Amateur Night

by K. K. Beck

“What makes you say that?” she said. But she was pretty sure she knew. That weasely Englishman. Or Cornishman, if he preferred.

  “I thought you did this for a living,” he said. “But the Persian miniatures gave you away.”

  “Did what for a living?” she said.

  “Persian miniatures stand out too much. You've got to keep it all bland—the stories, I mean.”

  Jane tried to look as if she were alarmed because she was talking to a crazy person, rather than being alarmed because she had been unmasked. “What are you talking about?” she said, shrinking back against the side of the pool and worrying that she was overdoing it. It occurred to her that if she really thought he was nuts she would have acted calm and unruffled and soothing while plotting her escape. This was too Lillian Gish.

  “You got a list of Brenda MacPhersons from a private investigator in Victoria,” he said impatiently. “You did say your name was Jane da Silva?”

  Damn Calvin Mason for steering her to that lowlife.

  “Next time I'll find someone in the Yellow Pages,” she said. “Is that why you asked me here? To grill me? You could have done that back at the hotel.”

  “Thought it would be better to get all your clothes off first,” he said lightly. “Classic interrogation technique. They never approved of it when I was in uniform.”

  “Well,” she said, “you're out of uniform too.” For emphasis, she let her gaze fall down from his face and linger on his naked chest. There was a heart-shaped patch of golden brown hair there, no stragglers, but neat borders, like something in a well-kept garden. “Presumably with your defenses down, you'll tell me what you're doing looking for Brenda MacPherson.”

  “I take your use of the present tense to mean you didn't find the right one, either,” he said. “Actually, I don't really care why you're looking for her, I was just curious. And I didn't really know at first you were Jane da Silva. I just thought you looked like a nice person and we were both traveling alone.” He smiled and held up his hands, palms out, as if to indicate he was unarmed. The tips of his fingers were wrinkled. “It's getting hot. The pools get cooler the closer you get to the ocean.”

  He got out of the pool, steam rising from his shoulders, his body shiny wet. He had nice long muscles and classic proportions. He looked like a Greek god and he knew it, of course. Women had probably been telling him for years. He had the look of someone who felt completely at ease in his body.

  Jane was furious. He had taken the upper hand, let her know he knew who she was, acted as if he didn't care, and had revealed nothing much she didn't already know. He didn't answer her questions, just went on with his own script.

  What was most galling was that he'd made her feel stupid about her fictional friend and his Persian miniatures—really unfair, she thought, because she could just see the old gentleman, surrounded by glowing examples of his collection, pointing out the details of some of his finer specimens with a long bony finger. And now, Johnson, if that was his name, having told her she was an idiot, was standing there naked, looking casual and not even bothering to gloat, which was worse. If he'd been gloating she'd have something to work with.

  And to think she'd thought he was kind of sweet. All an act to lure her here, supremely confident, no doubt that she'd run right after him.

  “Coming?” he said pleasantly, offering her his hand. Now he was taking charge, deciding what temperature water they'd sit in.

  Jane had no choice but to go along. She ignored his hand, rose dripping and steaming, and followed him, stepping over a low rock wall and sliding silently into the next pool.

  It was just a few degrees cooler, enough to be completely refreshing. While Jane didn't really believe there were any known scientific health benefits to soaking in minerallaced hot water, she knew plenty of people who swore by it, and had once spent some time in Aix-les-Bains, convinced she felt fabulous because of the waters. Right now, even though she was frustrated and angry, she still felt an incredible sense of well-being. She settled in with a little murmur, then submerged her head, tilting it back on the way up so her hair would lie wetly away from her forehead. The air was cool on her damp face, and she heard the sound of gulls above and the surf below.

  “Are you an investigator for that insurance company?” she said, wondering why she hadn't thought of it before. It fit. He was an ex-cop. “Is that why you're looking for Brenda?”

  “Why don't you tell me why you're looking for her first,” he said.

  “It's a personal thing,” she said. “Something to do with her roommate. Jennifer Gilbert.”

  He nodded but didn't react to the name of the dead woman. “So you're not a friend of Brenda's?”

  Jane shrugged.

  “She skip out on her half of the rent or something?” he persisted. Jane liked it better when he was guessing than when she was.

  “That's moot now,” said Jane. She didn't add, though, now that Jennifer's been strangled.

  She watched him carefully. He didn't flinch.

  He shrugged. “Be as mysterious as you want. I'm just suggesting we find her together. It won't take long.” He was implying that it wouldn't take him long, and Jane could tag along. As if to emphasize the simplicity of the task, he added, “To be perfectly honest, I made a bigger deal of this than there was, because I wanted to come up here and look around.” He smiled a boyish lopsided grin. He was acting sweet again. “I like to get away from the city, you know? It's wonderful here.”

  “Why did you want us to find her together?” asked Jane.

  He sighed with exasperation. “Because you're pretty, and smart, and I thought you'd be an interesting companion. All right?”

  She laughed. “But now I seem like too much trouble, right?”

  “Only because you won't tell me what you're doing,” he said.

  “Do I seem that untrustworthy?”

  “No,” she said. “Actually, you don't.”

  “So what's the big deal?”

  The big deal was, she didn't want anyone horning in on her hopeless case. And she thought she should think he was untrustworthy. Why didn't that composite picture on TV scare her? It should have.

  “Although,” he added, “I suppose a little mystery is okay too.”

  “I've taken all my clothes off already,” she said. “There's no mystery there. I have to keep something in abeyance.”

  “Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “Women always have something in abeyance.”

  “You mean we're inherently mysterious?”

  “To us, you are.”

  “But you don't think we do it on purpose, do you? That we're basically dishonest?”

  “Of course you do it on purpose.”

  “We're just too subtle for you,” said Jane. “And you get confused. But sometimes we do it on purpose. To drive you mad.”

  “This is a historic moment in my life,” he said solemnly. “One of you admitted it.”

  “I try and be honest,” said Jane. “When I can. And to show you how brutally honest I am, I'll tell why I try to be honest. Because men find it disarming, and therefore intriguing. So I have a basically dishonest reason for being honest.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You're right. You are subtle. And disarming, and intriguing. I haven't decided how honest you are, though. And I still don't know what you're up to.”

  She smiled. She had decided what to do. And now that she had a plan, and felt in control once more, she felt happy, and magnanimous in an almost flirtatious way.

  Later, after they had worked themselves down to the last pool, and experienced the cold tide rushing in at intervals, stirring up the hot water with a cold blast, and filling the rocky pool with another foot of water with every beat of the wave; after they had wrapped themselves in thick hotel towels and sat on flat rocks on the beach and eaten smoked salmon sandwiches on rye bread and grapes and twist-cap bottles of white wine; after they had put on their clothes and hiked back through the incredible rain forest and sped back in the bounci
ng Zodiac, Jane felt a little regret at her plan. But she forced herself to carry it out.

  Chapter 21

  Calvin Mason, still picking bits of grass from his clothing, walked slowly back to the Carlisles' house. He had a pretty good idea where his assailant might be headed. If he was right, it would prove the big thug wasn't the smartest guy in the world. But then, would a smart guy start bashing in someone's head in broad daylight?

  Calvin decided to test his theory and drive back to Dr. Carlisle's office. The guy had seemed determined to have it out with the dentist, and it had finally penetrated his thick skull that Calvin was not Carlisle. Now that he'd learned he'd made a mistake, he might go back there and find the real dentist and try to work over the right man.

  Being nearby while a confrontation took place might reveal why the guy was looking for “the kid,” presumably the elusive Sean. There was also the added benefit of perhaps being able to see the rich, suave, confident Dr. Carlisle on the receiving end of some inelegant but effective battery.

  As he was getting into his car, Calvin saw a thirtyish woman with lots of curly light brown hair all tied up in an ethnic-looking scarf. She got out of an old station wagon parked in front of his car, then went around to the rear of the vehicle, flipped open the back and proceeded to yank an unwieldy vacuum cleaner out of the car. There was a bumper sticker on the car referring to a female deity, and another suggesting that world peace began at home.

  This looked promising. She set down the vacuum cleaner and pulled out a plastic bucket full of rags and cleaning preparations.

  Here in Seattle, cleaning ladies tended to be working on degrees from hazily accredited naturopathic institutes or running yoga schools by night, or making jewelry in their spare time. Calvin knew and liked the type—hearty earth-muffins, cheerful, brave and uncompromising in their pursuit of spiritual riches and worldly failure.

  He decided to tell her the truth. Once in a while, it made sense. Usually it didn't, because the truth was often so flaky, but this was a woman, he sensed, who was unfazed by flaky.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Do you work for the Carlisles?”

  “Yes,” she said, slamming down the station wagon door and examining his face. He imagined it looked bad where it had met the sidewalk. Her gaze flitted down to his shoulders, and he brushed off a little more grass.

  “I'm sorry to bother you,” he said. “But I thought I should tell you something.” No use telling the entire truth. An overlay of altruism wouldn't hurt. “I was walking up the path to their house, and this guy attacked me. He seemed to think I was Dr. Carlisle.” Calvin rubbed the back of his head and winced theatrically.

  “Attacked you?” Her eyes grew wide. They were light blue, surrounded by long pale lashes, and she had a translucent quality to her skin. Calvin figured she was a vegetarian.

  “Hit me on the back of the head.” He shrugged. “I guess I'm okay. I was just thinking the Carlisles should be warned.”

  “A head wound can be dangerous,” she said.

  “I am feeling a little dizzy,” he said, putting one hand on her car and leaning heavily into it with a sigh.

  “You'd better come inside and rest.” She peered into his eyes. “Your pupils are the same size, but you could have gotten a concussion,” she said. “You want to call the police?”

  “I don't know,” he said. “I guess I just wanted to be sure the Carlisles knew this character was after him. Who would want to hurt them?”

  “I don't know,” she said. “I never see them. I have a key.”

  “But you must have an idea about them from cleaning their house,” he said, following her up the walk. She was fiddling with a huge bunch of keys.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “It's amazing what you can tell about people when you clean up after them.”

  He helped her drag the vacuum cleaner up the steps and followed her inside. “This character seemed to be looking for their son,” said Calvin.

  “Sean?”

  “I think that's it. You see, I was just walking around the house putting together an estimate for new gutters. I'm a contractor. This guy comes up and hits me, knocks me down and calls me Dr. Carlisle, then he demands to know where Sean is. I finally straightened him out and he took off.”

  He looked around the hall. There was an antique hat rack and some botanical prints. “Where's the phone?” he said.

  She led him into the kitchen, and walked over to the sink, frowning at a lot of dirty dishes there.

  “I'll make you a cup of Red Zinger tea,” she said. “A mild stimulant will do you good.” She busied herself with a tea kettle while Calvin pretended to be looking through the phone book.

  “What's the deal, did this Sean disappear or something. Is he in trouble?”

  The woman shrugged. “He's been gone for weeks,” she said. “I haven't cleaned out his roach-filled ashtrays or picked up his old beer cans for quite a while.” She drifted back to the sink. “Three cereal bowls. If he's here he didn't have breakfast. Actually, he used to be here while I cleaned. Asleep in his room mostly. I get out of here by eleven every week. A real jerk. I'd be vacuuming and he'd come down and yell because the noise woke him up.” She shook her head.

  After a suitable interval flapping phone book pages, Calvin called his own number and talked into his machine. “Well have the doctor call me right away,” he said. “This is Clyde Balfour, from Balfour Gutter. I came by to do the estimate and some guy hit me on the head. Right on the path.” He paused and pretended to be listening, hoping the woman wouldn't hear the beep of his machine.

  “You could sue them,” said the cleaning lady helpfully, handing Calvin a steaming cup. “They probably have lots of insurance.”

  “Yeah, well he has my number,” said Calvin into the phone. “And tell him I'm too shook up to do that estimate. I'll do it later in the week. Oh, and tell him the downspouts look pretty bad.”

  Calvin hung up, and gazed over at the refrigerator. There was a collection of snapshots held on by magnets. Calvin recognized the dentist and his son. A pretty blond lady and a slightly chubby teenage girl apparently completed the household.

  There was also a French impressionist calendar hanging over the phone. Beneath some Monet water lilies was a grid of dates and appointments. “Softball game—7:30”; “Eve and John's— cocktails—7:00”; “Aerobics”; “Nails.” But there was one entry that caught Calvin's eye and caused a little leap of adrenaline. “Sean. UAL #52. 3 PM.” It had to be a flight number. And the date was for next Saturday.

  Chapter 22

  The hardest part was smiling prettily when she said she'd take a nap and see if she felt like dinner later. “Call me around six,” she said.

  Under ordinary circumstances, a nap on cool, starched hotel sheets after the hike and hot springs, then drinks and a good dinner bristling with romantic tension, would have constituted a perfect day. She could well imagine facing him across a table while that delicious, teetering feeling crept up on her. Somewhere in the evening, a look, a remark, an admission, a glimpse at his vulnerability, would push her over the edge—and she'd fall into a state of deep affection, admiration and lust.

  But by six, Jane was long gone, driving the winding road back to the other side of the island, watching the late northern dusk cast long rosy light over the darkening stands of fir.

  As soon as she'd checked out of the hotel, she'd made a stop at the offices of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, conveniently situated across the street from Tofino's Whale Museum on the left-hand side of the street that took her out of town.

  Maybe she was finally growing up. During her lifetime, she'd trashed dozens of plans, changed dozens of itineraries because of an attractive man. And why had she found so many men attractive? Probably, she thought with irritation, because if they found her attractive, she figured they must be discerning, terrific people.

  Not that she regretted any of them. They'd all been nice enough. Some of them had become friends once the excitement h
ad worn off. But it always had. Which was all right too. It left her free to fall in love again. But it seemed to Jane now that if she'd spent less time falling in and out of love, she would have accomplished something else more permanent along the way. God knows she'd never had much sense of purpose. Not since her husband, Bernardo, had died, anyway.

  Inside there was a long counter, with a handful of employees working in a large office area beyond. She waited and cast an eye over the bulletin board. There was a picture of a missing child, and a typed TOURIST ALERT, which seemed to be messages for travelers.

  Joseph Cross of Winnipeg, call your sister Marie. Dietrich Himmelman of Stuttgart; Yves and Marie-Claire Gauthier of Nice; Claire Hanson, Yonkers. All enjoined to call home. Jane imagined some drama behind every message.