No Safe Place

by Fitzwater, Judy

  I put on the brake and cut the engine.

  “She has no idea we’re coming,” Cara stated.

  “Nope.”

  Cara shook her head at me.

  The sky was brightening in the east, spreading a thin patch of pink through the budding trees as we stepped onto the wet grass. If we were lucky, Patrice had become an early riser with her move to the country, because it was damned early. Somehow I doubted it. When we were in school, her days had started a little before noon and stretched until two each morning.

  My knock rattled the old screen door. It seemed a gentler way to wake someone than the doorbell, but there was nothing gentle about the response. The ferocious barking that ensued made me glad the dog was inside and not guarding the yard.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea,” Cara commented, stepping slightly behind me. When she was seven, she’d had an unfortunate incident with a neighbor’s dog that required three stitches in her ankle. She’d never forgiven the species.

  The barking continued for what felt like several minutes before I saw the curtain flutter in the window. I made sure we were well exposed under the porch light.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice called through the door.

  “Patrice, it’s Elizabeth. Elizabeth Larocca. I’ve got my daughter, Cara, with me.”

  The door opened and Patrice stood there, a puzzled frown on her face. I wouldn’t have recognized her. Her skin was as smooth as it’d ever been, but her dark hair had gone completely white since the last time I’d seen her, that beautiful brilliant white that happens to people who go prematurely gray. It hung in complete disarray to her shoulders. She had on an old chenille robe that had lost a good bit of its tufting.

  Then she smiled, taking years off her face, and she was the Patrice I knew and loved. And trusted.

  “You’d better have one damned good story. Not for coming, but for coming before noon,” she said, holding open the screen. “You know I’m not a morning person.”

  She spoke to the dog in what sounded like German or Dutch and then ushered us inside, enveloping me in a hug. Cara hung back, taking in the dog’s muscled frame. He looked like a smaller version of a German shepherd, but his coat was a fawn color. He wore a harness across his shoulders and back.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about Odin. He’s well trained,” Patrice promised, letting me go and taking a good look at Cara. “I adopted him out of the canine unit. Bad hip, but it doesn’t slow him down much. He won’t hurt you. Not unless I tell him to.”

  I could see from Cara’s expression that wasn’t much reassurance.

  “You’re Cara.” Patrice took her hand. “You look so much like your father, I would have known you anywhere. Elizabeth, she’s gorgeous.”

  Cara’s cheeks colored as Patrice pulled her into a gentle hug. “Come on in and get yourselves out of the doorway. She flipped on the lights in the living room. The hardwood floors were bare, and the couch and chairs were brown leather strung on metal frames. The wall behind the couch was splotched with earth tones. Three original oils hung there, and pottery sculpture, glazed in hues from teal to a golden chartreuse, stood on pedestals, tables, even the floor.

  Patrice led us into the kitchen. She pointed toward an oak table with inset ceramic tiles and chairs tucked underneath it. She went straight to the gas stove, scooped up a teakettle, took it to the sink and ran water into it. We obediently sat down, and I realized exactly how exhausted I was.

  “You didn’t bring Stephen with you.”

  Cara shot me a look and I could see her jaw tighten.

  “Stephen’s dead,” I said.

  Patrice turned toward us, setting the kettle on the counter, the water still spewing in the sink. “Elizabeth…I’m sorry…I…”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right,” Cara said.

  “She’s right,” I agreed. “It’s not all right.”

  Patrice cut off the water. “You’re in trouble.”

  Cara bit her lip. She was angry but at least she had enough sense not to take it out on Patrice.

  “How long is this story?”

  “Long,” I told her.

  “Then it can wait another four or five hours. Have you had any sleep tonight?”

  “Not enough to count.”

  “I thought not. We’ll skip the tea. I’ll throw some fresh sheets on the beds. The two of you are going to rest before you say another word.”

  I didn’t argue. She put Cara in one bedroom and me in another. Once my head hit the pillow, I was out. It was the first real sleep I’d had since Stephen died.

  Chapter 7

  I smelled bacon. I dragged my left wrist in front of my face and forced open my eyes. My watch read one o’clock. The bright sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains assured me it was p.m., not a.m. I blinked twice. I was lying in a white iron bed with a hand-pieced quilt pulled up to my chin in a room painted a bright sunshine yellow. That’s right. I was at Patrice’s, and everything I’d hoped was only a dream wasn’t.

  I’d pulled off my jeans and crawled into the bed, not bothering to put on the nightgown Patrice had laid out for me. Or wash my face. Or brush my teeth. Yuck.

  The door was open and I could hear voices. Cara was laughing. I couldn’t help but smile. I hadn’t heard her laugh like that since before her father died. Patrice. She was a jewel.

  A quick shower was mandatory. So were fresh clothes. I’d leave the hair-washing for later. I didn’t want to miss that bacon.

  “You’re kidding. He didn’t!” Cara insisted, as I came through the door into the kitchen.

  “He didn’t what?”

  “Oh, Patrice was just telling me about how you met Dad. How the two of you caught him and a friend in the middle of the night using a rappelling rig to hoist a motorcycle onto the roof of the University of Maryland’s admin building, so Dad could ride it off.”

  “Good thing we caught them, too,” I said, “or you most likely would never have been born. It was a long drop to the ground.”

  “Are you kidding? They would have killed themselves long before they got the blasted thing up there,” Patrice assured us.

  “The other guy was Peter. Did she tell you that?” I asked.

  Cara looked back and forth between us.

  “Peter was my first,” Patrice said.

  “Husband or—” Cara began.

  “Both,” we answered together and then giggled.

  “Your dad was extremely drunk the night he and Peter had their episode with the motorcycle,” I said.

  “Duh, Mom. That was pretty much a given.”

  “Evidently Peter had tried to talk him out of it,” Patrice said, breaking eggs into a bowl.

  “Until another six-pack convinced him it wasn’t such a bad idea,” I finished.

  “Yes, well, that was back when Peter was more fun.”

  “He’s now a federal judge,” I explained to Cara. “Back then Patrice thought he was pretty darned hot.”

  “Yeah, well, he cooled off.”

  “No fair interrupting the story,” Cara protested.

  “Your daughter’s absolutely right. I have a story to tell. Your father was so hungover the next day he couldn’t remember your mother’s last name when he came looking for her,” Patrice went on, attacking the eggs with a whisk.

  “He was lucky he could remember his own,” I added.

  “He went to the registrar and gave them some idiotic story about needing your mother’s address so he could interview her as a witness to a crime. He was posing as an insurance investigator or something equally ridiculous.”

  “How could he get away with that? He was a student,” Cara said.

  “Remember he was older than me. He was in graduate school and he’d already spent several years in the military,” I pointed out. “He had a presence about him.”

  “Anyway,” Patrice went on, “he told them two male students had been seen on campus in a potential act of vandalism—”<
br />
  “And would they please give him my address—”

  “I thought you said he didn’t know your name,” Cara interrupted.

  “Only my first name. He actually expected them to go through the entire roster and pull out all the Elizabeths who were freshmen that year.”

  “So that’s how he found you?” Cara suggested.

  “Are you kidding?” Patrice asked, pouring the eggs into a frying pan. “Ever try to get an employee at a registrar’s office to give out information? You’d think they had national secrets locked up in there. They threw him out. He finally remembered she was an English major, so he waited on the steps of the humanities building for her to show up for class. He was so embarrassed. Terribly cute and thoroughly ashamed that she had witnessed his behavior but willing to suffer any humiliation to find her.”

  I flung a napkin at her. “You have no room to talk. Peter was smitten with you.”

  “Sounds like love at first sight,” Cara said with an impish grin.

  “For your dad? Absolutely,” Patrice agreed.

  “And for Peter?” she asked.

  Patrice shrugged, her smile slipping away. “Peter is complex.”

  “He was in law school at the time. I think he may be the most moral person I’ve ever met,” I added, “and, yes, he was very much in love with Patrice.”

  “He was in love with justice and ethics. Under other circumstances, I think he might have gone to seminary,” she said.

  “Why didn’t he?” Cara asked.

  “Pressure from his family,” I said. “Peter’s family had money. We’re talking swimming-in-it money. His dad wanted him in a more lucrative profession.”

  “He showed them.” Patrice laughed. “He became a public defender, then a D.A., and, with his first opportunity, a judge. But you don’t want to hear about Peter. He could be way too serious.”

  “Sounds like he could be talked out of that seriousness at times.” Cara winked.

  “Ah, that was your dad’s influence. Stephen was so much fun and so sure of himself,” Patrice began.

  “Full of himself,” I corrected.

  “Yeah, that, too,” Patrice agreed. “He was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it.”

  “You mean Mom.”

  “Right, but their courtship was a little more complicated than that. Your mom was dating Jerry at the time. Now he was something else. You are so lucky you didn’t wind up with him for your father.”

  “I’m not feeling at all comfortable with this conversation,” I admitted.

  Cara was finding all of this far too interesting. She had one eyebrow raised and was looking at me with that you-could-never-have-been-that-young look of hers.

  “I don’t know,” Patrice said. “She looks like a big girl. I think she can handle it.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about her. Besides, college roommates are not allowed to tell tales to offspring. Didn’t you get the memo?” I asked Patrice.

  “Too late, Mom. You’ve been exposed. Now, who was this Jerry character?”

  “Where should I begin? I can tell you he was no match for your dad. Once Stephen came on the scene—”

  “Patrice,” I warned.

  “Oh, lighten up. Some stories are too good to die with our generation.” Patrice immediately realized what she’d said, and we all fell silent. She dropped her gaze and stirred the already-done scrambled eggs.

  “Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a chair at the table where orange juice and fresh coffee in a hand-thrown ceramic mug awaited.

  Odin, who was lying next to the back door, sat up.

  She shook her head at the dog. “Not you, boy. He’s learning English. He was trained in Belgium and then sent over here.”

  I did as I was told, and she brought the skillet to the table, dividing the eggs into threes and scooping them right onto our plates. “That’s so I can be sure you eat your share.” The bacon and whole wheat toast were already on the table. “I made three slices of bacon for each of us, and there’s more in the fridge if we need it.”

  “Man, this looks good,” Cara said.

  Patrice sat down opposite me and shoved a bottle of homemade strawberry preserves in Cara’s direction. Her white hair was caught in a barrette at her neck. She wore no makeup, but she had that gorgeous radiance that strong, active women have. She was dressed in corduroy slacks, a tank top and a thick, hand-knit cardigan sweater.

  Cara was wearing the same jeans and top she’d had on the day before. Now that we were safe, we’d have to do something about her clothing situation.

  I helped myself to the bacon and toast.

  “Why’d you come here?” Patrice asked. “You know you’re welcome, but we haven’t seen each other in years.”

  “Because I trust you. And because you knew Stephen and Peter, and the only trace to you is in my address book, which I have with me. No e-mail, no phone records. My current friends and colleagues have never heard me mention your name. I shred your letters.”

  Patrice cocked her head. “Whatever possessed you to shred my letters? What could I have written to you—”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing you did, nothing you wrote. I didn’t want your name linked to mine in any way in case we had to come here.”

  “Are you really in that much danger?” Patrice searched my face.

  I dropped my gaze. “I don’t know.”

  Patrice had tried so hard to remove herself from the world in which her son had died. It was a vain attempt to take control of her environment, but I couldn’t fault her for it. Heaven knows I’d tried hard enough to do it myself. Now I was threatening what peace she might have found.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have—” I began.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t say I wasn’t up for a little adventure.” Patrice winked at me. “You should be all right here. You’ve covered your tracks, and Cara and I put the Cherokee in the shed.”

  Cara finished a big bite of toast. “Once they go through Dad’s things and find whatever it is they want, surely they’ll leave us alone.”

  “They won’t find it,” I told her. She’d finished her eggs and bacon. She only had half a piece of toast left, which was good, because after I’d said what I was about to, breakfast would be over.

  She shook her head at me. “How could you know that?”

  “Because they’re right. I have it.”

  Cara dropped the toast. It wasn’t anger exactly that I saw in her eyes. Maybe a combination of fear, intense interest and a bit of resentment.

  “Stephen sent it to me,” I told them.

  “So this—the danger you’re in—has to do with Stephen’s death,” Patrice said.

  “Show me what Dad sent you,” Cara demanded.

  I wiped my hands, went to the bedroom, and drew a padded manila envelope from my bag. When I got back to the kitchen, Patrice had cleared the dishes to the sink and wiped the table. Odin was happily munching on what was left of the bacon. She poured us a third cup of coffee while Cara sat on the edge of her chair.

  I placed the envelope in the middle of the table. It was still sealed. It bore no return address, only a Denver postmark and my name and address scrawled in Stephen’s almost illegible handwriting.

  “I received this a month ago.”

  “And you haven’t opened it?” Cara asked. This from the girl who still had to unwrap at least one package every Christmas Eve.

  “Your father sent me envelopes on occasion, usually shortly before or after he dropped out of sight. He asked me to keep them for him. When he got back from wherever he’d been—”

  “He was still going off without your knowing where he was?” Patrice asked.

  “He never stopped. When he’d get back, he’d retrieve the envelopes. Unopened. Of course, this time…”

  “Was different. I don’t know how you stood it all these years. I know I couldn’t.”

  Cara eyed Patrice. “Did Peter go off, too?”

  “No. It was nothing li
ke that. With him it was silence. There’s nothing lonelier than silence.”

  Patrice offered me a forced smile as she handed me a pair of kitchen shears. “Shall we?”

  I snipped the end off the envelope and shook it. A slip of folded paper, a battered copy of a pocket atlas and two wallet-sized photos fell out. I turned the photos over. Studio shots. One was of a handsome, rakish-looking young man with brown hair so thick it wouldn’t stay put even for a photo. The other was of a thin, distinguished-looking, middle-aged man. Nothing was written on the back of either, but I knew who they were from photos in the newspapers.

  I flipped through the atlas. No notations, nothing circled, no pages dog-eared. Nothing. It looked perfectly ordinary. Cara took it as soon as I laid it down.

  Then I opened the piece of paper.

  Elizabeth, if you’re reading this, I must have screwed up pretty badly. Sorry. I never intended to involve you in my business. James will come to pick up this information. He’ll know what to do with it. I do love you. I always have. Tell Cara I love her. Take care of her. Take care of yourself. Stephen

  I felt my eyes sting, but I was not about to let Stephen seduce me yet again. Not from the grave. Not when I had Cara to think about.

  Cara dropped the atlas, took the paper from me and read it. “Mom,” she said, “he wanted you to give the envelope to James.” She handed the note to Patrice.

  “Your father made a mistake,” I reminded her. “He trusted the wrong person.” I wasn’t about to repeat his mistake.

  “Who’s this James?” Patrice interrupted.

  “One of Stephen’s associates,” I explained.

  “The one we ran from last night,” Cara added, examining the photos.

  I shot her a look.

  “You can’t ask Patrice to help us and not tell her what’s going on,” Cara insisted. “You’d be doing exactly the same thing that Dad did.”

  Cara was right. It wasn’t as though not telling Patrice would offer her some kind of protection. So I related everything that had happened since Stephen’s body had turned back up.