by Lois Winston
Lawton went first, then Michael and then me. Through the door and up a decrepit, narrow staircase. The light, if there was one, was burned out and I was glad. The discolored stains and dried puddles were disgusting enough in dimness; I couldn’t imagine what full illumination would have revealed.
“Watch it,” Lawton warned, “the banister is loose. I wouldn’t count on it for any support.”
I wouldn’t have touched it for anything in the world. At the landing there were four doors, none with numbers. “You stay here until I tell you otherwise,” Michael snapped, and this time I didn’t protest. It looked exactly like the kind of shabby, lowlife place I’d seen in movies. The kind of place where gangsters leap out from nowhere and shoot at you. Or worse.
Lawton pointed to the third door, then pulled out his revolver. Michael knocked and the door opened, but just barely.
“Tony Sheris?”
“Yes.” The voice was wary.
“I’m Lieutenant Stone with the Walnut Hills police. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.” The door opened wider, I could tell by the shaft of light on the tattered hallway carpet. “Inside, if you don’t mind.”
Michael motioned to me and I stepped forward, followed by Lawton, who, I was happy to see, had returned his gun to its holster.
Tony looked at me in surprise. “You again! You’re a cop.”
“No, I’m just . . .” But it hit me suddenly that this wasn’t a social call, so I shut my mouth. “No, I’m not,” I said finally, and let it go at that.
The room was sparsely furnished with a metal-frame bed, a bureau and a chipped, green table. A sink, tiny refrigerator and hot plate were in the far comer next to the bathroom, such as it was. The door was missing and I could see the yellowed toilet, propped up with bricks. I was beginning to wish I’d stayed in the car after all, where I might have been bored, but would at least have been spared the worry about germs and fleas. And rats.
Tony shuffled apologetically. “I’m not used to entertaining.” His hesitant smile was met by Michael’s cold silence. Tony sat on a stool and pointed to the bed. “Go ahead. It’s the most comfortable spot in the room.”
Lawton and I seated ourselves at opposite ends of the couch. I could feel the springs poking through the mattress into my hips and thighs. Michael, wisely, remained standing.
“We’re investigating the death of Pepper Livingston,” he said.
Tony sighed. There was that tentative, oddly touching smile again. “I figured as much.”
“So, what can you tell us?”
“Not a lot. I did some work for the Livingstons, took care of their garden, did some odd cleanup and maintenance jobs. That’s about it.”
“You were generally there a couple of times a week, weren’t you?”
“It varied.”
Michael rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “But you haven’t been back since Mrs. Livingston’s death. Even once.”
Tony hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his palms together. “No, I didn’t think there was any urgent need.”
“Do you have a key to their place?”
He nodded. “Mrs. Livingston gave me one a couple of months ago when I was washing windows for her.”
“And you still have it?”
“She said I should keep it, for getting gardening supplies out of the garage and stuff.”
Shifting his body so that he was perched on the very edge of the bed, Lawton cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since entering the room. “Why’d you move from your apartment in Berkeley?” He looked around pointedly and smirked. “Moving into better quarters?”
Tony shrugged.
“I’d like an answer. Why did you pull out a day or two after Mrs. Livingston’s death, without even a forwarding address?”
“I don’t know, I wanted a change maybe. Is moving a crime?”
“You’d paid rent through the end of the month.”
Another shrug.
“But maybe you’re so rich a month’s rent here or there doesn’t matter.” The snide tone of Lawton’s voice made me uncomfortable, but Tony seemed able to ignore it. He rested his arms on his knees and stared hard at the floor.
Lawton stood and approached Tony. “Where were you on the night of May fifth?”
“Home, probably. That’s where I am most nights.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know, reading.”
“Not much of an alibi, is it?”
“Why should I need an alibi?” Then it hit him, you could see it in his face. “You think I killed Pepper?” His voice broke, but it was hard to tell if the unevenness was a laugh or sob.
“Did you?” Michael’s words were sharp, but his tone was tinged with an odd gentleness.
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
There was a pause, brief but telling. “No.”
Even I could see that Tony knew more than he was letting on, and I was struck by his use of Pepper’s first name. Then, from out of nowhere, Kimberly’s comment about scones popped into my mind. “You and Pepper were pretty friendly, weren’t you?” I asked.
Three heads turned and stared at me. “You sometimes had tea, and she once visited you at your apartment, isn’t that so?”
Tony looked pale, Lawton looked confused—and annoyed—and Michael simply looked, regarding me impassively with clear, gray eyes.
“She came by once, to bring me a check.”
Lawton snickered. “Such service.” He turned and started to amble around the room, peering into shelves and closed drawers.
“That’s kind of unusual,” Michael commented absently.
“She was an unusual woman.”
Lawton took a book from the shelf above the sink. “Tolstoy. Pretty highbrow tastes—for a gardener.” He leafed through the book, and without looking up asked, “You know a Jake Turbino?”
This time the pause was so pronounced even Tony seemed to feel it. Finally he nodded, then dropped his head into his hands.
The smirk on Lawton’s face annoyed me, though I couldn’t see why my sympathies lay with a possible killer rather than the law. Maybe it was my own discomfort that gave me pause. Greed, anger, betrayal—whatever raw emotions had paved the way to Pepper’s murder, whatever intrigue or mystery lay hidden just beneath the surface, it was all going to come out in the next few minutes. I braced myself, caught between fascination and revulsion.
“What’s your relationship with Jake Turbino?” Michael asked evenly.
“Is he a suspect too?”
“Just answer the question.”
Tony took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s my father.”
“Your father!” Michael’s official, dispassionate calm deserted him.
“And Pepper,” I said, as things began to fall into place, “she was . . .”
He nodded. “My mother.”
Lawton, who had not reacted at all except to rein in his smirk, stepped forward, shaking his head skeptically. “Wait a minute. We had information that your parents live in Illinois.”
“My adoptive parents.” Tony lifted his head, but stared at the wall in front of him. “They adopted me when I was a baby. A couple of years ago I found the note my real mother wrote when she gave me up. She seemed warm and gentle, like a storybook mother. When I turned eighteen I began trying to locate her. Last fall I finally made contact with Pepper; she told me about Jake. I wrote to him, and when he was paroled, he came to California.” With a ragged sigh, Tony looked directly at Michael. “She was a very special person. A mother I could have loved. A mother who would have loved me in return.” He paused. “And now she’s dead.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this in the beginning?”
“I didn’t . . . It didn’t seem important.”
“And why the move?” Lawton asked, his tone still steely. “You tried to disappear, in fact.”
Ton
y chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t know why, really. Everything just sort of fell apart with her gone. I couldn’t go back and keep on working for her husband as if nothing had happened. And I didn’t want to see . . . anyone. At first I was going to move away altogether, just pretend the last six months hadn’t happened, but I couldn’t, not just yet anyway.”
“And there was Jake. Your father.”
Tony ran his tongue along his bottom lip and nodded.
“Is he a very special person, too?” The snide overtones had returned to Lawton’s voice.
“I don’t know him that well, we’ve only met twice. Once before Pepper’s death and again yesterday.”
“And this morning.”
“Right. I’d forgotten about that” Tony was silent for a moment, studying his fingernails. Finally he asked, “Did Jake tell you where to find me?”
“No,” Michael replied. “In fact, he said he didn’t know you.”
A smile crossed Tony’s face briefly, then faded, and I thought once again how young he was. And vulnerable. I wanted to comfort him as I did Anna, shielding him from hurt and disappointment. But of course I couldn’t; no one could. No one ever had.
Lawton had been watching this last exchange through half-closed eyes. Now he sprang to life, stepping in front of Tony and leaning over him. “This story, if it’s true, still doesn’t let you off the hook. In fact, I’d say it raises more questions than it answers. And you don’t seem any too willing to help with the missing pieces, if you get my drift.”
There was a sour taste in my mouth, and I stood up abruptly and unceremoniously. “I’ll wait outside,” I said.
The sadness of it all came washing over me like a bad dream. I darted for the door and raced down the stairs, not even noticing the filth or the stench on my way out.
SIXTEEN
“You okay?” Michael asked, when at last we were in his car headed home.
“How do you do this, day after day, year after year?”
“It beats sitting at a desk your whole life. Besides, sometimes you convince yourself you’re doing some good.”
An icy shiver worked its way down my spine and then settled in the pit of my stomach. The entire episode left me feeling queasy and dispirited.
“It’s funny,” I said finally, “I want to believe Tony, but something in his manner makes me think he knows more than he’s telling. It’s almost as though he was trying to protect someone.”
“He was,” Michael said. “His father.”
“Jake killed Pepper?”
“I don’t think so, but Tony was afraid he might have. That’s a big part of why he started to run, I think. And why he was reluctant to tell us the whole story up front. But it’s also the reason he stuck around; he had to know whether Jake was involved.”
I shivered again. “How awful. The poor kid suffers through a lousy childhood, finally locates his real parents, and then not only does he find his mother murdered, he has to confront the fact that his father may be her murderer.”
Michael nodded glumly. “And I suspect Jake was afraid Tony might have been involved.”
“But neither was?”
“Jake has a pretty solid alibi—he spent the night in San Francisco with his minister.”
I turned and looked at Michael. “I thought he wouldn’t tell you where he was the night Pepper was killed.”
“He wouldn’t at first, but after he found out we considered him a prime suspect, he was a bit more cooperative.”
“Still, why hedge the question at all?”
Michael’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Because the minister is a woman. And someone else’s wife.”
“I take it they weren’t holding a prayer meeting.”
“Not in the conventional sense anyway.”
“And what about Tony?”
“Tony . . . I don’t know. He still says he was home alone that night, but what would he have had to gain by killing Pepper? She seems to have welcomed him, gone out of her way to help him, in fact. He admits she paid him much more than she needed to.”
“Maybe he resented being abandoned by her,” I said, swallowing hard. “Here Pepper was, sitting pretty in a fancy big house, bestowing on Kimberly all the advantages he’d never had. And, don’t forget, Tony was friendly with McGregory. Somebody tipped McGregory off about her past.” These were not thoughts I entertained with any enthusiasm. Rather, I wanted my doubts about Tony laid to rest once and for all.
Michael frowned deeply and rubbed his jaw. When he finally spoke his voice was weary. “If Tony felt resentment, he certainly did a good job of hiding it. And I asked him about McGregory. Claims he didn’t know anything about the development battle, and he quit the landscaping job as soon as he learned McGregory and Pepper were adversaries. He thinks McGregory hired him only because he worked for Pepper. Seems the man tried to hire her house cleaner, too. A new form of harassment I guess.”
The notion of Connie being approached by a man like McGregory provided me with a private moment of amusement. I was certain she wouldn’t have declined the offer politely. If it was true. “Do you believe Tony?” I asked.
“Unfortunately,” Michael sighed, “I do.” Suddenly he looked tired, beat in fact. His face was drawn, his eyes flat, his skin pale and etched with shadows.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, patting his knee. “You look as though you’ve become a prime suspect yourself.”
“I was so sure this thing with Jake and Tony would turn out to be an important lead. Tie off a few loose ends so we could wrap up the case. Now it looks like we’re back at the beginning, with nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. Our list of potential suspects gets shorter by the day.”
I tried to be encouraging. “Something may turn up,” I said, so brightly that it sounded hollow even to my own ears.
“Yeah, and scientists may discover the moon is made of green cheese.”
My hand slid from his knee to gently run up his thigh, but Michael only smiled wanly. “I’ve got to go into headquarters and make a report.”
“That’s okay, Heather will be happy to get off early.” I pulled my hand back to my lap and stared at it for several moments. “You could come by a little later. I’ve got stuff for dinner and a whole case of beer in the basement.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’d be very good company tonight.”
“Well, if you change your mind . . .”
His right hand touched my cheek. “I’m sorry, Kate. This isn’t the afternoon I wanted.”
“Nor I,” I whispered, kissing his fingertips. Then I got out of the car and quickly went inside, where I found a card from Andy, addressed, for a change, to me as well as Anna. The message was brief: Thinking of you both, Love, Andy.
When I’d paid Heather and straightened the mess in the kitchen, dropping the card unceremoniously into the trash, I contemplated the ways I could spend what was left of the afternoon. I could do something loving and motherly with Anna. I could do the laundry or mow the lawn. I could even sit in the yard and read a book.
Instead, I settled Anna in front of a My Little Pony tape, pulled my slinky, easy-to-get-off dress over my head and climbed into bed. A brief nap first, then I’d tackle the question of what to do next.
Closing my eyes, I cuddled up to the image of Michael and the pleasant afternoon we’d planned. But Andy kept intruding. From the murky realm of unconsciousness, memories forced their way to the surface and clicked through my mind like a progression of unwelcome commercials.
There was the crisp November afternoon we went sailing on the bay with Jim and Daria. I could see Andy, blond head thrown back, laughing into the wind and cold ocean spray while the rest of us trembled and held on for dear life.
There was the time, before Anna was born, when we rented a small cabin outside Yosemite and were snowed in for three days. We lived on Oreo cookies, dried salami and a case of champagne—and danced endlessly to the only album we could find, a scratchy one by The Grateful Dead.
And the night of the big earthquake, when I was alone in our San Francisco apartment, without power or phone service. I’d stood at the window watching the orange sky and wept with the fear that Andy had been killed.
Snippets of conversation, the scent of his aftershave, the pleasant roughness of his hands against my skin. These visions came and went with a life of their own. Finally they blurred into one misty dream, and I slept, drawn into the pleasurable tide of muted memory.
I dreamed that Andy and I were making love, the way we did in the beginning, before tension and doubt edged out the joy. He was caressing me, my whole body, with long, slow strokes which turned eventually to kisses. His mouth and tongue were everywhere, and I could feel the pleasure mounting. It grew deeper and hotter, until it began to sear. Then I saw that he wasn’t licking at all, but wrapping a red-hot wire around my belly, tighter and tighter. Pleasure turned to pain, and the pain grew sharper. Finally Andy laughed and left me lying in a pool of tepid water.
I awoke in a sweat, but the pain did not subside. If anything it was stronger. Then I felt the warm stickiness between my legs and knew, without looking, that it was blood.
I lay there for minute, muted as much by sorrow as pain, thinking that if I closed my eyes again it might all go away. But I was gripped suddenly by a fiery spasm so strong it brought tears to my eyes and took away my breath.
I did the only thing I could think to do. I rolled over and phoned Daria.
SEVENTEEN
“Is the pain gone?” Daria asked, brushing a cool hand against my forehead. She was sitting by the side of my bed on a white plastic, hospital-issue chair. She’d been by my side ever since we’d arrived at the hospital earlier that afternoon, except of course for the hour or so I’d been in surgery. Even then, I suspect, she’d hovered about by the nurses’ station, awaiting word that she would be allowed into recovery.
“It’s much better anyway,” I told her. I was still feeling a little groggy, and what pain there was, felt far away.
“I’m so sorry it turned out this way, Kate.” It was probably the tenth time she’d told me that, but her effusiveness was tempered by the fact that she’d never once said it was all for the best, or that this way, at least, the decision was out of my hands. She leaned forward and offered a wan smile. “Can I do anything for you?”
