The day's mail sat on my desk waiting to be opened. I picked up my phone and letter opener at the same time. Elsa Higgins answered on the second ring.
"Everything okay there, Gram?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, Charlie. Your little boy seems to be feeling just fine."
I've always found it ridiculous the way people talk about their pets as though they are children, but I couldn't fight it this time. After almost losing Rusty last night, I was feeling protective.
"He's out in the back yard right now," she continued.
"Outside?" A small granule of fear edged upward in my throat.
"Can you see him?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. He's at the door now, in fact. I'll let him in and give him some water."
"Good idea," I said, my voice only slightly shaky, "he's ... used to having lots of water."
What was the matter with me, I wondered, hanging up the phone. Gram had sounded absolutely normal, nothing appeared to be wrong. I kept thinking of the dark car. Suddenly, I wasn't too eager to be alone in the office after Ron left. I finished opening the mail and sorting it into stacks, just as I heard Vicky's cab pull up at the front.
I spied from behind my shutters as she got out and proceeded to unload enough gear for a month in the Caymans. It was only a weekend at the lake, for chrissakes. Ron, meanwhile, had clomped down the stairs and out the front door, sounding none too patient by this time. He paid the cab driver and began grabbing up Vicky's bags, carrying them to his car. I watched him cram the small trunk as full as he could get it, then toss the rest into the back seat.
Vicky stood by the curb, looking half afraid to say anything. Ron is normally such a mellow kind of guy, it was probably the first time she'd seen him get a bit testy. As he deposited the last of her junk into the back seat of his car, she approached him and turned on the charm. Even from the second story window, I could tell it was make-up time. By the time she had run one knee up and down the length of his thigh a couple of times, and tickled the back of his hair with a fuchsia fingertip, I had to sit down. I wanted to be disgusted with them, but truthfully, I missed Drake.
Ron's voice drifted up the stairwell. "We're leaving now, Charlie," he shouted.
I had to clear my throat. "Okay. Go ahead and lock the front door. I'm leaving pretty soon myself." The door clicked behind him before I remembered that I should have told them to have a good time. Oh, well.
I gathered Sharon's printouts and my purse, leaving the sorted mail to be handled on Monday. Thoughts of Ron and Vicky humping away all weekend in one of those cheap little one-story strip motels down at the lake kept nagging at me. It was more than mere horniness on my part, too. Ever since I'd met that girl, something about her would not leave me alone. I locked the back door and laid the computer papers on the passenger seat of my Jeep, as I pondered what it was about Vicky that I didn't trust. Aside from everything.
It was a little after four, and I was ready to pick up my dog, take off my shoes, and have a nice cool glass of wine. But when I reached Central the Jeep turned right, heading uptown instead. It was dumb, I knew. I wasn't even sure what I hoped to find out, but something was driving me toward Vicky's house.
The Friday holiday weekend traffic on I-25 north was bumper to bumper. I seriously questioned my sanity as I joined it. It took close to an hour to reach Academy Road, and another fifteen minutes to make my way through the stop-and-go crush before I turned off the major street. There, at the intersection, waiting to pull out into the throng I had just left behind, sat a green Jag. Behind the wheel, Michael Mann stared straight through me, intent on watching the oncoming traffic.
Vicky's was the third house on the next block, and I cruised past it once without stopping. Turning around in the cul-de-sac, I pulled to a stop in front of another equally imposing structure three doors down. Vicky's place looked inscrutable. The garage doors were down—no cars out front—sheer drapes covered all the windows. I walked up to it with a clipboard in hand, trying like hell to look like a census taker. The door chimes echoed faintly, the sound fading away into empty space. Nonchalantly, I turned my back to the door and watched the neighboring houses. Nothing moved in the hot, quiet air. The traffic on Academy made a continuous dull roaring background sound, and a lone cicada chirped somewhere to my right. I walked around the side of the house, unsure what my explanation would be if I was questioned.
The back of the house was slightly less battened down than the front. Here in back, the place was three stories high, with only the two upper floors visible from the street. I followed concrete steps down to a wide covered patio. Uncurtained french doors led to a family room, large enough to accommodate a pool table, a wet bar, and a five-part sectional sofa. The doors were securely locked.
Just beyond that another set of french doors revealed a small bedroom, too pretty to have experienced regular use. Probably a guest room. The next door I came to led into the laundry room. The glass panels in the upper half of it were freshly washed, and not covered. Inside, I could see new-looking appliances, washer, dryer, and ironing table. Here, I got lucky. Some careless person, probably an unlucky housekeeper, had left the door unlocked. I twisted the knob gingerly, holding my breath, and getting ready to run should an alarm go off. It didn't.
I stepped inside and closed the door softly behind me. The place was quiet as a church. The smells of furniture polish and fabric softener were prevalent. I found myself walking on tiptoe, although the place had a distinct feeling of emptiness. A narrow staircase led from the laundry room to a spacious kitchen on the main level. A bit of poking around showed me the living room and dining room I'd seen on my previous visit. Every knick-knack was precisely in place, and fresh vacuum cleaner paths showed that no one had entered the living room recently. Seeing them caused me to glance around to see what kind of incriminating tracks I might be leaving, but the halls and stairs had obviously already been used, probably by Vicky and the maid, hurrying to leave for the weekend.
I kept to the already-stepped-on areas as I went upstairs. Making my way down the long hallway, I peeked into each room I came to: a guest bath with thick apricot colored towels hanging on the brass towel rack, another untouched bedroom, and a child's room. The little girl in the picture downstairs?
Each room was picture perfect and lifeless. Like the rooms in model homes, beautifully decorated but not liveable. There was almost nothing of a personal nature, until I came to the master suite, and saw the wedding picture. Vicky was wearing a cloud of white veil and a form-fitted dress accented with seed pearls. The groom was Michael Mann.
Chapter 18
They were posed gazing into each other's eyes. Vicky had the same look on her face that I'd seen directed toward my brother. I felt angry but not terribly shocked. What was she up to? I'd caught her kissing some other guy in the kitchen at the Ruiz's home after David's funeral. Now I find out she was married to David's cousin.
My hand strayed to the top dresser drawer handle. It slid open to reveal neat stacks of men's underwear and socks. Is still married. I pushed the drawer closed and rested my palms on the polished dresser top, closing my eyes to shut out the blurry haze swimming before me. Oh, Ron, what have you gotten yourself into this time? I wanted to cry for him. Ron might not be the prize catch of the century, but he's a good guy inside, and he doesn't deserve this. Thinking about it made me want to strangle the shit out of Vicky. I had to force myself not to grab up the photograph and throw it across the room.
I backed up and sat down at the foot of the king-sized bed, trying to get my thoughts in order. Little things that had previously slipped past me began to come back. Michael had mentioned his wife to me more than once. I thought he had even said something about living in this neighborhood. I'd seen him just now, leaving on his weekend trip. Vicky had cut the timing awfully close this time. And the little girl with the rabbit, the Padilla’s granddaughter—Michael's and Vicky's daughter. I rubbed my temples with the tips of my fingers. I dreaded telling Ron, but how co
uld I not? He had to know. Better from someone who cared for him than to find out accidentally. He wasn't going to believe me. I better try to find some proof. I glanced around the bedroom.
There was a feminine looking desk of white French Provincial in the corner. The top was immaculate, reminding me that my own desk at home was in need of some attention. A small framed photograph of the little dark haired girl and a bud vase with a yellow silk rose in it were the only items in sight. The drawer on the left held a small stack of bills, a checkbook, a roll of postage stamps, and several pens and pencils. I probed around all the corners, but came up with nothing of interest. The drawer on the right held a couple of flat manila file folders, where she apparently filed the paid bills and a few other household papers. A box of feminine pink stationery sat at the back of the drawer. I pulled it out; it hadn't been opened yet. Putting the box back, I realized that the first drawer hadn't been nearly this deep.
Another look inside the first drawer told me that it had a false back. Tapping at it with my fingernail, it was easy to tell that a hidden compartment existed. I ran my fingertips around the sides and bottom of the drawer once again. A small catch was concealed underneath the drawer. When touched, it caused the drawer's false back to release. Behind the thin divider was a hidden compartment, about nine by six inches. It contained two stacks of letters. The stationery was nothing special, plain white. The envelopes had not been mailed; in fact, were not even addressed. I lifted the top one, and slid the letter out.
Darling V.,
I'm miserable without you. Each night is torment, each day the hours drag by until I am with you. I pray that we will soon be together forever. Please, darling, find the courage to tell him that you want out. I know you don't want me to step forward yet, but I cannot wait much longer. Our times together mean everything to me. I believe you feel the same, so please act quickly. Counting the hours...
Your One and Only
Thankfully, the handwriting wasn't Ron's. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. This pulp wouldn't even sell in a bad romance novel. Rereading the letter once again, I still wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It looked like Vicky was spreading herself pretty thin, so to speak. Ron would have to know about this. I flipped quickly through a few more of the letters in the stack. They were more of the same. I slipped one out of the middle of the stack, fairly certain that it wouldn't be missed. With the letters back in their spot and the false panel back in place, I doubted Vicky would know anyone had touched them. I had just closed the drawer when I heard a sound from downstairs.
My senses went on alert. I had felt impervious, with Vicky and Michael gone their separate ways for the weekend. The heavy front door closed with a firm click, then I heard the sound of heels tapping across the marble foyer. A woman's voice hummed a tune I couldn't recognize, but I did realize that it was headed toward the stairs. My heart thudded as I searched for a hiding place. It was either the closet or the bathroom, and from what I could see of it, the bathroom walls were almost completely mirrored. The closet looked like my only choice. I dashed for it, hoping the door wouldn't have squeaky hinges.
The walk-in closet was almost the size of my guest room, and I only had about one second to inspect it in semi-darkness before pulling the door shut, leaving myself in total blackness. The humming voice had stopped, so I had no idea where my visitor had gone. Chances were, she wasn't even coming to the bedroom. Nah, chances were, the bedroom was exactly where she was coming, and probably to this very closet. I tried to imbed myself in a rack of hanging clothes, and ended up twisting my ankle as I stumbled over shoe racks on the floor. I bit my lower lip to avoid letting loose a couple of choice words.
Who could it be? Had Vicky come back for something?
The silence was killing me. I couldn't hear footsteps on the thick plush carpet, and had no idea where the woman had gone. When the humming started again, I almost jumped. She was standing at the closet door. A metallic rattle told me the doorknob was in her hand. I held my breath and tried to resemble a garment.
A murmured word or two came through, then she apparently turned away from the closet. I could hear a drawer opening, and papers being shuffled. The drawer closed again. Then I remembered that I had set my clipboard down on the dresser when I spotted the wedding picture.
My stomach felt a little watery at this point, and I knew it would be a matter of moments before she spotted the foreign object on the dresser. If the woman was Vicky, she would know she hadn't left it there, and my goose was about to be cooked. She would either search every inch of the house until she found me, or she'd panic and call the police to do it for her. My ears went into radar mode, trying to pick up on any little sound. A good five minutes went by without even a tiny noise.
My left foot was being pierced by the tip of a spike heel, and I was in serious danger of losing my precarious balance. I had to make a move soon. I decided to risk a peek. I held my breath again as I turned the knob; it moved silently in my hand. The door came inward just enough for me to press my face to the crack. There was no one in the room.
My clipboard was still on the dresser, apparently untouched. I listened intently for another full minute before daring to leave the safety of the closet. I crossed the room to the large window which overlooked the street. The woman was just sliding into the driver's seat of a gray compact car parked at the curb, and I couldn't see her face. She had long dark hair like Vicky's. The car pulled away from the house with a roar. I assumed I was alone again.
I faced the bedroom once more. What had she been doing? Was it Vicky? I walked across to the desk, clicking open the hidden compartment. The letters were gone. I looked again at the one in my hand.
Downstairs, a stack of mail had been deposited on the dining table since I'd last walked through. I glanced through it. A normal assortment, some addressed to Michael, some to Vicky. I pocketed an advertising piece with his name on it, further proof to Ron that Vicky still lived with her supposedly ex-husband.
The traffic had thinned considerably by the time I reached I-25, heading south. After making the change to I-40 at the Big I, the Jeep seemed to take on a will of its own and I found myself pulling up at Pedro's. Taking comfort in a plate of chicken enchiladas and a margarita was just what I needed. I wasn't looking forward to Sunday evening and the inevitable meeting with Ron when he returned from the lake.
Chapter 19
My head felt thick, and my eyes didn't want to open when the sun came through my window the next morning. I couldn't remember exactly how many margaritas I'd had, but it had been more than my usual one. Rusty sat at the foot of my bed, his head cocked, ears perked up.
"What're you so happy about," I grumbled.
He wagged his way around to me, sniffing my breath. Amazingly, he didn't bolt from the room. Dogs really will stick with you through anything. I decided he was trying to tell me something about going outside. The later it got, the more urgent the request would become.
I made him wait while I went to the bathroom first and found my robe. By the time I had walked through the house to the back door, he was dancing. I opened the door for him, and watched him race to his favorite corner while I measured coffee and started the brewer. While it hissed I went back and washed my face and brushed my teeth. The improvement was immediate. Five minutes under a stinging hot shower, and I felt almost normal. I dug a pair of shorts out of a drawer and a new t-shirt I'd bought on Kauai. It made me think of Drake again. I tried to remember what he'd said his work schedule would be. Maybe I'd call him this weekend. By the time I had brushed my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, I could smell the coffee, and realized I was hungry.
Sun poured through my kitchen window when I raised the shade. The back lawn lay like a deep green carpet. It would soon need mowing. Mother’s roses, which filled the flower beds along the back and left walls were already bursting forth in clumps of color. Why did I always think of them as Mother’s? They’d been my roses for nearly half my life now but I never
saw them that way.
Rusty waited at the door. He was obviously thinking the same thing I was about breakfast. I dumped a scoop of nuggets into his bowl before I turned my attention to the fridge to see what I could come up with for myself. There was cereal, but the milk smelled a little iffy, so I opted for an English muffin instead. Elsa had given me jars of jam made with the raspberries from her yard last summer. I was down to the last one. Good thing the berries would be coming back soon.
I found myself dwelling on Ron's problems, and finally had to tell myself to stop it. There wasn't anything I could do about it until I could talk to him. Even then, he might not care to hear about my findings. Well, he was a grown man. Once he had the facts, he would make his own decision. In the meantime, I planned to devote myself to studying Nouvelle Mexicano's financial situation, hoping to glean something that might help Sharon out of her dilemma.
I set my plate in the sink and poured another cup of coffee. The printouts waited for me where I'd left them on the dining table. I carried the papers and my mug into my home office. With everything spread out on the desk, I wasn't quite sure where to start. I didn't really know anything about the restaurant business, but had some vague idea that they probably tried to base their profit margin on some percentage of sales, like most businesses do. I ran some percentages as a test. There didn't seem to be a lot of consistency, and I found myself feeling like I was swimming against a strong current. Putting in a lot of effort, but not making a lot of progress. I decided to go back to the beginning.
The first few months checked out much more consistently than recent months did. Was it because the restaurant had enjoyed such a good start, which had later tapered off, or could there be a more suspicious reason?
By this time papers covered my desk. I reshuffled them. Put everything into chronological order, and brought out the calculator. My fingers raced over the ten-key pad, checking percentages, stopping at the end of each column to pencil in my results. My numbers tallied with the computer numbers. I don't know why I thought they might turn out differently, but I ran them twice. I searched the pages for errors—some entry that might have been posted to the wrong account. A debit that should have been a credit. I wanted so much to find a simple mistake.
Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery Page 11
