The Devil Close Behind

by Janet Dawson

  “On my way.” I ended the call and started my car.

  I drove up Broadway. As I approached Brook Street, the traffic light changed to red. I braked and waited. Glancing to the right, I saw a construction site enclosed by a chain-link fence which bore a large sign with the Bay Oak Development logo. This was the project I’d seen as a scale model at the developer’s office. The foundation was in and the walls were going up, a superstructure rising from ground level.

  The light changed to green and I turned my attention back to the road, driving through Oakland city streets to Berkeley. Davina rented a one-bedroom cottage at the back of a larger house on Grant Street near Channing, west of downtown Berkeley and walking distance to the campus. I spotted the Ford Escape that Slade and Laurette were driving parked at the end of the block. Parking spaces are always in short supply in Berkeley, but I angled my Toyota into a tight space on the side street. I doubled back and headed for Davina’s place, walking up the driveway that led to the wood-framed cottage at the back of the lot.

  Davina had lived here for several years and she’d made the place a quiet and cozy refuge. Painted a cheery yellow, the cottage had a porch that spanned the front. The porch and the area surrounding the cottage held plants in ceramic and terra-cotta pots. The resulting profusion of color included bright red geraniums, deep purple lavender, and an assortment of tulips and daffodils. At one end of the porch she’d planted a lemon tree in a container and at the other end, a rose bush was covered with pale pink blooms.

  Just outside the front door was a small round patio table with matching chairs. Three of the chairs were occupied. Davina sat in one, with a tall glass of iced tea in front of her. She was trying to look relaxed and not quite succeeding. Her flyaway red hair contrasted with the bright blue blouse she was wearing over a pair of khaki slacks. As I walked toward the cottage, she got up from her chair to greet me.

  “Jeri, there you are. I’m glad you could drop by and pick up those handouts. This is my sister, Laurette Mason, from New Orleans. And this is her friend, Eric Slade.”

  Finally, my first meeting with the mercurial Slade. All my eavesdropping and observing yesterday didn’t count as being formally introduced.

  Both Laurette and Slade looked more rested than they had when I’d seen them yesterday afternoon. Laurette smiled and sipped tea from her glass. She was wearing denim slacks and a red shirt printed with tropical flowers. Her brown hair was swept back from her face and held with a pair of white barrettes. Slade, on the other hand, looked wary, as though he wasn’t particularly glad to see another person, especially one he didn’t know. Dressed in faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, his unsmiling face looked closed. He seemed on edge. He was polite enough, going along with the niceties to please Laurette. Everyone was on their best behavior, I thought, trying really hard to be polite. But there was an awkward feeling swirling around us. It felt as though Slade knew damn well that Davina didn’t care for him. And Laurette was being bright and cheery, bending over backwards to make everything nice and make everyone get along.

  I flashed a big smile that encompassed everyone and stuck out my hand. “So you’re Laurette. Davina has told me about you. And Eric.” I paused. “It’s nice to meet both of you.”

  Laurette smiled and took my hand. “It’s great to meet you, too. Davina has mentioned you.” She tilted her head to one side. “You know, you do look familiar. Have we met before?”

  Had Laurette registered my presence outside the vintage shop in Lafayette, or at the motel in Oakland? I shrugged. “I guess I just have one of those faces. People say that to me all the time. No, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “I’ve only been here once before. It was after—” She stopped. I knew what it was after, the death of her daughter in the car accident.

  “You must have seen a picture of me at some time or another,” I said. “Davina and I have been friends for a long time.”

  Laurette nodded. “I know you used to work together.”

  “Oh, that was the distant past.” I dismissed our coworker phase with a wave of my hand. Did Laurette know that Davina and I had worked together for a private investigator? I didn’t want the mention of my profession to put Slade on his guard—any more than he already was. “Mostly now we get together socially. Lunch dates and so forth.”

  “And that meeting. The handouts are inside,” Davina said, waving me toward the front door. “Have you got a minute? How about a glass of tea?”

  “That would be great. I’m parched.” I followed her into the cottage. There was a tiny kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter. On the near side of the counter, Davina had set up her dining table as an office, the shelves along that wall crowded with books and papers.

  Davina picked up a file folder, the supposed handouts, and gave it to me. “Here. These are actually from a seminar on environmental justice. Fake it.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  “Yes, you are.” She went into the kitchen, pulling a glass from a cupboard and filling it with ice. She had a pitcher of tea in the refrigerator and she poured it into the glass, handing it across the counter.

  “When did they show up?”

  “About forty minutes ago,” she said. “Just as I was getting home from class. Obviously, I wasn’t expecting them. Laurette wants to go to dinner and tell me all about their road trip. That’s why I texted you. And cooked up that spur-of-the-moment story about you coming over to get handouts. This would be a good opportunity to find out if they’re planning to stay or if they’re eventually going back to New Orleans. And I figured those questions might be better coming from you.”

  “Since I’m supposedly a disinterested party.” I took a sip of tea. “Well, let’s see what I can find out.”

  We went back outside and I settled into one of the chairs around the small table. “So, Laurette and Eric, are you in town long?”

  “We’re not sure,” Slade said.

  Almost at the same time, Laurette added, “We’re going to do some sightseeing and then head back to New Orleans on the southern route. Road trip, you know. We’ve been to Santa Fe and Denver and Salt Lake City. Drove in from Reno yesterday. Next, I really want to see the coast, go down to Monterey, though Eric suggests Mendocino.”

  “Mendocino is beautiful,” I said. “It’s one of my favorite places.”

  I glanced at Slade. He was being a man of few words and he looked a bit dismayed at Laurette. Did he think she was talking too much? I recalled what he’d said to Marsh yesterday. It sounded like Slade was planning to ditch Laurette, now that he was in California, about to retrieve the money he was after. But Laurette thought they were going back to New Orleans—together.

  Slade also looked like he was waiting for something, or someone. Sure enough, his face changed as he looked toward the driveway. I followed the direction of his gaze. It was Cousin Marsh, brash and edgy, walking briskly toward the cottage.

  “Who’s that?” Laurette asked, glancing at Davina.

  “I have no idea,” Davina said.

  Slade’s words were terse. “It’s my cousin. I asked him to meet us here.”

  “Is he going to dinner with us?” Laurette asked.

  “No.” Slade shook his head. “He’s got something for me.”

  Payday, I thought. The money Slade was so anxious to get.

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Marsh stopped a few feet short of the porch, moving restlessly, as he had when I saw him and Slade yesterday in the park. “How are all you fine ladies this afternoon? I’m Marsh.”

  Slade got to his feet and mumbled his way through the introductions. “This is Laurette, the lady I told you about. And her sister, Davina. And—” He stopped and gave me a “what was your name again” look.

  I smiled at Marsh. “I’m Jeri, a friend of Davina’s.”

  Marsh turned on the rakish charm, complimenting all us fine ladies on how lovely we were. He was certainly more outgoing than his moody cousin.

  Slade was getting
impatient. He stepped off the porch and took Marsh by the arm, his voice low. “You’ve got it?”

  Marsh shook off Slade’s arm. Then he reached up and pulled his earlobe, the same gesture he’d made the day before. Now that I was this close to him, I could see that he had earrings in both ears, tiny gold studs. I hadn’t noticed that yesterday, or on the music videos.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it,” Marsh said. “Told you I would. But we need to talk.”

  The two men walked up the driveway a few feet, stopping in the shade of a sycamore tree. Marsh pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Slade. The money that Slade had come to California to collect, I assumed. Slade opened the flap and examined the contents. Head down and fingers working, he counted the cash. Then he looked up at his cousin. Even at this distance, I could see anger on his face.

  “This isn’t right,” Slade hissed, his voice loud enough to be heard. “You said—”

  “Listen, man.” Marsh took Slade’s arm and steered him further away. I could no longer hear what they were saying, but I could read the body language loud and clear. The amount of money in the envelope wasn’t the amount Slade was expecting. Marsh was trying to stiff his cousin on the cash.

  Slade wasn’t having any of that. He was so angry his voice was audible now, though I was hearing the conversation in fragments. “What am I supposed to do with— My mother won’t— That asshole Byron put the brakes—”

  I could translate that easily enough. From what I’d seen yesterday, Millicent was in the habit of giving her wandering son money. I would bet that her husband had found out, and told her to turn off the money spigot. And Slade was upset about it.

  Laurette and Davina looked increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation between Slade and Marsh got louder. Finally Laurette got to her feet and approached Slade, attempting to cut through the palpable tension.

  “Let’s go to dinner,” she said, her voice taking on that placating tone. “I’m really hungry.”

  Slade backed away from Marsh, smoothing the anger from his face with effort. He tucked the envelope of cash into his pocket.

  Davina stepped off the porch and walked toward them. “Marsh, you’re welcome to join us. We’re heading over to Angeline’s Louisiana Kitchen. It’s not home cooking, at least as far as this New Orleans girl is concerned. But it’s the next best thing.”

  “I love Angeline’s,” I said. “They’ve got great jambalaya. And red beans and rice and gumbo. Oh, just anything on the menu. You’ll be glad to know they also have Abita beer.”

  Laurette laughed. “It’ll have to go a long way to beat the food in New Orleans.”

  “Sounds good,” Marsh said, “but I’ll pass. Another time, maybe.”

  “Well, let’s go then,” Laurette said. She turned to Slade. “You want to drive? Or should I?”

  “I’d suggest walking,” Davina said. “Parking in downtown Berkeley can be difficult. It’s not far, just a few blocks over on Shattuck Avenue.”

  “Why don’t I drop you off at the restaurant?” Marsh said, going back to his charmer role. “Then you can walk back here.”

  Slade didn’t say anything, having difficulty wiping the disgruntled expression off his face. But Laurette and Davina thought it was an excellent idea. I declined their invitation to join them for dinner. Much as I loved the food at Angeline’s, I knew I wouldn’t enjoy my jambalaya with all the tension bouncing between the others, and off the walls.

  Davina went inside to grab her purse. She locked the cottage and led the way out to the street. I wanted to see what kind of car Marsh was driving, since I hadn’t gotten a look at it yesterday. We strolled down the sidewalk and he pressed the button in his key ring fob, unlocking a dark green Nissan Pathfinder with a coating of dust. It looked like it was a few years old and well used. He opened the rear doors and cleaned off the backseat, tossing a jacket, a gray backpack and a fast-food sack into the rear cargo hatch.

  I hugged Davina. She turned her head and whispered in my ear. “Get me some answers, please. And soon.”

  “I will.” I released her and stepped away from the group. Then I pulled out my phone and looked at it. “Oh, I need to return this call.” I raised the phone and clicked into the camera, then moved the phone to my ear. When they were inside the Pathfinder and Marsh started the car, I stood on the sidewalk and watched as he pulled away from the curb, still pretending to talk on the phone. Then I lowered the phone and managed to snap a photo of Marsh’s license plate. There was a dent on the left side of the rear bumper and right above it, a V-shaped scratch, a slash of gray against the dark green finish. I snapped another photo, making sure I caught the scratch.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I don’t know if I should be talking with you,”

  Rosalie Benson’s face mirrored the reluctance I heard in her voice.

  But she was talking with me, at least for the time being.

  I had waylaid her outside the vintage clothing store, shortly after nine o’clock Thursday morning. After parking in the lot, I bought coffee at the nearby java joint, then staked out a spot on the bench near the store, watching the street and lot. I’d been sitting there for about ten minutes when I saw Rosalie.

  She walked briskly along the sidewalk, wearing gray slacks and a floral blouse, a gray bag slung over one shoulder. She crossed the parking lot, then detoured into the coffee shop, joining a queue at the counter as she removed a wallet from her bag. A few minutes later, she stepped outside and headed for the store. In her left hand was a cup of her morning brew, a pastry bag balanced on top. A set of keys dangled from her right hand.

  I stood up and intercepted her. Up close, I saw lines around her mouth and her wide blue eyes. I put her age as mid-sixties, older than Millicent. She frowned at me, wondering why I was between her and the front door of her shop. When I explained, her frown deepened.

  “A private investigator? And it’s about Eric? I saw you in the store the other day,” she added. “Is that why you were here? Casing the joint? Or casing Millie?”

  “I overheard you say that you’d be here early this morning,” I said. “And I heard Millicent say she’d be late. I’d like to talk with you and get some insights into Millicent and her son—and their relationship. Before I talk with Millicent. So, what can you tell me about Eric?”

  Rosalie hesitated. She didn’t have much of a poker face. It reflected her internal struggle. She weighed the store keys in her hand as though weighing whether to talk with me. Talk finally won out.

  I held her coffee and pastry while she unlocked the door of the vintage store. Opening it, she waved me inside, locking the door after me. Then she stuck the keys into a pocket and relieved me of her coffee and pastry. “Let’s go back to the office. I’ll try to answer your questions. Within reason. And if they get too personal, no dice.”

  “I understand.”

  I walked with her past the racks of clothing and the glass-fronted counter with its display of vintage jewelry. We passed the fitting room and mirror. A door led back to the office, where clothing hung on racks and shoes and other accessories lined shelves. A desk with a computer sat to one side. Rosalie sat down at her desk chair and waved me toward a chair that held a hatbox. I moved the box to a shelf and sat down.

  Rosalie sipped her coffee and opened the sack, revealing a blueberry Danish. She tore off a piece and nibbled at it. “Millie and I have been friends a long time,” she said. “I’m feeling disloyal, even agreeing to talk with you.”

  “Why did you?” I asked.

  She wiped her hands on a napkin, leaving a blue smear from the Danish. “I worry about Millie’s well-being. Things were fine. She’d been doing well since Eric left the area. And then he shows up.”

  “Has she got some health problems?”

  Rosalie nodded. “High blood pressure. You wouldn’t think it to look at her. She’s tall and slim. She looks like the picture of health. But—” She paused and reached for another piece of the Danish. �
��She takes medication. The doctor told her to watch her stress level.”

  “What is it about her son that affects her stress level?”

  She frowned again. “Eric’s a problem child. Has been most of his life. I’ve known Millie for ages, back when she was married to Walt Slade. That kid was always acting out.”

  “Any particular reason? The divorce, maybe?”

  “I’m sure that was part of it. But Eric’s behavior problems started before Millie and Walt broke up. Millie was always inclined to blame things on that cousin of his.”

  “Marshall Spencer,” I said.

  Rosalie nodded. “Yes, that’s him. Marsh, they call him. His mother is Walt’s sister. Her name’s Debra Spencer and she lives in Walnut Creek. At least as far as I know. Debra’s a piece of work herself, to hear Millie tell it.”

  I filed that information for further investigation. “Why blame Marsh?”

  “He’s a year older than Eric,” Rosalie said. “And always in trouble, Millie says. From the time he was a kid. But I’m only getting her perspective, of course. Truth be told, there was never any love lost between Millie and her sister-in-law. Debra divorced her husband early on and she relied on Walt for help, constantly. Financial help as well as other stuff. Millie felt she was taking advantage of Walt. Sucked up all his attention, was the way she put it. Walt was fooling around on Millie, for a couple of years before she found out. When she did, Walt moved out and eventually they got a divorce. As soon as it was final, he married his girlfriend and they moved up to Sacramento. He has a consulting business. At least that’s what he calls it.”

  She paused and took another bite of her Danish, washing it down with a swallow of coffee.

  “So Eric’s father wasn’t around,” I said.

  Rosalie shook her head. “He never was, even when he was there physically. According to Millie, Walt was just never much interested in Eric. One of those remote, detached fathers. Raising Eric was Millie’s problem, as far as he was concerned. After Millie and Walt got divorced, he pretty much washed his hands of the situation. I often wonder how the two of them ever got together, much less had a child. Byron is a far better choice for a husband. And from what I can see, he really tried to be a dad to Eric. At first. But I guess it was too late. Eric was twelve when his parents split up. That’s a tough age for kids. I went through it with both my son and daughter.”