by Lois Greiman
Well, I thought, surveying the room, that would put him way ahead of me.
“I’d like to apologize, too,” I said, and, smoothing my apple-green shift against the back of my thighs, classify took the proffered seat. He closed the door and sat in the chair across the desk from me. “I didn’t mean to call you a liar. Especially in front of your son. It’s just that… he and I… we’ve had enough trouble between us without added fabrications.” That’s what I like to call lying if the lies are propagated by me. “But I’m afraid I may have only made things worse.”
He scowled, looking concerned. “What do you mean?”
“He was obviously a bit… upset.” That’s what I like to call rabid when referring to someone I had recently considered screwing. “When he left.”
The senator leaned back a little. “But surely you’ve spoken to him since.”
I didn’t reply but studied the endless piles of paper.
He stared at me a moment, appalled, then shook his head. “My son, he is a stubborn man.”
“Really?” I tugged my attention back to him and gave him my first-string smile. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He looked startled for a second, then laughed. “Perhaps love makes you blind, yes?”
“I—” My mouth opened but nothing else came out, and he laughed again.
“Give him time. He will call. He thinks a great deal of you.”
“Does he?” I didn’t mean to sound pathetic. But sometimes … well, I’m pathetic.
“Christina,” he said, tone soothing. “Surely you do not doubt that.”
“Uhh…”
“Have you not looked in the mirror?”
I remembered seeing myself in the microwave that night and stifled a shudder. “No more than necessary.”
He shook his head. “Could it be that you truly do not realize how attractive you are?”
I was sure I should think of some snappy comeback to that, but nothing came to mind.
Nevertheless, he smiled, warm and toasty “I am truly sorry to cause trouble between the two of you.”
I shrugged, determined not to act like a weak-kneed ninny. “About Kathleen Baltimore,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me the police determined her death was an accident?”
He sighed and sat back, studying me. “Sometimes the police are wrong, Christina.” His eyes grew intense, thoughtful. “I simply wish to ascertain that this is not one of those times.”
I watched him, trying to read his expression, his body language. “You believe she was murdered,” I said.
“That is what I had hoped to find out.”
“Because you believe Jack, a Los Angeles police officer, might somehow become involved with an accidental death that took place in another city.” My tone might have reflected my skepticism, because he drew a deep breath and pursed his lips, studying me for a moment.
“Christina,” he began, and suddenly his eyes were filled with parental zeal. “I realize that, being as of yet childless yourself, you cannot fully understand the agony and ecstasy of bringing children into this world. But as a father, I feel it is my—”
“Senator,” I said. He stopped, brows raised. “Let’s try the truth,” I suggested. “Just this once.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a nod. “My apologies again,” he said. “At times your beauty causes me to underestimate you.”
Perhaps Rivera wasn’t too crazy for thinking his father was propositioning me. But more likely the senator treated every woman like she was a sex bomb about to explode. “How did you know her?” I asked, taking a stab in the dark.
He looked surprised at my attack. “As I told you earlier, I had a dream and simply wanted to make certain her death would in no way endanger Gerald.”
I stared at him a moment, wondering if he could possibly be telling the truth, but then I remembered his occupation and stood up. “Well, I’d best get back to the office,” I said. “I have an eight o’clock appointment. I hate to miss it for a sack of lies.”
He watched me for a moment longer, then smiled a little and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were gleaming. “I never doubted that you would be good for my son. But until this moment I did not realize that you are exactly what he needs.” He nodded. “Someone to cut through the murk of misinformation. To—”
I picked up my purse.
“My apologies,” he said, and, blowing out a reluctant breath, motioned to my chair again. “Please. Sit. I shall tell you the truth. Nothing but the truth.”
I stared at him, cynical and a little pissed.
“The whole story,” he added.
I sat reluctantly, perching on the edge, as if I might fly away at the flutter of another lie. “Story?”
“The truth is …” He drew a slow breath, as if fortifying himself. “I did know Ms. Baltimore.”
Perhaps I was about to speak, but he hurried on. “It was long ago, early in my political career. In truth, both she and her husband worked on my first senatorial campaign. Kathy was young and enthusiastic. As was I.” He smiled nostalgically. “Those were good days, filled with hope and—”
“Did you sleep with her?” I asked. I really didn’t have an evening appointment, but I hadn’t had dinner yet and hated to miss out on all those empty calories for a bunch of bullshit.
His eyes opened wide as if shocked by my assumption, then narrowed in seemingly earnest affront. “I don’t know what my son has told you, Christina, but I assure you, I am not so immoral as he would make me seem.”
I considered apologizing, but then I remembered Salina, the senators late fiancée. When I had first seen her, she was dead, but she was still astonishingly beautiful. Her eyes, as wide as fishbowls, were dark and sightless as she stared at the senators freshly painted walls. She had previously been involved with Rivera Junior before ending up with the senator. As had one of her contemporaries. “Did you sleep with her?” I repeated.
For a moment his brows dipped dangerously toward his eyes, but finally he relaxed. “I suppose I cannot blame you for possessing the very qualities that I admire. It is that same forthright nature that brought me to your door. Indeed, that, matched with your intelligent—”
“Holy crap!” I said, and pulled my purse strap against my shoulder, ready to leave.
“Wait!” he said, and held out a hand as if to restrain me. “Very well.” He sighed again. “No. I did not sleep with Ms. Baltimore.”
I stared at him askance.
“I swear it on Mama’s grave,” he added.
I settled back in my chair. For a moment I considered asking if he’d even had a mother, but it seemed best to stay silent on that account. If his son was any indication, Latino men were a little touchy where their mamas were concerned.
“She was happily wed,” he said. “As was I. Gerald was still in his teenage years. And if I remember correctly, she had a child. A daughter, I believe.”
I heroically refrained from asking if he’d slept with the daughter.
“So why do you care what happened to her after all these years?” I asked.
“As I said, she was instrumental to my career when I was still young and inexperienced. I feel responsible.”
“Are you?” I asked.
“What?”
The question was out now, and it seemed worthy. “Are you somehow responsible for her death?”
“I did not mean it literally.”
“How did you mean it?” I asked, then hurried on, trying to soften the sound of it. “That is, over the years there must have been hundreds of people working on your campaigns. Why are you concerning yourself with her?”
He remained silent for a moment, watching me. I felt my nerves crank up tight, sensing something big.
“Is it the truth you want, Christina?”
“It might be a nice change.” It was a quote straight from Rivera Junior, but the senator only nodded, not recognizing his son’s words.
Straightening slightly, he looked me directly in the
eye. “I want nothing to stand in my way,” he said, “when I make my bid for the presidency.”
7
Every morning I read the obituaries. If I ain’t there I make myself a cup a tea and carry on like I have for the past century or so.
—Ella Brady, Chrissy’s
maternal grandmother,
age unknown
N THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as I lay in bed and considered the dust motes floating aimlessly in a slanted beam of sunlight, my head was still reeling. Senator Rivera was planning to run for president, his son still hadn’t called me, and I had to pee something terrible.
It was Saturday. I dressed in a pair of only slightly stained sweats, packed Harley into the Saturn’s abused backseat, and headed to Yum Yum Donuts, where they fry up reasons to go on living. I used their bathroom and, being the health-conscious nut that I am, ordered a milk with a side order of apple fritters.
While Harley romped with a dachshund the size of my left ear, I ate my goodies and considered the day ahead.
I can’t really tell you what possessed me to finally head west. But I arrived in Edmond Park in a little less than a full lifetime and called directory assistance for Kathleen’s address. Despite Kern County’s claim to fame, there wasn’t a hummingbird in sight. Still, it was a pretty town, quiet and considerably cooler this close to the mountains.
A few minutes later I was parked beside a three-story Victorian. It was painted yellow, had gingerbread trim and a matching detached garage, which managed not to detract much from the overall ambience. Above its door was a wooden sign that declared it to be Kathy’s Cave.
Harlequin was snoozing jerkily in the back, boxy snoot squished against the door, paws drooping over the edge of the seat. Apparently his dachshund buddy had worn him out. I debated waking him to make it appear as if I were just out for a stroll with man’s best friend, but after some deliberation I left him to his frolicking dreams, crept out of my Saturn, and made my way up the driveway to the garage. I have no idea what I thought I might find, but let me say, I fully understand the curious cat’s plight.
There were no windows on the garage door, so I went around to the side and tried the knob. The door was locked. But the house was only—
“Can I help you?”
I jumped guiltily and turned. “Oh, yes, hi.”
The woman who came toward me said nothing. She was about my height, dressed in blue jeans cinched tight at the waist. She had a runner’s physique and a skeptic’s gaze. I judged her to be in her early fifties, though not a strand of gray could be seen in her hair. It shone in the sunlight, a deep chestnut hue set in waves that looked natural to my untrained but generally jealous eye. Her face was lightly lined with wrinkles that were somehow attractive, and her eyes were red.
Kathy’s sister, I guessed. I had seen pictures of the deceased on the Web, and they looked alike. Both athletic, handsome women aging with panache. There had also been photos of the deceased with her daughter, standing in front of their wooden wares at a craft show.
“I just…” I motioned toward the garage and wondered a little desperately what the hell I was doing there. “I just stopped by to see if Kathy was around.”
Pain chased anger across the woman’s well-maintained features and was gone.
“She’s not.” The words were solid, matter-of-fact. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, well, I…” I glanced toward the garage again and noticed the other sign. The one that listed wooden items for sale. “I had ordered a…” I tried to read the list, but it seemed imperative that I look the woman in the eye, so I turned back toward her before ascertaining shit, “…a piece from her some time back. I just stopped by to pick it up.”
She was watching me pretty closely. It gave me the willies. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Shall I stop by later?”
She drew a deep breath. “If you put down a deposit, I’ll make certain you get a refund. What’s your name?”
The question caught me off guard, but I refrained from starting like a particularly stupid deer and tried to kick my mind into gear. “There’s no problem, is there?” I asked. “I was hoping to get my…” Still couldn’t read the damn sign. “… piece today.”
“What’s your name?” she asked again, and her eyes narrowed a little.
“Uhhh, Bea,” I said. I don’t know why I chose that particular lie. Possibly because I’m deranged. “Beatrice Ankeny.”
“How did you know Kat?” she asked.
“Kat?” I was stalling—and possibly very stupid.
“You work with her at the plant?” She took another step toward me.
“No, I… I never met her, actually. Just her… I think it was her daughter… at the mall in Chatsworth. I ordered through her.”
“You never met her?” She seemed to relax a little, but I wasn’t that optimistic.
“No. Just her daughter. Jessica, wasn’t it?” I watched her, looking for clues, hoping she wouldn’t try to kill me. “She was sure a pretty girl.”
“Jess?” She pursed her lips, nodded. “Yeah. Pretty, just like her mom.” She choked up a little. “She woulda done anything for that kid.”
“Well, that’s—” I began, and stopped myself short, as if shocked into silence. “Would have? What do you mean? Has something happened?”
She cleared her throat, glanced toward the street. A car drove by at a leisurely pace. Smalltown life. Crazy. “She’s dead.”
“Dead! No! What happened?” Oscar material right there.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t really know.”
“You don’t know! You mean… she’s missing?”
She glanced toward the street again. “The coroner said she died from loss of blood. In her workshop.”
I gasped. If I hadn’t felt so guilty I would have been proud. “How’d it happen?”
“They say she passed out, fell into the saw.”
“Oh my God, that’s horrible. Did she have a history of seizures, or why—”
“What did you say your name was?” she asked, and took another step toward me. There was something in her eyes, something that stopped my brain entirely. I searched my mind for my fake name, but it was gone, entirely gone.
“Who are you?” she gritted, and pulled a pistol from behind her back.
8
When in doubt, shoot first and ask questions later. But avoid the head, ‘cuz they’re a lot more likely to answer if they’re not dead.
—D, Chicago mob boss and
pretty good friend
Y HEART WAS BEATING like a wild bunny’s, but my brain had stopped dead in its tracks. “Hey!” It was the only word I could come up with on such short notice. “What are you doing?”
“Who are you?” she repeated.
The pistol was short and black, but I’m told guns can kill you no matter what their size and ethnic background.
“My name’s…my name’s Beatrice,” I said, and found that for the literal life of me I couldn’t remember my declared surname. Damn it!
“You’re lying,” she snarled, and leaned toward me. The gun muzzle wavered a little. “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”
“What? No one sent me! I just—”
“Why can’t you leave her alone? Why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone?” she blurted, and suddenly she was crying, sobbing like a heartbroken child. She lowered the gun muzzle and wilted to the ground. I glanced toward my Saturn and considered making a dash for it. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. But my would-be attacker had slumped onto her elbows, weeping into the perfectly manicured bluegrass.
“Hey,” I said again, voice tentative enough to suggest I really wasn’t nuts. “You okay?”
“No.” She was shaking her head. “No.”
I glanced toward my car again, thinking Harley was probably crazed with the need to save me, but not so much as a whisker showed through the window. “Can I do anything? Get you a glass of water? Call a friend?”<
br />
She glanced up, face etched with sorrow. “He sent you, didn’t he?”
I chanced a careful step closer. “Who’s he?”
“Her old man. She was married for…” She choked a laugh. “Jesus, for twenty years. ‘Til Jess went off to college. She stayed with him ‘til then, but even after that—” She shook her head.
I eased cautiously onto the grass beside her. “After that what?” I asked, but maybe she didn’t hear me.
“I was always so proud of her. Smart, pretty, successful. Always wanted her to be proud of me, but…” Her voice trailed away.
I was nodding. I don’t know why. “Do you think he had something to do with her death?”
She blinked at me, eyes shiny with tears. “What?”
“Her ex. Do you think he had something to do with your sisters death?”
She stared at me a full five seconds, then laughed out loud. The sound was choked and watery. She wiped her nose on her wrist, leaving the gun on the grass as she settled back on her haunches. “Who are you and what do you really want?”
I pondered that for a moment, glanced at the car, and decided I was more likely to be rescued by a swarm of wild bees than my ever-faithful hound. “I just…1 was hoping to find out how this happened.” I motioned weakly toward the garage. “Kathy’s death.”
She staggered to her feet. “You a cop?”
“No.” I rose, too, thinking it might be a good idea to be upright in case she started taking potshots at me.
“A private investigator?”
“I’m a psychologist,” I said.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sometimes it surprises me, too,” I said.
She scowled at me for an instant, then turned away and walked into the house, leaving the gun on the lawn and the door open behind her.
I stood there for a good three minutes wondering what a normal person would do, but I hadn’t encountered a lot of normal in the past… well, lifetime, so finally I picked up the gun between my forefinger and thumb, turned, and followed her inside.
