Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  He caught her hand as she passed him. His smile was shy, very appealing, and very like his father’s when he looked down into her face. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “No need,” she said.

  “You must love him a lot, to see him through this mess.”

  “I must,” she said with a smile.

  “If my mom …” Richie started, but got no further. Though he hadn’t moved, she saw him brace as if some heaviness had descended.

  “Don’t be too hard on your mother.”

  Whoever was at the door was now insistently knocking and repeatedly chiming “K-K-K-Katy.”

  “Never ends, does it?” She took her hand from Richie’s firm grasp, then headed down the long staircase.

  “I’m coming,” she called as she crossed the foyer. Her stocking feet slipped on the marble floor as she tried to hurry. By the time she reached the door, she had moved from annoyance to anger, thinking that any sensible person would have either gone away by now or gone back to the gate and called the house over the intercom to see if anyone was at home.

  Through the stained-glass windows in the double doors she could see the watery outline of a not-very-tall person on the other side.

  The windows pictured an elaborate clipper ship at full mast, outrunning a naval frigate across stormy seas—a family joke about her grandfather’s occupation. The colored glass was barely opaque, except for the clear tip of a wind-whipped wave, and through this Kate saw an elbow clad in workshirt blue, the same chambray Mike Rios had been wearing earlier when he inspected the ceiling moldings.

  Kate flung open the double doors, prepared to ream out Mike Rios for causing so much racket.

  Her ferocity seemed to startle the woman standing on the steps. The woman took a half-step backward, clutching at the shark tooth suspended from a long silver chain around her neck. Then she gathered herself and forced a polite smile, but Kate could see the effort it took.

  What had Lillian Morrow called the parent support group? Something like Silver Threads, she thought. She suspected that this woman was a second envoy from the group; she shared a certain wounded look with Wally Morrow’s mother.

  The woman had left an ancient Volkswagen bus parked in the courtyard. Kate looked at it while she waited for the pitch to come, the plea for Tejeda’s help with one investigation or another. She liked the bus. It looked like a throwback to the sixties, a thick crust of road grime nearly obliterating the Indian sun symbol painted on the passenger door. It seemed of a piece with the woman, with her long cotton print skirt, squaw boots, and lashings of silver and turquoise jewelry around her neck. She was so slender and willowy that she could have been a young hippie girl fresh out of a time machine. Except that her doll-like face, wreathed in a shoulder-length tangle of steaked gray-blond hair, had been cruelly abused by the elements. The hazy sun seemed to hurt her pale eyes.

  “I followed a workman through the gate,” the woman said. As she turned slightly, her face moved into shadow, and in the softer light Kate could see how pretty the woman had once been, very fair and delicate. Kate looked again at the bus, at its New Mexico plates, and knew suddenly who had come to call. She almost shut the door.

  “Is it okay if I park there?” the woman asked.

  “It’s okay,” Kate said. The words sounded brusque to her, and she wanted them back. She had hoped that when this moment came she would seem cool, poised, charming beyond words. Instead she stood there inarticulate, wearing cotton socks with a hole in the toe, old shorts, and one of Tejeda’s misshapen T-shirts. Her hair was still ruffled from sharing a pillow with him while he napped. Then she pictured him, his lower lip pouched out like a petulant child’s as he slept, his arm across her place in the bed.

  Kate pulled herself a little taller, offered her hand to the woman, and smiled. “Are you Cassie?”

  She hesitated before she accepted Kate’s hand. “Kate?”

  “You’ve had a long trip.” Kate’s eye was drawn again to the dusty VW. Theresa had spoken to her mother on the telephone the day before yesterday. In New Mexico. Cassie must have started immediately afterward and driven straight through. Surely there were telephones along the way. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I didn’t know myself,” Cassie stammered. “My job …” she began, then started over, the words pouring out in a nervous rush. “The organization I work for markets native Hopi artworks to galleries. There’s a major show in Phoenix scheduled for this weekend, but there was a delivery foul-up and no one else was available—you know how it is around the holidays—so I decided the only way I could get the stuff to Phoenix was to deliver it myself. Then I thought, since I was going that far, why not go on to L. A., follow up on some galleries we’d made contact with.”

  Cassie stopped suddenly. “I’d like to see Theresa. Is she here?”

  “Not yet.” Kate stepped back into the foyer. “But Richie’s home. He’s upstairs with his father. Would you like to come in?”

  “Please.” There were tears in her eyes, but she seemed to be winning her fight against them. As Kate led her through the foyer and into the book-lined study, Cassie took in everything quickly, dismissively. Kate recognized the reaction, a stubborn refusal to be impressed by what she saw. It told her a great deal about Cassie.

  “How long are you staying in the area?” Kate asked as she offered a seat.

  “I don’t know.” Cassie sat stiffly on the edge of a deep velvet chair. “So much depends on the children.”

  “You must be tired. Can I offer you something?”

  “I would love a cold drink.”

  Kate opened the mirror-lined bar camouflaged among the bookcases. As she got out glass, ice, ginger ale, she could see Cassie behind her, studying her. The room was filled with sunlight from the French doors. The brightness washed the color from Cassie’s gray eyes, making them seem glasslike, disconcertingly huge and soulless. Soulless like Lillian Morrow’s, Kate thought as she handed the ginger ale to her.

  “You’re not what I expected,” Cassie said.

  “I could say the same.”

  “Roger is doing well, isn’t he? More like his old self.” She sipped the ginger ale. “I can tell by the way he sounds over the phone.”

  “He’s fine.” Kate sat down opposite Cassie, wondering now about her ulterior motives; she hadn’t asked about her children yet. “He’s getting antsy, though. He misses his work.”

  “Don’t let him go back,” Cassie warned.

  “Roger has a mind of his own.”

  “You’ll lose him. The same way I did. He’ll give himself to a case with more passion than most men give their mistresses. And there will be nothing left for you.”

  “Excuse me.” Kate got to her feet. “I’ll tell Richie you’re here.”

  She was halfway across the foyer, headed for the stairway, before she remembered to breathe. What Cassie said was true; she had seen Tejeda passionately consumed by a case. But it had been Kate’s case, and it had brought them together. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had tucked away any notion that when the case was finally resolved, the injuries healed, Tejeda would move on.

  As she passed a side table, she saw a puddle of water growing under a vase of mums. She mopped it with the toe of her sock and then gave the foyer and the rooms opening off it a quick inspection; she was in no hurry to get Richie, to start the cycle of confusion that Cassie’s arrival had made inevitable.

  Trinh and Rachel had done a beautiful job on the house, she thought, everything polished and fresh and brightened with arrangements of fall flowers, cattails, and leaves. There was expectation here, subdued excitement for the holiday.

  Kate reached into an arrangement and snapped off a wilted mum that spoiled its perfection, and thought about Cassie and her intentions. She crushed the mum in her palm. Why, after two years, had she come now? Had she planned her grand reentrance for Thanksgiving, making sure she had a full audience? Or had she simply, and naturally, needed to be with
her family?

  Kate began to feel Cassie’s presence, threatening her in a way she couldn’t yet define. Sooner or later, she had known from the beginning, Cassie was destined to reappear, just like the rest of Wally Morrow’s body.

  Lance came in from the kitchen passageway, silent on bare feet, his damp hair finger-combed, a red beach towel wrapped around his middle.

  “How’s the water?” she asked.

  “Cold.” He fell into step beside her. “Reece loaned me a board so I could try the surf in the bay.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Pretty wimpy.” He shrugged. “I don’t get it—when I was a kid, there was a five-foot curl here.”

  “Probably no breakwater then.” She stopped. “I thought your family came from Montana.”

  “They do,” he said, but she had noticed the pause before he answered.

  “When were you in Santa Angelica?”

  He seemed embarrassed, as if caught in a lie. “I was born in Santa Angelica.”

  “Is that so bad? I was born here too.”

  “No, it’s not bad. It’s the reason we moved away that’s bad.”

  “Why?”

  “My older brother died. I wanted to finish junior high with my friends, but my parents couldn’t take living here anymore. So we moved to Montana.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kate said. “Was there an accident?”

  “My brother was a Marine.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, touching his arm.

  “It’s okay. It’s been a long time.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Cassie standing in the study door. She gave Lance’s damp arm a squeeze. “Excuse me, I need to get Richie.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. He hung back as she walked away.

  As she walked, Kate was doing a little quick arithmetic in her head. Lance had been in junior high maybe seven or eight years ago. What had the Marines been involved with then? She stopped in her tracks and turned to him.

  “Where did your brother die, Lance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cassie had taken a step into the foyer.

  “How can you not know where your brother died?” Kate pressed.

  Sadness dropped over him like a cowl. “I don’t know where he was killed, but they found his body here, in the bay. His head, anyway.”

  The sound Cassie made was somewhere between a cough and a sob. Lance glanced at her and his face flushed.

  “He was murdered?” Kate asked.

  Lance nodded. “He’s counts seventeen and eighteen against Arty Silver.”

  “Does Richie know about your brother?” Kate asked.

  “Only that he was killed,” Lance said.

  “If Arty Silver killed your brother, you had to know about Richie’s father.”

  Lance straightened himself and looked at her almost with defiance. “Look, I’m not using Rich. I heard at school—at Santa Barbara—who he was, so I got close to him. Just to keep posted about Silver. If he ever got out, on a technicality or something, I wanted to be there.”

  Kate saw Cassie dart toward the front door and was afraid she was going to bolt. But after a few steps she stopped, turned, and fled back into the study.

  “I’m sorry,” Lance said. “I’ll leave if you want me to.”

  “No,” Kate said, watching Cassie’s shadow cross the study wall. “I think this is where you belong.”

  10

  At first, when Tejeda looked out the window, he thought he was still dreaming; the scene below had to be a continuation of the bizarre, convoluted stream of images that were always part of his drugged sleep. He kept watching them on the beach, his former wife and his two kids playing chicken with the surf. Too bizarre even for Dilantin.

  Where had she come from? His head felt foggy and he couldn’t remember her name. He could remember her naked: thin and naked, pregnant and naked, sun-blistered and naked. He just couldn’t remember her name and he could never let her know that he couldn’t. She had warned him too often what would happen if he didn’t quit police work.

  He started to panic at the out-of-control feeling not remembering gave him. But he caught himself, forced his breathing to slow, sat down, and concentrated on tying his shoes. It helped, but not enough. He had to find out her name before he could confront her.

  “Kate!” he called as he ran down the back stairs. There was no answer. He found the housekeeper in the utility room ironing dinner napkins and watching a TV talk show.

  “Ah …” he started, but no name followed. “Ah …”

  “Trinh,” she said, pointing to herself.

  “Right. Trinh. Where’s Kate?”

  Trinh shrugged. “She got call and went out.”

  “Damn.” He pounded his fists together. “Look, did you meet my wife?”

  “Yes. Very nice lady.”

  “Good. What’s her name?”

  “Mrs. Tejeda.”

  “No. Her other name.”

  Again Trinh shrugged. “Mrs. Roger?”

  “You don’t know where Kate went?”

  “Just out.” She snapped another napkin from the laundry basket. “She was in hurry and she didn’t take purse.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned at her. “You’d make a great detective.”

  “Better than cook?” he heard her call after him as he ran out through the back door.

  The estate covered so much ground and had so many buildings that he had learned a long time ago that the fastest way to find out whether Kate had left the compound was to count the cars in the garage, see if one was missing. Looking through the garage window, he saw her three: the Jag, the Rolls, and her uncle’s Mercedes. And an extra, his own gray Cutlass, back from Santa Barbara with Richie. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he felt relieved to have everyone home and safe. Then it occurred to him that someone might have come and picked up Kate. She could certainly take care of herself. Still, he wished he knew where she was.

  From where he stood, he could see the top of Byrd Rock, white-capped from sea-gull deposits. If his ex-wife had heard anything about Wally Morrow, she wouldn’t be down there.

  He tucked his shirt into the top of his cords and set off along the walkway that led to the beach stairs. Except for the gap in his head where his wife’s name should be, he decided that he had no reason to put off at least saying hello to her. Best to get this first meeting out of the way while Kate wasn’t around.

  The feeling had nothing to do with Kate, really. It was him. He couldn’t imagine ever being happy again with anyone but Kate. That didn’t stop him from carrying a load of guilt, the living root of an idea planted in his childhood that he was entitled to only one spouse, till death and all that. Maybe he could have tried harder, somehow held his marriage together. It was too late to do anything now. And had been since he’d met Kate.

  On the beach below, his kids were walking with their mother. From the way she was gesturing, she seemed to be doing all the talking, her hands punching the air for emphasis. So things were okay, he thought. When she was upset, she grew sullen and quiet. When she was really mad or hurt, she took off.

  So maybe this was a good time to drop in on them, he thought. Before she got up a head of steam.

  He lost sight of the beach as he passed the landscaping around the gazebo that overhung the bluff. He dismissed the first movement he saw inside the gazebo as oleander blowing in the breeze, until he heard shuffling steps and something like gasping sobs.

  “Hello, in there,” he said, and startled when Kate came flying out. She didn’t slow or seem to notice when the tail of her sweater snagged on a hedge and tore. She just ran.

  He ran to her and pulled her against him; he had seen Kate upset before, but never like this. Something had happened, and all he could think of was his ex-wife and what she was capable of doing.

  He patted Kate’s heaving back. “It’s okay, babe.”

  “Kate,” she gasped, and he almost laughed, the reminder was such a refle
x reaction.

  “I know your name. What happened to you? Did she say something?” He let out a long breath. “Oh, God, Kate. What’s her name?”

  She wiped her red-rimmed eyes and looked up at him in puzzlement. “Who?”

  “The mother of my children.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Come with me.” Holding on to him, she seemed calmer as she led him through the oleander hedge and back to the gazebo. She talked all the way, gasping for breath. “The department secretary called while you were sleeping. Said someone had left a message for me.”

  As soon as he smelled it, he tried to hold her back. But she wouldn’t be held.

  “Said I could find my baby in the gazebo. I didn’t know what it meant, so I came out here to look.” She went straight to a wicker rocker in the far corner of the gazebo and picked up a bundle wrapped in a fuzzy yellow receiving blanket printed with ducks and giraffes. She brought it to him as if she were passing off a wet baby. “Take a look.”

  He took it from her and set it on the window ledge, trying to close his nose against the sweet stench. “You shouldn’t have touched it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She folded back the top of the blanket anyway. “Who is it?”

  Where the baby’s head would be there was a hand, or rather a claw, tinged the peculiar green-white of decomposing human flesh. Its heavy plastic wrapping made it seem artificial, but the smell made it obvious this was no joke prop.

  Tejeda tweezed an edge of the blanket and peeled it away to see how much arm was attached to the hand. It was all wrapped in a clear plastic bag that ended in a wire twist-tie just about where the elbow should have been. The forearm was thickly muscled and covered with curly dark hair.

  Kate’s hand on his shoulder was admirably steady. “Smells.”

  “Who left the message for you to come out here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Winnie took the call at school and just passed it on.”