Larkspur

by Sheila Simonson

  Jay slept heavily for about three hours. Then he started to toss and turn. I got him a pill, too.

  Chapter IX

  "Yeow!"

  "Sorry. Turn."

  Jay rotated gingerly, and water from the shower splattered out on the bathroom tiles. Also on me.

  "Halt!" I had agreed to help remove the tidy Velcro corset from Jay's cracked ribs so he could shower, on the condition that he stand very still while I did the scrubbing. I am not into S&M. The sight of bruises, scrapes, and contusions, far from provoking ecstasy, kicks in my athletic-trainer persona, and I get bossy. I was also getting very wet.

  I lathered. Jay groaned--and yelped and muttered rude words. I was glad he wasn't the kind to suffer in silence but I wished he'd censor his speech a little. I was trying to help.

  The phone rang.

  "Shit. I'll get it. Stand still."

  Mutter, mutter.

  I squished into the bedroom.

  "Lark, darling."

  "Hello, Ma. Up early?" It was seven.

  "Feels like the middle of the morning," she burbled. "Are you busy?"

  "I was, er, in the shower."

  "I'll make it quick then. I want to see Dai's lodge before I meet D'Angelo this afternoon. He gave me directions, but I'd rather you drove me. You did say your clerks were covering the store today."

  "Sure, Ma." I had said that. Incautious me. "What time?"

  "Nine?"

  "Okay." I could check on Ginger after lunch. I was worried about Ginger. I wondered if Denise had eaten her yet. Dennis had brought his mother home on the same flight we had taken.

  When I got back to the shower Jay had turned the water off, strictly against orders, and was standing on the bathmat, dripping.

  I grabbed a towel.

  "If you don't mind, Lark, I'll just stand here until the water evaporates."

  "I'll pat. Gently."

  Eventually we got him into the Velcro contraption and some clothes. I showered, dressed, and made him drink a glass of ucky instant breakfast drink when he refused cream of wheat, eggs, and everything else I suggested. His mouth hurt, he said. I believed him. He looked as if everything hurt.

  By the time he left for the courthouse, I was feeling downright cranky. I don't think I'm cut out to be a nurse.

  I drove out to Eagle Cap Lodge rather too fast and pried Mother away from her view of a mountain stream. She swore it purled. "I could work here, Lark. It's beautiful."

  "Tell D'Angelo to bring the papers out to you."

  "No, I mean real work--poetry." She was genuinely elated. "And your father would love it. He could fish the stream..."

  "Crick."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It's called Pumpkin Creek, and pronounced Punkin Crick, according to my sources."

  She made a face. "A sadly large number of our pioneer forebears had prosaic souls."

  "Maybe it was a very large punkin."

  I'll lay odds Ma's next book contains a piece called "Punkin Crick." And it will deal poetically with prosy pioneers.

  Ma ignored my comment, picked up her handbag, checked for her room key, and we were off.

  On the way to the lodge I gave her a summary of Jay's encounter with Ted Peltz and the consequences.

  "The poor woman has a fractured skull?"

  "That's right."

  "It's fortunate Jay happened along in time to stop him."

  "You wouldn't say that if you'd seen Jay's ribs."

  "Was he badly injured?"

  "Just bunged up. He's sore." But very clean.

  I gripped the wheel tighter as the road twisted along a steep ravine. Driving was less acrophobic for me than riding as a passenger. Mother seemed unaffected. She kept making appreciative noises as vista after vista of blue fir-clad foothills unrolled below her.

  As we entered a kind of tree-tunnel, she said, "You'll have to visit her."

  A logging truck laden with three thick cedar boles careened past. "Who, Angharad?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "I barely know her--and what I do know I don't much like."

  Another truck. Making up for time lost to the forest fire.

  "That doesn't matter."

  "It does to me."

  "There are occasions," said my mother, "when it's a woman's duty to stand by another woman. This is one of them."

  "She's probably still in intensive care."

  "Then visit the hospital and leave your name. And take a nice plant."

  "Intensive care patients can't have plants."

  Ma gave an exasperated sigh. "A symbolic gesture, Lark."

  We were climbing along the last stretch of forest before the lake. "I could take a slip of larkspur."

  Ma clucked her tongue.

  "Or a bouquet of Cannabis sativa."

  "I hope your association with a policeman has not coarsened your taste."

  "Jay wallows in gross stuff. Like Othello," I said sullenly.

  We bristled in silence the rest of the way to the lodge.

  We stood on the veranda for a while, just looking at the glittering expanse of lake. Then I made myself knock. According to Jay, Domingo had driven off the press by the simple expedient of yelling at them in Tagalog whenever one of them drove up.

  I knocked a second time. As I prepared to knock again the door latch clicked and the door opened a crack.

  "Hi, Domingo," I said awkwardly. "I've brought my mother."

  The door swung wide. "Mrs. Dailey."

  "Oh, Domingo, it's so sad!"

  I kept forgetting Mother had been a long-time friend of the household. She and Domingo fell on each other's necks, both weeping a little.

  Domingo served us fresh-baked brioches in the gleaming kitchen, preserves that tasted as if he had plucked each berry himself, and his marvelous coffee. It was plain he had distracted himself from his grief by baking.

  Owing to my efforts to poke protein down Jay's throat, I hadn't eaten much breakfast, so I devoured a brioche and a cup of coffee before I tuned in on the conversation.

  Ma and Domingo were discussing the Philippines--then on the verge of the revolt that brought Coraz?n Aquino to power. Domingo had a grand-niece who had had to leave the country because of persecution by the Marcos regime. She was living in San Francisco.

  "...and I'm going to help Letty set up a little restaurant."

  Ma beamed at him. "How exciting, Domingo. It must be hard to find a lease in San Francisco, though."

  "Mr. Llewellyn promised me a spot on Chestnut. This son, d'you think he's going to honor the boss's promise?"

  "Haven't you talked with Dennis?" I licked a drop of jam from one finger.

  "Not since Saturday morning. Of course I didn't know then he was the boss's son." He shook his head. "Surprised me. That Denise was always hanging around the lodge in the summer, and calling the townhouse, too. I should've guessed."

  "Dennis is a very nice man," I said firmly. "If you like, I'll tell him you need to talk to him."

  Domingo refilled my cup and Mother's, and poured himself about half a cup, too. "I drink too much of this stuff. Then I worry and get funny heartbeats." He sighed. Jay had been right about his English. It was fluent and virtually unaccented.

  "The coffee tastes so good it's worth a few jumpy heartbeats." I took an appreciative sip.

  He gave me a distracted smile that faded almost at once. "If you don't mind, Lark, ask Mr. Fromm what he wants me to do. He could call me. I didn't like to leave the place vacant with that riff-raff in the cabin and Miguel gone, and now Peltz is gone, too, I worry about crazies looking for souvenirs. But it's time I got back to San Francisco."

  Mother said, "Do you know about the Foundation?"

  "Some outfit going to set up a summer camp for poets."

  I hid a grin. Camp Gitchigumi by the shining big sea water. Poets romping through the woods and canoeing on the lake. Community sings around a campfire. Marshmallows toasting over Domingo's Jenn-Air range. Win D'Angelo blowing a whistle to
bring them to order.

  Ma was explaining about writers' colonies.

  Domingo listened with grave attention. "Then Mr. D'Angelo's the one to talk to about the lodge?"

  "D'Angelo and Dennis Fromm," Ma said. "They'll need a caretaker. You wouldn't want to do that, but it's a pity the young chauffeur..."

  Domingo growled.

  "Do you think Miguel killed Mr. Llewellyn?" I had to ask.

  His face darkened. "I think he stole the Mercedes. Maybe he killed the boss, too. Maybe not. That scum, Ted Peltz..." I thought Domingo was going to spit on his spotless floor, but he restrained himself.

  "Jay says Ted will be out on bail by Monday if Angharad doesn't charge him with assault."

  Domingo took a gulp of coffee. "I been here close to fifty years, and I still don't understand Anglo law. It's crazy. A guy who'd marry a girl against her papa's wishes, he's no good." He gestured with his cup. "I told the boss so, but he says Ana has a right to her tastes. So he gives her the cabin rent-free and now look at her. She going to die, too, Lark?"

  "I don't think so."

  He shook his head. "Letting Peltz out on bail. Crazy. I ran over to the cabin when I heard the sirens yesterday, and I saw Ana, and Mr. Dodge, too, all bloodied up. Back home, if you beat up a cop..." He slashed his free hand across his throat. "They throw away the key. Here? Crazy."

  I had to agree with that, emotionally if not politically.

  Mother finished her last bit of brioche. "Will you show me around the lodge, Domingo? I want to see what will have to be done before the Foundation can start inviting guests."

  "Sure thing." He got up and took our cups to the sink.

  I carried the plates and the jam pot to the counter. "Thanks for the brioches, Domingo. Doesn't it bother you, being all alone out here in the wilds with a murderer running loose?"

  "Ah, no." He winked. "I got protection." He pulled open a drawer by the sink. There, beneath a neatly ironed dish towel, lay a mean-looking handgun and a box of shells. "I was a guerrilla in the war, see? So I know guns. I always keep one in my kitchen--here, in San Francisco, wherever we go. I can take care of myself."

  I swallowed. "Uh, good. What about supplies? Do you need anything from town?"

  He snorted. "There's enough stuff in the freezers to feed an army. Besides, if I need to go to town I got the Volvo."

  It was a relief to know he had a car. I didn't like the idea of Domingo marooned at the lodge with Ted Peltz for company, gun or no gun, but I also didn't see turning the Toyota into a delivery wagon. Not on that road.

  "Coming?" Ma called from the doorway. She had gone into the hall ahead of us. I think she missed the byplay with the gun. "Lark, darling, you must see Domingo's linen closets."

  Mother's inspection of the facilities was almost embarrassing. She didn't quite count the sheets, but I could see she was thinking in practical--prosaic?--terms. There would be room in the lodge for ten or twelve poets and a live-in staff of three, a rather small writers' colony, but of course there were acres and acres available for expansion.

  I was impressed by the private study on the main floor. We hadn't been shown that. It was spacious enough to function as a library for a modest-sized group of writers, and contained most of the basic references. Mother made purring sounds as she inspected the shelves.

  Llewellyn had used an electric typewriter. It sat on the workmanlike desk in its neat dust-cover with a stack of unused typing paper beside it. The paper was already turning yellow. I excused myself from the tour of the bedrooms, went outside, and sat on the boat dock. The sight of the deserted typewriter had made me feel sick--or maybe I had just eaten too much. I hoped Domingo would have no occasion to use his gun. He might be a famous guerrilla fighter but he was also at least seventy. Dennis--or Win D'Angelo--ought to hire a security service and send Domingo off to his niece.

  Those were my first reflections. After that I started imagining what Domingo's life had been like, serving the whims of a wealthy, arrogant man, which was what Llewellyn had been, however charming. Domingo's eyes had lit up when he spoke of his new business venture. I wondered how long the restaurant had been on the books.

  Llewellyn's death had freed Domingo, or would free him, to pursue what was plainly a cherished dream. Had he perhaps shortened the waiting period by slipping a little juice of larkspur into the Campari?

  After all, Domingo was a chef, with access to a stove and a food-processor, a more logical suspect than Miguel. Perhaps Miguel had decamped because he was afraid of Domingo.

  I did not recall seeing Domingo on the lawn after the Fourth of July dinner, but I hadn't been looking for him, either. And he was capable of violence. He had said so, and I believed him.

  "Yoo hoo!" Mother was standing on the veranda waving at me. Time to go.

  We said goodbye to Domingo. Ma gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to keep her posted about his restaurant. She would tell her friends about it.

  He pressed a bag of fresh brioches on me--for Jay, he said--and reminded me to tell Dennis to call him. We left.

  Mother was still making great plans for the lodge when we reached the outskirts of Monte. She'd fallen in love with the lodge. I did not doubt she would be writing there herself the next summer, or teaching a workshop. I said nothing to dissuade her, but I wasn't filled with delight at the thought.

  The highway passes a nursery with a small flower shop. Ma broke off her speculations when she saw the sign and told me to pull in and find a plant for Angharad.

  At that I balked. "I've got a nice book in mind for her. She can't read at the moment, but she's not allowed to have a plant either. If I'm supposed to make a futile gesture, the book will do."

  "What is it?"

  "A do-it-yourself divorce manual."

  Ma gave an exasperated cluck. "That's sick, Lark."

  "Anyway," I added hastily, "it's time for lunch."

  "But we just stuffed ourselves with brioches."

  "True. I have the bookstore to see to, though, and you're supposed to meet D'Angelo in half an hour. I'll run you out to his place and pick you up later."

  "You ought to visit Mrs. Peltz."

  "I will if you'll lay off."

  Ma compressed her mouth into a tight little line but she withdrew from the battle.

  In spite of the fact that Ma was ten minutes early, D'Angelo opened the door for us before we had a chance to knock. He looked harassed and anxious, but he offered me coffee. I declined and left Ma inspecting the heap of notebooks and papers on his coffee table.

  I drove to my bookstore. The press siege was over. The murder was then a week old and nothing startling had happened since Miguel's disappearance. The stringer had moved his camper, and the rubbernecking kids had gone on to better things.

  I pulled boldly up to the front entry, hopped out, and bonged my little bonger myself. I had missed it.

  "Oh, wow, Lark!"

  "Good heavens, Annie, what is it?"

  Annie finished ringing up a customer's purchases then ran from behind the counter. "I tried to call you. Ginger hasn't showed up, and I'm on at the liquor store in fifteen minutes!"

  No rest for the wicked. "Don't forget your handbag," I called as she dashed for the door. I hadn't meant to work that afternoon. Mundane chores like laundry and grocery shopping had piled up. I hoped Ginger's car hadn't broken down again.

  She drifted in half an hour later as I was showing a retired professor our selection of California history. Jay had helped me stock the regional history shelf, and I was proud of it, so I took my time selling the man a new account of the Donner party. When he left I found Ginger drooping over the poetry with a feather duster in her hand and a vacant smile on her lips.

  "So how did you do while I was gone? Did you have time to shelve the mysteries?"

  "Uh, no. It was fine. Dennis says I'm supposed to give you notice."

  "What!" Fortunately the store was empty of customers. I probably shouted.

  She beamed. "We're getti
ng married."

  "Oh...well, great. That's wonderful news." It was awful news. Horrible. Revolting. Annie hadn't read a book since high school and never voluntarily. I needed a clerk who thought reading books was an acceptable human activity--a clerk who knew what was in stock, a clerk who knew how to order what wasn't, a clerk who did not chew gum on duty. I needed Ginger. "When?" I croaked.

  "August fifteenth." She sounded definite.

  "I thought you were opposed to marriage."

  "That was before Dennis asked me," she said simply. "He was so sweet, Lark. He took his mother home from the airport and came over here and proposed. Right here in this very store. There were two customers looking at maps."

  "Did they applaud?"

  The goofy grin again. "I invited them to the wedding. You'll come, won't you? And Jay? I want you to be my maid of honor."

  "You can't get married, Ginger," I said firmly.

  Her eyes widened.

  "Not until you find me a replacement, and I don't mean Annie."

  She laughed. "You're so funny. Dennis says you have a great sense of humor."

  "I love Dennis, too," I said hollowly.

  "Will you?"

  "What?"

  "Be my maid of honor?"

  "If you want me to." This was noble self-sacrifice. I am a head taller than Ginger, and we weigh about the same, so we were going to look like Laurel and Hardy. "Tell me about it."

  Between customers--there weren't as many as there had been, but there were more than before the murder--Ginger told me all about her upcoming nuptials, which were to take place in a forest glade near Lake Alice. Shades of the sixties.

  Dennis had resigned from the Forest Service. While he waited for the lawyers to prove the will, he was going to enroll in business classes at Humboldt State. He would have to learn how to manage, or at least understand, all that money. I was surprised Dennis had so much common sense, but I had the wit not to say so.

  "I suppose you'll take some classes, too."

  Eyes shining, Ginger clutched the feather duster to her shirt. "I'll be able to go to school full-time, and I can major in lit or art history or whatever I want to. Oh, gee, Lark, I don't believe this is happening to me. And he's going to adopt the kids!"