I propelled my body forward despite every instinct to flee. Where joyful anticipation at seeing Eddie usually resided I felt only pain. The hurt felt suffocating, as if I were breathing sand. For once I did not smell the luscious aroma of Ming’s cooking nor hear the crash of dishes from the kitchen. It was just me and that pain, suffocating, annihilating. Somehow I arrived at the table and Eddie looked up. His face broke into a smile at seeing me, and he stood up like he always did, seeing nothing sexist in being a gentleman.
“Sam!” He sounded truly happy to see me. Best of all, he motioned me into his side of the booth. He even put his warm hand on my shoulder to guide me in. The only thing missing in his greeting was some recognition that I had dolled myself up. I guess with Gabby in the vicinity, no one would notice my lame attempts at beauty.
I forced myself to look across the table at Gabby, who didn’t seem any more thrilled to be looking at me. We stared at each other for a moment, fully understanding the situation. If we could have seen into each other’s minds, I think we would have seen the same thing: an image of Eddie, larger than life, good-looking and sweet-tempered, his body sculpted and strong, sexy. Also, if I looked into Gabby’s mind, I would see me sitting there with my face bruised and swollen. If Eddie had told her about my accident, I wasn’t aware of it, but she certainly didn’t seem surprised. On the contrary, when her eyes travelled across my face she actually smiled. Either this was exactly what she expected of me, or she was happy that I looked more like crap than usual. Or both.
“So, how’s the case going?” I heard Eddie say.
Ming picked that moment to stomp up to our table and shove three menus at us. While we turned the menus right-side-up, she slammed three sets of silverware down on the table. “What you want?” she barked, not giving us a second to read the menus, knowing that Eddie and I always order the buffet. Before anyone could respond, she said, her face pinched, “Gabriella Castillo, you back in town.”
Gabby gawked at Ming, and I found my spirits lifting. Ming harbors the fantasy that Eddie will ask her daughter Pam to marry him, not because the two of them like each other or even know one another that well but simply because Pam is single and her mother thinks Eddie is a good catch. I am usually the object of scorn when we come into the restaurant, but apparently Ming felt even more animosity toward Gabby. With this thought my spirits deflated. Ming had transferred her dislike to the woman at the table she thought was the biggest threat. And that wasn’t me. And why would it be? Gabby was definitely more beautiful, and Gabby and Eddie had once been a couple. Eddie and I were just friends. The knot of pain in my esophagus enlarged.
Since Gabby couldn’t get any words out in the face of Ming’s bluntness, Eddie jumped in. “Gabby is back from New York. I think we all just want the buffet. And three iced teas.”
As usual, I kicked him under the table. This is a game we play: Eddie orders for me, which I hate, and I give him a good kick in the shins. It wasn’t fun today, though, just automatic. Gabby didn’t react at all, seemingly unconscious that Eddie put on this show of male gallantry to get a rise out of us. Perhaps she actually liked and expected men to order for her.
Ming snatched the menus from our hands, glared at Gabby, then turned on her heels and huffed away. I liked Ming a lot at that moment.
“So what have you found out about Raul?” Gabby echoed Eddie’s question, only her voice was not expectant like his but impatient and dismissive, as if she fully expected me to have failed miserably.
This did not make me want to talk to her. I had spent two days talking to people on her behalf when I should have been working on my book. She had a lot of nerve sitting there demanding an accounting. I looked over at Eddie, who smiled encouragingly.
Just to be perverse, I said, “Let’s hit the buffet first.” I wasn’t remotely hungry, what with the ball of depression lodged in my throat and all, but I felt more cheerful for making Gabby wait. My plan succeeded, and her expression turned sour. She glowered at Eddie, probably seeking reinforcement, but he was already wriggling out of the booth behind me, obviously famished. She sighed loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of Ming’s kitchen. My appetite returned.
Like one does at buffets, I loaded my plate with a little of everything, the final selections having to be spooned over the top of everything else for lack of room. My plate looked like a small mountain range upended by tectonic collisions. Eddie piled his plate even higher, the tallest peak at risk of avalanche. Gabby selected two broccoli spears and a grain of brown rice. When we got back to the booth we saw that our iced teas had been slammed down precariously at the edge of the table.
“So,” Gabby said, not touching her food. “About Raul?”
I forked a mass of almond chicken into my mouth and chewed slowly, smiling apologetically and pointing at my cheek. I wondered how many chews I could perform before saliva and mastication would dissolve every last particle. I counted to twenty-five and watched Gabby’s face go through strange contortions. Eddie sat chomping beside me, happy to leave the update until after he cleaned his plate.
His ex sat back and crossed her arms, signaling her willingness to wait out my childish game. I felt a shiver of victory, small though it was. Part of me felt like a jerk, of course—Gabby’s brother was missing, had likely been murdered, and here I was playing games. But I knew that a couple of minutes’ delay wasn’t going to make any difference, and, frankly, the woman got on my nerves. What Eddie saw in her was a mystery. I fake-smiled at her, and she glared back, waiting. Eventually my food disappeared, and I knew the game was over.
“So?” Gabby sat up when I finally stopped chewing.
“Yeah, what did you find out?” Eddie pushed his plate away and looked at me with happy eyes.
I realized, now that I had to report on it, my investigation was going to sound stupid. All I had accomplished was to make the picture murkier. For starters, I had not found any evidence that Pete had been murdered. I had not proved that Raul killed him. Instead, I had unearthed more suspects. There was nothing else to do, however, but to report what I had learned, as insubstantial and unhelpful as it might be.
So, just to irk her, I started with what she didn’t want to hear. I began with the tale of two photographs. The first, I told them, I had found in Pete’s apartment. It had been taken a couple of months ago when the toxic waste protests first began. The image showed Pete and Matthew Thornton arguing heatedly. The second photo, which I had seen in the newspaper just yesterday, was taken two weeks ago, right before Pete disappeared. It also featured Pete and Matthew, but instead of adversaries, they looked like friends, possibly even lovers. The photo recorded a seismic shift in their relationship over the course of three months.
Gabby looked like she suffered acute abdominal pain. Her face screwed up and her body vibrated with frustration. I knew she didn’t give a damn about what I was telling her—all she cared about was what I had learned about Raul. But if she wanted me to investigate Pete’s disappearance, I was going to do it my way. She opened her mouth to protest, but I held up my finger and continued.
I told Eddie and Gabby about Cornwell’s lie. He had told me that he didn’t know Pete, but there he was in that second photograph, watching Pete and Matthew, a look of consternation on his face. If he perceived what I did, he wouldn’t be happy about it. Matthew was supposed to be cured, he was Cornwell’s success story. By getting intimate with a man known to be gay, in the middle of a crowd, Matthew was putting Cornwell’s reputation at risk. I thought this gave Cornwell a pretty good motive for murder.
After explaining all this, I planned to say that I would continue with the case for a few more days. At the very least, I wanted to see what I could get out of Matthew and Faith Thornton. Before I could explain this, however, Gabby interrupted.
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve been doing? Why are you talking to those people? I told you, Raul killed Pete. Why aren’t you looking into that? And what is this crap about Pete and this religious
freak? Pete would never date anyone like that, and he would never date anyone who was married—are you insane?”
I heard a tiny gasp from Eddie, who knows me only too well. Before he could say something soothing, I barked, “You’re kidding, right?”
“How much simpler can it get? I pointed you in the right direction—you’re supposed to find evidence against Raul, not interview the whole town.”
I felt Eddie stiffen beside me, and I snapped, “What is it with you and Raul? You know what? I don’t need your crap, Gabby.” I threw my napkin on the table and started to slide out of the booth. Eddie reached out and placed his hand on my thigh. I froze, his hot fingers burning through my capris.
He said to Gabby, “Sam spent two days on this, on her own time, as a favor to me. She’s really smart at this. Please listen to what she has to say.”
I could have kissed him and almost did. I grasped his hand under the table and gave it a squeeze, the connection electrifying. He squeezed back, his hand warm and strong. Our hands lay conjoined for a moment, their combined heat singeing my thigh. Then Eddie pulled his hand away.
I felt my heart constrict. Glaring at Gabby, I said, “For your information, I did speak to Raul. Twice, as it turns out. The second time he showed up at my house and threatened me.”
“Sam?” Eddie said. He stared intently at me, brow wrinkled.
“I’m not afraid of some thug,” I lied, then looked at Gabby. “And that’s what he is. A low-life thug. How could he possibly have come from the same family as Pete?”
She shrugged, her cold anger ebbing a tad. “That’s what Pete and I asked ourselves all the time. But back to the point, did you find out anything to prove he killed Pete?”
With a big sigh, I said, “No, not definitively. But here is what I know. Raul was angry that Pete was in the papers over this nuclear waste protest—maybe that’s why he beat Pete up. And, apparently, your big brother disagreed with Pete’s position. Raul supports the mayor’s plan because it could mean new business for his construction company. Two other things: Raul has an iffy alibi, and then there’s the matter of him threatening me. Why do that if you’re not afraid I’ll uncover something?”
Gabby nodded vigorously, obviously pleased I’d uncovered evidence pointing to Raul’s guilt, just like she predicted I would. “What are your next steps?” she managed to say neutrally.
I sat for a moment, thinking about it. “I work as a writer, and my book is not going to write itself. My editor is not what you would call accommodating. I’m not a PI, and nobody’s paying me to investigate Pete’s disappearance.”
She absorbed this, and I could see her mind working. Behind her anger at me I saw disappointment and sadness. I had to keep reminding myself that this woman was grieving. I wondered how I would feel in her shoes, Connor missing, probably killed.
Eddie said quickly, “You’ve learned a lot already, Sam. Surely one of these people is responsible for what happened to Pete. I know you need to work on your book. But couldn’t you work on the case a little longer? Spend whatever time you can for another week.” Before I could protest, he hurried to add, “Just for a week, see how it goes. I can see you’re interested in the case.”
Despite my sympathy for Gabby, I wouldn’t do it for her. But I would do it for Eddie. What I hated was that he wanted me to do this because he wanted it for Gabby. I felt myself slump in my seat. I shrugged, then nodded, the movement feeling so small I wasn’t even sure I’d done it. “Okay,” I said.
Eddie reached over and patted my arm. I sat perfectly still, trying not to notice his warm skin on mine. A minute went by, nobody said a word. My chest felt tight.
“I gotta go,” I said finally, grabbing my purse as I slid out of the booth. I could barely breathe.
“Thanks, Sam,” Eddie said as I turned to go. I started to reach for my wallet but changed my mind. This was their party—they could pay. I slung my purse over my shoulder and walked away.
On my way out I spied the old desert rat who had to be the owner of the junky car and hairless dog. He had on a black cowboy hat that was so misshapen it looked like a tri-cornered pirate hat. A braided gray ponytail trailed down his back, and he wore a lady’s pink flannel shirt. His eyeglasses looked like aviator goggles. He was probably full of stories about the old days, before civilization spoiled the desert. On any other day, I would have smiled at him, warmed by his unconventional life.
Today I walked past him like a robot.
Outside the restaurant the icy wind roared. The heavy-bellied clouds clung to the mountaintops, emptying themselves of all their life-giving water far to the west. Here it was all roaring winds and desiccation, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
15
When I got home from Ming’s I grabbed my trusty phone book and found Matthew’s number. I knew that I should work on my book, but now that I had committed to another week on Pete’s case, I felt an urgency to get on with it. Granted, I could just sit on my butt for a week and then tell Eddie I hadn’t discovered anything of note, but I had given my word. I had agreed to one week, then I could wash my hands of Gabby forever.
The minute I thought that, I wondered again how I could hold onto Eddie after I quit the case. Why would he bother to call? He had Gabby now. I realized that I had begun to feel pissed. Here he was, dating Gabby again but asking me to do him this favor. For her! Did it never occur to him to wonder how that would make me feel? How insensitive could he be?
I punched Matthew’s phone number into my cell with such force the gadget went into shock. All functions froze, and I had to turn the stupid thing off and then back on to clear it. With forced calm I tapped in the number again, and this time the call went through. A woman answered, whom I assumed was Faith. She must work for the Secret Police. Who was I? What did I want? How did I get their number?
To staunch her paranoia I told her that I had met Matthew through Bernard Cornwell. I explained that I was writing a book for Blue Nest Press on nuclear power and wished to interview Matthew about his work on the mayor’s project. The phone went silent as she tried to ascertain if this was BS. Finally, in a tone that said “you better be on the up and up or I’ll slice your throat,” Faith agreed to the interview. Interesting that she didn’t consult Matthew. Faith was obviously bossy and protective. I was curious to meet her—and meet her I would, for I knew she would never leave me alone with her husband. Before ringing off, Faith ordered me to come to their house the next morning, a Saturday, and spat out the address. I gave her my cell phone number in case anything came up.
On Saturday morning, when I arrived at the Thornton’s tiny house, Faith greeted me at the door. On second thought, “Greeted” isn’t exactly the right word—“intercepted” is more like it. Her appearance startled me. I had met Matthew only once, and briefly, but I distinctly remembered that he was gorgeous. I had assumed his wife would be equally attractive. But Faith looked oversized, doughy, and asymmetrical. Towering over me, her body shouted “strong as an ox.” Her dishwater blonde hair was curly yet seemed limp at the same time. Her large green eyes looked like they needed to be popped back into their sockets to prevent some optical accident.
Two kids, a girl and boy, skipped up behind Faith. Around four and six years old, they shared Matthew’s good black-Irish looks, and they were astonishingly well behaved. Neither said a word, they both just looked up at me with big blue eyes, smiling beatifically. I wondered if they were ill. Maybe this was how good children acted. My benchmark was Vanessa’s small tots, Molly and Kaylee, who alternated behaving like wild animals and sullen teenagers.
Faith (and the kids) led me to the kitchen. It was slow progress, as Faith was limping. I found myself limping, too, as I trailed along behind her. I made myself stop the minute I noticed it—Faith looked like she’d pound my face if she thought I were making fun of her.
Faith seemed to read my mind about the face-pounding because she turned to me and asked, “What happened to your face?” No polite attempt
to ignore my injuries, and no sympathy or even curiosity in the question. She just seemed to want to know for the record. I told her my dog broke my nose, and that seemed to satisfy her. She turned toward the kitchen counter and began spooning blobs of cookie dough onto a warped baking pan.
While she worked I looked around the kitchen. Cookie sheets and baking bowls nearly covered the small countertop, and the kitchen smelled of butter and vanilla. As a kid, I had loved to lick the spoon, but Faith’s kids seemed more interested in me than in the cookie dough. They stared sweetly at me, swaying this way and that to release some of their kid energy. It was making me edgy, quite frankly, and I tried scowling at them to make them go away. They just smiled at me. I was beginning to smell a rat. This could be one of those “stare at the strange lady until she squirms” kind of things.
“Matthew will be right out,” Faith said as she continued spooning the dough. Her voice had a rough quality to it, as if she were used to barking out orders above really loud noises. “He’s just cleaning up after mowing the lawn. I usually do all the yard work, Matthew hates it. But I stepped on a rusted piece of metal a few weeks ago. It went plum through my shoe and the whole thing got infected. Still hurts.”
Ah, that explains the limp. I glanced around the outdated kitchen, eyes focusing on the coffeemaker, pot full of dark brew.
Half Life (A Sam Larkin Mystery) Page 10
