The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  Remembering how wrong I’d been about Marcel, I forced myself not to jump to conclusions. I poured a cup of coffee and sat on the deck, thinking furiously. So if Garrett had followed Thalia, and she saw him at Smitty’s . . . that could have happened. And her saying “That son of a bitch” made sense because she’d think he was spying on her. She’d never connect him with the blackmail note. I made up my mind: I needed to know who Thalia saw at Smitty’s. And, I decided, I also needed to talk to Fred Gibson.

  “Online? Online?” a woman was shouting at the uniformed officer when I arrived at the county jail. “I can’t make an appointment online. I don’t have a goddamn computer. This is discrimination!”

  “There are computers at the public library,” the officer told her.

  “I don’t want to walk to the goddamn public library,” the woman protested. Her weather-beaten face was framed by mousy brown hair streaked with gray. Everything about her appearance suggested she lived on the street—the gigantic backpack she carried, the tattered jeans, the filthy feet clad in frayed sandals.

  “Please step over there, ma’am,” the officer said to her. “What can I do for you?” he asked me.

  “I have an appointment to see Fred Gibson.” At this, the woman turned and gave me an appraising look. “You his lawyer?” she asked.

  “No, just a friend.”

  “Fred ain’t got friends that look like you,” she said with a sneer. “What are you after, missy? Just because he’s in jail don’t mean that he’s forgotten about me.”

  The officer intervened. “Ma’am,” he said to her, “I’m going to have to escort you out if you continue to be disruptive.”

  “It’s OK,” I said to him. I approached the woman. “Look, I can help you make an appointment to see Fred,” I offered. “We can use my phone.” She grunted her assent. We sat down on two vacant chairs and made her an appointment for three the following afternoon. I offered to write down the time for her, but she was offended. “I’m not stupid,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow at three.” As she tromped out, she bellowed, “I still say this is discrimination against the homeless!”

  After passing through security, I was escorted into a visiting room. The place wasn’t nearly the dungeon I’d expected. It looked like it was recently remodeled, with light-colored walls, plenty of windows, and new-looking, albeit uncomfortable, chairs. After a few minutes, Fred trudged in and sat on the opposite side of a glass panel, eyeing me with curiosity.

  “You a lawyer?” he asked. “I already have a lawyer. Although he ain’t come around in a while.”

  I tried explaining why I was there, but he didn’t seem interested. “You got any cigarettes?” he interrupted, drumming his fingers on the faux wood tabletop.

  “No. Sorry. Next time I’ll bring some. What kind would you like?”

  “Marlboro. Bring a case.”

  I made another attempt to explain why I was there. “I’m a friend of the woman you found in the park. And I don’t think you killed her.”

  “Damn right I didn’t. That’s what I keep tellin’ them.”

  “Maybe I can help you. Can we talk about the night you found her?”

  “Sure. You got any chocolate?”

  “Tell me about when you first saw her.”

  He ran his fingers through his long, stringy hair. “It’s hard to remember. It’s kinda hazy. But I’m sober now, you know.” He smiled proudly, revealing stained, crooked teeth. “Five weeks.”

  “That’s great! So tell me about when you found the body.”

  “I went to the spot where I’ve been camping to get into my sleeping bag. And there she was. First I thought it was my lucky day—some beautiful lady was sleeping in my spot. But I knew from the way she was lying there that she was dead. I seen plenty of dead bodies in the army.

  “So then I took a look for what she had on her,” he said matter-of-factly. “There was some money in her pocket and a driver’s license. I took the money.” He showed not a hint of embarrassment as he told me this. “Her wedding ring wouldn’t come off. I woulda took that too. No use to her, is it? But I did get the bracelet. Brought it to show my girlfriend the next morning when she got off the bus from the shelter. She went crazy. Said it was real diamonds. She hid it in her underpants.”

  The girlfriend, who apparently was the brains of the pair, advised him not to flaunt his treasure—and not to pawn it right away. “She said if we waited for a time, no one would be looking for it. I thought a week was enough, but she said no.” He shook his head sadly. “I shoulda listened to her. Then I wouldn’t be locked up.” After a moment, he perked up. “But it’s nice and dry in here. And the food is pretty good.”

  “Did you take anything else?” I asked. I didn’t know what kind of clue I was hoping for, but I was desperate to get some useful information.

  “Nah. I kicked through all the garbage, but there wasn’t nothing else worth taking.”

  “You didn’t see a gun anywhere?”

  “Shit no. I woulda grabbed that for sure. That’s worth good money.”

  “How come you didn’t take the phone?”

  “What phone?”

  “Her cell phone. The screen was cracked, but still . . .”

  “I didn’t see a phone.” He shook his head. “No phone. I woulda seen it if it was there. I looked through everything.”

  “OK, what time did you find her?”

  “About ten. Or maybe eleven. I don’t really know.”

  “Time’s up,” the guard said.

  Before leaving, I gave Fred the good news about the next day’s visit from his girlfriend. He looked happy. “You’re sure you didn’t see a phone near the dead woman?” I asked one more time. He assured me he hadn’t.

  As I headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I wondered whether those guys at Smitty’s had ever made contact with the mystery woman. I was convinced that whoever Thalia had seen there had some bearing on the murder. On the spur of the moment, I made a quick lane change, causing much honking, and circled back toward Fulton Street.

  It took a while to find a parking spot, but I finally squeezed into one a block from the bar. The place was packed with an after-work crowd. As I expected, there were the Irish boys, playing pool. I went over to say hello.

  They greeted me like an old friend. “We talked to that girl, you know,” said one of them. “She was here last week. We gave her your number. Did she ever call you?”

  “No.” Damn. Would I ever get hold of her? “Did you tell her what I wanted?”

  “Yeah. We told her you were asking about the bloke who spilled his drink on her, then dashed out. She said she hadn’t seen him in here since then.”

  “Did she happen to say anything at all about him?”

  “Nah. Just that he was a prick. But she promised she’d call you.” I thanked them for their trouble and went up to the bar to buy them each a beer. When I came back to the pool table, the redhead handed me a slip of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “You told us to get her number, didn’t you?” I kissed each of them on the cheek, then left.

  CHAPTER 33

  A Red Hot Chili Peppers CD was blasting as Sonia’s van chugged along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. The redwoods were thick on either side of the road, forming a verdant canopy overhead. We were on our way to pick up a vintage tiki bar and stools from a friend of a friend. Sonia had been on a hunt for just the right set for a garden design book she was working on. This one looked promising, judging from the photos the owner had sent. I’d agreed to help Sonia, albeit reluctantly. I was hoping this errand wouldn’t take long.

  Sonia was singing loudly as she drove. Beside her, I was lost in thought about the woman at Smitty’s. Naturally, I’d phoned her as soon as I got home yesterday, only to reach her voice mail. “I won’t take up more than a minute of your time,” I’d promised in my message. “I just had a question about a man you met at Smitty’s.” Maybe she’d call, maybe not. And even if she did, I
reminded myself, it could easily turn out to be a dead end. The guy who’d spilled the beer on her might have absolutely nothing to do with Thalia.

  We emerged from the shade of the redwoods into the autumn sunshine of rural West Marin, where the green hills were dotted with the occasional cow. Sonia paused in her singing. “You’re awfully quiet,” she said. “You’re thinking about the murder, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I thought you were going to let that go,” she said accusingly.

  “I am letting it go,” I protested. “That doesn’t mean I can’t think about it. It’s not like I’m doing anything about it.”

  She smirked, but she didn’t argue.

  After a few more miles, we made a left onto Highway 1. Now that we were near the coast, the fog was rolling in. By the time we reached Bolinas it was chilly and overcast. We turned into a long gravel drive and pulled up in front of a weather-beaten farmhouse. A trim man with silver hair wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots was chopping logs in the front yard. He stopped and waved at us. “Welcome,” he said as we got out of the car. “I’m Stan.” We introduced ourselves. “Come on in,” he invited. We followed him into the house, a fat orange cat at our heels. A fire was blazing in the living room hearth, and the smell of cinnamon wafted from the kitchen. A wiry middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Hi, girls, I’m Gloria.” She shook hands with each of us.

  “I just baked some cinnamon rolls, and the kettle is on for tea,” she said. We demurred, but our hosts insisted. So we sat in their knotty-pine kitchen, each of us with a plate of the buttery rolls and a mug of steaming Earl Grey tea. “I’m so glad you want the tiki bar,” Gloria said. “We’re going to rent the place out for two months. And nobody wants a shed full of our old stuff.” She explained that they were clearing out the house and the outbuildings because they were going on an extended trip to Honduras. It turned out the couple were both marine biologists, retired now, but still avid divers. I was enjoying their company and was no longer in a hurry to get back. I reached for another cinnamon roll. They talked for a while about diving in Central America and showed us photos of their past trips.

  We finished our tea, then went out to see the object of our quest. The tiki bar looked even better than in the photo. “Beautiful!” exclaimed Sonia, sliding her hand over the smooth rattan poles that formed the semicircular front. “The top needs refinishing, but that’s no problem,” she said. She eyed the rattan stools, which had torn aqua seats. “I have just the fabric for reupholstering these,” she said. “I scored two yards of vintage bark cloth online. It will be perfect!”

  As we hauled the bar out of the shed, Stan said, “We had plenty of great parties with this thing. But now it’s just gathering dust. I’m glad it’s going to a good home.”

  “Yeah, after the photo shoot, I’m definitely putting this beauty on my patio,” Sonia said. The three of us loaded the furniture into the van. We thanked Stan. Gloria came out to say goodbye.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose you’d want a goat, too?” she asked. “Just while we’re gone.”

  “A goat?” Sonia asked with interest.

  “We’ve had Maisie for years,” Gloria said. “She’s part of the family. We’d arranged for someone to take care of her while we were gone, but the plans fell through. And the person we’re renting to would rather not deal with a goat, so we’re still trying to find a temporary home for her.”

  Of course, Sonia had to meet Maisie. And, of course, she fell in love. Even I had to admit Maisie was pretty cute as she gazed at us with her yellow goat eyes. Sonia knelt down and whispered something to Maisie while I wondered how she’d fit into the van with all that furniture.

  “I’ll be happy to take her,” Sonia said.

  “You’re sure about this?” I asked.

  “Oh, my other one will love her. She’s very sweet.” We led Maisie to the van, as Gloria went to fetch straw, food, and other supplies that she insisted on giving us.

  “Don’t you think we should come back for her tomorrow when we have more room?” I asked Sonia.

  “There’s plenty of room up front,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  I started to protest, but Sonia was determined. “Come on, she’s small.”

  Sonia and I lifted Maisie into the front seat, where she began pawing the upholstery. We piled in on either side of her and waved goodbye to Gloria and Stan, wishing them happy travels.

  Maisie wasted no time getting comfortable. She sprawled across the front seat, her head in my lap and her hoofed legs dangling toward the floor. I hoped she would stay put for the ride home.

  We were about halfway back to Fairfax when Sonia said, “Oh, damn, I was supposed to call Joe! I forgot. Do me a favor. Dial for me and put him on speaker. Now that I’m dating a cop, I don’t make calls while I’m driving.” I rooted around near my feet and found Sonia’s purse without dislodging Maisie. I scanned through her contact list and dialed the number.

  Before I could explain that it was me, Levine said, “Hello, gorgeous. I’ve been thinking about—”

  I interrupted. “Sorry, Joe, this is Rae Sullivan. Sonia’s driving, so I dialed. I’m putting you on speaker.”

  The two of them talked until we got to Sonia’s house, joking and laughing. I marveled at how comfortable they seemed with each other. Maybe Sonia really had found the right guy.

  As I absently stroked Maisie’s ears, I found myself thinking of Luc’s farm. And Luc. I was surprised to realize how much I missed him. Or was it the farm I was missing, the easy rhythm of a life in tune with nature’s cycles? I’d only had a taste of it, but it had exerted a powerful hold on me.

  Sonia said goodbye to Joe, and I put the phone back in her purse.

  “I kissed Luc,” I blurted out.

  “What?” She turned toward me in surprise.

  “Hey, watch the road.”

  Her head swiveled back. “What kind of kiss?”

  “A good one.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “Yes. I’m not proud of myself. It just happened. I was just caught up in the moment. Paris, you know. And that farm! You should have seen him with the animals. And there were bees. And the smell. It was like Eden—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she said, interrupting my homage. “I once slept with a man because of the way he talked to his dog. Turns out he was a chronic liar, but I really do understand what you’re saying. And you two have the gardening connection. You know, there’s a bacteria in the soil that boosts serotonin. It’s an antidepressant. You two wallow in it. No wonder you like each other.”

  “Where did you hear about that?”

  “From Joe. I told you, he knows stuff.”

  “Should I tell Peter?” I asked.

  “About gardening?”

  “No, about kissing Luc. I think I should.”

  “Absolutely not. It would only make him feel like crap.”

  “But we don’t keep secrets from each other.” As soon as I said it, I realized this wasn’t entirely true. Peter hadn’t told me about his financial troubles. But that was because he didn’t want me to worry. This was sort of the same thing, wasn’t it?

  “There’s absolutely no good that will come of telling him. It’s over, right? It meant nothing. You love Peter. So there’s no reason to say anything.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said dubiously.

  “Promise me! If you get some drunken urge to confess to him, you call me. I’ll talk you down. Believe me, nothing good will come of telling him.”

  She was right. Telling Peter would make me feel better, but it would only upset him. I’d just have to live with the guilt.

  When we arrived at Sonia’s house, she introduced Maisie to her other goat, Lucy, then the two of us unloaded the furniture and stored it in the garage. By the time we came back out, Maisie and Lucy were munching grass together as if they’d been lifelong buddies. I headed home, taki
ng my time driving down the hill. Some remark I’d heard during our outing was nagging at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  CHAPTER 34

  Peter called up to me. “They’ll be here soon, hon.” Time to get ready for our guests. A few neighbors were coming over for a barbecue. True to form, the Bay Area was enjoying Indian summer, with balmy nights in October. Peter and I wanted to make the most of the weather while it lasted.

  Why hadn’t the woman from Smitty’s called back? For reasons I couldn’t articulate, I was convinced that the man who spilled his drink on her was the same person Thalia had seen when she’d said, “That son of a bitch.” She’d been so focused on Marcel that she wouldn’t have realized someone else was following her. A chilling thought gripped me. Luc. He needed money, according to his housekeeper. And Thalia wasn’t willing to sell their property. Suppose he still bore a grudge against her for that business with his father’s will. Suppose he really wasn’t as fond of his half-sister as he seemed. And suppose he’d known that Thalia was pregnant. Killing her would get rid of the baby too, leaving him the sole owner of their property in Amiens. The thought of Luc as cold-blooded murderer didn’t square with my memory of the gentle farmer and his beloved pigs. Still, everyone has heard about heinous acts committed by monsters with neighbors who described them as “nice.”

  What if Thalia told him about the first note? She might have confided in him, I reasoned. And then he had the idea to write the second blackmail note. He could have easily slipped it under her windshield wipers, since he was staying at her house. Yes, this all made sense. Then when Thalia went to leave the money, he followed her and waited in Smitty’s so he could have a clear view of her getting on the bus. If she’d spotted him, she’d be annoyed, certainly. But she’d think he was there to protect her. Especially if she had told him what she was doing. In fact, I’d urged her to do just that. But wait, Luc had an alibi, didn’t he? I knew the police had cleared him, so he must have accounted for his whereabouts.