Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  Rios looked up shyly. He seemed to have been watching the interactions of everyone in the room, spying almost, as if he were some sort of alien taking notes. “I don’t eat meat.”

  “We have cheese and peanut butter,” Kate said. “Trinh probably has some rice balls in the refrigerator.”

  Rios hesitated, watching Tejeda’s face all the time, as if waiting for some clue. Then he began packing his tools. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Another time, maybe,” Kate said breezily, and went into the kitchen.

  Tejeda stayed behind, waiting for Rios to finish his packing.

  “Did she mean that?” Rios asked.

  “Kate always means what she says.”

  “Yeah?” Rios glanced at the swinging door as he stood with his tool bag. “Tell her maybe another time.”

  Tejeda put the last of the dishes into the dishwasher and dried his hands. He had hoped for a little quiet time with Kate before he had to leave again, but he didn’t know how to get rid of Carl tactfully. Everyone else in their ongoing house party had moved on to other amusements—Reece had remembered an old set of boccie balls in the garage, and there was a noisy game in progress out on the lawn.

  Carl had stayed behind to help Kate figure out what had happened to a property-tax payment she remembered making on a house they still owned jointly somewhere in town. It hadn’t occurred to Tejeda while trying to figure out what to do with his own house that Kate might also have a house left over from her marriage.

  Tejeda had never been able to imagine Kate and Carl actually living together, taking care of routine chores. Not that he thought Kate had lived in a vacuum before he had met her. He just couldn’t imagine her with Carl, who was like a guy in a magazine shirt ad to him: great-looking, but when you turned the page, you found he had no backside.

  He picked up a sponge and started wiping down the sink, a transparent ploy, giving himself an excuse to hang around a little longer. He knew from Carl’s bland expression when he looked up that he saw right through him.

  “Any more coffee?” Carl asked.

  “Sorry, I washed the pot.”

  “I found it.” Kate slid the check register in front of Carl. “October 20, check twenty-five-oh-eight. If it got to the bank around the first of November, then it was probably in the batch that bounced because of the hold you put on my accounts.”

  “Sorry,” he said, taking a handful of his perfect haircut as he studied the register. “I didn’t realize. I’ll pick up any interest and penalties.”

  “Fair enough. How about these others?”

  When they bent their heads together over the register, Tejeda had to admit to a little pang. They were a very attractive pair, Kate as dark as Carl was fair. Tejeda rinsed out the sponge and dropped it on the sink; what made him uncomfortable was the realization that Carl did have a backside, and a lot more depth than he had dared give him credit for. In fact, he admitted, the asshole could be downright nice. During his negotiations on behalf of Lance, Carl had shown himself to be tough, fair, and generous. Not that it made Tejeda like him any better; Carl had been a lot easier to dismiss as a factor in Kate’s life when he was still a shirt ad.

  He wondered how bizarre it would be if Carl actually moved into the house he was working on next door. The guy was quiet and neat and didn’t spit on the sidewalk. But Tejeda didn’t think he was modern enough to want his lover’s ex parking his dirty socks so close by.

  He filled a glass with water. “How’s the house coming?”

  “Great.” Carl smiled. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I expected the whole enterprise to be a real pain, but I find I enjoy it.”

  “Mike Rios is an odd duck.”

  “Could be. But he walks on water as far as I’m concerned. Everyone told me my expectations for the house were too high. Everyone except Mike. His own ideas are usually better than mine, but if I want something, he’ll move heaven and earth to get it.”

  “Where did you dig him up?” Tejeda asked.

  “Actually, he dug me up,” Carl said. “When he heard I was bidding the job, he got a mutual acquaintance to recommend him. He’s worked out very well, I think, because we both have the same goal, to make the house as beautiful as it was before Kate’s uncle let it go to pot.”

  Kate’s eyes grew round. “Today he’s my uncle and not your father?”

  “Today, yes. After the mess I made of your accounts, I figure I’m skating on thin ice. And you did give me the moldings.”

  “And I got what I wanted.” Kate closed the checkbook. “Mike’s too young to have a teenage son. Does he have a younger brother?”

  “I don’t know,” Carl said. “He’s never mentioned family. Does it matter?”

  “Maybe I’m getting paranoid,” she said. “But I’ve met too many people lately who are the relatives of deceased young men.”

  She got up and came over to Tejeda, slipping an arm around him. “Theresa needs to get out of the house for a while, but every time she goes to the door, six telephoto lenses appear through the hedge. The pressure is too much. Can you do something?”

  “Short of target practice, you mean?”

  She laughed. “I’m not so sure I’d stop there.”

  22

  “I brought you a present from my trip, kiddo,” Tejeda said.

  “Theresa,” she said.

  “I remember your name.” He felt his face grow hot.

  “Don’t be so sensitive, Dad. Jeez.” Theresa shook his arm. “What did you bring me?”

  “A hat,” he said, bringing Peters’ chauffeur cap from behind his back. “If you’re going to be my driver, I want you to look sharp.”

  “It’s great,” she laughed, the first spark of enthusiasm he had seen in his daughter all day. She piled her thick hair on her head and pulled the cap over it. “Do you think this will get us past the gate?”

  “Worth a try.”

  She tucked the stray ends of her hair into the cap and straightened the tie she had borrowed from Richie. Even without makeup, there was no disguising that she was all girl. But the press would have no more than a few seconds to see her, and, with luck, they would be more interested in him, sitting in the back seat of Kate’s Rolls like visiting royalty.

  “Let me know when you get tired of driving,” he said.

  “Are you kidding?” she asked, hurrying him into the garage.

  He let himself be led, buoyed by the rise in her spirits. Kate had been right to insist that Theresa be gotten away from the telephone and the media. Theresa had taken Sean’s death hard, as he had expected; she was always a sensitive kid. It broke his heart to hear her tell him how she felt responsible for Sean’s death, how she had overheard someone say that if Sean hadn’t been coming to see her, he probably wouldn’t have been killed. The morning papers had only made Theresa feel worse by puffing two dates and half a dozen phone calls into a tragic romance.

  Reece was waiting for them by the gates, helpful as always. He had instructed Theresa to stay on the turnabout beside the garage until the gates were open and he signaled that all was clear. Then she was to rev the powerful motor and make a fast getaway.

  Tejeda steeled himself, searching for imaginary brakes in the back seat as Reece gave his signal. Theresa stomped the accelerator and stalled the motor as camera people began to ooze toward the opening gates. She got the engine restarted quickly, squared her shoulders, eased her foot on the accelerator, and sailed the Rolls out past the evening news and Geraldo’s advance team with no problem.

  Kate had asked him to sit in the back seat to draw attention away from Theresa in front. But he was beginning to understand that Kate, who had done a lot of driving with Theresa, had put him out of panic-reach distance from the steering wheel. When Theresa miscalculated a right turn and bumped a curb, he gripped the armrest until his knuckles were white. She grimaced and waited, but he didn’t say anything.

  After two blocks of smooth going, he unclenched his fists. “This has to be the
most conspicuous car in town. How long do you think before those camera people catch on to us?”

  “Reece said to call him if they bother us and he’ll come make a car exchange.” She kept her eyes on the road. “What happened to the Cutlass?”

  “Had to go to the shop.” He didn’t bother to say that the shop was in the basement of the county coroner’s Forensic Science Services and that Vic Spago had taken it in charge. “You know where we’re going?”

  “Yes. Why can’t I just drop you off and wait outside?”

  “Because I like to make things complicated.”

  “That’s the truth.” She made a smooth left turn and glanced at him quickly in the rearview mirror, checking to see whether he had noticed. “I still don’t understand what Lance did.”

  “You want me to tell you all about how he stole an arm from a mortuary? Better than Freddie Kruger.”

  “Dad, be serious.”

  “Seriously, he was a jerk. He thought he could delay the Arty Silver trial, first by finding new evidence on his own, then by faking a murder. He borrowed the Cutlass from Richie, cut classes, and spent his tuition money buying beer for men who let him think they had information. I can’t imagine how he thought he could pull it off.”

  “Too strange. I always liked him.”

  “Me too.” He opened the Thomas guide on his lap to the map page that included Angel Gardens, the postwar housing tract where Arty Silver had grown up. He counted the blocks between the shopping center ahead and the Silvers’ house. Less than a mile, he figured, and an easy run unless it started to rain again.

  “Park on the north side of the Broadway store. As close to the door as you can.”

  “Which way is north?”

  “Left.”

  “Dad, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Why do you want to talk to Mrs. Silver, anyway?”

  “Because she didn’t invite her kids over for Thanksgiving,” he said, searching through his wallet for his Broadway charge card. “In what part of the store do you shop?”

  “Juniors.” She pulled into a space next to a tree two rows from the store. “Why?”

  “Go up to Juniors, get an armload of stuff, take it into a dressing room, and stay there until I come for you. Here’s the card. If clerks start to hassle you, buy something.”

  “This is weird, Dad.”

  He laughed. “I guess it is.”

  Tejeda took Theresa’s hand and walked her to the store entrance, watching for the glint of telephoto lenses in the landscaping. “Stay away from the car, okay?”

  She shrugged. “Okay.”

  “If you get scared or I don’t come back in an hour or so, call Kate.” He handed her a fistful of change. “Now, go have a good time. But don’t spend more than a hundred bucks.”

  The Silver house had fresh yellow shutters and pots of geraniums on the porch. It was much like every other house on the street—well-kept for its age, not very big, but comfortable-looking. Tejeda straightened the front of his jacket and started up the short concrete walk to the front door.

  The run from the shopping center had cleared his head, given him a chance to focus on what he wanted from Arty’s mother. He was still deciding on the best way to get past the front door when it opened.

  Behind the screen he could make out a round, squat silhouette. “Is that you, Mr. Tejeda?”

  “How are you, Mrs. Silver?”

  “I’m no better than you might expect, sir.” Her voice was soft, and with no trace of the hostility he had expected. “I don’t think I should speak with you.”

  “Arty asked me to come.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Call him.”

  There was a long hesitation. He just hoped that after thinking things over, she wouldn’t call his bluff. Because of the way Tejeda had left things at the jail, he had no idea what Arty might say to his mother. In the end, he heard her unlatch the screen hook.

  “Come in, then.” She held the screen open for him. “Don’t want to waste one of Arty’s calls—they only give him so many, you know. But if I don’t like what you say, out you go.”

  “Fair enough.” He took a good look at her as he squeezed past. Her dark hair was a mass of short coils, freshly permed for the start of the trial, he guessed. His overall impression was of roundness, from her pruned brush of hair to the full bosom that stretched against her shapeless housedress. She obviously wasn’t working out with Jane Fonda, but she had taken some care with her appearance: her makeup was fresh, her thin browline carefully penciled in behind her eyeglasses. The lacquer on her nails was still fresh enough for him to smell.

  Her house was clean. The front door opened directly into the small living room, and he could see the order of both this room and the dining alcove beyond. The furniture looked like vintage Montgomery Ward or Sears catalog, but it was in good repair. The wood surfaces shone and the gin bottle on the coffee table was nearly full.

  Mrs. Silver went to a recliner in front of the television, where a soundless soap opera played out its latest tragedy. “Arty seem okay to you?”

  “He seems a little nervous.” Tejeda took a seat on the end of the sofa. The end table beside him held a well-dusted collection of family mementos: a swimming trophy, a science-fair medal, a pair of tiny bronzed ballet shoes. He picked up a framed studio portrait and looked at the four well-scrubbed faces arranged in stair steps, from a toddler—the only girl—to a preteenager. The elfin slant to the eyes of the oldest child identified him as Arty. Tejeda set the portrait back under the lamp, haunted by the sameness of the expressions on the black-and-white faces; an ill-concealed anger behind the blank smiles.

  Mrs. Silver was watching him, her mouth slightly open as if her chin had grown heavy.

  “Handsome family,” he said.

  “They were. I always thought that when they grew up they wouldn’t give us problems anymore.”

  “Did Arty give you problems?”

  “Skinned knees and like that. No. Arty was my good one.”

  Tejeda raised his brows but didn’t say anything.

  “He still is my good one. He never did any of those things you say he did. He promised me.”

  “Maybe not, Mrs. Silver.” He glanced at the four angry little faces beside him. “What kind of kid was Arty?”

  “He was a very sweet little boy, always. Very cooperative. Tended to his studies, kept his room clean, obeyed his father. Sometimes when the other three were running around like wild Indians, I’d just go in and sit with Arty to get some peace and quiet. We gave him his own room so the little kids wouldn’t bother him.”

  “He didn’t get along with the others?”

  “Oh, sure. They looked up to him. I just wish they’d been more like him.”

  Tejeda had to pause a minute. Even a mother couldn’t be that blind; this paragon she wanted the others to emulate was a mass murderer, no matter what he had promised.

  In the media profiles, and according to his defense, Arty was like any valedictorian next door. Tejeda didn’t remember anyone mentioning love, but Arty was portrayed as a nice, quiet man from a nice, quiet family. Like the rest of us.

  Something was out of sync between the picture he was getting and the man he knew. He looked around the room again, hoping for some clue. How could a maniac like Arty come from such a place? There was order here, evidence of care and even pride. Obviously there wasn’t a lot of money in the family—he knew Arty’s father was an accounting clerk somewhere—but they seemed to make good use of what they had. The coffee-table leg showed a neat mend, there were some plaster patches on the walls, visible only because the paint didn’t quite match, and even a closet door he could see had a careful repair job. Then he looked around again and started counting. Lots of careful repair jobs, he thought, a whole lot.

  He heard a back door slam and noticed how Mrs. Silver was staring at the gin bottle.

  “Why did Arty send you?” she asked.

  “He wants you to stay away from
the trial.”

  “No he doesn’t.” She smiled.

  “Ma! Shut up!” The girl striding in from the kitchen was impossibly thin. With each angry step he was afraid she would break her pencil-thin legs. She had surprising strength, though, shoving aside chairs that were in her way. She stopped in front of Mrs. Silver and pointed an accusing finger at Tejeda. “You can’t talk to him, Ma. Tell him to get the hell out.”

  “Now, Deborah.” Mrs. Silver’s voice was very calm. “Arty asked Mr. Tejeda to come see me.”

  “Who says?” Deborah tossed her head back and cleared some strings of dull brown hair from her face—she wasn’t nearly as young as Tejeda had thought. “Did you call Axel?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Ma, don’t you ever do anything?”

  “You interrupted Mr. Tejeda and I.”

  “It’s not Mr. Tejeda, Ma, it’s Lieutenant. Did your brain go dead or something? This is the guy who’s trying to get Arty executed. Daddy says that Lieutenant Tejeda won’t be happy until he destroys the rest of us too. He says they’re even going to put Baby away again real soon.”

  “Who’s Baby?” Tejeda asked. “And where are they going to put him?”

  “My youngest son spent a little time in a group home.” Mrs. Silver still smiled. “But he’s fine now.”

  “Group home? He was committed to the county loony bin,” Deborah screamed at her mother. Then she turned her wrath on Tejeda. “He was so talented and so sensitive and you guys ruined his life. I don’t think you people are human. How would you feel if they said those awful things about your brother? Don’t you care what you are doing to this family?”

  “I don’t have a brother,” he said.

  “Lucky for him,” she seethed. She spun around and stumped off toward the telephone.

  Mrs. Silver hadn’t said anything for a long time.

  “Where is your third son?” he asked.

  “Haven’t heard from him in a while.” She got up and filled a juice glass about half-full from the bottle on the table. Without offering to share, she went back to her chair, to the seat cushion mashed into the shape of her body, and nursed the glass for a moment before she took a drink; straight and neat.