by Lois Winston
In the center of the clipping was a picture of a young blond woman in a short skirt and handcuffs. Above it, the headline—SIMMS TO TESTIFY.
Before I could answer Connie handed me a typed note, explaining, “This was with it.”
You’ve come a long way, Rosalie. I bet a lot of people would be interested to know just how far. Back off and we’ll keep it our little secret.
The woman in the clipping was younger and, surprisingly, less attractive, but it was clearly Pepper. Even in handcuffs, without benefit of makeup, there was a regal haughtiness to her I recognized.
Connie leaned forward and started to explain. “As far as I can tell from reading the story, Pepper was involved in some burglary ring—”
I interrupted. “I know.”
“You knew about this?”
“Not from Pepper, but from . . . other sources. I just found out a few days ago.” My mind was reeling, trying to absorb what it all meant. It must have come from McGregory, I thought. That sort of thing was just his style, but how had he found out? “Have you told the police yet?”
She laughed harshly. “Are you kidding? They sent some moron out the other day to question me. He practically started drooling when he learned I have a house key and I know the alarm code. Big fat guy—his shirt didn’t even button all the way across his paunch—with bad breath and greasy hair. But he thought he was one cool dude.”
“They need to know about this, though,” I told her.
“Then you tell them. You’re better at that sort of thing than I am. You’re even married to a man, or at least you were at one time.”
Her logic escaped me, but I let it go. I did, after all, have an inside contact at the police department.
“I remember when it was delivered,” Connie continued. “At least I think it was the same envelope. A couple of days before she was killed. I brought in the mail, took Mr. Livingston’s stuff to his study, and set the rest on the counter the way I always do. While I was scrubbing out the kitchen sink, Pepper began sorting through the stack, muttering about bills, and then suddenly she was quiet. But it wasn’t simply that she stopped talking. There was a kind of resounding stillness that made me look over at her. She was white as a sheet.”
Connie stopped and considered for a moment. “I remember thinking ‘that must be one hell of a Visa bill.’ Pretty snide of me, wasn’t it?”
“What happened next?”
“Pepper left the kitchen, and I went back to my cleaning. But as I was leaving that afternoon, she asked me to bring her all the mail from now on, Mr. Livingston’s as well as her own.” Connie looked at her watch, then tapped her fingers on the table. “You’ll take care of telling the police?”
I nodded. “But they’ll probably still want to talk to you since you found the envelope and everything.”
She groaned. “Tell them I’ll write it all out and save them the trouble.” As we walked to the door Connie stopped to pick up a leaf that had been tracked into the house. “Pepper sure had me fooled,” she said, handing me the leaf. “Turns out she was pretty cool after all.”
After Connie left, I tried to reach Michael, both at work and at home, but decided against leaving a message. I certainly didn’t want him to think I was the coy, flirtatious type. I tried again several times on Friday, and finally, in the early afternoon, relented and left a message. Never let it be said that I impeded the course of justice.
Only I wasn’t sure that I was doing anything but muddying the already murky waters. None of it made sense. What possible connection could there be between Tony and Jake? But if Tony wasn’t involved, why had he disappeared after Pepper’s death and then run from me the other afternoon? And where did McGregory fit in? Then finally, of course, there was Robert and the mysterious blue Cherokee. Not to mention what was probably a long list of other possible suspects I wasn’t even aware of.
My head was swimming and I longed to talk to Daria, who seemed able to make sense out of almost anything. But she was out all day, probably barking orders continuously.
~*~
The next morning as I was helping Daria straighten the storeroom, I remembered Susie Sullivan’s invitation and called, praying somewhat guiltily that I’d reach her machine instead of the woman herself. It hadn’t been so long ago that I’d stood on principle and refused to talk to anything that couldn’t respond in kind, but now I often timed my calls just so I could leave a short message and be done with it. Luck was with me. At the sound of the beep I left a message thanking Susie for her kind invitation and explaining that I was, regrettably, otherwise occupied that evening.
“What was that all about?” Daria asked as she breezed past, her arms loaded with boxes.
“Susie Sullivan is giving a small dinner party for Robert. Sort of a genteel hand holding.”
“And she asked you?”
“Thanks, you really know how to make a girl feel good.”
Daria balanced her boxes against one hip and laughed apologetically. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just that I didn’t think you and Susie were chummy.”
“We’re not.” I explained my theory about the invitation, and Daria laughed again.
“God, I’m glad I don’t have to hassle the singles’ scene,” she said, stepping out of the storeroom.
About three o’clock I took a break and went across the street for an apple, but ended up buying a candy bar instead. A large Hershey’s with almonds, which I devoured in four bites. When I returned, there was a pink message slip for me on the counter. “Michael Stone returned your call. He’ll pick you up tomorrow at eleven.” The handwriting was Paul’s, and with luck Daria had been too preoccupied to notice it sitting there. I grabbed the message slip and tucked it into my pocket. Path of justice be damned; Michael would have to wait until tomorrow to hear about Connie’s discovery.
That evening I took Anna out for pizza, and as we were rounding the corner onto our street, a blue Jeep Cherokee sped by in the opposite direction. By the time it sank in, the car was long gone, and I hadn’t noticed either the driver or the license number.
Wearily I parked the car, taking note of Susie’s silver Porsche parked in the Livingstons’ driveway, directly in front of the house. It was still there when I went to bed at ten o’clock that evening.
FIFTEEN
At ten minutes to eleven the next morning, Michael arrived at my doorstep, right on the heels of Heather, who had agreed to watch Anna for the afternoon so long as I was home by four-thirty. Not the best arrangement, but better than the other alternatives available. Besides, I figured five hours of wanton pleasure were about all anyone could take and still function.
Michael greeted me with a chaste peck on the cheek. “Guess I’m early,” he said, managing to sound sheepish while not looking it. In fact, he looked something like a young man who had just been handed the keys to the family car. “It’s only my great endowment of willpower that’s kept me away this long.”
I pecked back, not quite so chastely. “It’s your other endowments I find most interesting,” I whispered, and left him to fend for himself while I finished getting ready.
I got Anna settled, left a list of instructions and phone numbers for Heather, and then took one last look in the mirror. For a woman who expected to spend most of the afternoon naked, I’d spent an amazing amount of time getting dressed, discarding one selection after another, until half my closet lay spread across the bed.
Although I could never be accused of being fashionable, I had a fair idea of what was considered proper attire for most occasions. But I’d forgotten completely, if I’d ever known, what one wore for an afternoon of sin. I’d finally decided on a soft jersey dress which invariably brought forth compliments and, perhaps more importantly, was easy to get off.
“Ready,” I said finally, rescuing Michael from Anna’s garbled narrative about the recent adventures of her imaginary friends.
When we were in the car Michael turned and gazed silently in my direction
for a moment before grinning. “So, what’ll it be. You want to try the Powerhouse Special again?”
I choked. “Is that what you call it?”
His grin widened. “The omelet. My college roommate named it.”
“Oh.”
“But we can try the other thing, too.” When I laughed—and also blushed, I’m sure—he reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Did you think about me at all?”
“Some.”
“I thought about you,” he said, switching on the ignition. “Lots.”
We smiled at one another, and then I told him, “I actually tried to reach you yesterday. And the night before.”
“You did?”
I nodded. “I have some information about Pepper.”
His face fell. “So it wasn’t my irresistible charm.”
“Not entirely, anyway.” I pulled the envelope from my purse and started explaining what Connie had told me. He took his eyes from the road long enough to glance at the newspaper clipping while I read the note aloud. “That sheds a whole new light on this thing, doesn’t it?” I asked when I had finished.
“It’s interesting.”
“Interesting? It’s more than that. McGregory threatened Pepper after a city council meeting, joked about her death, and now this. We knew he had a motive and now you’ve got evidence to prove it. Everything fits.”
“Except that McGregory was at dinner with friends the night Pepper was killed.”
“How do you know that?” I snapped.
He raised an eyebrow and regarded me with amusement. “I checked on it, that’s how. I’m a cop, remember? In fact, you were the one who alerted me to McGregory in the first place, after your conversation with some lady friend at the Wine Festival.”
And here I thought he’d merely been humoring me. “You mean you actually listened to me?”
“Of course.”
I savored a moment of private pleasure, then frowned. “I wonder how he found out about Pepper’s past?”
Michael shrugged. “It wouldn’t be too hard. She wasn’t part of a witness protection program or anything. Whatever story she created for herself, it was strictly informal.”
We turned off the freeway and drove east along Willow Pass Road. Uneasily, I started to stuff the note and newspaper clipping back into my purse. It had seemed such an important piece of the puzzle, I couldn’t believe Michael was going to dismiss it so readily. “Maybe McGregory didn’t actually kill Pepper himself, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t involved.”
“True.”
“Tony has got to be the connection here,” I persisted. “He knows Jake somehow, he worked for McGregory, and then suddenly McGregory knows all about Pepper’s past.”
“It does look suspicious. But what would McGregory gain by killing Pepper? As influential and headstrong as she may have been, she was still just the head of a broad-based committee. Getting rid of Pepper wasn’t going to get rid of community opposition. And while McGregory may not qualify for the good citizenship award, he’s smart. I can’t see that he’d risk murder without good cause.”
“Why would he send her that note then?”
“We don’t know that he did, although he’s an obvious candidate.” The car in front, a big gray Lincoln, flashed its left-turn signal and then pulled abruptly to the right. Michael jammed on the brakes, cursing under his breath.
“Where are the cops when you need them?” I sighed. My flippant remark brought only a bleak, fleeting, smirk from Michael, who turned back to the road and drove on in silence, seeming to forget that we were in the middle of a conversation.
“You were saying . . . about McGregory and the note? Why would he send it? If he did, I mean.”
“Maybe he was hoping to intimidate her. Having Pepper off his back would certainly make things easier for him, even if it didn’t alter the final outcome.”
It made sense, although I would have preferred to have Michael praising my investigative efforts instead of logically explaining them away.
“We’ll follow up just the same,” he said, observing me out of the comer of his eye. “In this business you go with your hunches, but you learn never to discount anything, either. Can I keep your folder for a few days?”
“Sure. Maybe you can trace the typewriter or something.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Michael pulled into his own driveway and parked the car. “We talked to Jake last night.”
“You did?”
“Says he doesn’t know the kid. Just met him that afternoon at some Preserve the Rain Forest gathering.”
“Surely you don’t believe that!”
If looks could kill, I would have been dead instantly. “No, I don’t,” he said smoothly. “And that’s why we’re tailing him. We’ll find Tony, sooner or later, and I think we may then be onto something.” He opened the car door and led me up the walkway. “Now, let’s forget about all this murder stuff, okay?”
The sensation of his palm against my waist was all it took. Pepper’s death, and the mystery surrounding it, seemed terribly unimportant.
As soon as we were inside the apartment, Michael pulled me to him and kissed me squarely on the mouth, not with passion exactly, but with a great deal of fervor. While he whispered my name, his hands stroked my cheek and neck, and then my back, sliding slowly down the smooth jersey. My own hands were just as busy, exploring the wondrous mystery of hard muscle and warm flesh. But just as I began fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, he adjusted his position, resting his arms on my shoulders, and kissed my nose in brotherly fashion. “Maybe we should just talk instead.”
“Talk,” I croaked. “About what?”
“You know, who we are, what’s important in life.” He brushed the hair from my forehead. “There’s a lot about you I don’t know—where you grew up, what your favorite food is, where you stand politically, how long you were, uh . . . how long you’ve been married . . .” The last words sort of caught in his throat, though he did a fine job pretending they didn’t.
“I grew up in a small town north of Sacramento. I like too many foods to pick a favorite. Although I’m growing more conservative every day I still consider myself a liberal. And I’ve been married six years. But none of that’s what I’d call important.” I unbuckled his belt and began working on the zipper. “Anything else?”
He grinned. “Nothing that can’t wait.” Then, lifting my hair, he nuzzled the nape of my neck and nibbled at my ear. I could feel his breath, warm and moist against my skin, and I sank into the inviting firmness of his body.
But only for a moment. Abruptly, the lazy, timeless drift of seduction was shattered by a shrill beeping.
“Oh, shit I’ve got to call in.”
“Right now?” I asked hoarsely. “We could finish up pretty quickly.”
Michael wasn’t listening, though. He’d already tucked in his shirt and re-buckled his belt as though he were going to greet a guest at the door rather than make a phone call. Hastily he punched in the number, grunted into the receiver, then grabbed a pencil and scribbled something in his notebook.
“Okay,” he said finally, “I’m leaving right now.” When he returned to the alcove by the door, his face was taut, his eyes somber. “They’ve located Tony. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
“Can I get a rain check?”
“A double,” he said softly. “At the first opportunity.”
Grudgingly, I refastened rows of buttons and hooks.
“You might as well come along,” Michael announced after a moment. “There isn’t time to drive you home anyway. Do you mind?”
I thought it probably wouldn’t have mattered if I did, though of course I didn’t. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere near San Pablo Avenue in Oakland. One of the men followed Jake there this morning. He and Tony went out for coffee, then Jake dropped Tony off. And now we’ve got him.”
Like an animal caught in a snare, I thought, remembering the frightened eyes and the
quick, sharp motions of the young man fleeing down the steps at the Bart station. “Are you going to arrest him?”
Michael shook his head. “We just want to ask him some questions.”
While Michael drove, quickly and silently, his face devoid of all expression, I slouched on my side of the car, fighting the urge to reach over and stroke his cheek. The steely control of a policeman was apparently beyond my grasp.
We headed west into the depths of Oakland and pulled up, finally, in front of a vacant storefront. The buildings on both sides were vacant as well. A faded For Sale sign was propped against one grimy window. Although the space above appeared to be inhabited, it didn’t look any brighter or cleaner.
Michael switched off the ignition, then turned to face me. “Keep the doors locked. I shouldn’t be too long.”
“No way,” I protested. “I’m coming with you.”
He started to say something more, but I was already out of the car with my door firmly shut, so I didn’t hear him. “At least stay out of the way once we’re inside,” he muttered over his shoulder.
As we approached the narrow doorway, a young, lean black man stepped into our path from the shop entrance next door. “Lieutenant Stone? Rick Myer, Oakland Police Department. You got here quick.”
Myer looked briefly in my direction, but when Michael said nothing, he dropped his gaze, secretly wondering, I imagine, what sort of dingbat cop, even undercover, would wear a clinging, narrow-skirted dress and high heels to question a murder suspect. But then he was Oakland and we were Walnut Hills, and I’m sure he thought we were an odd breed to begin with. “Sheris went inside about forty minutes ago and hasn’t come out since.”
“Is there a back entrance?”
“Your man Lawton is there now.”
As if he’d been waiting for the right moment to make an entrance, a short, redheaded man joined us. “Michael,” he said, looking directly at me. “Glad you got my message.”
