Whatever Doesn't Kill You (An Emma Howe and Billie August Mystery Book 2)

by Gillian Roberts

  “She was married, you know. Separated, but her husband wasn’t on the trip. That’s how I got to go with her. It was a ticket for two.”

  “Oh! So you…well, anyway.”

  He grinned. “We were friends. Platonic friends. But they found a second cabin for me. It was a double, so my friend decided to go. Paid his way, of course. We send a lot of business to the cruise line. We may look small, but most of it is done over the phone.”

  They’d lost the thread somewhere there in the analysis of who slept where. “So she went without her husband.”

  He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean she had a shipboard romance. She didn’t. I would have known. Not that it doesn’t happen, and happen frequently,” he added.

  “It doesn’t actually matter,” Emma said. “But to find someone to perhaps have a drink with me, or a dance, that would be nice.”

  “And you surely will. Now if you like, we can compare the different ships and routes and departure times. Each line has its own personality and of course, different classes of travel.”

  She let him speak on, nodding every so often to show she was being attentive, actually listening now and then as he spoke of the various ports en route. But mostly she pondered the idea of Tracy’s affair—or Tracy’s husband’s conviction that there’d been an affair—versus the travel agent’s denial of any cruise-ship romance.

  The travel spiel seemed to be running down. He looked to her for a reaction and input. Her turn now to ask questions, suggest a budget, although there was no point to that. “You make it sound just the way I’d hoped,” she said. “And please don’t hate me if I ask you to give me brochures, or an estimate—something I can study at a slower pace before I make my decision. But I promise I will book through you when I do.”

  “No problem at all.” He pulled out a form, filling in dollar signs and numbers and names and dates, signed it and handed it to her. “Whenever you’re ready. Give a call. Here’s my number, and my card.”

  She looked at the sheet. The prices were staggering but she nodded and tried to look interested. “Thank you,” she said, standing up. “You’ve been exceptionally helpful”—She scanned the business card he’d attached to the sheet: Lawrence Erroll St. James—“Lawrence,” she said, putting out her hand. “Or are you a Larry?”

  He was also on his feet now, and he took her hand and shook it. “Been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Beane. And it’s neither, actually. I should have other cards made up, though it wouldn’t seem businesslike, would it, if I used the name everybody calls me? It’s that last name, you see, that St. James that did it. People started calling me Saint Jimmy, but it’s just plain Jimmy nowadays.”

  “Jimmy,” she murmured as she walked outside.

  A few steps up the pavement’s gentle rise en route to the parking lot, she stopped to catch her metaphorical breath, as if walking interrupted the flow of logic.

  Standing still didn’t help. The gay young man in the travel agency was still Jimmy with whom, perhaps, Tracy had clandestine, guilt-laden conversations. Or maybe Robby Lester imagined that, too.

  And maybe none of it mattered. Whenever you started looking further and further from the heart of things, the picture grew more dense, less sharply edged as each new person’s story was woven into the web.

  And at the heart of this one, maybe it was as simple as the DA felt. Maybe Gavin Riddock in a fit of whatever mood possessed him at that moment killed Tracy Lester, who still loved somebody else. Not Robby anymore, but not Gavin, either. And that was that.

  Emma felt nauseated. Seasick, perhaps. She tossed the fistful of brochures and all thought of shipboard romances into the nearest basket and was, miraculously, cured.

  Twenty-One

  “It sounds like interesting stuff, but…” Michael Specht smiled wryly and shook his head. “In the end, it’s still only stuff.”

  The bar at Savanna Grill was crammed with people. Billie was somewhat amazed that so many people were free for after-work drinks in Corte Madera. They looked as if they had all the time in the world. She tried to imagine a life without perpetual deadlines, and couldn’t.

  The lawyer leaned across the high small table. “Suspicions with nothing to back them up. Look at it: Her lover—”

  “Are we sure of that?” Billie asked. “Are we sure Veronica wasn’t a friend? People run for shelter with friends all the time, including when they’re running out of a marriage. Why not here?”

  Michael—he’d asked her to call him just that, to end the formality—frowned. “Somebody…something. I can’t remember, but I didn’t invent it out of the blue.”

  “Maybe it’s irrelevant.”

  “Except that Veronica thinks Robby Lester killed his departing wife. Because of her, right?”

  “Right,” she said. “Except Robby Lester thinks Gavin did it because of this Jimmy fellow.”

  “Makes you wonder what Jimmy’s thinking, doesn’t it? Probably if you asked, he’d introduce a whole other villain.”

  “According to Emma, who met him this afternoon, Jimmy wouldn’t be a likely love candidate for Tracy or any other female. And she said Jimmy would be the first to tell you that.”

  “What happens between men and women makes one dizzy in the contemplation.” Once again, he flashed the smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. And once again, he—deliberately?—blurred the clarity of their topic. Of course he could be—undoubtedly was—referring to the dead young woman’s life. But he made it sound as if contemplating what could be between Billie and him was what made him dizzy.

  Danger, danger, danger! flashed across her brain in hot neon.

  She clicked off the switch. Where, really, was the danger? They were peers. That’s what he’d said by way of getting rid of the “mister stuff.” “Stuff” was apparently one of his favorite words when he wasn’t being the brilliant courtroom orator.

  He was attractive and dynamic and it was flattering to be admired. She hadn’t felt it for a good half of her marriage, and she surely hadn’t felt it since.

  There wasn’t time in her life for much that wasn’t immediately practical, but a man could be damn practical. At least now and then. She was too young to feel this ancient and rusty.

  Billie sipped white wine and Michael a single-malt scotch and she cooled herself down by looking out the window. Book Passage, the bookstore across the paved walkway, was filling with people. Printed banners announced that a retired captain of industry would read from his autobiography this evening. She found herself thinking it would be fun to go with Michael, to hear his opinions, to have somebody with whom to talk about what she’d heard.

  She shook herself back to the moment, tried to pay attention, to filter out the voice around them along with the questioning voice within her.

  “—I think it’s great you’re tracking them,” he was saying. “Because it can help the case. Enough of these loose ends—even if they don’t connect—and how can the jury be without the shadow of a doubt? The fact that Gavin doesn’t deny it—”

  “Doesn’t remember,” she said. “Isn’t sure.”

  “—and that he was there and had her blood on his—”

  “He touched her. He was distraught.”

  “—at six A.M.”

  “People run at that hour. Earlier, too. It’s not even unusual.”

  He put up a hand, like a crossing guard. “You don’t think I’m sincere, do you?”

  “About Gavin?”

  “What else?”

  She rushed, to cover her gaffe. “I’m just saying the obvious. What you’ll say. It’s all ambiguous, double-edged. That’s why Gavin’s in jail.”

  He looked weary. “Forget it. Listen, I’m interested in hearing about everything you’ve got. I’m talking about Gavin, of course.”

  So she hadn’t rushed quickly enough. She let a beat go by, just so he’d know she’d caught it. “I wonder why Gavin said Tracy was afraid. He sounds…honest to me, doesn’t he to you?”

 
“A limited, distorted kind of honesty. I guess he’s reporting what he saw, but you don’t get the feeling he pays much attention, or sees exactly what we do.” Michael looked at his watch. “I’m starving. Any objections to seeing if we could get a table? Food’s good and I’ll be more coherent if I don’t pass out from hunger.”

  She, too, checked the time. “I’d love to, but I can’t stay that long. I didn’t realize we’d…I mean I scheduled an appointment back to back with this one. Have to drive to West Marin in fact.”

  “About this case?”

  She nodded. “Veronica Napoles.”

  “Again?”

  Her wine was just about gone, so she twiddled with the stem of her glass, sorry this pleasant interlude was about to end. “She’s had more phone calls and is freaked out and she says there’s something about Tracy, something Tracy had and she needs to talk. I think it’s more that she’s desperately lonely, with only llamas to talk to. But I did say I’d come.” In full truth, partly because she liked the woman and the idea of spending more time on the ranch. It was different there, peaceful.

  Michael glanced wistfully over at the tables. “So,” he said slowly, returning his attention to her. “Are you enjoying yourself so far?”

  “Enjoying…?” She smiled. This one wasn’t ambiguous. “Very much,” she said.

  “Good. Because if you’re not having fun, why do it? Nine to five is too big a chunk of life to spend in hell, and believe me, I know from experience how bad it can be.”

  “My job,” she said. “We’re talking about my job.”

  He laughed. “What else?”

  She bit at her upper lip, then caught herself. “Despite its weird hours, like now, and even coping with Emma, I like it so far. I wish there was more money in it, but I like the autonomy and—” She was babbling.

  “Old Emma’s a toughie all right, but I admire her. She’s for real.”

  “Hitler was for real, too.”

  He grinned. “She gets things done, and you can trust her. So it’s a good ‘for real.’ Mostly, at least. She is also a for real pain in the butt. I’ve seen her trainees come and go—mostly go—so hang in there. She’s a good teacher.”

  “Hah!”

  “In her own fashion,” he said before draining the last of his scotch. “West Marin, eh? Want company? It’s a clear night, a pretty ride and maybe Veronica could talk to me, too. Or I can stay in the car and think bucolic thoughts. You can leave your car here. And afterwards, we can grab a bite.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want—” She waved in the direction of the dining area.

  “Trust me on this,” he said. “I always know what I want. And do what I want, too.”

  And get what you want, she was willing to bet. And make other people want it as well.

  He drove a Porsche. She should have known. Sleek, fast, appropriate. And a few years’ worth of income for her. If he could afford this, he could pay his investigators more, she decided, and then she wondered how much he was paying Emma.

  Emma could pay her more. She was going to ask. Demand.

  Meanwhile, she snuggled into the passenger seat as if it were a catcher’s mitt and she were the ball. She felt pampered, luxurious. On the edge of something good.

  Michael turned all-business, so much so that she thought she’d misinterpreted him earlier in the evening. “What’s her number?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  He didn’t precisely roll his eyes, but somehow managed to give the impression of having done so. “To call her?” he said. “To make sure she’s there before we’re in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I spoke to her earlier. She’s been going back and forth to her sister’s for a while. She’s driving home from there right now, and she’ll be there about when we are. Maybe a little before, but probably not quite yet.”

  He shrugged. “A nice night and a pretty drive even if she isn’t, I guess.”

  “She will be. People who raise animals are good about appointments. Something has to be fed, or groomed, or led to shelter or I have no idea what. Last time, she’d just wormed them.”

  “Go no further. That is already more than I want to know about llama problems.” The car slid through the night and he discussed, obliquely and without particulars, the difficulties of this case, the pressures Gavin’s mother was putting on him. “You ought to talk with her,” he said. “For the life experience.”

  “She doesn’t seem to know him, from everything I’ve learned so far. Not a clue. How can she be of help?”

  He said nothing, looking completely focused on the road, his headlights highlighting the edges of the canopy of trees and the occasional house. She, too, sat quietly and enjoyed herself as always, on the trip from the developed bay side of Marin through the winding roads to the rural ocean side of the county. Again, she felt the deep peace of the almost untouched hillsides and farms.

  But it wasn’t so peaceful that she could stop thinking about Gavin Riddock. “I feel sorry for him,” she said after a while. “Even if he did it, I feel sorry for him.”

  “I get the sense that you don’t think I share that feeling.”

  “Not really. I—”

  “That because I’m a realist, that means that for me, it’s all about and only about money. Oh, maybe notoriety, too. Fame. That if I do a good job, I’ll get lots of other yummy murderers as clients. That I’m cynical and world-weary and had by the third year of law school lost any vestigial morals and emotions.”

  “I never—”

  “Lawyers deserve to become a charity, to have their own publicly supported antidefamation league, if you ask me. But”—he looked over her way and flashed one of his win-the-jury’s-heart grins—“nobody ever does ask me about that. Never would cross anybody’s mind how unfair they’re being.”

  “Point taken.” Even though she knew he was undoubtedly billing this time, this ride, and even his cute little speech about his being maligned. She settled back to being his passenger, being his employee, and when thoughts of Gavin Riddock didn’t intrude, she enjoyed the silhouetted hills, the smooth shot of the car low on the road, the ride for what it was.

  She recognized a landmark tree that almost jutted into the road. “There,” she said. “Around the bend. There’s an arch over the gate. Can’t miss it. It’ll say ‘Whynot Farm.’”

  “Why not farm? I could give you a dozen answers to that question.”

  The road bore to the right, around the trunk of a live oak, the headlights finding pattern upon pattern as it swept through the leaves, over the blacktop—

  “What in hell?” Michael shouted, swerving and downshifting as his headlights impaled the silhouetted image of a tall woman—Veronica—arms flailing, mouth open in a scream.

  Twenty-Two

  “Go to hell you son of a bitch!”

  He wasn’t even inside his house yet. The front door was still open and David Vincent stood on the threshold, keys in his hand. So okay, he didn’t expect a sitcom-style greeting, but, still, this was ridiculous. Lately, he’d felt as if the house was mined and he’d better be careful wherever he stepped, because the least likely spot could contain explosives or snipers behind the staircase.

  Or a lunatic wife carrying a grudge the size of Rhode Island and waiting, just waiting, for him to do something. Only he didn’t know what it was.

  He’d made the mistake before of asking if maybe she wasn’t feeling well, if she had her period and—sweet Jesus!—she’d nearly killed him. He wasn’t about to ask anything like that again.

  “Gone all last night—”

  “You knew I had to be in Sacramento for a—”

  “And late today! Dinner’s ruined, asshole. Leather. Eat your shoes; they’ll taste the same. You think you can walk in here whenever you feel like it? Why’d you come home at all? To pick up fresh clothing?”

  “What are you talking about? If you’d stop screaming and—” He had to be calm with her. Always calm, but it took more energy than he had. She
was killing him.

  “Don’t you get all level-voiced and act like I’m insane. Don’t you try to gaslight me!”

  “Jeannie, for God’s—”

  “Don’t ‘Jeannie’ me! I’ve been a fool long enough, but now—”

  “Where are the kids? What are you doing with my kids—”

  “My kids are at my mother’s. I didn’t feel up to giving them dinner. I’m a nervous wreck, and it’s your fault.”

  To hell with this. This was his house. His money paid for it, for everything in it, and he’d walk into his house whenever and whatever time he pleased.

  But he had to get out of this mess, this marriage, this hell. Had to play it smart. Who knew how much she knew, really? Or what she’d do. Because she was crazy. He’d tried to believe it was just stress. People under stress freaked out sometimes. But not this much, not like the way she had.

  “Take care of her. She isn’t…strong,” her own mother had said to him on their wedding day—like that was a good time to mention it—whatever she meant. He could never stop thinking about how she’d said it, then.

  “I’m not sure she’s altogether stable,” his mother had said a few years later. They hadn’t spoken for ten months after that, but then she apologized and now they were at least polite to one another. And now he knew she was right, and that’s what Jeannie’s mother meant by her not being “strong.” And a man like him, in his position, he needed somebody strong, or at least normal.

  He was under stress twenty-four hours a day. His life was one long stress test and he couldn’t have a wife who added to it. But Jeannie didn’t believe in divorce. Even the mention made her more insane. And he wasn’t hot for the idea, either. Too much with examining the books, looking at every cent he’d ever made. Too dangerous.

  He had to figure this out and he was working on whether she could be put somewhere. To rest, they could call it. To get away from him and his kids.

  She might not be a strong person, but her voice sure was. It could saw through steel beams, but what the hell was this new fit about? He waited while she lit a cigarette and slammed things down on the kitchen counters like she was testing at what strength granite shatters. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you’re so—”