Incredible. Didn’t people come to her because of the word “private” in her job title? She could imagine saying to a client, “By the way, let’s put Claude’s cheating on national television! There’s a penny or two for you and me, too, and doesn’t that make it inviting?”
Had these producers ever witnessed the emotional fallout from these discoveries? She in fact discouraged such surveillance. The person hiring her inevitably already knew what was going on and hired Emma for confirmation, which was nothing short of masochistic. Or vengeful. And neither of those options was meant for national syndication.
Nonetheless, she made note of the show’s name. She’d have to watch, at least once, and see how the hell they did it. She hoped, just as there’d been with that insane marry-for-money show, that there’d be dramatic and horrible fallout for the producers.
She heard Billie greet Zack. From her desk, she could almost see them both. She had her door open because the heating system worked better that way, and it was a chilly, damp day.
She considered her suite’s four rooms. One was empty, but if she were wise, three would be. Or would be filled with tenants, not employees. What with computers these days, she didn’t need this much space—or people—but she was stuck with the luxurious overabundance. She’d gotten her long-term lease when real estate was down, and San Rafael was scrabbling for tenants, and older buildings, such as hers, were in particular distress. Nowadays, it would cost her more to downscale than to stay in place, so here she was. Maybe she still could sublet one or two of the other rooms.
Or sublet those two people out there and get workers who didn’t chat and laugh on her dime. He was regaling her with the same news story he’d shared with Emma that morning, the one about the new county ban on keeping wild animals near people’s homes. It was incredible there hadn’t been such a ban earlier, but it was even more incredible that people wanted to live with monitor lizards and wildcats. And they obviously did, since the clampdown had been triggered by a Bengal tiger showing up in an otherwise tame neighborhood.
More giggling, and murmuring. Something about a bird—a blue bird. Of happiness?
And then a loud sigh and something about exhaustion.
“Partying?” Zachary asked Billie.
Emma heard a soft sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “Wish,” Billie said. “…babysitter has the flu.”
Emma heard what seemed to involve taking the boy somewhere with her, and now he was sick and she was…screwed? Was that what she said? And she’d found somebody for tonight’s appointments, but…
Emma tuned out. She wasn’t unsympathetic to the conflicting demands on Billie’s time. She’d felt familiar tugs in her own stomach, memories of just such times of insoluble conflict between work and home. But sympathy didn’t help a thing. Either you did your work and could bill the hours or you didn’t, and Billie was going to have to find her way because that’s how it was. Maybe not a good way, but reality. And whether or not Billie’s sitter and son were sick, Emma had to pay the rent and utilities and workers’ comp and buy computers and databases and gasoline. Zack could offer chocolates as the universal cure for woes, but try and give them to a bill collector.
Emma returned to the business at hand. She had a workers’ comp case she should think about and a woman looking for her lost college love. People were enraptured with the elusive or lost. That way, the illusions persisted, glowing through time.
Worst thing that could happen was you fell in love and stayed together. That way, next thing you knew, you were having your infidelities televised.
Sooner than she’d have liked, Billie appeared in her doorway, knocking on the frame. “Don’t want to bother you, but I have this idea,” she said.
Emma waved her in. “Help yourself.” She pointed at the coffee machine.
“No thanks.”
“Be honest,” Emma said. “Is it that you don’t like coffee, or you don’t like this coffee?”
She immediately knew the answer as sickeningly polite Billie August silently struggled with how best to respond. Emma had known, anyway, ever since Zack brought in his own machine and beans. “To save the back and forth,” he’d lied.
“I’m not always up to the challenge of your coffee,” Billie finally said.
Not bad at all. An interesting approach to honesty, although neither she nor Zack understood what real coffee was. “And now—you had an idea about something?”
“I spoke with Tracy Lester’s husband. Her widower, I suppose is more accurate. He thinks there was another man. Michael Specht of course, thinks—or knows—there was another woman. The husband says she met a guy named Jimmy on a cruise she took. One of those freebies for travel agents. The place she works for specializes in booking cruises. So I thought I’d go there, pretend to be interested in a trip. Maybe somebody there—gossip on the job stuff—will give me a handle on this mystery man.”
“Why do that?”
“Because maybe there’s a whole other motive for murder. A love gone wrong. A brush-off.”
“I thought she was living with the woman she loved.”
“So did I, but apparently…”
Emma shrugged. “What the hell, Specht could be wrong. It’s worth a few questions, although realistically, what’s the chance of finding out who her shipboard love was. I mean you could check the entire ship’s register for a Jimmy…” She paused, considering how much work getting access to that list would be. “Then, of course, we’d have to track him down, and I’m not sure for what, exactly. So what if she had a fling? Where is it we’re going with this?”
“I’m not sure. Of course, I should say that Robby Lester thinks finding out about Jimmy drove Gavin to murder Tracy.”
“Great. That’s really great.”
“Robby says Gavin was in love with her. He does admittedly love her—but he’s loved her forever—including when she married Robby. He didn’t kill her then, or show anger or jealousy anybody knows of, so why would he now? It doesn’t make sense, but Robby didn’t make all that much sense, either, so all of this is subject to doubt. I will say the man can drink. His mind was sliding sideways, but he wasn’t, and I have no idea how many beers I saw him down, let alone the ones before I got there.”
“You’re right. Go ahead and check it out.”
Emma had always heard about people’s faces lighting up, and had thought it a particularly stupid expression, but there it was. Billie’s tired face suddenly looked as if she’d switched a bulb on inside. “And please,” Emma added, “you can skip the ‘thank you Emma, you said I’m right!’ dance of joy this time.”
Billie grinned, but didn’t look ready to leave. Emma watched, sure there was more and sure that it involved her. Billie looked as haggard as a beautiful woman in her twenties could. Circles under the eyes and an unravelled air about her. Sunday with the sick sitter and son must have been rough. But all Emma said was, “More?”
“I thought I’d wear my black wrap and dark glasses. Look rich, like a person booking a cruise. Kind of Audrey Hepburn as rich girl look? What do you think?”
What Emma thought about was Billie’s sniffling son, and that Russian lummox felled with the flu and probably complaining like crazy, if Russian men were like their American counterparts. “You know,” Emma said. “I’m sure you’d be good, but…”
“A problem?”
“Yes.”
Billie didn’t look worried enough. Being told she had a problem should have made her quiver. For God’s sake, half the time she girl looked terrified when there was nothing, so this lack of fear was frightening.
Emma couldn’t decide if she was being exquisitely manipulated, set up, or whether giving the girl a hand was her own idea. “Nothing you can help, no matter how well-trained an actress you are.” Emma watched as her apprentice’s eyes opened wide, the brow above them easing into a slight frown.
Okay, good. She looked scared again, so this was Emma’s own idea, not something the girl had planned. Or
was she such a good actress that she’d scripted her entire performance, playing Emma’s emotions all the while? “Your age,” Emma said. “That’s the problem.”
“Twenty-eight is a problem?”
“You’re too young. Cruise people aren’t in their twenties. People in their twenties go to the beach. Show off their bodies. Frolic.”
Billie laughed. “I haven’t frolicked in a long time.”
“Then you’re wasting time. Me, I’m past beach frolics,” Emma said. “I sit discreetly back, as wrapped up as the temperature allows. But the thing is, cruise people—let’s be honest. Old farts.”
“Well…thanks, but you aren’t exactly…” Sanely, she let go of the sentence and the attempt.
Emma herself still didn’t feel old or sedentary enough for that kind of travel, but she fit the stats more than Billie did. “Where’s this place, then?” she asked, re-segmenting her day. Not that she had to go today, but pretending to be a wealthy vacationer sounded like more fun than anything else on her desk. Not that she’d say so to Billie. Or acknowledge that this allowed Billie to get home sooner, to the germ-ridden masses awaiting her care.
“Sausalito. Right off Bridgeway.”
Close enough to drop in on Heather Wilson and tell her how she’d failed to find out a single usable thing, and that she should stop phoning every five minutes. All roads lead to Sausalito? Pity it was too cold a day for a good hike up on the headlands while she was in the neighborhood. But then, a cruise kind of woman wouldn’t be dressed for hiking. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“You want my wrap?”
“I’ll pass. It’d make you look rich. It’s likely to make me look like a street person wearing an old bedspread and asking for cash. My age, you need jewelry and surgery to do the rich thing. I’ll figure something out.”
Billie nodded. “I’ll touch base with you later today, okay? I’m meeting with Michael Specht at seven, and maybe we’ll have come up with something real to tell him.”
So that was the appointment. At seven. Interesting choice of time. When it was Emma, it was always during the day. With Billie, after work, over drinks. Maybe Billie’s long frolic-less time was about to end. Not an overly great idea, though. “Make sure…isn’t always great to mix—”
“Drinks?”
“That, too.”
“Got you,” Billie said as she made her exit. But she stopped at the door and turned. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for doing the travel agency. I’m sure you heard me telling Zack I’ve got a sick kid home. And the sitter’s been sick for a week. This really helps. Kind of you.” She ducked out.
Double-damn. Played for a sucker. She’d made sure Emma overheard and she’d known that good-hearted Emma would offer, and Emma would do her a favor.
And she’d thanked her for it.
The girl sure knew how to take the fun out of things.
Twenty
Emma dawdled at the parking lot, watching as a ferry disgorged people dressed in inappropriately lightweight clothes. It was March, and the sky was a chilly winter blue, a washed out, grayed-over blue. But “Sunny California,” they’d insisted, packing short-shorts and sleeveless cotton dresses. They all looked surprised and uncomfortable.
The travel agency across the street and down a piece seemed small, squashed in between more substantial storefronts. Set among shops geared toward visitors—from T-shirts to expensive jewelry—it seemed an odd marketing ploy to suggest there were other, better, places to be.
The small size would make this easy enough. How many people could work there? And all she had to do was mention Tracy. She envisioned another young woman, an easy talk and some hint as to the existence or nonexistence of this Jimmy. A husband plus lovers of both sexes. Tracy Lester hadn’t had a long-enough life, but she certainly had lived before she died.
Emma felt properly cruise-oriented in her blazer, slacks, white tailored blouse, and a never worn printed silk scarf Caroline had given her. Caroline had also shown her how to toss it over her shoulder this way. Emma looked almost nautical and surely financially able to book a good berth on a cruise ship to…South America. Always wanted to go there anyway. She pushed the door open.
Revolving racks with brochures in front of an unattended counter and behind it, two desks. Emma fiddled with pamphlets, pulling off one blazing the word “Caracas.” A gorgeous crackling word, bursting with life, and she didn’t feel she was play-acting anymore. She really wanted to go there, though never by ship. The thought of being trapped in the middle of the sea with hundreds of happy, vacationing strangers was unbearable.
A head, and then a slender male body rose from behind the counter. “Sorry!” he said. “Didn’t realize anyone was here. I was tidying these…”
“No problem at all.”
“Can I help you, then?”
She nodded and came closer. “I’m interested in a cruise. Never have gone on one before, but my friends say—”
“I’m sure they say it’s the perfect way to travel. Because it is. A floating hotel, you know. No need to pack and unpack. Luxury all the way.”
She nodded. “And…safe,” she said. “A woman, alone.”
“Absolutely. Do you have a specific cruise line or destination in mind?”
“No specific ship,” she said. “I’m a novice at this. Friends say this and that, but…”
“No problem. That’s what I’m here for, to help you decide among them.”
“I want to go to South America.”
He nodded vigorously. “Wonderful choice.” He beamed as he walked to a computer on his desk. “Let’s see who we have going there, and when, and what the differences might be.” He waved her over. “Take a seat at my desk and let’s look at the options. What time of year?”
“I don’t know, I guess whenever the weather’s good. I mean their seasons are backward, right?”
“They don’t think so!” He winked at her.
“This is my first—I mean I’m not sure I’m ready to sign up right away. I need to gather information.”
“Of course.” He continued tapping keys while he checked the screen.
“But the thing is, I came here because I met this young woman who works here, and she was so sweet, I thought—Well, frankly, this is awkward, but I promised to ask for her.”
She could almost watch his thermostat drop and the warmth leave him. “Her name is Tracy,” she said. “Tracy Lester.”
A curious stew of expressions filtered across his face. Surprise, concern—both of which seemed appropriate. Worry, which also seemed right. This was a place for only happy thoughts, so how awkward to tell the client Tracy was dead. And then something like apprehension and a backing away, hands off the topic, that seemed less comprehensible.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “Tracy isn’t here.”
True, she thought, although a surprisingly inadequate way of putting it. “I appreciate the help you’ve shown me, but maybe I should come back on a day she is. I promised, after all. Do you know her schedule?”
“Um, I’m sorry, Ms.…I didn’t ask your name.”
“Beane, with a final ‘e.’ Margaret Beane. I live up in Santa Rosa, but I’m down here a lot. That’s how I met Tracy. And it’s ‘Missus,’ even though I am widowed.”
“Of course. Well, Mrs. Beane, I have rather sad news. Tracy isn’t with us anymore.”
“She switched firms?”
“No. I meant that in the…Mrs. Beane, Tracy died. You probably saw it in the papers. Or maybe not, in Santa Rosa. Tracy was…killed.”
“Oh, my…” Emma put her hands to her mouth. She assumed that’s what a cruise-buyer would do. “Terrible. Dreadful. I never read those horrible stories. Turn off the TV, too. She was such a sweet girl!”
“Yes,” he said. “We miss her very much.”
“My condolences. It must be hard on you, working so closely every day and then…” She shook her head again and took a few breaths before speaking. “You know, s
he’s the one who suggested I get away. My husband died a while ago, and I’d never traveled on my own, and…well, she was so helpful.”
He looked grave and sad. And then he seemed to make a connection. “She’s probably who suggested Caracas, too,” he said. “If I may guess.”
Emma pretended to think, and then she nodded. “Possibly, but how did you know that?”
“Because she went on a cruise there last year and she was quite enthusiastic about it.”
Emma nodded.
“I was on that same cruise,” he said. “Spent a lot of time with Tracy and saw most of the same things. So although I realize I’m a substitute, and for such tragic reasons, perhaps I could be of assistance after all. When, of course, you feel ready to talk about it again.”
“You were on the ship with her?”
“At the same time as, but not…with her, in that sense, you understand. I was traveling with a friend.”
Well of course Emma understood. The young man was obviously gay and communicating that. And whether Tracy had been gay or straight, a gay man seemed an unlikely contender for a romantic idyll. Emma could almost hear her son and Zack tsk-tsking her unquestioned labeling, and she knew that sexual orientation wasn’t a visible trait, but people, straight and gay, had the option of codes, mannerisms, and dress styles that signaled clearly. That were in fact designed to signal. This man was signaling.
But he’d still probably know about shipboard romances—if he was willing to talk. She leaned closer. “I hear…Tracy said that interesting things happen in those exotic places.”
He angled his head, the skin around his eyes tightening. “What kind of things?”
“The truth is…one reason I thought it would be easier to talk to a woman…I’m a widow, and meeting men is really difficult at my age, and Tracy, poor soul, said…”
“Ah.” He nodded and looked relieved. “A good place to meet people.”
“Shipboard romances,” Emma said softly. “I wonder if Tracy had one, the poor dear. If that’s why she was so…why she talked that way, mentioned it.”
Whatever Doesn't Kill You (An Emma Howe and Billie August Mystery Book 2) Page 15
