Murder Among Neighbors (The Kate Austen Mystery Series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  The salad was delicious, the pizza pretty terrible. Michael made a real effort, but I noticed that he fed his second piece to Max, who liked it just fine.

  After dinner Michael cleaned up the kitchen while I read to Anna and tucked her into bed. He was standing in the family room when I returned, holding a picture of Andy and Anna taken in the fall.

  “Is this your husband?”

  Peering over his shoulder, I nodded. Blond, blue-eyed, and athletic. Movie star good-looking, even in the harsh white light of early November. I was used to the impression Andy made on women, but I’d never tried seeing him through a man’s eyes, and I was suddenly self-conscious. “It was taken at Tilden Park,” I said, not because the information was important, but because I needed to say something.

  Michael set the picture back on the shelf. “When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even sure that he is.”

  “And if he does?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  A grim tautness rippled across Michael’s face and settled in his jaw. “Jesus, I wish I could figure out where you’re coming from.”

  There was a moment of silence while I studied my nails, which were short and unglamorous. Artist’s hands. A mother’s hands. Certainly not the hands of a hot- blooded adulteress. “Michael, I...”

  “Do you still love him?”

  Did I love Andy? I wasn’t sure. Certainly not in the way I once had. Not even in the way I had before he left. But there was history between us, and more than that, a daughter. There were things I couldn’t turn my back on easily.

  “He’s Anna’s father,” I said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I slouched against the fireplace. “Let’s not get in to all this right now.”

  “What do you mean ‘all this’? It’s what’s important here. At least it is to me. You can’t dismiss things simply because they make you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s just that everything’s so confusing.” I could see that Michael was watching me closely, and I shifted my position self-consciously. “Can’t we sort of do what we’ve been doing for a little while longer?”

  A curious, drawn expression settled over his face and he looked suddenly very vulnerable. “I don’t know that I can take being someone’s plaything again.”

  “You’re not that,” I told him, and pressed my head to his chest, feeling the soft, warm swoosh of his heart against my cheek. “Most definitely not that.”

  Slowly, Michael began to stroke my hair, pulling me closer.

  “We can’t,” I whispered. “The doctor said a couple of weeks.”

  “I just want to hold you, Kate. You’re so warm and soft, and you smell sweet, like apple blossoms.”

  I tilted my head and kissed him lightly. “That’s funny, you smell like generic cardboard with imitation cheese topping.”

  He led me to the couch, where we kissed and cuddled. And then cuddled some more. In fact, we ended up cuddling all night, warm and snug and content under the covers of my king-size bed. I woke once during the night and watched Michael’s sleeping face in the silver moonlight. It was a moment I wanted to capture and hold forever. And when he left the next morning, early, before Anna could wake up and come into bed, I felt as though some part of me had been wrenched away.

  <><><>

  Daria was in no mood for a soul-searching conversation. “I’m really rushed at the moment,” she said briskly when I sat down in the chair next to her desk. “Is it something that can wait?”

  “Sure.” In truth, I didn’t know what I wanted to say anyway. But I felt the need to talk to someone. It was the only way I could think to ease the icy tightness in my chest.

  “How about tomorrow after work?” Daria asked, skimming through a sheaf of papers as she spoke. “You want to go out for a drink? We can catch up then.”

  “It’s not important anyway.” I pushed back the chair and stood. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  This time she looked up. “As a matter of fact there is. I hate to ask this, you should probably still be taking it easy, but there’s so much to be done before I leave for Mexico next week.”

  “I feel fine. What is it you want me to do?”

  “There’s a lawyer by the name of Gatskill out in Pleasanton. He’s in the process of setting up his own office and asked for help in selecting some art work. I told him I’d be out there today, but it’s such a long drive and I have so many things to take care of here . . . Would you mind terribly?”

  By the tone of her voice, you’d think she was asking me to scrub the floors. “No problem,” I told her brightly. “It’s a lovely day for a drive. Besides, I work for you, remember? It’s not as if you’re asking a favor.”

  She hesitated. “No, but you’re my friend, too. My friend, first and foremost. You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Positive.”

  Daria stood and went to the file cabinet. “Get blueprints if you can,” she said as she handed me the file, “otherwise sketch the floor plan and take measurements. It would be helpful if you could get paint and fabric samples as well.”

  “I’ll take care of it all.”

  “Thanks, Kate,” she mumbled, her head already bent over the papers on her desk.

  <><><>

  Charles C. Gatskill, Esq. was a short man, with a substantial, rounded bottom and thinning hair. The gold chain around his neck and the diamond pinky ring on his left hand did little to improve the image. He was on the phone when I arrived, but managed to introduce himself anyway, cupping the receiver with his shoulder as he shook hands. He had a grin that flashed at unexpected intervals like a bulb with a loose connection.

  “Call me Charlie,” he said. He, in turn, called me “hon.”

  “Look, hon,” he said, finally dropping the receiver into its cradle, “I don’t know about art for beans. I’m a hard-nosed divorce lawyer with a golden track record. Betrayal, deception, greed—these things I know. But line and beauty . . . Hell, a judgment in my favor and a big check, that’s what I call beauty.”

  He sat on the edge of his desk directly across from my chair, his crotch at eye level, and grinned. “But the office has to look nice, you know, to instill confidence. So basically you do it, hon. I don’t give a shit what goes up there.” He flung an arm out toward a blank, green wall.

  He gave me a quick tour, during which time he took three telephone calls, waving his arms and mouthing words to me while listening to the person on the other end. “Haven’t found a secretary yet. You don’t happen to know any gals interested in office work, do you?”

  Sorry, I told him, I didn’t.

  I got the blueprints, but no color samples, although I did get the name of his decorator. “What was your name again?” he asked as I was getting ready to leave.

  “Kate Austen.” I wrote it down on the back of Daria’s business card and handed it to him. “Call me if you have any questions.”

  He studied the card. “Austen. You any relation to Andy Austen?”

  “He’s my husband.”

  Charlie slapped his thigh. “No kidding? What a small world. We were fraternity brothers together at San Jose State, way back when. How long you two been married?”

  “Nearly seven years.” My voice had a prim, almost defensive quality to it I didn’t like.

  “What-a-ya know.” Charlie chuckled. “Watch out for that seven-year itch. It’s what brings in half my business.” He chuckled again. “Any kids?”

  “A daughter. She’s five.”

  “God almighty, Andy a father. Who would have thought? Guess he’s settled down after all, the old rogue.”

  I left Charles Gatskill chuckling over some private memory and headed for my car. Between the blueprints, the file, my notes and handbag, I had trouble finding my keys. I began searching my pockets, where instead of keys I found a matchbook from the Royal Arms Motel. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I’d picked it up; then I rec
alled that Kimberly had found it in Pepper’s purse the day of the dolls’ party. Tossing the matches onto the seat beside me, I searched some more, finally locating the keys at the bottom of my purse, and started home.

  I tried to think about Gatskill’s office and what was needed, but found myself instead pondering the intricacies of the seven-year itch. Was that Andy’s problem? Was it my own? Had we somehow been tripped up by the colorless routine of familiarity, or did the rift strike much deeper? And did it matter, ultimately? At some point didn’t you just accept things for what they were?

  Of course some women, like Sharon, simply filled the void with rumpled sheets and sweet, sticky passion. In some ways it was the easiest solution. Then I thought of Michael curled around me in bed last night, the sleepy early morning kiss that woke me, and wondered if I would ever be satisfied with a steamy afternoon in some drab hotel with the shades drawn.

  And that was when I understood, suddenly, what Pepper had been doing at the Royal Arms Motel. It was so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. Uneasily, I glanced at the matchbook on the seat next to me. El Camino Way, Danville. The freeway passed right by there. I could get off and back on in an instant And be back at the gallery in plenty of time to go over the Gatskill file with Daria.

  I found the motel easily. It was one of those indistinguishable, L-shaped things you find in every city. This one was pink stucco, with a neon sign announcing showers and cable TV in every room. Clean and neat, but hardly elegant. As I parked the car, my mind hastily sorted through possible strategies, tossing out one after another.

  Mentioning the word “murder” was an iffy proposition. It might bring out the public servant in some people, but would be just as likely to make others clam right up. I could, of course, rely on the tired old ruse of pretending to be a private investigator tracking down the beneficiary of a large inheritance. But if anyone asked to see my ID, I’d be in trouble. Finally, I concocted an elaborate story about my sister who was suffering from amnesia and had been missing for several months. Fortuitously, someone resembling her had been spotted in this very area. The family was, of course, anxious to learn all we could.

  As it turned out, the young man behind the desk was very accommodating and not at all interested in my story. He was simply happy to have someone to talk to.

  I described Pepper, realizing as I spoke, that the qualities which made her so stunning in the flesh were actually pretty commonplace when reduced to mere words. “About my height but thinner, blond hair, green eyes.”

  The young man shook his head sadly. He would really like to help, but the description didn’t ring a bell.

  Then I remembered the picture Mary Nell had given me last week. Like everything else that goes into my purse, it was still there. I only hoped the man at the desk didn’t connect the picture with the recent front-page murder story.

  “Yeah,” the young man said eagerly when I handed him the snapshot. “I remember her.” His eyes left the picture long enough to inspect me, head to toe. “You two are sisters?”

  “Stepsisters, actually.”

  “Oh, that explains it.”

  I did my best to smile graciously. “Did she stay here long?”

  “She didn’t stay here exactly.” His face grew red. Serves you right, I thought. “Mostly she came Friday afternoons, pretty regular. With a guy. I don’t think they ever stayed the night.”

  I nodded to show I wasn’t shocked.

  “She hasn’t been here for a couple of weeks, though.”

  “I see.” Then, remembering my story, I added excitedly, “Mama will be so happy to know we’re getting close to finding her. Would you by any chance have a name or number?”

  “The records are locked up, I’d have to ask my boss. You want me to do that?” He reached for a paper and pencil and shoved them at me with puppy-like eagerness. “Tell me where we can reach you, and I’ll ask him tonight.”

  “Maybe you could just describe the man she was with. She used to have a boyfriend who lived around here. If it’s the same guy, we might be able to locate her that way.”

  “Let’s see.” The young man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He was big, at least six feet, curly red hair. With a mustache.”

  The shock must have shown on my face.

  “Is that him?”

  “It might be.” Keep cool, I told myself. Jim isn’t the only six-foot redhead in the area, even with a mustache. But I felt a sharp chill at the center of my brain, nonetheless.

  “You know where to reach him?” the young man asked.

  I stared at him blankly.

  “There’s a chance you can track him down through that car he was driving last time they were here. It was the craziest thing you ever saw. A Volvo with one blue fender and a red trunk. He said it was a loaner or something.”

  If my face was white, it went even whiter. Poor Daria, I thought. It wasn’t fair. The most trusting woman in Walnut Hills, one of the few who still believed in faithfulness and the sanctity of marriage. And probably the only woman who still loved her husband with the same devotion and fervor as the day she married him. I thanked the young man behind the desk, who seemed puzzled by my sudden lack of enthusiasm, and left quickly.

  Back on the freeway, I drove as slowly as I dared, dreading my return to Walnut Hills. I’d have to call Daria and make some excuse for not going back to work that afternoon. Facing her would be too difficult right then. I needed time to prepare myself.

  As it turned out, an excuse found me. Out of the blue, my car ground to a complete stop just as I approached the interchange. I managed to pull to the side of the road and flag down a policeman, who called the towing company for me. He offered to call a friend too, but I declined and, just to be safe, waited until I’d been towed to our local repair shop before calling Daria. Busy as she was, that wouldn’t have prevented her from dropping everything and rushing out to rescue me, whether I wanted her to or not.

  Chapter 20

  The mechanic, a skinny little man with tobacco breath, broke the news gently, handing me a cup of lukewarm coffee before sitting himself down in the pink plastic chair next to mine.

  “Looks like the engine’s blown,” he said, with a doleful twist of his mouth. “You musta’ had an oil leak you didn’t catch.”

  I nodded numbly, picking at the Styrofoam cup with my fingernail. “How expensive will it be?”

  “Probably around a thousand dollars. Can’t say for sure till we get the thing apart.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’d sold my watercolor, a piece of my heart and soul, for a rebuilt engine!

  “Just be glad it happened close to home,” the man said reassuringly. “You wouldn’t believe some of the awful things that can happen to people.”

  Oh, yes I would, I thought. And most of them have nothing to do with automobiles. “How long will it take to get the car running again?”

  “A couple of days at the minimum, maybe a week. We’ve got a loaner you can have for twenty bucks a day. Doesn’t look like much but it runs real well.”

  I nodded bleakly and followed the man to the back of the shop. I had a terrible feeling, even before I saw it, which car the loaner was.

  “Looks like a crazy quilt, I know, one blue fender, a red back end, but the car’s in good shape mechanically so you don’t have to worry.” With a chuckle, he handed me the keys. “Least ways it’s easy to pick out in the grocery parking lot.”

  Gingerly, I slipped into driver’s seat, taking shallow little breaths and holding my body erect, as if I could squeeze myself clear of the deception and betrayal that hovered in the hot, stale interior.

  <><><>

  The car did run smoothly, the man had been right about that, and I was able to get to school in time to pick up Anna, who took one look at our new vehicle and wrinkled her nose.

  “What a dorky car,” she said, without the least bit of humor.

  I explained about the blown engine and told her th
e story of Joseph and his coat of many colors, but she remained unimpressed. So unimpressed, in fact, that she crouched in the seat and ducked her head below window level so that none of her friends would recognize her on the way home.

  When I’d parked the car—in the garage rather than on the street, much to Anna’s relief—I let myself into the house, ready to kick off my shoes and collapse. But the phone rang before I’d even put away the keys.

  It was Andy, calling collect. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “London.”

  “What’s wrong?” He didn’t sound sick, but I couldn’t think why else he would be calling.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Do I need an excuse to call home?”

  “It’s just that it’s been a while.”

  “Yeah, I guess it has.” His voice wavered, and he paused a moment before asking, “Have you and Anna been getting my cards?”

  Anna’s been getting them, I thought. And I’ve gotten a couple of hastily scribbled postscripts you managed to add for my benefit. But I told him, “Yes, they’ve been getting here.”

  Another pause.

  “How is Anna?”

  “Fine.”

  “And you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You sure? You sound kind of funny.”

  “It must be the connection.”

  Silence hung in the air for a moment; then there was a loud crash on the other end and a muffled shit.

  “Sorry,” Andy explained when he got back on the line, “I knocked over a bottle of beer. Made a real mess. So, what’s new?”

  Well, let’s see . . . I’ve been screwing a man who knocks me off my feet, I’ve got a job, I sold a painting, I’ve had a miscarriage and I’ve made a fool of myself by accusing Robert of murder. Then I remembered he didn’t even know about Pepper. “Pepper Livingston, our neighbor to the left, was killed a couple of weeks ago, murdered actually, in her own house.”

  “Jesus, is that for real?”

  “Even I would not be stupid enough to make up something like that.”