The Devil Close Behind

by Janet Dawson

She shook her head. “No. It’s been years since it happened. He moved after that. He repaired the damage and put the house on the market. I think he just wanted to get out of the neighborhood. I don’t know where he went.”

  With a little prompting, Bonnie Redeker recalled the name of the homeowner whose garage went up in flames, adding that he’d worked in nearby Walnut Creek. That, plus the address of the house he’d sold, would help me trace him. I wanted to hear what he had to say about the fire. A visit to the Lafayette Police Department should provide me with a copy of the report on the fire. Given the birth date I’d seen on Slade’s rental application, he would have been eighteen at the time of the garage fire.

  I’d already decided it would be a good idea to seek out Carrie Redeker. Was she still in the area? No, her mother told me. Carrie was in graduate school at the University of California in Los Angeles. I could track her down using the student locator on the UCLA website.

  The terrier tugged on his leash, eager to get on with his walk. Ms. Redeker and I parted company, she and the dog heading down to the corner mailbox, me to my car.

  I drove back to downtown Lafayette. The area was full of restaurants and shops, ranging from plain and budget to upscale, expensive and trendy. I turned off Mount Diablo Boulevard, the main thoroughfare, onto Lafayette Circle and made a left into the parking lot of a small shopping plaza. After feeding quarters into the parking meter, I walked up the sidewalk, past a coffee shop with tables, all of them full, arrayed in front of the plate glass window. Inside the shop, a barista worked the espresso machine while another took a pastry from a glass-fronted bakery case.

  I moved through a small landscaped area with a couple of benches, then stopped. The sign near the front door said that Bluebird, the vintage clothing store, was open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. A blue canvas awning hung over the door and the display window. A set of wind chimes made of small metal birds hung from the awning. A large terra-cotta planter to one side of the door held an assortment of spring annuals, including velvety purple and yellow pansies and a mix of petunias ranging from pink to red to yellow. A decorative garden stake topped with a glass bird rose from the planter. On this pleasant spring day, the shop door was propped open and a breeze stirred the wind chimes into a tinkling musical sound. Near the door, a large stainless steel bowl held water for dogs who might be accompanying their people on a shopping expedition.

  The display of clothing and jewelry in the shop window featured a spring palette of pink, yellow and green. An elaborately beaded dress from the 1920s draped a faceless white mannequin. The dress was gorgeous, with glittering green beads sewn in patterns on a rich peach chiffon. I strolled into the shop and saw a similar dress, this one pale blue with silver and gold beads. I leaned closer and peered at the price tag dangling discreetly from a shoulder strap. Ouch! I wouldn’t be adding any beaded dresses to my wardrobe any time soon.

  “Let me know if I can help you with something.” The voice belonged to a woman who stood near the glass-fronted counter. She was about my height, and she looked cool and put-together in beige linen slacks with a lavender blouse. She was in her mid-fifties, I guessed. Her shoulder-length dark hair was threaded with gray. The angular planes of her face reminded me of the photos I’d seen of Slade. This must be Millicent Patchett.

  “Thanks, I’m just looking for now.” I hadn’t yet decided how best to approach her. Better to observe and listen for the time being.

  I moved on to a rack holding jackets and pulled out one at random. It was charcoal gray with pinstripes and shoulder pads, just the thing that Joan Crawford might have worn in Mildred Pierce. Definitely a style that didn’t appeal to me.

  A voice called, “Check this out.” I looked up. A young woman with long blond hair emerged from a dressing room, which was cordoned off from the sales floor by a curtain made of fabric printed with flowers and bluebirds. Opposite this was a three-panel mirror. Now the young woman laughed and pirouetted in front of the mirror, showing off a wide skirt from the 1950s. The tan, calf-length skirt with a wide waistband looked good with her red tank top.

  “I think it looks great,” Millicent said, walking back to where the young woman stood. “It’s a good fit.”

  “It’s a start,” the other woman said. “What I’m looking for is Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.” She reached up and pulled her long hair back from her face. “Of course, Audrey had that short Italian haircut. I’m not going to cut my hair, but I can tie it back. A ponytail. Or maybe a barrette.”

  “Got it.” Millicent sorted through the blouses on a nearby rack and pulled out three of them, all in white. “Any of these would work. In the movie, she was wearing a white blouse with buttons up the front and the sleeves rolled up. And she wore a kerchief tied around her neck.”

  “Plus those open-toed shoes with the little straps around the ankles,” the customer added. “Do you have anything like that?”

  “Espadrilles. We got a pair in just a few days ago. Let me check.” Millicent called, “Rosalie. The brown espadrilles that came in the other day. Where did we put those?”

  Rosalie Benson, Millicent’s business partner, appeared from the back of the shop. She was a good six inches shorter, and a few years older, than Millicent. She wore a pair of blue slacks and an oversized floral print blouse that hid her stocky frame.

  “They’re back in the stock room,” Rosalie said. “I haven’t priced them yet.” She disappeared and came back a moment later, carrying the shoes. “Here they are. They’re a size seven.”

  The customer took the shoes and examined them. “I do wear a seven, but those look a bit small. I hope they fit. They would be perfect with the clothes.” She returned to the dressing room, carrying the shoes and several blouses.

  I took a skirt from the rack. Here was the cinched waist and full skirt popular in the 1950s and what’s more, this was the genuine article—a poodle skirt. It was hideous, a particularly nauseating shade of green decorated with yellow appliqués of poodles. I shook my head and put it back on the rack.

  Millicent and Rosalie had walked to the counter where the cash register stood and were talking, heads bent toward one another. Then I heard the chirp of a cell phone. Millicent stepped away from the counter and pulled a phone from the pocket of her beige slacks. She looked at the readout. “Oh, it’s Byron.”

  Millicent walked past me, heading out to the sidewalk. I made my way toward the front of the store, checking out some blouses on another rack as I eavesdropped on Millicent’s end of the phone call. “Well, yes, I made a reservation for the four of us. Six-thirty, right.” She paused, listening. “I know. But if their flight is on time, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Another pause. “Okay. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. If there’s any problem, call or send a text.”

  She ended the call and re-entered the shop, heading for the counter where Rosalie was sifting through the contents of a small cardboard box. “Are you getting caught up with the paperwork? You said something about coming in early to do that.”

  “Got put off again,” Rosalie said. “I had to meet that guy about repairing my garage door. I’ll come in early tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Millicent said. “I’ll be in late day after tomorrow. I have a dental appointment at ten.”

  Rosalie nodded. “All right. Just so one of us is here to open up.” She pointed at the box. “Take a look at the jewelry I picked up at that estate sale last weekend. This brooch is Bakelite and so are these bracelets.”

  The two women bent over the box, examining the jewelry. Millicent took out a silver necklace and dangled it from her fingers. “This one’s Art Deco. Beautiful.” She put the necklace back in the box and looked past Rosalie as the customer came out of the dressing room, wearing the whole Roman Holiday–inspired outfit. “That looks wonderful,” she said as she walked back to the woman. “The blouse and shoes really pull it together.”

  I looked at my watch. I wasn’t sure I could learn anything else by hangi
ng out here. At some point I’d have to talk with Millicent. But now didn’t seem like a good time.

  I walked over to the coffee shop, where I got myself a latte for the road. As I stepped outside, car keys in hand, I saw a red Ford Escape pull into a vacant parking space just across from me. It was covered with dust and there were two people inside. The driver’s-side door opened, and a man got out. He was about six feet tall, I guessed, with a medium build in his faded jeans and yellow T-shirt. His dark hair was on the long side, brushing his shoulders and falling into his face. He stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders, as though loosening the kinks after sitting in one position for a long time.

  Speak of the devil. Slade.

  Behind me, an annoyed voice said, “Excuse me, you’re blocking the door.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I moved away from the door and a woman bustled past me, coffee in hand.

  I drifted down the sidewalk, watching as Laurette, wearing olive green slacks and a lighter green shirt, got out of the Ford’s passenger seat. She put her hands in the small of her back, leaning backwards. Then she ran a hand through her brown hair and turned, looking around her as Slade fed coins into the parking meter.

  Laurette had told her family that she and Slade were on a road trip and that they’d eventually return to New Orleans. But the Bay Area is over two thousand miles from NOLA. That was a long road trip.

  Slade walked to the back of the Ford and I could see him full on. Heretofore I’d only seen photographs and videos. Now I saw that he had the same narrow, high-cheekboned face as his mother, notable for a discontented scowl. Attitude, he certainly had it. His frown smoothed a bit as Laurette joined him.

  “So which one is your mom’s shop?” she asked.

  His voice was the same rough tenor I’d heard on the video. “That one over there, with the blue awning.”

  “Ooh, vintage clothes. I love to poke around in places like that. And look at that beaded dress in the window. It’s scrumptious.” She took a step in the direction of the shop.

  His hand snaked out and caught her wrist, stopping her forward movement. “We don’t have time for you to go shopping right now.”

  Laurette looked taken aback. She pulled her hand away from his and rubbed her wrist, as though it hurt. “Hey, lighten up. I’m not shopping. Just looking. And I’d love to meet your mother.”

  He backtracked. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that things between me and my mother, well, sometimes it’s a little—tense. You know what I mean?”

  Laurette shrugged, ready to forgive him. “Sure. That’s cool. I understand how it can be with mothers.”

  “I just need a little time with her, alone,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to her later. After all, we’re going to be here for a while. Just let me talk with her. I won’t be long. Then we can find a place to stay and chill.”

  “That would be good.” Laurette stretched, then reached up and again ran a hand through her long hair. “After that drive from Reno, I could use a nice hot shower and a nap. I’ll get some coffee and sit right here until you’re ready.”

  As Laurette headed into the coffee shop, I strolled toward the vintage shop, a few steps behind Slade. I took a seat on one of the benches, set down my latte and took out my cell phone. It looked as though I was reading a text message or checking my email. In reality, I hit the camera button and started recording a video.

  Slade stood for a moment in the open doorway, long enough for his mother to see him.

  Millicent came outside, her voice low and urgent. It was clear she wasn’t happy that her son had turned up. “What are you doing here?”

  Sarcasm colored his words. “What, you’re not glad to see me? Your only son, home again, to the bosom of his family.”

  “It’s only been a year since you moved to Austin,” she snapped. “You just had to leave the Bay Area, because the music scene was better in Austin and you really liked the place. Or so you said. But you were only there a few months. Then you went off to New Orleans. Again, you said the music scene was much better there and you loved the town. And again, you’ve been there just a few months. Now you’re back here. Why? Please explain it to me. What are you doing back in the Bay Area?”

  He shrugged. “I decided to come home for a while.”

  “And do what? Play music? There aren’t as many opportunities here as there are in Austin or New Orleans. That’s what you told me when you left.” Millicent stopped, looking frazzled. “I can’t continue to subsidize you, sending you money every time you move somewhere or lose another job. You’re twenty-seven, Eric. You’re a grown man. You need to settle into something.”

  Slade’s face had taken on a look that I could read very well. It said he’d heard it all before and he didn’t have much patience with his mother’s views.

  Millicent shook her head. “Why are you here? What else is going on? Eric, why do you keep running from place to place?”

  I wondered about that, too.

  Slade wiped the annoyed look from his face. His voice took on a placating tone. “Look, let’s not argue about it. I have a friend with me. We’re tired and we need a place to crash. I thought we could stay with you for a few days.”

  Interesting. Slade had already told Laurette they were going to find a place to stay. That implied a hotel. But if they could stay with his mother at no cost, I saw the attraction.

  That wasn’t happening, though. Millicent was shaking her head. “Oh, no, not with us. You can’t stay there. Not after what happened the last time. Byron won’t hear of it.”

  “Byron, Byron,” he interrupted. “What happened last time was an accident.”

  I would have given anything to know what happened the last time Slade stayed at his mother’s house.

  I watched Millicent’s face and body language, full of tension, as though she was a veteran of many battles with her son—and between her son and her husband. I had a feeling things had been rocky ever since she married Byron. Just what was her relationship with her son? I could see that they were at odds over her husband. But did they clash on other things? She certainly didn’t seem happy to see him.

  “You can’t stay with us,” she said again. “Besides, Byron has friends coming into town and they’ll be staying with us.”

  “Fine, fine. Whatever Byron wants is more important than what I want.” Slade brought forth an elaborate, put-upon sigh. “Well, I can’t afford to stay in a hotel. What about the condo?”

  “I have a tenant moving in on Friday,” Millicent countered.

  “Okay, then give me some cash so I can get a room for the night. Or I guess I could sleep in my car. Park it in front of the house and come in to use the bathroom. Wouldn’t that be fun? I’m sure the neighbors would talk.”

  He was good with the guilt trip. Now I understood. This whole exercise was designed to get money from Millicent. And his tactic was working. Evidently it usually did.

  Millicent compressed her lips into a tight line. “All right,” she said finally. She went back inside the shop and returned a moment later, carrying a wallet. She opened it and took out several bills, handing them to Slade. He gave her a perfunctory “Thanks.” Then he turned away, a triumphant look on his face as he shoved the money into the pocket of his jeans.

  Millicent stood in the shop doorway, watching him go with a troubled look on her face. Behind her, Rosalie’s expression showed equal parts sympathy and irritation—sympathy for Millicent, no doubt, and irritation at Slade, who’d had a lot of practice manipulating his mother, from the looks of things. I had the feeling Rosalie had seen this scene played out before. She’d be a good one to talk to. I was sure she could give me an earful about Millicent and her relationship with her son.

  I had noted the partners’ earlier conversation. The day after tomorrow, Millicent had a 10 a.m. dental appointment, but Rosalie would be at the shop early. That would be a good time to approach her. But I’d better have a story ready. She’d be reluctant to talk about her busi
ness partner unless there was a good reason.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I stopped the video recording as Slade walked past me. He joined Laurette at a table in front of the coffee shop, a couple yards or so from my bench, which made it good eavesdropping range. He pulled out a chair and helped himself to her coffee.

  “Well? What did she say?” Laurette asked.

  He shrugged and set the coffee cup on the table. “She was surprised to see me. She thought I was going to stay longer in New Orleans. I don’t know that she’s that thrilled.”

  “I’m sorry things are tense between you and your mother,” Laurette said. “Why wouldn’t she be happy that you’re home? Besides, this is just a road trip. We’re going back to New Orleans eventually. Right?”

  Slade glided around the subject of returning to the Big Easy, his voice taking on an aggrieved tone. “It’s that jerk she married, the guy who calls himself my stepfather. It was just the two of us after my father left, and we were fine. Then she met Byron.” He spat out the name as though it tasted bad. “He took over her life and he turned her against me.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She reached over and put her hand on his. “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Thanks. You’re good for me, you know that.” He smiled at her and I could see how she had been taken in by him. At that moment he looked sweet and vulnerable, emitting charm like pheromones. I might have bought that persona if I hadn’t seen his interaction with his mother.

  Laurette stifled a yawn. “I’m really tired. And I want a shower.”

  “Hey, I’m the one that did all the driving. Never mind. Let’s head on down to Oakland and get settled.”

  “How long are we going to stay? I really want to do the things we talked about, like going down the coast to see Monterey and Carmel. And Big Sur and Hearst Castle. So much to see before we go back to New Orleans.”

  “We’ve got to see San Francisco first. How can you come all this way and not see San Francisco? We need to stick around Oakland for a little while, though. I gotta get some money first. For the trip, you know.”