by Zoe Burke
“Brad.” I had found my voice again. The worst of the confessional was over. “It may be that Cassie was going to contact Georgia about some legal issues, but I have to tell you, she was not a planner. She would not have been getting advice about wills or estates, which is what Georgia does. So the only thing I can think of is that Georgia called me for some reason, and Cassie answered the phone and wrote her name and number down, as a message.”
Brad leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. “That sounds reasonable. Is it Cassie’s handwriting?”
“I don’t know. She’s never written me a note or anything.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe Georgia was scoping out your apartment, hoping to break in when no one would be there.”
“But then why would she leave her name?” Mickey asked.
Brad shrugged. “People make mistakes like that all the time.” He sneered. “People are stupid.”
“Are you saying that you think Georgia murdered Cassie?”
Brad rose to his feet and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “I think Georgia’s a suspect. That’s all. Where’s that notepad, by the way?”
I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to Brad.
The phone rang, and Brad picked it up after he put the notepad in his inside jacket pocket. “Yeah. Got it. Good. Okay. Five minutes.” He hung up. “We have a home address. I’m going there now and two uniforms will check out her office. You both can wait here, or I’ll call you later.” He walked over to the door and had his hand on the knob. “Annabelle, Beth Hobbs told me about Kirsten yesterday. I figured you knew she was gay when we had dinner last night. You’re not helping by keeping information to yourself.”
“Okay.”
He opened the door. “We still only have a first name. If you think of any other information about how we might find Kirsten, you’ll let me know, right?”
“Right,” I said. Maybe, I thought.
Brad regarded me for a minute and then he left, closing the door behind him.
Mickey exhaled like he had been holding his breath for the last ten minutes. “I can’t tell you how much better I feel now. We’re on track. Brad will figure this out, even though he’s a jerk. We can take a break.”
“Mickey, he’s more than a jerk. I heard him talking on the phone in his office. He beats up suspects. The chief of police is, in Brad’s words, ‘all over his ass.’”
Mickey frowned. “That’s not good. Another loose cannon, like…”
“Jake? That’s just what I was thinking.”
Mickey rubbed his face. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Good idea. I think I’ll have a kamikaze or a Long Island ice tea or a triple mindbender.”
“What’s a triple mindbender?”
“I have no idea. I don’t drink any of those kinds of drinks. I made it up.”
He smiled. “So, how about a glass of wine, or a glass of champagne, or…?”
“Nope. Single malt Scotch. Neat.” I stood up. “I want to get to bed early, though. Tomorrow is going to be busy.”
Mickey looked up at me. “It is? You’re having breakfast with Mrs. Hobbs, right? What else?”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re driving up to Tall Oaks tomorrow, remember?”
He stood up. “What?” He kind of yelled this.
“You heard me! We’ve talked about this! We’re going to go up there and see what we can find out.” I kind of yelled that.
“Annabelle! Goddammit, you just told Brad that you would let the police handle this. Don’t you think he’ll send someone up to Tall Oaks? You just basically promised him that you would stay out of this.”
“I did no such thing! I told him that I’d let him know about any information I come up with! I didn’t tell him I was going to crawl under a rock and not come out until he solves everything! We’re talking about stuff that has to do with my grandmother, Mickey, my grandmother. My god, you’re the one who suggested that she might have been murdered. I don’t know, maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, maybe family is no big deal to you, but it is to me, and I’m not going to sit around and cry and not do anything.”
Mickey had sat down again before I had reached the end of that speech. “Family is important, Annabelle. Surely you know that I know that.”
I felt like a thoughtless dimwit. Mickey’s parents were dead. He knew all about losing family. It was like I had just slapped him in the face. I sat down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. God, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“What about your grandparents? Did you know them? Are any of them still alive? Do you see them?”
“My grandfather, Poppy, lives in Scottsdale. He’s an old right-wing Republican coot. Plays a lot of golf. Wears plaid pants. We send each other Christmas cards. He was my mother’s father. She never liked him much either. My grandmother, my father’s mom, is alive, too. She’s in Maine, says the bitter winters keep her vigorous. I guess they do, too, because she’s eighty-five and sturdy as a horse.” Mickey stood up. “Annabelle, if we’re going to Tall Oaks tomorrow, then I want to tell Brad, so it doesn’t take him by surprise.”
“Okay. I can live with that.”
“Good. You know, you’re a lot of wonderful things…”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
“But you’re no private eye. You’re too impulsive. You don’t think things through. You don’t hold back.”
“Wait just a second, I’m the one who held back that note!”
Mickey shook his head. “That was concealing evidence. I’m talking about strategizing, planning. You don’t know how to do that very well, in my humble opinion.”
“Your humble opinion as what? Are you a private eye?”
He looked shocked. “Of course not! But I’m a salesman. I know how to schmooze. I know how to draw people out. I know how to assess what someone wants or needs. I can sense when someone is hiding something.”
“You didn’t suss out that I was hiding that notepad.”
“Oh, I knew something was up with you last night, I definitely did. But it’s true that part of me figured you were just coping with the loss of your friend.”
“So, are you saying that you want to do all the talking tomorrow when we go to Tall Oaks? That you’ll do a better job?”
“That’s right.”
I don’t like to be told I’m not good at something. At anything. Criticism isn’t something that rolls off my shoulders. It sits there like a fifty-pound monkey. But I didn’t feel like arguing. I just wanted to get out of there. So, I took a breath and said, “We’ll see.” Then I picked up my purse from the floor and marched to the door.
Mickey followed me. “Where do you want to get a drink?”
I stopped. “Palo Alto.”
“Palo Alto? Isn’t that far? Why Palo Alto?”
“There’s a very comfy cozy living room there, well stocked with my favorite Scotch. It all belongs to Jeff and Sylvia Starkey, my parents.”
Mickey shrugged. “Okay. Sure. Time to meet the parents. Will they be expecting us?”
“Let’s surprise them.”
On our way out I picked up Brad’s business card and handed it to Mickey. “You should probably enter his number, too, on your cell phone.”
“Already did. You keep it. You might need it.”
I almost crumpled it up to toss it on the floor, thinking that I never wanted to need Brad Franklin for any reason ever again in my life. But instead I shoved it in my pants pocket, for Mickey’s sake, and followed him out of the police station.
Chapter Fifteen
Mom and Dad live in a modest-size house by Palo Alto standards—the rich side of Palo Alto, that is—but it was always plenty big enough for the three of us. Twenty-five hundred square feet, with three bedrooms, and a lovely backyard that is meticulousl
y groomed by my father on weekends. Shade trees surround it, and a low stone wall edges the back perimeter, draped with flowering vines. Dad plants bulbs every year. The blooms always seemed to be at their best in April and May, gigantic reds, whites, yellows, purples—you name it. And please do. I never inherited my father’s knack for making things grow, and I never could keep the names of his flowers straight.
Mickey and I got to their house at about seven. I figured they’d be home, since generally Wednesday night is the one weeknight when one or the other isn’t involved with some meeting for a volunteer community-minded organization, or a tennis game, or a hand of bridge, or a night shift. My father is a tenured professor at Stanford. Astrophysics. You’d never know it, just meeting him. You’d just as soon think he’s a kindergarten teacher or a mailman. He’s unassuming and gentle and generous. And Mom, well, she’s a dynamo go-get-’em type, who has a hard time sitting still. She’s an emergency-room doctor. She handles enormous stress on her job and puts up with a lot of wackos who come in off the street, drunk or angry or both. She’s a tough cookie. I love and admire her, but when I’m in trouble, I usually end up confiding in Dad. He’s more available.
My parents are good people. A little hard to live up to, though. They used to entertain visions of me finding the cure for cancer or proving the Big Bang Theory. Disappointed in me? They would never say so—I would. But I can rely on them, and they truly want me to be happy.
We rang the doorbell but before it opened I warned Mickey about my mother—“She swears like a sailor”—and then Mom answered with, “Honey! Holy crap! I didn’t think you’d be back from Chicago yet!” Mickey let out a laugh.
Then Dad called from the den, “Muffinhead! Is that you?” Mickey looked at me and mouthed, “Muffinhead?” and I gave him my best go-ahead-make-my-day look.
Mom hugged me, after she took off my Giants baseball cap (“Bea, honey, I don’t know why you hide under hats all the time”), then Dad hugged me, then I introduced Mickey to them both, and they all shook hands, and then Dusty, our old golden retriever ambled over and wiggled against everyone. Dad said, “Drink, anyone?” and Mickey said, “That’s what we’re here for,” and everyone laughed.
We sat down in the den with our drinks. Mickey was drinking a gin and tonic, Mom and Dad had opened a bottle of Cabernet, and I was lingering over my Scotch. I began telling them about the last couple of days. Mom interrupted me a lot, with a lot of “why” questions and “holy shits,” and Mickey would usually say, “We just don’t know, Dr. Starkey.” She finally said, “Oh for chrissakes, Mickey, call me Sylvia.”
Dad was silent and listening intently. When I got to the part about Cassie being murdered, Mom yelled “Fuck!” and stood up abruptly, knocking her wine glass to the floor.
Mickey jumped up right away and touched her shoulder to calm her, while Dad went to the kitchen to get some baking soda and wet towels to mop up the spill.
I said, “Mom, I know, it’s awful.”
Mickey said, “Maybe you should sit back down, Sylvia.” And she did.
Once we recovered from that, I got to the end of the story, right up to ringing their doorbell. I left out, by the way, any mention of romantic involvement with Mickey. I even lied about the suite in Las Vegas, mentioning that it had two bedrooms—it didn’t—and said that we booked two rooms at the Sleep Tight Inn—we didn’t—and that I had met Mickey previously at other book trade shows—I hadn’t. I was trying to lie as charmingly and as successfully as Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping—even though she was inventing a relationship whereas I was pretending not to have one. I didn’t want them to have opinions about my flighty behavior, but I think Dad saw right through me. He gives me what I call his Gregory Peck look when he thinks I’m holding back—one eyebrow raised a bit, slight smile. He could have been rehearsing for To Kill a Mockingbird, with all of those Gregorys he was giving me.
When I finished, Mickey suggested that if we found a connection between Cassie, Georgia, and Nana, it could mean that Nana was murdered, too.
Mom paled. “Jeff, how can this be? We trusted Tall Oaks. Could she have been in such danger there?” My mother doesn’t cry, but her eyes welled up.
Before Dad could answer, I emphasized that we didn’t have any evidence of Nana being killed by anyone. I shot Mickey a warning glance to back off. It was the first time I had come to my mother’s rescue. It was the first time she was the one who was crying.
Now it was after eight. Dad got up and went into the kitchen to order dinner, delivered from the local Italian restaurant. I was on my third Scotch, which is usually way too many for me, but it felt like I was just starting to relax.
“So, Mom, what about Nana at Tall Oaks? Can you remember anything weird going on there, or any people there who were creepy, like Mary Rosen?”
“I might recognize Mary, but I don’t recall her now. No one struck me as creepy, though we did pack away Mother’s good things a few months before she died, to make sure they were safe. Should have done it sooner. We’re lucky nothing was stolen.” She switched to Mickey. “Alzheimer’s patients often don’t know what’s theirs and what isn’t.” She smiled at Dad when he came back to the den. “Remember, dear, we gave her a bunch of plastic beads and costume jewelry, so that she could still dress up and feel pretty? But her diamonds and good jewelry, no, we have all of that here.”
Mickey asked, “What about money? Or investments? Her estate?”
Dad smiled. “Nothing there. Nana was a great old dame, and part of her being a great old dame was that she never wanted money, never cared about it, and managed to have what she needed and basically nothing more. She gave a lot away. She contributed to charities. We sold her house to move her into Tall Oaks, and the sale took care of her expenses there. But she really had nothing else.”
A hush fell over us. It was like Nana was in the room, and I found myself smiling at the thought. “One time, Mickey, Nana found a twenty dollar bill on the street.” Mom and Dad shared a grin. “I was with her, about thirteen. She said, ‘Oh my! Some poor soul lost twenty dollars!’ I said, ‘Nana, it probably wasn’t some poor soul. It was probably someone who has lots of money. People around here have lots of money.’ She said, ‘Well, maybe so, but we can’t know that, now, can we.’ So we went to the police station and she turned it over to the desk sergeant, in case anyone came in looking for it. He thought she was crazy.”
Mom said, “Yes, but it turned out she wasn’t.”
Mickey took the last swallow of his second gin and tonic. “What happened?”
Mom sat up straight and crossed her legs. “The sergeant ended up telling a reporter from the local newspaper about it, and the reporter went to her house to interview her. The story was in the paper that week, and by the end of the next week, Mother had so many new students signing up for her ballroom dancing classes that she had to add another class and hire a teacher to help out. Her business took off.”
“So, then she made some money?”
Dad leaned forward in his easy chair and put his forearms on his thighs. “Well, she could have, but it was the dancing and teaching that interested her, not the money. So if her students couldn’t manage to pay, she wouldn’t press them. And if her assistant teacher needed some help with a dentist bill or a babysitting bill, she’d pay.”
“Lots of assholes took advantage of her,” muttered Mom.
“She always gave a lot to the policeman’s ball, too,” I added.
“She had to!” Dad said. “She was usually a guest of honor and won I don’t know how many citizen awards!” We all laughed at that.
Mickey reached his hand over to cover mine. “I wish I could have met her. What about Phyllis, her sister? Was she the same way?”
This took me by surprise. At first I thought, how does Mickey know about Phyllis? Then I remembered talking about Nana and Phyllis and Sara with Mary when we ate at The Full Ho
use in Las Vegas. Then I thought, damn, either he’s got an awfully good memory or he’s been keeping notes.
“Phyllis,” my mother answered, “was a sweet woman with not a lot of brain power. She was younger than my mother, and my mother looked after her a lot when they were growing up. She died young, around fifty-five, I think.”
“She had money.” Dad was pouring himself another glass of wine. “She married well, an entrepreneur who built up a nice small chain of restaurants in the Midwest and then sold them for a pretty penny.”
“Uncle Doug. He died, when, Dad, last year?”
“Two years now, I think. Is that right, Sylvia?”
“Mmm. I think so. Sara had a nice inheritance, which will keep her well for the rest of her life, especially in Omaha.”
Mickey said, “Sara is your cousin, then, is that right?”
”That’s right.”
“Well, I don’t think Phyllis and Doug and Sara have anything to do with this mess with Nana,” I said. “The last thing we need is to pull another city and state into the mix. Who knows anything about Omaha anyway? Lots of steaks. Wheat. Cows. Before they’re steaks, that is.”
Dad smiled. “You seemed to think Iowa was all right for a time.”
“Yup, I did.” I looked at Mickey and said, “I went to Coe College in Cedar Rapids,” then turned back to Dad. “I think Nebraska is all right, too. I’m just not sure a bad cop in Las Vegas has any interest in anything going on in Omaha.”
The doorbell rang—dinner had arrived—and Mom jumped up to get it, almost toppling her wine glass again, but Mickey’s quick reflexes caught the glass before it tipped too far. Quick reflexes, sharp memory, good hair, and easy around parents. I don’t know why I was feeling funny about him then. Maybe he was just too perfect.
