by J. A. Jance
As soon as I walked into the bathroom, I understood what Alex meant. Space for this recently added bathroom had been carved from an attic area directly under the slope of the eaves. The tub-enclosure alcove wasn't tall enough to accommodate a shower stall. In fact, I couldn't even stand up in it without bumping my head on the ceiling. With my arm bandaged, though, showers would have been out of the question anyway.
I missed my morning shower, but breakfast more than made up for it. Alex and I arrived in the huge dining-room and took the last two places at the far end of a spacious dining-room table that comfortably seated twelve. By the time we appeared, the room was abuzz with lively chatter. Talk ceased long enough for a round of introductions. Guests came from as far south as San Diego and from as far north as Alex's digs on Queen Ann Hill.
The Oak Hill's owner-a retired schoolteacher named Florence who functioned as hostess, chief cook, waitress, busser, manager, and concierge-passed platters heaped high with French toast, delectable sausages, and sliced fresh fruit. She plied us with pitchers of juice and hot coffee and kept conversation flowing. Table talk focused mostly on who had seen which plays yesterday, what they thought of same, and who would see what today.
Toward the end of the meal, someone asked about the bandage on my arm. With little encouragement, Alex told a rapt audience about the previous night's activities. There's nothing like murder and mayhem to liven up a waning meal-time discussion.
Once the topic of murder came up, I figured I was in for it. Being identified as a police officer-especially a homicide detective-in a group of civilians is no favor. The cop immediately becomes the focus of all kinds of public pet peeves concerning the judicial system-from police brutality to overly enthusiastic traffic enforcement. With a brand-new local murder under discussion, I figured I was in for a real grilling.
And that would have happened most places. Ashland was different. To my surprise, that highly literate group of breakfast conversationalists quickly veered away from the specifics of Martin Shore's murder into a hotly contested philosophical discussion on the ethics of the death penalty. It's no news that I was the only person unconditionally in favor of capital punishment, but everyone else turned out to be just as opinionated as I was.
All in all, it was a delicious, interesting, and altogether enjoyable meal. It put me totally at ease, lulled me into a false sense of security and lighthearted fun. As a consequence, when Alexis and I walked back up to our room afterward, I was shocked when we ran into Kelly coming down the stairway. She was headed for the laundry on the other side of the kitchen, her arms laden with a huge bundle of dirty sheets and wet towels.
"Kelly!" I exclaimed in dismay. "What are you doing here?"
She glanced first at Alexis and then at me. "Hello, Dad," she said. "I work here mornings. I thought you knew that. I saw your car outside and thought that's why you stayed here."
"I had no idea!"
Alexis stepped forward with a ready smile. "Hi, Kelly. I'm Alexis Downey. Alex for short. I'm so glad to meet you."
Now it was Kelly and Alexis who stood looking at each other and sizing one another up in the same way Jeremy Todd Cartwright and I had surveyed one another the evening before. At last Kelly smiled. "I'm happy to meet you, too, Alex," she said. The dignity of her response belied both her age and the dirty linen.
"Right now I have to start the wash, or it'll never get dry. We'll talk later-at lunch. I'm off around eleven-thirty." With that, she continued down the staircase and disappeared.
I watched her go with a very real sense of wonder. I was so amazed that for the time being I forgot to be embarrassed about her seeing Alex and me together. "She's all grown up, Alexis. How did that happen? Where have I been?"
Alex grinned. "Daddies are always the last to know."
We proceeded up the stairs and into our room, where the bed had been neatly made. Two sets of clean towels and washcloths hung on the bars in the bathroom. I was astonished to think that Kelly-my very own messy Kelly-had carefully placed them there and that she had actually made a bed. With her own hands. That was so out of character, I would have been less surprised if someone had told me she was an alien being from another planet.
"If you had known her when she was little…"
Alex turned to me. "How long have you been divorced?"
"Six years, going on seven. Why?"
"When you don't see someone on a daily basis, especially little kids, they tend to stay frozen in your mind at the age they were when you knew them best. For years my grandmother sent me three pairs of panties on my birthday. Every year I had to exchange them because every year they were too small.
"Kelly's all grown up now, Beau. She's not eleven or twelve anymore. It looks to me as though she's behaving in a very responsible fashion."
I thought about that. "In other words, butt out and mind my own business?"
Alex shrugged. "Maybe that's a little stronger than I would have said it myself, but yes, that's pretty much what I mean."
Alex left me standing in the middle of the room, walked over to the door, and clicked home the security lock. When she came back, she kissed me full on the lips.
"Hey, big guy," she murmured. "How about a quick roll in the hay? This is supposed to be our romantic getaway, remember? So far you haven't laid a glove on me."
God knows I wanted her, but my ears reddened at the very suggestion. "With Kelly right downstairs?" I croaked.
Alex laughed. "Why not? She's doing laundry, remember? She won't even notice."
"But what if the bed squeaks? What if the floor does?"
"What if?"
Taking me by the hand, Alex led me over to the bed. I sat down on it tentatively and bounced once or twice, testing the springs. I couldn't hear any telltale squeaks, but without being downstairs to listen, how could I be sure? Meantime, Alex slipped out of her shorts and panties and peeled her T-shirt off over her head. Seconds after the T-shirt hit the carpeted floor, so did her lacy white bra.
Alex walked over to me and pulled me against her bare skin with fierce, hungry urgency. Grasping my head, she buried my face in the soft, fragrant swell of her breasts.
"Please," she whispered. "Kelly will never know. Even if she did, she won't mind. I think she knows where babies come from."
"But…"
"Kelly isn't a virgin anymore. She doesn't expect you to be one, either."
Put that way, with Alex's suddenly taut nipples grazing against my skin and lips, I could hardly turn her down. No right-thinking male would have, not unless he was totally crazy-and, most assuredly, I am not crazy.
Eventually, with some careful urging on her part, I did manage to rise to the occasion. But given the choice between making love while my daughter was downstairs washing clothes or doing it with Alex's crazy cat lying there eyeing us malevolently from the opposite pillow, I confess I'd choose Hector every single time.
CHAPTER 6
We fell asleep. Considering the lateness of the hour when we'd arrived home from the emergency room, that was hardly surprising. Alex woke me just in time for us to go to lunch with Jeremy and Kelly. Before we left the room, I personally made sure the bed was perfectly straight.
Jeremy showed up wearing his Birkenstocks and driving the Live Oak Farm van. Once we were all together, he recommended we go directly to a restaurant called Geppetto's in hopes of beating the noontime crowd. I soon saw the wisdom in that advice. Within minutes of our being shown to a table, twenty people stood waiting in line for seating as matinee theatergoers came out in droves, prowling the area for pre-play sustenance.
Ashland, like an army, travels on its stomach. Each day the town fills up with hundreds of out-of-town visitors who expect to be fed regular meals before, after, or between performances. The fact that nobody goes hungry is one of the logistical miracles of unrepentant capitalism.
When the harried waiter arrived to take our order, all three of them-Jeremy, Kelly, and Alex-ordered the eggplant hamburger. Eggplant, for
God's sake! It reminded me of Ron Peters, my longtime friend and ex-partner, in his old bean-sprout days. I fumed and ordered a real hamburger.
Kelly shook her head in disapproval. "Daddy," she chided, "how can you eat all that red meat?"
"Easy," I returned. "Years of practice."
My comment provoked the slightest hint of a smile in the corners of Jeremy Cartwright's otherwise strained mouth. I wondered if he was nervous about having lunch with me. I certainly hoped so. I remembered being scared witless the first time I had dinner with Karen's folks.
"I have tickets for Majestic this afternoon, if you'd like to go," he offered.
"Oh, Jeremy. How awesome!" Kelly exclaimed, sounding every bit the eighteen-year-old she was.
"How did you manage that?"
Jeremy shrugged modestly. "Just lucky," he said.
Alexis Downey beamed. "Majestic's a terrific show. One of my favorites. I understand you play the Laredo Kid?"
"Yeah," he said. "I only auditioned for the part on a dare. I never thought I'd actually get it."
The in-crowd theater talk left me in the dark. "What's it about?" I asked.
"About this old-time movie character-that's me," Jeremy answered. "I appear like a vision to this other guy who grew up going to movies and watching those real old western serials."
Watch it, Buster, I thought. I used to love those "real old" western serials.
"Now he's out West working on an Indian reservation," Jeremy continued. "My character is stuck in the past with all these old scripts and stereotypes of what women should and shouldn't do. He can't adjust to this new kind of modern woman who can go to school, cook gourmet meals, fix her own car, and save her boyfriend every time he gets into hot water."
"Sounds fascinating," I said.
Alex kicked me in the shins. "It is," she said. "And we'll be delighted to go, Jeremy. It'll be a good counterpoint to Shrew tonight."
If I personally had any objections, they'd been summarily overruled. The waiter brought our orders. Even he looked somewhat disgusted as he slapped the loaded real meat hamburger platter on the table in front of me.
With the arrival of food, conversation ground to a halt. Uncomfortable silence expanded until it seemed to stretch to the far corners of the universe. Each bite of hamburger turned to dry saw-dust in my mouth, although everyone else at the table wolfed his or her food with obvious relish. I could just as well have ordered the eggplant.
"Is your mother coming to the wedding?" Alex asked, innocently lobbing a live hand grenade onto the table. Fortunately, I had just swallowed a mouthful of burger; otherwise I would have required an on-the-spot Heimlich maneuver. Kelly's gaze faltered, and her hands dropped nervously to her lap while a vivid flush spread up her neck and cheeks.
"Mom doesn't know about it," she responded. "Coming to the wedding would just upset her."
"Upset" didn't quite cover it. I doubt that's the word Dave Livingston would have used, either.
The expression on Alex's face remained utterly composed. "If I were your mother," she said with an impassive smile, "I'm afraid I'd be terribly hurt if I wasn't invited."
"Even if you thought your daughter was making a horrible mistake?" Jeremy chimed in.
I did choke at that one, couldn't help it. At least the kid was smart enough to recognize the lay of the land.
Alex nodded. "Even if," she replied.
That was followed by another period of dead silence. "We'll think about it," Kelly said finally, but Alex wasn't finished.
"If the wedding's tomorrow," she pressed, "there isn't much time for your mother to make arrangements. She's in California, isn't she?" Kelly nodded. "She'll have to make plane reservations, and all that."
"I'll try to decide today," Kelly agreed.
It was a major concession, and I wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. I smiled at Alex, grateful for the miracle, while Kelly changed the subject. "How was the backstage tour this morning, Jeremy?" she asked.
"Everybody's upset," he said, "because of the knife and all."
Knife? It was as if someone had twanged a gigantic rubber band in the middle of my forehead. "What knife?" I asked.
"The Henckels-the twelve-inch slicer-we use for Romeo. When the stage manager realized it was missing from the prop table this morning, he spent an hour looking before he had Dinky Holloway report it to Detective Fraymore. You know, because of what happened last night. Nobody knows when it disappeared…"
"I do," I interjected.
"You do?" Three pairs of eyes searched my face.
"It was missing when I looked at the props during the donor party," I said. "I remember seeing the empty orange outline on the table. At least it was something shaped like a knife. I didn't worry about it, though. It wasn't my problem."
"It's somebody's problem now. Dinky came back to the theater practically tearing her hair out. Fraymore was going out to the farm to take Tanya's fingerprints."
"Tanya's!" Kelly exclaimed. "Why would he do that?"
"Don't worry," I assured them. "It's just routine. If it is the knife from the show, both Juliet's and Romeo's prints may be on it. So a print technician will take both Tanya's and James Renthrow's prints as well as any stagehands who may have handled the knife. Once they catalog the known prints that should be there, then they can sort out the unknown ones that shouldn't."
"I see," Jeremy said. "So it's a process of elimination?"
"Right," I answered. "It's called disqualifying prints."
Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad to hear that. I was afraid it meant she was really in trouble."
"Any reason why she should be?"
"Daddy," Kelly complained. "Stop being a detective."
"I can't help it. Curiosity becomes a way of life."
Iced tea and eggplant had evidently propped up Jeremy's confidence. He was feeling expansive. "It's just that Tanya's had so much bad luck," he said. "First her parents died in that fire when she was twelve. Then she got in a beef with her guardian and ended up on her own by the time she was fourteen. She's been self-supporting ever since. In all that time, she never lost track of her goal."
"Which was?"
"To be an actress. And look at her. She is. For someone her age, she's accomplished a lot. Especially when you consider she's raising Amber all by herself."
"What happened to her husband?"
"Oh him." Kelly sniffed disapprovingly. "I guess Bob couldn't stand the competition. He was ten years older than Tanya. When she landed better parts than he did, he took off."
"How old was Amber when he left?" I asked.
Kelly and Jeremy exchanged veiled glances before Kelly answered. "Tanya told me he left the day he found out she was pregnant."
Oops. One more time, open mouth and insert foot. Once again Alex came to my rescue. "How old is Amber?"
"Two and a half."
"I know what actors make around here," Alex continued. "It isn't much. How has Tanya managed?"
"She couldn't have if it hadn't been for Marjorie," Kelly explained. "That's Marjorie Connors," she added for Alex's benefit. "Our landlady. She runs Live Oak Farm, where we all live. Tanya couldn't afford an apartment by herself. She was about to be thrown into the street when Marjorie invited them to come stay with her."
Jeremy nodded. "Marjorie's great. That's the kind of thing she does. She was volunteering at the theaters when she heard about what was going on with Tanya and Amber. She knew Tanya was broke, so they worked out a way Tanya could help around the farm in exchange for the rent. That's what we all do, more or less."
"Is that how you ended up there, too?" Alex spoke with her eyes focused on Kelly's face. If I had asked the question, Kelly probably would have thrown the remainder of her eggplant burger in my face, told me it was none of my business, and stomped off in a huff. Since Alex asked, though, it was okay.
"Pretty much," Kelly answered.
"Sounds like a nice lady," Alex went on. "I'd like to meet her sometime. Mayb
e at the wedding."
Jeremy shook his head. "I doubt that. Marjorie doesn't like weddings. She says marriage is a barbaric holdover from the Middle Ages that turns women into slaves and men into tyrants." Jeremy delivered that last sentence in a brusque voice that mimicked Marjorie Connors' clipped delivery perfectly. Both Kelly and I laughed. Maybe Jeremy was an actor after all.
For a change, since Alex alone of the three of us had never met Marjorie Connors, she was the one left out of the joke.
Jeremy glanced down at his watch. "Sorry to rush. I've got a cast call pretty soon. If we don't leave now, I won't have time to take Kelly home and bring the others into town."
"I take it you operate the Live Oak Taxi?" I asked.
He grinned. "Like Kelly said, it helps pay the rent." He started to fumble gamely for his bill-fold, but I told him to forget it, that I was buying. They left a few minutes later, even though it was just barely twelve-thirty. Alex and I lingered at the table. It was hot in the restaurant, and I switched from coffee to iced tea.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"Of them?" Alex shrugged. "They're sweet. And very much in love."
She sat there stirring sugar into her iced tea in an artless, casual gesture. Watching her, I was surprised by how much I liked it; by how much I liked her. It was as if she had somehow tiptoed around the defenses and crept into my heart through a back entrance I didn't know existed.
"Could I ask you a personal question, Ms. Downey?" I asked.
"Shoot," she said.
"Let me lay it out for you this way, ma'am. Here we are having lunch with my daughter and the young twerp who is all set to marry her without so much as a by-your-leave. In the middle of this highly pressurized lunch, you come right out and ask if they've invited Karen to the wedding. Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining, but would you mind telling me why you did that?"
She looked up at me and smiled, her deep blue eyes flashing in merriment. "You really don't know?"
"Haven't a clue."
"Karen's Kelly's mother, right?"
"Right."
