Grand! We’ll see you then. Bye.”
And so I found myself on the hook for a bottle of green wine. I was trying to imagine where I could find some when the phone rang.
“Harper Blaine.”
A deliberate, East Coast voice replied. “This is Ella with Stanford-Davis. You wanted to know about one of our lessees?”
“Yes. Are you Mr. Foster’s secretary?”
She sniffed. “I’m his assistant.” My back went up. “I want you to know that while commercial leases aren’t confidential, I’m not required to give you this information. I called Mr. Foster about this and he told me to go ahead.”
I disciplined my bristle. “Thank you, Ella. I appreciate it. Could you tell me who the lessee is?”
“Mr. Foster doesn’t like this sort of thing, you know. This is not part of our usual policy.”
“I understand,” I said and then clammed up.
The silence dragged a moment or five.
“It’s TPM,” Ella admitted.
“Is there a specific name on the lease?”
“No. It’s a corporate lease, signed by their legal representative.”
TPM is a private corporation with fingers in a lot of local pies. They also have political connections that go back a long time. I got no other details from her, so I thanked Ella and hung up. Then I sat and thought dark thoughts about famous wrestling matches with TPM from which th
eir opponents had staggered counting their remaining limbs and thankful for retaining their lives.
Time dwindled as I banged on the implications of TPM.
I jumped in surprise when someone knocked and entered my office. My pager wiggled and the light under my desk flickered. I jerked my head up and looked at the doorway. Quinton was standing there, grinning at me.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself. The alarm works—you just set it off.”
“Good thing, too. I just came to drop off my bill, like you suggested,” he said, brandishing a torn piece of computer fanfold. He thrust it toward me and I leaned forward to take it. “If it didn’t work, you wouldn’t be so interested in paying me.”
“Thanks,” I said, glancing at the page. “Quinton, this doesn’t look right.”
“What, billed too high for parts?”
“No. This seems sort of low, considering all the work you did.”
“You’re complaining? The parts were cheap.”
“You only billed fifty bucks for labor. I think you spent a little more than the two hours you’ve got here.”
“I spent about an hour here and some time on the program at home.”
“It only took you an hour to write the program?”
He shrugged. “It’s not as elegant as you think. Mostly I just cut and pasted from programs I’d already developed. Besides, now I’ve got another routine I can plug into someone else’s program down the line. It’s paid development time.”
I pulled out my calculator. “Let’s see here… parts plus actual time on-site, plus development time, plus consultation…”
“What consultation? Will work for food, you know. You bought dinner.”
“OK, but you still shorted yourself by sixty bucks.”
“Call it an introductory offer.”
I shook my head. “I don’t like to end up behind favors.”
“Investment in the Bank of Karma?” “Quinton…”
He flipped his hands up. “Hey, look, I like you. I don’t mind doing a little work for friends, cheap. I wouldn’t feel right about charging you more.” He hesitated. “Unless you want me to charge you a business rate.”
I felt like a fool. “Umm… is this the ‘just friends’ rate, then?”
He smiled and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Will you take a check?”
He looked a little uncomfortable. “I prefer cash.”
I looked at him sideways a moment and he stared right back.
I shrugged. “OK, but we’ll have to go down to my bank.”
He grinned and shrugged.
We went. The manager looked a bit askance at Quinton, but didn’t say anything. Flush with cash, Quinton headed off for the main library while I went back to the Rover and headed for home for a quick wash and brush-up.
I put on a skirt, blouse, and heels, for a change. I felt much better than I had in the morning, if a bit tired. I played with Chaos for a while and gave her a chance to shed on my clothes until I had to leave. I put her back into her cage with her food dish under her nose, and she hardly noticed.
I stopped at an upscale grocery in Queen Anne. The clerk restocking the wine department actually knew something about the subject and managed to find a wine that was, he assured me, pale green and not bad. I broke down and bought a backup bottle of Chardonnay as well.
Mara opened to my ring of the doorbell. Once again, her hands were floured and she still looked stunning.
Chapter Sixteen
Oh, you’re as good as your word, aren’t you?” she exclaimed, seeing the wine bag in my hand. “I hope you don’t mind the kitchen for a bit, I’m still rolling out crust and I hate to yell at my guests just to have a conversation. I felt I should be making a pie, since you missed the last one.” We adjourned to the kitchen, Mara in the lead. “Have a seat, open the wine and we can have a sip while I finish up the crust. Corkscrew’s in the drawer of the table, glasses right there on top.”
I hung my purse and jacket over the back of a chair and tackled the first wine bottle. With the wine poured and distributed, I leaned against the counter and watched her drape pastry dough into a deep pie plate and cut off the edge.
She started to sip her wine, then held it away, staring at it. “Oh, my! This is green wine. Wherever did you find green wine?” “Larry’s. It doesn’t seem too bad.”
She sipped, then glanced at me out of the corners of her slanted eyes. “It’s wicked green, though, isn’t it?” Then she let out that wild whoop of laughter, her eyes squeezing to merry slits.
I couldn’t help laughing with her. She was more relaxed and outrageous now that we were on a social footing, rather than a… what? Magical one? Student/teacher?
I noticed she was paying a great deal of attention to the pie preparation and biting her lower lip.
I was about to speak when she beat me to it. “Harper, this morning I was rather too pushy. You’re right to be wary and I didn’t think of it. You see, I’m used to this sort of thing and I forgot that I’m not like you.”
I shrugged and drank wine before answering. “No one’s like me, I guess.”
“Indeed. And there’s quite a lot of guesswork to being what you are. Theory and philosophy are all well and good, but reality can rather rear up and bite you on the bum. It’s not a field chock-full of scientific validation, you know—not astrophysics or chemistry, after all—and it attracts sharpers and loonies, if you know what I mean.”
“Spoon benders and people who write paperback science about ancient astronauts building the lost city of Atlantis,” I suggested.
“Exactly the sort of thing. And that brings me to a point I should make before Ben gets home. You see, he’s rather enamored of some theories authored by people who can’t be proved wrong any more than they can be proved right. It’s impossible to resolve any clash between the theories or practices, or even to sort out the possible from the ridiculous when the scientific world as a whole is skeptical. And Ben, ironically, is just as doubting-Thomas as the rest, at heart. Only someone like you can know for certain—not that science would listen to a word you said—but you’ll not know until after one of Ben’s pet theories has left you with the baby. Do you see my concern?”
I nodded. “So why don’t you just tell Ben that you know some of the theory and philosophy is bunk? You can prove it yourself, can’t you? As a witch, I mean. Hell, I would.”
She leaned back and narrowed her eyes at me over the rim of her glass. “Never been married, I see.”
“No. I’m not even very good at dating,” I admitted.
“Many of us aren’t. We see too much, and it’s difficult to dissemble all the time.”
For a moment, I could imagine the look that must have been on Will’s face when I called him from the police station. “Yeah,” I replied.
We both sipped wine and I decided to wade in with both feet. “Why do you glow?” I asked.
“Do I? It’s a glamour, I suppose. A habit. I was a spotty, gawky child, and though Ben is always at telling me I’m lovely, it’s hard to get over the idea that I’m not just as awful now as I was then. You know how that is, I’m sure.”
I nodded. “Oh, yes. I was fat.”
She gave me a sober look, then grinned. “Childhood’s a bugger, isn’t it?”
Mara and I were sitting at the kitchen table, giggling like longtime girlfriends at a sleepover by the time Ben got home. He stuck his head through the kitchen doorway and smiled at us.
“Hi! I see you two are getting on like the famous house on fire.”
“Oh, passing fair,” said Mara, rising to kiss him. “How were all the budding little linguists?”
“Lugubrious, possibly even mummified.”
She tousled his already unruly hair. “Well, go scrub the tomb dust from your hair and dinner will be ready in about fifty minutes, all right?”
“Sehr gut,” he said and smooched her before ducking out. We could hear him ascending the stairs.
Mara and
I drank more wine and chattered while she finished up the dinner preparations. As her husband descended toward the main floor, she turned to me with a look of concern.
“You’ll not say anything to Ben, will you? About my doubts.”
I frowned at her. “Of course not. Who am I to break up a marriage over a theory?”
She was still laughing when Ben entered the kitchen.
“What’s funny?” he asked, patting himself down. “Did I forget something? Hair sticking up, soap in my ears?”
“No, darlin’. Harper’s just very funny, you know. Go pour yourself a glass of this green wine our guest’s brought us and have a chat, while I set the table.”
Mara whisked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with her husband. He settled himself at the table and poured wine into a glass. “You two seem to be getting along.”
“Mara’s lovely.”
“That she is. First-class researcher, too. We met over research.” He made a goofy grin.
“What sort of research?”
“Mara was doing some geologic studies in a dig out in Ireland that I was also on, doing some ancient religions research. She had some religion questions and I had some questions about ley lines, and we ended up sitting in the pub all night, talking about everything under the sun.”
He chuckled. “Sometimes, I’m too much the scientist for Mara’s taste.” He made a rueful shrug. “I get enthusiastic and bury myself in all the squirrelly little details. Probably can’t see the forest for the trees half the time, but she keeps me looking up often enough that I don’t go completely into the woods. And speaking of being lost in the woods, how are you doing? Getting any more comfortable with the Grey?”
“Yes and no… there is something I need to ask you—”
Mara came back to the kitchen and we moved the conversation to the dining room.
Once we had food in front of us, Ben prompted me.
“What were you going to ask me?”
“Oh. Why does this seem to be getting worse? More frequent?”
“Well, I think it’s kind of like gum on your shoe. Every time you go into the Grey, a bit sort of sticks to you and it keeps on building up.”
Greywalker Page 14
