by Lora Roberts
Bereft, rootless, I turned away when I heard the car idling in front of the house, locking up the artifact of my past, going to meet the arbiter of my future.
Chapter 28
I didn’t realize Drake was going to swim, too. I had expected him to wait in the car until I was done, since this kind of embarrassing baby-sitting couldn’t be much more to his taste than it was to mine. I would have been flattered by the minuteness of his attention if I hadn’t figured that nine-tenths of it was because he didn’t want his chief suspect whisked out of reach by accidental drowning.
The other tenth of his interest might possibly be personal.
He was waiting for me outside the women’s dressing room when I came out. He stood in the bright, cold October breeze, his legs braced slightly apart, arms crossed over his chest. As I had surmised, his build was burly; he wore baggy, Jams-style trunks instead of the sleek, nut-hugging racing suits the real swim jocks wore. What really made him looked naked was that his glasses were gone. He squinted at me, doing as thorough a catalog as I was. At least he would see me through the soft blur of poor vision. I am not one of those petite women who hang out around Nordstrom, bemoaning the dearth of size twos. My body has been lived in long past any damage a security deposit might cover. And it was never fashionable—though I might have given Rubens or Renoir a little heartache. Hourglass figures don’t work in the digital age.
Drake seemed accustomed to the unwritten etiquette of the pool involving lane speed and entry. I like to swim slowly but steadily, so I usually choose a lane near the deep end where the older swimmers go. Drake headed for the middle lanes, faster territory. He pulled on goggles, too; I don’t bother with them. If you use goggles and swim caps and floats and special shampoo, swimming ceases to be a cheap form of exercise.
I plowed back and forth through the water, unable to capture the usual mindless content with which I swim. There was too much churning around in my head, too many images, too much sorrow and pain. Swimming should be like meditation—just you, your breath, the rhythmic motion of your arms and legs, the punctuation marks of turns. At least that’s how it seemed to me when I discovered lap swimming in college. I’ve done it ever since, wherever I can find a pool.
After five laps of crawl stroke I switched to breaststroke. With my head out of the water, I could scan the other lanes. Drake had worked his way over to the lane next to mine—I saw his red swim cap. He was doing sidestroke, watching me. It didn’t help my concentration any. I switched to sidestroke, too, turning my back to him.
By lap ten I like to do some backstroke. But an elderly man had gotten into the lane with me, and his scissors kick was a real lane hog. I went back to crawl, burying my face in the water, seeking at least the relaxation that comes with exercise, if I couldn’t find the serenity.
I finished a very slow fifteen laps and climbed out of the pool. Drake hauled himself out, too. He’d swum the whole time, and didn’t seem winded. I had put him down as soft and sweet-tooth impaired. But his stocky build was all well toned. The only softness came from lots of frizzy, graying chest hair.
“You must work out a lot,” I said on the way back to the dressing room. “Swimming can be tiring if you’re not used to it.”
“I swim,” he said curtly. I had never noticed him at the pool, but he probably came early before work. We stopped outside the women’s locker room. “I’m trusting you, Liz. Don’t leave by the other door.”
“I won’t.” I wanted to say more, to express outrage that he doubted me, to demand that things come to a head so I could know where I stood. But that was obvious—I stood, dripping wet, shivering in the cold breeze, watching goose bumps break out on the parts of Drake’s arms that weren’t hairy. For once I could see into his eyes with no barriers. And for some reason, I didn’t want to look. I turned away, into the echoing dampness of the locker room.
The hard blast of the locker room shower didn’t feel nearly so good when it wasn’t the only shower in my world. I rinsed off perfunctorily, dried quickly, and pulled a comb through my hair. I keep it short by cutting it myself when it begins to get in my way. This time, on my way out of the locker room, I stopped in front of the mirror. Through the steam that obscured it, I saw my image—short, pale, no makeup, hair ragged. For the past few years I had cultivated looking like nobody, not willing to arouse interest in anyone, especially a man. When I caught myself wondering if I’d overdone it, I marched quickly out, back to my baby-sitter.
Drake was talking to Ted Ramsey, who had just arrived at the pool, judging from his dry condition and the athletic bag he carried. He bent his head attentively to catch Drake’s voice and nodded slowly. Ted didn’t see me, since Drake moved around a little as I approached so that the developer’s back was to me. Drake scowled a little right at me, and I slowed. I could hear Ted answering Drake’s question.
” … certainly is a desirable area,” Ted was saying. “It’s no secret that I’m interested in a project there. I’ve got options on a couple of other properties nearby, and I think the neighborhood would support sensitively designed higher-density housing there after the ecological benefits are pointed out.”
With some effort I figured out he was talking about Vivien’s house. I moved a little closer to hear better. Ted must have had good peripheral vision. He saw me and turned, holding out his hand.
“Liz, how nice to see you. I know you’re very distressed about poor Vivien. Her passing is so sad.” He glanced from me to Drake. “Is there some—irregularity? Is that why you’re asking questions, Paul?”
Drake shrugged. “We have to check out unexpected deaths, Ted. Just thought you might know about the plans for that area. Ms. Sullivan here mentioned that you were trying to work a deal with Mrs. Greely, and that one of her neighbors—Mrs. Houseman—was really pressuring her about it.”
“A lot of people know that.” Ted regarded me for a moment. “Paul, if you’re thinking there might have been foul play, I know that Liz wouldn’t have had any part in it. She’s just been very devoted to those ladies—Vivien and Eunice, and all of them in her class. Why, even Carlotta admits that—” He stopped short, and I filled in the blanks for myself. Even Carlotta, who hated street people, admitted that good old Liz Sullivan wasn’t so bad. Big of her. Ted went on smoothly, “Liz may have an unconventional lifestyle, but she’s a fine person.”
“Thanks.” I raised my eyebrows at Drake, wondering if he’d noticed the very subtle way Ted had linked Vivien’s death with Eunice’s, and me with both of them. A nice guy, but not one to find himself on a possible limb with me and not try to saw it off.
Drake got the message. His glasses were back in place, but I was starting to read the slightest change in that impassive face, and I thought the tightening of the muscles around his mouth indicated an incipient smile. Knowing that much about a man I’d just met bothered me a lot. He held a tremendous power over my freedom. Perhaps, like a kidnap victim or hostage, I would seek to placate my captor by getting a crush on him. Drake probably didn’t find such uncomfortable vibes in our relationship of investigator and suspect.
Soon it would all be resolved, one way or another, and I would no longer need to attach great significance to whether a cop was smiling or frowning.
In the meantime, this cop was in charge of the action, however I might resist that thought. I fully expected him to whip out the handcuffs at some point and haul me away. So it was quite a surprise when he nodded affably and said, “Nice running into you, Liz. Tell Bridget hello for me if you see her.”
This unexpected development stymied me for a moment. Drake turned back to his conversation with Ted, and I meandered toward the pool gates. It seemed that Drake didn’t want me to be known as chief suspect. Perhaps right now he was assuring Ted Ramsey that the police were inclined to believe Vivien’s death was from natural causes.
Delores Mitchell came breezing through the gates before I got to them. She carried a chic leather-banded gym bag which contained, no doubt, an
assortment of lotions, shampoos, and cosmetics to protect her from the chlorine, as well as a fine swimsuit and all the other accessories possible. The rank envy I felt for her perfect appearance, her possession of everything that made life easy and comfortable, was an unpleasant emotion; to counter it, I was a little nicer to her than I wanted to be.
“Well, long time no see,” Delores said, smiling cordially. “How’s the water today? Too much chlorine?”
“No.” Her scent, something expensive and complex, drifted to me on the breeze. I even envied that. “Even us no-goggles types can be comfortable today.” I smiled, too, trying not to be surly.
“You always look so free with your hair loose in the water” She sighed. “My hair can’t take it; if I don’t wear a cap I can’t do anything with it.” Her gaze went past me, and her eyes widened. “Why, Officer Drake, you swim, too? A person meets everyone at the pool.”
I stepped aside, and Drake joined us. “I’ll say. You didn’t mention you were going to swim this afternoon, Miss Mitchell, or I would have offered you a ride.”
This unblushing lie caused me not a blink. I was getting good at knowing my role. In fact, I seized on the opportunity to play it. “Hi, Paul,” I said eagerly.
“Liz.” He nodded casually at me, and I allowed myself to be deflated. “Yes,” he went on, aiming the chat at Delores, “I just saw Ted Ramsey getting ready to swim. Real nice guy, even if he is in real estate. You probably know him, too, Miss Mitchell?” He looked at her admiringly.
“Call me Delores.” She batted her eyelashes at him, unable to resist a tiny, triumphant glance in my direction, “Yes, we’ve met a few times—business, you know. But how can you swim, Paul? I got the impression you were knee-deep in figuring out whether poor Vivien’s death was natural or not.”
“I was.” Drake grimaced. “Had to get away for a little while, get some perspective. Well, see you ladies later.” He headed out the gates.
“How did you meet him?” Delores gazed after Drake, her face speculative.
“He knows Bridget Montrose.” I was telling the truth, although not the whole truth. “How did you meet him?”
“Cute guy,” she decided. “A little shaggy, though. He dropped by the office and talked to me earlier. About Vivien’s reverse mortgage, and her state of mind—you know. You’ve probably talked to him, too—in his official capacity.” Again her look was speculative, though directed at me.
“I’ve given the police some information,” I said vaguely.
“Well, I have to get my swim.” She looked past me, and I looked around, too. Ted Ramsey was striding toward the pool from the men’s dressing room, his body long and lean in a skimpy racing suit, his towel slung rakishly across his chest. He was heading for the fast lanes, of course. I’d bet anything that Delores found herself there, too, after she was suited up. Her gaze, lingering on Ted’s torso, had a lip-smacking quality to it. I couldn’t blame her.
“I’ve got some work to do,” I said, trying to sound brisk instead of forlorn. “See you, Delores.”
She nodded absently and headed for the changing room. I went out the gates and back through the Magic Forest, to join Drake.
Chapter 29
He was sitting in his car, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. One of those fancy minivans hovered in the street behind him, ready to take his spot; things are busy there by the Magic Forest. Another car started up, and the harassed-looking woman driving the minivan looked undecided. Drake solved her dilemma by barely waiting for me to get in the car before he pulled away from the curb. “So what took you so long? Were you comparing hairstyles or something?”
“I have no hairstyle,” I said, in the grip of a deep inferiority complex. It’s not that I want to be like Delores Mitchell, but somehow her perfection always calls my own femininity into question. Especially since I’ve been repressing it for years. “You didn’t tell me you’d interviewed her already. What were the terms of the reverse mortgage?”
“The savings and loan has a lien on her house,” he said, after a moment of silence. “They did advance her money, but it was very recently. Chances are she didn’t have time to use it. In these cases, the house is usually sold to pay off the savings and loan. Anything left is distributed according to the homeowner’s will.” He frowned, and spoke partly to himself. “Mitchell didn’t know who benefited under the will, but she did say she’d been very close to Vivien—gave her a lot of help with her finances, which were evidently very tangled.”
“She has a group of people at the Senior Center who sing her praises night and day.” I tried to keep my voice from showing what I thought about this. “So Vivien was having money trouble? She didn’t say anything about it to me, but of course I couldn’t have done anything to help. She was very careful about groceries, I know.” I looked out the windshield. “This isn’t the way to Claudia’s house.”
“I’ve got to swing by my place and pick up some papers that I hope I left there.” Drake glanced quickly at me. “It won’t take more than a minute. Will Claudia worry?”
“I can’t imagine her doing so. I left her a note, in any case.”
Drake’s trailer park was off El Camino in south Palo Alto—one of the few trailer parks allowed in the city, and only because it had been there forever. I had cruised through it a couple of times, wondering if I could swing the rental on a space, find a way to buy a trailer—but it was as far out of my reach as a mansion in Atherton.
The trailers were old, for the most part, some with flower boxes edging their parking spaces. The one Drake pulled up in front of had a straggling pot of marigolds next to the door. His trailer looked like about a thirty-footer, ten wide. He didn’t invite me inside. I waited in the car, mentally pinching back the marigolds and installing a new screen door in place of the badly sagging aluminum one. Looking at it reminded me that I needed to lube the door on my bus and fix up a few things. Old buses need constant maintenance or they start to decompose. I couldn’t afford to let that happen. In the best of cases, if I managed to scrape through this whole thing, I might come out with a little money, thanks to Vivien, bless her kind heart. But that same money could spell my doom, since it was the only motive around if Vivien’s death were foul play. I would be lucky to be able to take to the road again in my bus. Fixing the door was like crossing my fingers, a hopeful sign that all would be well.
The trailer park was quiet, with the distant sound of dryers tumbling clothes from the cinderblock utility area. Another car drove slowly past, and I wrote the driver off as someone like me, checking out the feasibility of finding a cheap place to live in Palo Alto. It was a rental car, shiny and out of place in the well-worn ambience of the trailer park. Going past Drake’s trailer, the car slowed even more, and I wondered if it was someone who knew Drake and wanted to see what woman occupied his front seat. I shrank down, turning my head away. The car speeded up, bouncing through the potholes on its way out.
Drake’s Saab grew stuffy. I wanted to get back to Claudia’s. She might wake up and worry about me despite my note. This was a new concern for me—that someone might be benevolently interested in my movements. I got out, crunching over the gravel to the trailer door. Inside there was a sound of drawers banging and muffled cursing. I stopped just inside the door, looking around.
The place was in a hurricane state, as if the cops who’d searched my bus had a regular gig here. Aside from the clutter, it was like no other trailer I’d ever seen, and I’d lived in a few. The kitchen was clean, but instead of the standard plywood cabinets, it had been lined with shelves displaying an incredible assortment of cookware—woks, copper pans and molds, baking pans ranging from rectangular bread pans to an angel food cake pan, mixing bowls large and small, and a pegboard crowded with arcane utensils. Instead of the standard Formica-topped dinette table and matching chairs, there was a butcher block table whose scarred maple bore testimony to its usefulness, and an assortment of ancient wooden chairs. A few snapshots were displaye
d on the refrigerator—a couple of children grinning toothless grins, a willowy woman holding up a cake decorated to resemble the Los Angeles Times and bearing the inscription “Good Luck Signe,” and one of Bridget standing beside her Suburban, hugely pregnant and not looking too pleased to be photographed that way.
Drake came storming out of the back of the trailer and caught me looking at the last photo. “Some pinup, huh?” He scowled, whether at me or the photo I didn’t know. “Did you get tired of waiting?”
“Yup.” I looked at the living room space, maybe ten feet square and crowded with bookshelves and a couple of beanbag chairs. A TV cart under the window held a small TV and VCR, nearly obscured by overflowing stacks of videotapes. “Do much entertaining?”
“Sure. Parties every night.” He began to hunt through the mound of papers on the bookshelf nearest the door. I thought that his trailer was as solitary and self-contained as my bus, though he had the advantage in space. Presumably there was even a bedroom and a bathroom beyond the living room. I was especially interested in the bathroom, but somehow couldn’t find words to indicate that.
“What are you looking for?” I said instead.
“File folder.” He still pawed at a miscellaneous heap of unopened mail and magazines. “Brought it home two days ago to look over, and haven’t seen it since.” He did glance up then, briefly. “Listing of all the deaths in the area, suspicious or not.”
