Roberto continued to stare without speaking.
She drew a breath. “And I knew someone who was very important to Franklin, at least at one time. She recently died. I guess it's for her sake I'm here.”
“The girl from Oysterville?”
She nodded.
Roberto relaxed. “Franklin used to talk about her sometimes.” A glimmer of a smile appeared on his lips then disappeared. “So she died, huh?”
“Yes, a heart attack.” He clearly knew Franklin well. She cocked her head and decided to throw out a line. “It’s a shame about Ray. I wish he and Franklin had got along better.”
He nodded. “Really is a shame. I knew Franklin a long time. We worked together for twenty years. All that time he talked about Ray like a brother would, but lately whenever I saw them together they were fighting.”
“That's too bad.” She tried to think of tactful way to get him to elaborate. “Family, too.”
Roberto grabbed his hardhat and walked toward the door. “Yes, definitely a shame. In fact, they had a fight the day Franklin died. Right here.” He pointed toward the desk. “I walked in on them. I don't know Ray that well—he helps out from time to time with some of the scheduling—but I can't imagine he feels very good about it now.”
“I wonder what they were fighting about.”
“Couldn’t tell.”
“Did Franklin mention anything recently about some papers? Or maybe you found some strange papers in the office?” The place was a mess, although as far as she could tell, most of it was assorted bits of tubing.
He turned by the door and raised an eyebrow. “Papers? No. Why?” He held the door open for her.
“Just something Ray mentioned once. Where are we going?”
Roberto turned around to look at her. “You want to see where he died, don't you?”
She followed him to the edge of the parking garage where the outside wall hadn't yet been constructed. A waist-high wooden barrier ran along the opening. A few men with cigarettes loitered by its edge.
“Get back to work,” Roberto told them. “You're not supposed to be smoking here, anyway.” The men wandered back into the garage.
Joanna peered over the gaping edge of the garage. Fifty feet or so straight below was a dumpster filled with wood scraps, broken sheetrock, and sharp-edged, cut steel girders. Beyond the dumpster was a row of port-a-potties, then a chain link fence with a wide gate.
“He fell down there.” Roberto pointed to the dumpster.
“Off the edge. Awful.”
“We didn't have the barrier up then. Put that up after he fell. Eventually the whole thing'll be walled up. It's open now to load in materials.”
They both looked over the edge for a moment, silent. Joanna pulled back. “It's hard for me to believe that he would have just fallen like that.”
“Exactly,” Roberto said, as if he had been waiting for her observation. “He was used to working in big, open structures. I don't get it.”
“What a horrible way to go.”
“He died when he hit some scrap metal. Probably a girder. He must have come back, late, to finish something up. One of the day laborers found him the next morning.”
“Sounds like you're not so sure it was an accident.”
“I don't figure he would la-di-da walk over to the edge of the garage and fall in. None of us went close to the edge except to throw garbage off, and even then we were careful.”
“So you think someone pushed him?” She watched him.
“I didn't say that. I just don't think he fell.”
What is he getting at? “Well, if he didn't fall by himself, then he must have been helped by someone. Or—” She looked up. “Was he a drinker?”
“Nope. Well, maybe a beer here and there, but I've never seen him drunk. The company will tell you he'd been drinking when he died, though.” Roberto gestured toward the main office then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Because that's what the insurance company wanted to hear. They found a couple of old beer cans in our office, a little alcohol in his blood, and they weren't too interested in looking into it further.”
“Is there a particular reason you don't think his death was an accident?”
He walked back toward the plumber's office without replying. She followed him, and when they were inside he shut the door. He sat in the beat-up chair and leaned back. “Something was up with Franklin. I'm not sure what, but something was.”
“Do you mean between him and Ray?” She lifted the hard hat from her head and pulled free a curl caught in its frame.
“Maybe. He'd been really distracted over the week before he died—I had to redo the gas stack for building one. Then, a few hours after his fight with Ray, he was yelling at someone on the phone. Not like Franklin. 'You can't get away with this,’ he kept saying.”
“Is that all he said?”
“It sounded like he made a plan to meet someone later that day.”
“Ray again?”
“Don’t know. No idea. And it’s not like we can ask him.”
His voice slowed. Joanna understood. This makeshift office and scores of offices like it had been his and Franklin’s safe world for years, just as Tallulah’s Closet was to her. It was the place they could leave their personal drama behind and escape through work. Until one of them couldn’t. “I’m really sorry about Franklin. You two must have been close.”
Roberto nodded. “He was a good man. He came a long way from his roots, you know, in building up the company. Sometimes, after we'd been working a long stretch and the both of us were up late, he'd talk about home and how he thought about moving back to the peninsula and living in a little house on the beach. Fishing for a living. He still had a boat at Sauvie Island. He'd talk about your friend, too, and about the other people where he lived. He was even writing a history of his tribe, spent years on it.”
She remembered the bundle of papers at Ray's house.
“And yet,” Roberto continued, “At the end of the day he'd drive home in his brand new truck to his nice little house and his family, and that was that.”
“I'm surprised he didn't retire. Especially if money wasn't a problem.”
“He liked working. He was good, too—twice as fast as some of the younger men on the crew. You can't work your demons away, though.”
Someone rapped at the door. Roberto quickly picked up a stack of papers on the desk and reached for a pair of reading glasses before shouting, “Come in.”
Dan, the foreman, stood in the doorway. “Finished here?”
Joanna glanced at Roberto, who was ostentatiously flipping through the papers. “Uh, yes. Thank you, Roberto.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you offsite.” Dan took Joanna’s elbow. They crossed the garage and descended the cement stairs, passing the dumpster she had seen from above. “I bet Roberto talked your ear off.”
“He was very friendly. He told me a little about working with Franklin.”
“He didn't tell you his theory that Franklin's death wasn't an accident?”
She was wary. “He did say something, but not much.”
“I wouldn't pay him much attention. That's Roberto for you. It was an accident, caused by drinking and carelessness. Maybe age had something to do with it, too. It's unfortunate, but that's that.”
They reached the chain link fence.
She glanced back up at the open edge of the parking garage. Standing in the shadows was Roberto, hands on his hips, watching.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Apple reached across the table and set down a bowl of pasta with a cruda tomato sauce.
“Is there mint in this? It smells delicious.” Joanna lifted forkfuls of linguine to her plate.
“Mint, oregano, basil, parsley, garlic, olive oil, and a little vinegar. Parmesan cheese is in the green bowl.”
“Thanks.” The dog had lodged himself under Joanna's chair, where he sighed loudly, clearly hoping a few noodles might slither off someone's plate. “Has Curly bee
n any trouble?”
“I'm getting to like the guy,” Gavin, Apple's husband, said. He had dark hair and a closely-trimmed beard. An earring shaped like a crescent moon dangled from one ear. He must have stood out in his office of engineers.
“If you keep giving him table scraps, you'll make him sick,” Apple said.
“Did you look at the dog biscuits you bought him? The cheese and peanut butter flavors, I get that. But charcoal? Do dogs really like charcoal?” Gavin snorted.
“This one does. I don't know what he wouldn't eat.”
“Hopefully you won't have to keep him—or me—much longer. Thanks for putting up with us for a few days,” Joanna said.
“Oh, don't even think about it.” Apple passed around a plate stacked with slices of baguette.
Apple and Gavin's house was built at the turn of the century for the railroad workers. Friends ignored the front door and entered the house through the kitchen, passing an enameled stove and shelves lined with teapots, cookbooks, and tins of tea. A brightly patterned Indian cloth covered the dining room table. In each of the windows dangled a crystal like the one Apple hung at Tallulah’s Closet to ward off bad energy.
“How were things at the store today?” Apple handed her the bread plate.
“Slow.” Joanna drew out the word. “Not much happened.” She'd filled Apple in on the contents of the safe deposit box when she came to relieve her at the store after visiting the bank. Apple had been firm it was time to leave the case to the police. Instinct told Joanna it would be better to keep her in the dark about Ray's visit and her trip to Franklin's job site.
Apple put both hands on the table and looked Joanna in the eyes. “I stopped by this afternoon. I didn’t like to think of you there alone, but Tallulah’s Closet was closed.”
Damn it. “Oh, that. Well, it was so slow I thought I'd drive out to some thrift stores, you know, try to find some things for the store.” Joanna shoveled pasta in her mouth and avoided Apple's gaze. Curly got up from under her chair and walked the few steps to Gavin, where he lay down again.
“You did, huh? I'd love to see what you found.”
The clock on Apple's bookshelf ticked in the silence. Joanna set down her fork. “Okay. I didn't go to thrift stores. I closed up early and went to see where Marnie's old boyfriend died. I'm not sure what I was after, but after reading Marnie's letters to Franklin—that was his name,” she addressed this part to Gavin, “I just felt like I wanted to see where he spent his last days.”
Apple shot Gavin an “I told you so” look and returned her gaze to Joanna. “You've got to leave this alone. It's too dangerous. Remember the wig?” She paused to let that sink in. “Besides, the police are investigating Don's death. They know what they're doing.”
Curly shuffled around the table to Apple and looked up. Not getting a response, he continued to Joanna and nudged her hand with his pink nose. She ran her finger up the bridge of his nose to the creamy fur sprinkled with spots on his forehead. “I don't think they do. Know what they're doing, that is. Someone is after whatever was in the safe deposit box. I think it might be some kind of documents. The police don't understand. Until the papers are found, I'm not safe.” Didn’t she get it?
“Apple's right, Jo. One person has already been killed. Maybe two, if you count Marnie.”
Three, counting Franklin, Joanna thought, but she’d keep quiet about that. Irritation simmered. It was easy for Apple and Gavin to preach about leaving things alone—their lives were peaceful. They could go about their days without wondering if someone with a gun was waiting for them somewhere. What did they know about how she felt?
She filled her wine glass, silently bemoaning the lack of something stronger to drink, and replaced the wine bottle on the table with a clunk. “You don't have to tell me. I found Don's body, remember?” Frustration rose in her voice. “I can’t even sleep in my own house. What am I going to do? Sit around and wait until someone runs me down on the street?”
“It's not just about you,” Apple said. “If you keep poking around about the safe deposit box, and the murderer finds out you're here, none of us is safe.”
Gavin's hand, holding a scrap of bread, dropped off the table. Joanna set down her wine glass. She fought to slow her breathing. “I'm sorry.” A pang of guilt shot through her. It hadn't occurred to her she might be putting other people at risk. “You're right. Tomorrow I'll move back home.”
“That's not what Apple means. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. But we don't want to see you taking any foolish risks. The police have a homicide bureau to get to the bottom of this. Let them do their job and stay out of the way.”
She bit her lip. The police were on the wrong trail, she was sure of it, if they were on any trail at all.
The three sat for a moment without speaking. Curly slinked out from under the table and crawled to the corner of the kitchen. Joanna looked at Apple then Gavin. “I think he's going to be sick.”
***
Gavin had converted the basement into a large master bedroom and bathroom. Off the living room was the house's original bedroom, which Apple used as a painting studio. While Joanna pulled out the studio’s sofabed, Apple came in with a cup of herbal tea. She set it on a side table.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Oh, all right.” Joanna sat on the edge of the sofa bed.
“I'm sorry about dinner. I'm worried about you, that's all.”
Joanna touched her hand. “I know. I appreciate it. I just feel so wound up, but so helpless at the same time. Marnie, the store, my house...” She slid off her sandals. “I think I'll take a bath, if you don't mind.”
“You could use the relaxation. I brought you a vintage True Romances to read. I know how you love old magazines. Look—Lana Turner's on the cover. She can't be more than sixteen.”
“Thanks, Apple. That's so sweet of you.” She ran a finger over the magazine’s gold and red hand-tinted cover then reached for the tea. “It's been such a strange few weeks.”
“The police are following up on Don's death. You know that. He was too important. Assuming whoever killed Don was the same person responsible for everything else—well, then, mystery solved. As for Eve’s store, we’ll deal with that once it happens.”
“Oh, Apple. I want to be home. I want everything to go back to normal. Everything has gone haywire and all at once.” If she were home now, she'd be wearing her 1950s turquoise quilted robe with the black ribbon trim and finishing up a Preston Sturges movie. Maybe she'd spray on a little Habanita before bed.
Apple rose. “I’ll draw the bath. Bring in your tea, and we’ll talk. There are some bath salts on the counter. Try the lavender. It'll help calm you down.”
The tub full, Joanna stepped into the bathroom and left the door ajar. Apple had lit a candle and set it next to the mirror above the sink. Its flame reflected back into the otherwise dark bathroom. A soft shaft of light from the lamp on the nightstand fell across the bathroom floor.
“Apple?”
“Hmm?”
She was in the bath now, the water up around her neck, and her hair twisted and knotted loosely on top of her head. The warm water felt so good. “Do you, you know, are you getting any messages about this whole situation?”
Apple laughed quietly. “I wondered if you'd ask.”
“I'm asking. Any guidance is welcome.”
“Over the past few days I've heard one voice, your grandmother's. I'm not sure you want to hear what she has to say.”
Her grandmother. Joanna bit the inside of her lip.
Apple seemed to read her mind. “Don’t worry—I’ve told you before, she doesn’t blame you. You were just a kid.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her. Ever since Marnie died.”
Apple nodded. “She’s been trying to get through to you, but you haven't been listening.”
“Cut to the chase, please.”
“She thinks it's time you've settled down. She's worried that
you're not leaving yourself open to love. And she wants you to pay more attention to Paul, the guy who installed the locks.”
“Apple!” The bathwater sloshed around her as she sat up. “There's some crazy guy out there killing people, and my store is getting run out of business, and the best my spirit guides can do is try to jump start my dating life?”
“Fine. Look, I call them like I see them. You want advice from the other side, ask them yourself.”
Joanna slid back into the water. “Sorry. It's just that...” Apple seemed so happy with Gavin. What could she understand about her reluctance to get involved with anyone? She wasn’t sure she understood it herself.
“What?” Apple's voice was soft.
“I'd like to meet someone. I would. But I don't see how—I mean—it couldn't turn out well. Besides, I do so well on my own.”
“What are you afraid will happen? I know you had a, well, let's just say a rough time of it before you went to live with your grandmother, and then after the accident—”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“I know, I know. We won’t talk about it. But you can't escape it, Jo. You’ve got to face your feelings head on. Why are you so afraid of getting involved with someone?”
She looked at her toes resting on the far end of the tub. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” Paul’s hand under her chin had been strong but so gentle as he cleaned the scrape on her head. Her throat constricted. “When I think about getting close to someone, I freeze up. I almost can’t bear to know what might happen next.” Apple didn’t reply, so Joanna continued. “I know it sounds strange. I almost—well, I almost wonder if I’m meant to live alone.” She’d never said these words aloud before. They hurt. “You know, some people are born blind or without an arm or something. Maybe this is my affliction, and I just have to deal with it.”
To her credit, Apple didn’t dismiss her words out of hand. “You might choose the wrong guy. Or he might leave you.” She took a breath. “Or die. Bad things can happen. But wonderful things can happen, too.” Springs creaked as she shifted on the sofa bed. “I know you're afraid, and I know it's easier to be alone or choose someone you don't really respect. Take the chance, Jo. Do it. Not everyone will let you down.”
The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) Page 20
