by Josh Lanyon
“Christ. You really are your mother’s son.”
My mouth opened. No words came out.
“You better hurry up and figure out what the hell it is you want, Adrien.”
“Sorry?”
He risked a quick look from the highway, and his tawny eyes were bright with anger. “I’ve never known you to play games, so I’m going to assume you truly are confused and not deliberately jerking me around.”
“Jerking you around?” I practically stuttered.
“Let’s start with climbing in bed with me last night. Or the fact that you’ve hired me to look into this bullshit case.”
I echoed disbelievingly, “Bullshit case?”
“You say it’s over between us, okay. That’s not what I want, but I can accept that there’s too much water under the bridge. You’re probably right. You know more about this kind of thing than I do, and you sure as hell should know more about what it is you want. So it’s over. I’d like to stay friends with you. I think you want that too. For that to happen you need to respect the boundaries.”
My heart was racketing around my chest like a ricochet gone wild. It took a couple of hyperventilating breaths before I managed to say, “Speaking of mixed signals, what was this morning’s blowjob supposed to be? Taps?”
I could see the muscle moving in his jaw.
“I wanted to do that for you,” he said in that too-level voice. “I wanted to do that for myself. I wanted one last time with you.”
My throat closed off, and I turned to stare back out the window at the sand and water flying by in sunlit flashes of anguished blue and gold.
Finally I got control of my voice. “You’re right. I didn’t think.” I swallowed. “I guess… I don’t want you to go.”
It took a lot to admit that. I could have saved my breath. He shot back, “I don’t think you know what you want. Which…fair enough. You’ve had your share of trauma for the year. Just…don’t push me anymore.”
I snapped, “You got it.”
The rest of the drive was made in silence. There was plenty to say, but what was the point? I’d made my mind up, right? I was finally, for once in my life, doing the sensible thing.
When we finally reached Cloak and Dagger, I scrambled out of the car.
“Can you let me know how it goes with Newman?”
I got a curt “of course.”
The Honda was starting to roll forward, so I managed to push the door shut without slamming it, and away he went. Places to go and people to do.
I walked into the bookstore; the bells on the door jingled cheerfully. A tall, bony, sallow woman in her late forties looked up and delivered the kind of glower that old-style librarians and German nuns used to great effect.
“Uh, I’m Adrien.” I barely managed not to apologize for it. “I own this place.”
“Ms. Pepper.” She didn’t smile. I think maybe the scowl lessened a fraction.
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Pepper.” She had a grip like a stevedore.
I walked past the customers cowering in the aisles and hunted Natalie down in my office.
“Hi,” she whispered. We were evidently on speaking terms again. After a day of Ms. Pepper, even I was probably a welcome relief.
“Who is that?” I whispered back.
“Naomi Pepper.”
“I know. Where did she come from?”
“The agency sent her.”
“She’s scaring the customers.”
“She scares me.”
“We have to get rid of her. What were they thinking? She’s like…she’s like having a gorgon for a Walmart greeter.”
Natalie made frantic shushing motions, although if we were any quieter, we’d have been communicating by telepathy.
“We can’t.”
“Why can’t we?”
“I guess she was the only qualified person willing to work here.”
Two tiny murder investigations and everyone treated us like plague house.
I opened my mouth and then closed it. I wasn’t in position to insist. “Does Elphaba know anything about books?”
“Does it matter?”
She had a point.
I went to the doorway and peered out. “Why are all the lights on in there? It looks like a prison yard after an attempted escape.”
“Ms. Pepper felt it was too dark.”
I thought it over. “I’ll be upstairs,” I informed her sotto voce.
“Coward.”
“I have a note from my doctor.”
“Oh. Do not let Mr. Tomkins out of your rooms. Ms. Pepper doesn’t like cats.”
I nodded my dismayed understanding.
As I slunk up the stairs, I noticed the music was not on, which added to the general study-hall atmosphere. Did Ms. Pepper also not like music?
Upstairs, I greeted Tomkins — who expressed himself at length on what he thought of such tomcat behavior as staying out all night — changed the clothes I’d been wearing for two days, forced down another of those ghastly protein-shake things — and tried to think of what to do with the rest of my day.
I really didn’t see what more I could learn on my own. The case was simply too cold, and I had read all I wanted on jazz, swing, and early Malibu.
I wondered how Jake’s meeting was going with Harry Newman.
I wondered what the hell had been up with Jake on the drive back from Santa Barbara.
I wondered why I couldn’t stop thinking about Jake.
I got out the manuscript for A Deed of Dreadful Note and worked on it for a bit. My agent and editor were going to be delighted at how early this thing would be arriving on their desks. I’d never turned in anything this fast. Then again, I’d never had this much time on my hands before.
Unfortunately, that was what it felt like. Too much time on my hands.
Lauren dropped by late afternoon to invite me for a swim at the house in Porter Ranch.
“What was that?” she asked of Ms. Pepper when we got outside.
“That’s Ms. Pepper. She’s the new bookstore assistant.”
“She told me to lower my voice when I asked for you.”
“I hope you lowered your voice.”
“I did.”
* * * * *
When I got back around four thirty, I looked to see if Jake had called yet, but the answering machine was disconcertingly blank. Even Lisa seemed to be preserving radio silence.
At five I could hear the familiar sounds of Natalie’s closing up shop. I thought it was quite a commentary that the shop seemed noisier after it closed for the day than it had during business hours with Ms. Pepper manning the front desk.
Finally, at six, the phone rang. I jumped to get it, trying not to acknowledge that I hoped it was Jake. It wasn’t. It was Guy.
It seemed he had decided to forgive me. He chatted about how his week was going, and I gave him a vastly edited version of my own week.
“Are you sure you’re not overdoing things?” he asked tentatively.
I squelched the instant flare of resentment. It was a reasonable question — and he hadn’t even heard half of what I’d been up to.
I still felt queasy when I remembered how easily I’d forgotten my meds. Thank God for Jake.
I blinked at the mental echo of that thought.
“I’m pacing myself.”
“Right. Well, you’ve got a second chance. You don’t want anything to jeopardize that.”
I was beginning to be very tired of people telling me how lucky I was. “I know. I’m conscious of that. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. Scout’s honor.”
We talked a bit longer, but as glad as I was that we were back on good terms, I found myself strangely stumped for dialogue.
When I finally hung up, there was only a short time to prepare for Partners in Crime, the writer’s group I hosted at the bookstore every Tuesday evening. The fact that I could contemplate having the group meet was proof of how much progress I’d made. Even the week before the mere
idea of critique had exhausted me.
Jean and Ted Finch showed up early to set up the chairs and table and set out the snack foods. The Finches were married writing partners, but they looked unsettlingly like brother and sister, which reminded me of Jinx and Jay Stevens. Except Jinx and Jay had really been brother and sister.
Hadn’t they?
Now there was an angle I hadn’t considered before.
“How are you feeling, you poor baby?” Jean asked, to my embarrassment, giving me a big hug.
“Good,” I assured her. “Better all the time.”
“You look good. Much better than any of us expected. You got a little sun, I see.”
Ted looked up from moving chairs into a wide circle. “Have you solved the mystery of the skeleton in the wall yet?”
“I haven’t. And he was in the floor. Not that it makes a difference.”
Ted and Jean looked at each other and twinkled.
I added, “And if Avery Oxford finds a body in the wall of his newspaper office, I’m suing you both.” We all laughed merrily. “Seriously.”
Avery Oxford was the protagonist of their appalling first novel, Murder, He Mimed. He was a thirtysomething, sharp-tongued, self-satisfied twit who bore a strong physical resemblance to me, right down to his slender build, silky black hair, and bright blue eyes. He even had a tough cop friend named Jack O’Reilly. Alarmingly, Jean and Ted recently claimed to have found representation for the book. I tried to comfort myself that whoever had agreed to such a thing was probably even now in rehab and that I had nothing to worry about.
The rest of the group started to file in, and I was assured several times how surprisingly healthy I looked. I took it as a compliment, although I had to wonder at what I’d looked like before.
Paul Chan, once Jake’s partner in homicide, was the last to show up. He was a paunchy, middle-aged detective, and that night he was chewing stick after stick of Juicy Fruit gum, leading me to believe he was once more trying to quit smoking. From the point of his arrival, the discussion veered away from writing and publishing back to the skeleton in the floor.
Chan confirmed that the body was presumed to be Jay Stevens and that the investigation was proceeding along those lines.
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” I asked.
Chan named the detective who I’d spoken to previously. He’d left a message that morning saying the construction site had been approved to be reopened.
“Alonzo isn’t part of the investigation?”
“Alonzo?” Chan looked cautious. “Not to my knowledge. It’s strictly CCHU.”
“Is that so?”
His look was inquiring. I let it go. It was good to know that I had recourse, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk antagonizing Alonzo. With Jake gone, my only friend at LAPD was Chan.
At the break, Chan asked awkwardly after Jake.
I thought of my last conversation with Jake. “Hard to read,” I said shortly. “You should give him a call.”
“I did,” he said, surprising me. “Right after it all went down. I heard a rumor that he’s moving.” His brown eyes met mine.
It wasn’t exactly an accusing look; even so, I felt myself coloring. “He’s been offered a job in Vermont.”
“Vermont? What would Jake do in Vermont? He’s a California boy, born and raised. All his family is here.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I said wearily.
When the meeting broke up at last, I headed straight upstairs in the hope that Jake had called.
The answering machine was empty of any calls.
* * * * *
I spent an undisturbed night, so perhaps the trouble with Harry was over.
The next morning, Wednesday, I weighed myself. Halle-fricking-lujah. I’d finally gained a pound. I took my temperature. Perfect. Heart rate also normal. Incision looking good. I studied myself in the mirror.
“It looks like you’re going to live.”
The guy in the mirror smiled sheepishly back.
* * * * *
“Let’s talk about Friday’s cardiac-rehab session,” Dr. Shearing said in the tone of one who would brook no arguments.
“I wasn’t here on Friday.”
“Exactly,” she said with satisfaction. “One week into cardiac rehab and you’ve already started playing hooky. Do you understand why that sends up flags for your recovery team?”
“Not really. I’m sure people —”
“Patients,” she interjected in that kind, all-knowing way that made me long to hit her with the crystal angel paperweight on her desk. “There’s an element of denial —”
“Patients,” I corrected, “occasionally have to miss rehab.”
“Occasionally emergencies crop up,” she conceded graciously. “What was your emergency, Adrien?”
I opened my mouth to tell her it was none of her damned business, though that was bound to create more problems than it solved. “To tell you the truth, I went out with a friend.”
“That’s excellent,” she praised, as though I’d managed to mostly stay within the lines of my coloring book. “I’m very glad to hear that you’re making an effort to reach out to friends and family again. That’s very encouraging. However, I’m sure if your friend realized how important cardiac rehab is to your recovery —”
“I missed once last week,” I interrupted. “I was here Monday, and I’m here today. I’ll be here Friday. I’m committed to my recovery. I want to get well.”
“You still sound a wee bit defensive,” she observed. “However, you’re much less angry than our last session, and that’s very good news.”
I sighed.
“Fear, depression, and anger are very common after cardiac events…”
And they’re off! I kept a polite expression on my face while her mouth galloped along yards ahead of her brain.
Why did they call heart attacks and surgeries cardiac events? Why not cardiac incidents? Incident far better captured the sinister connotations.
I realized that Dr. Shearing had stopped and was waiting for an answer.
“Sorry? I missed that.”
She summoned her patience. “I said perhaps this friend would be willing to act as your support partner?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We never know until we ask.”
“Sometimes we do.”
She gave me a chiding look. “I’m going to give you your first homework assignment, Adrien. I want you to invite someone — you can choose anyone you like — to accompany you to our session next Wednesday.”
“Does this count toward the final?”
She allowed herself a very small smile. “Indeed it does.”
I nodded. It sounded to me like an excellent time to transfer to woodshop.
* * * * *
“How much longer, Lisa?”
“Call me ‘Mummy,’ Em,” Lisa instructed gently, eyes on the rearview.
Emma’s eyes met mine. She shoved a french fry into her mouth and chewed without comment.
Lisa sighed.
We were once more on the road to Chino, having stopped briefly to supply Emma with lifesaving McDonald’s french fries. Other than that, it had been an uneventful trip. I hoped it stayed that way. Or at least that the only event would be the purchase of a horse for Emma.
“Are you seeing Jake Riordan again?” Lisa asked over Jacqueline du Pré’s performing Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor.
I glanced back at Emma, who was now managing to eat french fries while holding her nose as we passed yet another dairy farm.
“Natalie told you I went with him to Santa Barbara.”
“Was it a secret?”
“No.”
“You’re a grown man, Adrien,” she said, and I almost fell out of my seat. “I’m not going to tell you what to do.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Are you seeing Jake Riordan?”
“No. He’s…helping me with the situation at the bookstore.” She didn
’t comment, and I added unwillingly, “He may be moving.”
“Jake?” It was the closest I’d ever heard to her sounding dumbfounded.
I nodded, gazing out the window.
“Why is he leaving?”
I looked at her in surprise. “He got a job offer in Vermont.”
“Vermont?” She asked quite sharply, “Are you thinking of going with him?”
“No.”
I thought she might have something to add to that, but by then we were turning off for Osseo Farms.
At the farm, Lisa and I stood watching in the paddock as Adagio was saddled and Emma mounted. Karin Schultie led horse and rider to the larger arena, and Lisa and I followed.
We leaned against the tall white fence, watching as Emma rode the gelding around the arena.
“You see the difference in his three gaits? See that? He really is a beauty.”
Lisa eyed me resignedly. “I suppose. He does have a pretty face.”
I ruthlessly suppressed my smile as we watched Emma, solemn faced, make another pass around the enclosure.
“I’m glad you get along with her so well,” Lisa remarked.
“She’s a great kid.”
“Yes.” She sounded unexpectedly melancholy.
“I’m not competing with a memory. Em never had a big brother before.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
I glanced at her still-flawless profile. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, darling. We have no secrets from each other.”
“Er — right. Anyway, kind of a funny question, I know, but why is it that I call you Lisa and not Mother?”
Lisa’s gaze locked onto my own. “Did you want to call me Mother?”
“Now? No. I mean, it doesn’t matter. I’m not — I’m curious…”
“Your father taught you to say Lisa. He thought it was very funny, and it was. You said it with the exact same inflection he did, but in your baby voice.” To my alarm, tears filled her eyes. She turned her profile to me, staring out once again at the arena. “And after he died, I liked hearing it. That…echo.”
“Oh.” I swallowed hard. Had to ask, didn’t I? Now she was wiping hastily at her cheeks.
I looked quickly out to where Em continued putting Adagio through his paces, still with that set and serious expression on her face.
