“But why does he have to sell the house to do that?” Gabriella demanded.
“I don’t know.” The kettle was whistling. Cady picked it up and started to pour boiling water. She had put enough loose tea into the pot to serve two. “But we’re a couple of smart females. I’ll bet between the two of us we can figure it out.”
Mack looked at the man in the mirror above the gleaming white sink and wondered how he was going to explain things to Gabriella. The truth was, he couldn’t even explain them to himself. But some part of him had known that this day would come. He just hadn’t known when it would arrive.
Life never stood still, no matter how hard you tried to hold onto it. He could only hope that someday Gabriella would understand that.
Meanwhile, things were going to be unpleasant. In the past he had had little trouble keeping his relationships discreetly in the background largely because he’d experienced no compelling need to place them at the center of his life. But Cady was different. He doubted if anyone could ever keep Cady tucked out of sight for long.
He leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face.
“He won’t marry you, you know.” Gabriella stood at the window, gazing fixedly out into the mist. “He never marries any of his women.”
Cady carried the two cups of tea to the table and put them down. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t consider myself to be one of your father’s women.”
Gabriella raised one shoulder in a jerky little shrug. “You think you’re special?”
“Uh-huh.”
Gabriella spun around. “Why?”
Cady went back to the counter to get the English muffins. “Probably because I don’t suffer from low self-esteem. Are you sure you won’t have some tea? I made enough for both of us.”
Gabriella glared at the cup, hesitated and then took two steps to the table. She picked up the tea and went back to her vigil at the window.
“If it’s any comfort to you,” Cady said, “your father and I have never discussed marriage.”
Gabriella flashed her a searching glance and then, apparently somewhat mollified, she went back to the view.
“Let’s talk about the house.” Cady picked up her own cup. “You go first. What’s your theory of why he’s going to put it on the market?”
Gabriella gripped the cup very tightly. “I don’t know. I just know it has something to do with you.”
“I don’t think so.” Cady watched Gabriella’s stiff shoulders. “I think it has something to do with you.”
“Me? But I don’t want him to sell it.”
“What’s the house like, Gabriella?”
“What’s it like?”
“How many bedrooms? Is the kitchen big or small? Is there a garden?”
Gabriella hesitated. “Four bedrooms. Two baths.” Her voice softened. “There’s a big, old-fashioned kitchen. Dad and I used to cook dinner together after Mom died. The garden is huge. Lots of shrubs and flowers and a lawn. I had my high school graduation party there.”
“Sounds like a nice place.”
“It is. It’s our home.”
“It also sounds like it might be a little empty without you.”
Gabriella flinched. Her head came up very fast. “I go home during breaks.”
“But the rest of the time your father is there alone?”
Gabriella’s very feminine jaw set in a stubborn line that was vaguely reminiscent of Mack. “Dad likes it that way.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“He travels more now.” Gabriella’s voice took on a defensive note. “So he’s not home alone all the time, if that’s what you’re trying to say. And he dates sometimes. Lots of women. No one person in particular.”
“You’ll be going back less and less often now, though, won’t you? Eventually you’ll graduate. Get a job. Craft a life for yourself. You’ll probably get married. Start a home of your own. You’ll never really live in that nice big house again, will you? That’s not how life works.”
“You don’t understand.”
Cady took a slow sip of tea and lowered the cup. “I live alone.”
“So?”
“For the most part it’s okay. I’m used to it. I’ve always been alone in my condo, you see.” She paused a beat. “There’s plenty of room.”
“Plenty of room?”
“There aren’t any memories around to crowd me. I don’t run into an image of a little girl hiding behind the couch every time I walk into the living room. I don’t have to share the kitchen with a memory of someone who used to help me cook dinner and clean up afterward. I don’t have a garden so I don’t go into it and think about how lovely my daughter looked the day she celebrated her graduation from high school there.”
Gabriella’s teacup froze in midair. She turned, a stricken expression on her face. “Ghosts and memories? You think that’s what it’s like for Dad?”
Cady looked at her. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Some time later Mack got behind the wheel of his car. Gabriella slid into the seat beside him.
“You don’t have to drive me all the way back to Santa Cruz,” she said. “I can take the bus.”
“It’s no problem.” Mack reversed out of the villa’s driveway. “I’ve got some business with a client who lives in the mountains. We’ll stop by his place on the way.”
Cady stood at the edge of the drive and waved. He rolled down the window.
“I’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “Drive carefully.”
Jeez. Did they sound like a couple that had been married for years and years, or what?
He smiled to himself in spite of the tension vibrating from his daughter and pulled out onto the narrow road.
Gabriella was very intent beside him. She had been unnaturally quiet all through breakfast. He had come downstairs expecting a storm of tears and accusations. Instead he had met only a strained silence. Taking the hint from Cady’s expression, he had not launched into a lecture.
“She’s different, isn’t she?” Gabriella said. “She’s not like the others.”
“No,” Mack said. “She’s not like the others.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
Something inside him tightened. “We haven’t even come close to the subject of marriage.”
“That’s what she said.”
“It’s the truth.”
Gabriella bit her lip. “She also said that I should ask you something.”
“What?”
Gabriella took a deep breath and seemed to brace herself. “Are you selling the house because it’s full of ghosts and memories?”
He said nothing for a while, thinking it through.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say there were ghosts. Plenty of memories, of course. Good ones. But they’re not tied to the house. I’ll take them with me when I leave.”
She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her sweater jacket and gazed straight ahead through the windshield. “I don’t understand. If you don’t mind the memories, why do you need to leave?”
“I’m not sure how to explain it. But I’m beginning to think that maybe old memories are like works of art hanging on a museum wall. Sometimes you have to move them around; maybe display them in a different way in fresh surroundings.”
“Why?”
“So that you can make room for new ones.”
Gabriella looked at him. “Does that mean that you forget the old memories?”
“Never,” Mack said. “You don’t forget a great work of art.”
Gabriella waited while Mack opened the gate and got back into the car. She studied the narrow, rutted path that led up to the A-frame cabin with open curiosity.
“Who lives here?” she asked.
“Guy named Ambrose Vandyke. Collects old armor.”
She turned her head. “He’s the one who had Dewey’s and Notch’s helmet, isn’t he?”
He negotiated the drive with great caution. When he finally halted the car, he saw Ambrose waiting for them in the doorway. Vandyke had his long hair tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt decorated with a cartoon picture of a geek on a surfboard with a computer in one hand.
“Hey, Mack.” Ambrose bounded down the steps to pump Mack’s hand. “Glad you called. Good to see you again.”
“Same here.” Mack watched Ambrose’s face as Gabriella came around the front of the car. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Gabriella. She’s in school at Santa Cruz.”
“No kidding.” Ambrose’s face lit up. “I get into town a lot. On my way to the beach, y’know?”
“Yeah?” Gabriella smiled for the first time that day.
“Actually, I’ve been thinkin’ about taking some classes at the university. I’ve been retired for a while now and it’s like you can only do so much surfing, y’know?”
“I can see where that would get a little monotonous.”
“Yeah, well, hey, come on inside.” Ambrose awkwardly herded them through the doorway. “I’ve got some tea made.”
Gabriella went through the opening ahead of Mack. She came to a halt when she caught sight of the heap of old metal stacked in the corner.
“Cool armor,” she breathed with reverent appreciation.
Ambrose blushed furiously and actually stammered. “Thanks.”
Gabriella turned her glorious smile on him. “I really love old armor.”
Ambrose gave her a deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare. “Me, too.”
This was getting downright painful, Mack thought. Time to change the subject. “So, Ambrose, what do you think about the offer I made on the phone?”
Ambrose wrenched his gaze away from Gabriella with an obvious effort. Keen interest sparked in his intelligent face. “Hey, man, I told you that night you saved my life that I owed you. I meant it. Besides, this consulting gig sounds interesting. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do except hit the beach. The only excitement I’ve had lately was on the night those two dudes tried to steal my armor.”
“You’re interested, then?”
“Are you kidding? When do I start?”
“Today,” Mack said.
Mack had been right about one thing. Stakeouts sucked.
It wasn’t just the boredom factor, Cady thought as she started another sketch of the street scene in front of Jonathan Arden’s apartment. It was the ever-present worry that someone would come along and demand to know if she was a real artist.
Thus far, two kids had stopped to ask her if she would draw a picture of them, and a senior citizen had inquired about a sketch of her poodle. She had politely declined both commissions, explaining that she was taking a class and the street scene was an assignment.
Two and a half hours of drawing and redrawing the same doorways, rooflines and sidewalks had not improved the overall quality of the picture. In desperation, she had begun working toward a more abstract view but when she examined it objectively, she was forced to admit that it was just a jumble of angles and distorted images.
But then, she had never claimed to be an artist until now. First day on the job, what could you expect?
Across the street the garage door of Arden’s small apartment building ground into action. A tiny Ford waited eagerly behind the slowly rising grille. As soon as there was sufficient space, it shot out onto the street. The driver drove away quickly, not waiting to make certain that the gate closed behind him.
The gate did close. Eventually. Leisurely. Allowing plenty of time for someone to walk underneath it into the garage without being seen.
Cady understood how Mack had been able to get into the building without having to resort to breaking-and-entering techniques. She was wondering if it would pay to try the tactic herself. The problem was that getting into the garage would not get her into Arden’s apartment. She would not accomplish anything more than Mack had already. Unless she wanted to go through the tenants’ garbage again, which seemed pointless.
The longer she sat here on the sidewalk, the more she questioned the impulse to take the ferry into the city after Mack and Gabriella had left. She had not set out with that goal in mind. She had left the house with the aim of taking a walk to assuage some of the restlessness that had hit her when she found herself alone. Her mind had been filled with useless clutter, most of it composed of unanswerable questions. Memories of the night spent in Mack’s arms had warred with concerns about his relationship with his daughter and her own uncertainties about the future. Mentally, she had found herself going round and round in smaller and smaller circles until she could feel the early warning signals of anxiety.
It was only after she found herself near the Carnival Night stage that she had looked out across the bay and known how she would spend the day. The only solid information they had in this investigation was the fact that Jonathan Arden was a con man with a lot to protect. Keeping an eye on his apartment made wonderful sense. No telling what she might see.
In hindsight she could only say that it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
She put down the pad and pencil and picked up the last quarter of the tuna-fish sandwich she had purchased earlier at the little take-out place at the foot of the street. She was very thirsty and the salty tuna was not helping the problem, but she hesitated to consume any liquids. One of the big drawbacks to stakeouts, she had discovered, was that there wasn’t always a public rest room located conveniently nearby. She had already hiked all the way down to the bottom of the street once today to use the facility in a neighborhood restaurant. The waiter had been gracious but she did not want to draw attention by going back a second time.
The delivery truck pulled up to the curb in front of Arden’s apartment house just as she finished the last bite of the sandwich. She watched without much interest as the driver climbed out, collected a small stack of boxes from the back of the van and went up the steps. He leaned on a buzzer. Someone inside the building responded. The door opened and the driver entered.
From her vantage point she watched him make his way to two different doors. The first one was opened by an older woman with curlers in her hair. She seemed eager to chat with the delivery driver. When he finally managed to extricate himself, he went down the open corridor to the far end.
He stopped in front of Jonathan Arden’s apartment. There was no response when he pressed the bell. She could have told him that Arden wasn’t home, she thought.
After a moment the delivery man checked something on the front of the box. Apparently satisfied that it did not require a signature, he left it on the doorstep.
A package for Jonathan Arden.
Curiosity stirred. She watched the driver leave the building, climb back into the van and pull away from the curb. It was in the hands of fate now, she thought. If Arden returned before anyone else entered the garage, she would never have an opportunity to see what had been left at his door.
But if someone else drove in or out of the garage before he came home, she might be able to get inside long enough to get a glance at the package.
She ambled slowly along the sidewalk, trying to look as if she was searching for a better view for her sketching.
The garage door rumbled just as she walked past. She caught her breath and kept moving. Behind her a vehicle exited the garage, hesitated briefly and then drove away down the street.
The garage door rumbled again. When she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw that there was still enough room to duck under the edge of the descending grille.
If she hurried.
She took a deep breath and sprinted. She managed to slip beneath the edge of the door and came to a halt on the inside of the garage.
No one yelled at her. No dogs barked. No sirens wailed.
She stood in the shadows for a moment, gathering her nerve. Then she made for the stairs. Just one quick glance, she thought as she went up the concrete steps. That was all she would risk.
She opened the door on the second level, trying to look as if she belonged. There was no one around. The walk to Arden’s door at the end of the passageway looked about ten miles long. It felt like a ten-mile hike, too. At every step she was braced for a door to open and the questions that might ensue. By the time she reached her goal, she was tense and a little breathless.
This is no time to have a panic attack, she thought. Save it for later.
After what felt like an eternity, she reached the door, stopped and looked down at the label on the box. The return address was that of a costume shop in the lively artsoriented section of the city known as SoMa, the South of Market Street area.
A costume shop?
Curiosity swamped common sense. She leaned down, grabbed the box and hurried back to the relative seclusion of the garage stairwell. She ducked inside and went halfway up the next flight of stairs. She would be able to hear footsteps approaching from either direction.
With great care she loosened the tape on the box and raised the lid. Inside she glimpsed the voluminous folds of a black cloaklike garment. A silver mask designed to cover the entire face rested on top of the cloak.
It was possible that Jonathan Arden planned to attend a costume ball, but what were the odds? Costume balls weren’t that common, not even here in San Francisco where the entertainment could border on the outrageous.
But she could think of one very particular venue that would warrant a costume. Carnival Night in Phantom Point.
Twenty-one
“Where the hell have you been?”
The low throb of controlled anger in Mack’s voice stopped her cold in the hall. One hand on the doorknob, she watched him walk deliberately toward her.
She said the only thing that came to mind. “You got home earlier than I expected.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He halted a short distance away, as if he was afraid to touch her. “Did you go into the city to see Arden?”
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