At least the search for Penny Redmond was about to be concluded or abandoned. Emma had called someone she knew and found out that Alicia Malone’s business address was that of a private home as well. The house, please God, where Stephen had lived and who would—please God still more—have had Penny living with him. And still there today. And given those givens, Billie would deliver Sophia’s message, write up the report, and that would be that.
Or it would not please fate to provide any of it, in which case, that would still be that.
Alicia Malone’s house was off Creamery Road, built on the side of the street that sloped down. It looked as if it might fill like a measuring cup in a good rain, although it was set up from the ground, with lattice separating the first floor from its foundation. A causeway for the runoff, she supposed. The pale blue house had the look of something quickly constructed for transient use.
She walked down the three front steps and rang the bell, noting the peeling paint around the window frames, the yard filled with plumes of pampas grass, the indestructible scourge of organized gardens, and she felt a perverse fondness for the place and whoever lived in it.
The man who answered her ring and question said his name was Gary. He looked in his late twenties, about her own age, and was extremely tall, gangly, and unkempt. His hair, his sweats, his oversized beard, were in harmony with the yard outside. His nose was red and his eyes bleary, and she reminded herself that this was a house of mourning as she explained that she was here to see Penny Redmond.
His shaggy eyebrows raised, and he invited her in. “You could leave a message. She isn’t here.” His voice was hoarse and nasal. “I’ve got this bitch of a cold. Everybody else is gone.”
The room was full of listing or sagging pieces with crocheted afghans and Indian fabric throws covering arms and backs, and all colors faded or muddled. The coffee table was buried under sloping piles of magazines and books. Predictable rental unit furnishings, except for the computer and a strange arrangement of leather and metal in a corner.
“My armor,” Gary said, following her glance. “I was getting it ready. Thought I was going to Arizona with the others this weekend. There’s a war there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Every year this time. A battle, a feast. In fun,” he said. “We’re part of a group that, well, we… He blew his nose, to buy time, she thought. “…re-create the Middle Ages. The way they should have been. I felt too sick to go. I thought I’d work on the armor this weekend, but I haven’t had the energy. Or heart.”
“Because of Stephen?” she asked softly.
His shoulder twitched in a shrug. “I meant because of the cold.”
She adjusted her emotional expectations and wondered how little he cared about Stephen or his fate. Had he stayed back because of the sniffles or because he had a plan to use against an enemy? The war in Arizona sacrificed to the war at home.…
“I won’t take much of your time,” she said. “I’m interested in finding Penny Redmond.”
His noncommittal palms-up gesture fit all the other people she’d spoken to who didn’t know and didn’t mind not knowing, Penny Redmond. “She lives here,” he said. “But I don’t know where she is.”
“Is she due back soon, or at all?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. I never could make sense of her, and she was going to have to leave anyway, and that was before Stephen—”
Billie nodded. “My condolences to all of you. It must be awful, losing a good friend, especially through violence, somebody you live with.”
Gary looked as if he were considering her words, then he nodded.
“But about Penny.”
His shrugs were a tic, a universal response, no matter the comment. “What about her?”
“Do you know where she might have gone? When did she leave?”
“Not long ago. She didn’t say where. Look, maybe you don’t know this, but Stephen was moving somewhere else, too. Because of her. Getting away from her. The girl is bad news. She ruined everything here, or he did, bringing her here.”
Billie looked at the man’s bloodshot eyes, at the overflowing basket of wadded tissues next to the computer, and still thought he might be faking the illness. He obviously bore a deep resentment against Stephen Tassio.
“She looked weird when she took off,” Gary said. “Acted weird, too, although it’s hard to tell with a girl like her. Took Alicia’s car. Said she had permission, and frankly, I don’t want to get involved when I already feel like shit. Last time she borrowed a car, it was Stephen’s, and he went ballistic. He loves that…loved that car,” he finished softly. Then he coughed, cleared his throat and drank water out of a glass that had been sitting atop a pile of newspapers.
“Do you know where she went that other time?”
He nodded. “Because Kathy told me she dropped Stephen—when he went after her—at the houseboats. Plus later, before he left, Stephen had this gigantic fight about it with Penny. They fought a lot, about everything, but this time it was about how she was always going there, asking for trouble. He mentioned Issaquah Dock. I couldn’t help but hear.”
“Do you have any idea why she went there? And more than once?”
He shrugged again. “Nope. She’s weird. Doesn’t have to have reasons. Nobody likes her. Not even Stephen did after a while. It’s not just that she’s a kid, it’s that she’s a baby, and they aren’t the same thing. She only thinks about herself, only wants somebody to take care of her. Stephen had truly bad luck with women, probably because he was always out to rescue somebody. A kind of one-man Save the Children.” He didn’t smile when he said it. He looked, instead, mournful.
“But about her coming back?” Billie asked softly.
He started, then let go of a shrug. “We told her she had to move out. For one thing, Stephen wasn’t coming back except to pick up and move his things. Especially the bird. Jeez—I forgot to feed her.” He grew silent and Billie felt she was watching him program in feeding the bird. “We had to tell her,” he then continued. “Damn, that was awful. I understand why he did it that way, but all the same. But the thing is, even if anybody liked her, which nobody did, she couldn’t pay rent—she never once tried to pull her weight—and we need somebody who can. The rest of the people are gone for this weekend. In Arizona. That’s why Alicia’s car was here. Maybe she said the kid could take it, to look for apartments. I don’t know. Not that I’m saying Penny killed Stephen, but she was definitely a millstone and they had an ugly parting. And the thing is, she could have taken Alicia’s car yesterday, too. And she knew where he was. She eavesdropped.”
“But you were here. You’d know if she left.”
“Too out-of-it with this cold to notice.”
“And this morning? She didn’t let you know…?”
“She was angry because I slept after we got the news last night.” He shook his head in weary dismay. “Like sleeping meant I didn’t care about Stephen. Like she didn’t notice I was sick as a dog.”
“How did you find out about Stephen?” Billie asked.
“The cops. I heard them, but I was upstairs. I asked Penny how they knew Stephen’s address. He was trying so hard to keep it secret. She said it was because of the heart. This thing she wears on a chain with like ‘VUX’ written on it. They fought about that, too.”
Hadn’t the bartender said a call was about jewelry? “Why would the police know the address because of a necklace?”
“Because she found it in the field where they found the skeletons. Stephen found the first skeleton because they were looking to see if there was more stuff around. Stephen told the police about it after they found the second skeleton and he left ways to contact him. That’s how they knew.”
“Okay, so the police came, talked to Penny, and then what?” Her mind swirled with information that sat on its surface like oil spills.
“She went nuts. Said she was going to take care of everything, and it didn’t matter that we were throwing her o
ut.”
“Did she take her things?” What felt like years ago, Billie had seen the redheaded girl drag a suitcase out of her house. Had Penny Redmond simply run away again?
This shrug was definitive. “Frankly, I make it a rule to notice as little about her as I can. Especially when she’s the world’s sole authority on feeling bad, angry about everything. Like the police called and Alicia gave them the number at the beach where Stephen takes messages, and Penny overheard it and threw another fit. Like we were telling a killer about him. Like Stephen wasn’t our friend way before he was hers.”
The police. The jewelry call at the beach could have been the police. So much for that lead. “Could I look around her room, see if she left anything?”
Another shrug, which Billie took as permission.
“First door on your right at the top of the stairs,” Gary said.
The room managed to be both cluttered and abandoned-looking, the mattress on the floor, its bedding crumpled and tossed to one side, the top of the dresser littered with pieces of a broken coffee cup, paper scraps, stubs, a comb, pennies, the flat carpet speckled with the unknown, and still, a sense that nothing lived here.
Except for a small brown-and-gray hawk on a perch, scowling at her. She backed up a step despite its shackled leg. “Don’t mind me,” she muttered as she poked through the leavings on the dresser, unfolding papers that contained nothing of interest, opening drawers still crammed with male attire, then two drawers, empty except for a lone sock and a rumpled pair of underpants. She checked the closet and the bathroom, and found nothing to which she could ascribe significance. No sign of empty medicine-cabinet space where her things might have been. No sign of her except the two empty drawers.
He’d never given her a great deal of space. It seemed obvious that it was to be a temporary living arrangement, and, from the sounds of it, an unpleasant one on both sides.
And Penny had known how to reach him, how to make that phone call. He’d abandoned her and she’d found out where he was.
And had access to a car. Damn it all to hell. She didn’t want to think in that direction. Yvonne had killed Stephen. It was the only logical possibility.
Time, then, to get on with it, to head for the houseboats. Penny probably had a friend there, a new escape hatch. All this effort to tell a runaway to stay away.
She took a deep breath and waved farewell to the little hawk, hoping Stephen’s former housemates would take care of the bird. When she glanced at it, its dark eyes no longer looked angry nor did it seem as menacing. It looked hunched, small and trapped. She shuddered and closed the door behind her.
Twenty-Seven
She didn’t need them. She didn’t need San Geronimo. She could stay with a friend—somebody who wouldn’t—or whose parents wouldn’t—tell where she was.
No. She couldn’t trust anybody that much. She wouldn’t stay with anybody. She’d stay outside.
It wasn’t as if she’d freeze to death, and it hadn’t rained for days. People lived under the freeway. Or maybe there was a shelter.
No. She’d stay right here on the docks, find a place to hide and sleep overnight while the film was developed.
No. She’d find a one-hour place for the film and go directly to her mother today with proof of what he was doing.
Proof positive. There it would be, the seeing-is-believing thing, right in front of her eyes, his mistress and him, the kid he bought the violin for, the way he spent their money and blamed them for needing food or college application fees. The way he hit her mother, pushed her around, terrified Wesley. With photos, let her mother try to say Penny made things up, exaggerated, didn’t understand, or just plain lied. Let her try to defend taking his shit and letting him dump on her children.
And then, she’d call the police and tell them that Arthur had killed Stephen Tassio.
And when they took him away, she’d sleep in her own bed and be freer than running away could ever make her.
Penny moved slowly, checking the parking lot to be sure Arthur’s car was there, then slowly progressing down the slatted walkway, wishing the woman’s houseboat were closer in, wishing for places to hide, but there was only the boardwalk winding through. No side alleys, except the gangplanks leading into each houseboat. How was she supposed to get the shot, the proof?
She clutched her paper bag feeling clever for making herself look like she belonged there, someone bringing home the groceries. Plus, it was something to put in front of her face, to hide behind if Arthur suddenly appeared.
She’d taken the bag from under the sink and the cabbage that stuck out of it from the refrigerator of the San Geronimo house. The cabbage was already on its way to becoming slime and nobody would miss it. She’d stuffed the bottom of the bag with a sweater Stephen hadn’t taken, the one Morgana liked to sit on. It still smelled of him, and maybe of her, or had, before the cabbage got to it. She’d put his camera in the bag as well. He didn’t need it anymore, and she thought there might be a photo of her inside, maybe one of the two of them.
But she wasn’t going to think about Stephen anymore. He was dead. He would have come back to her, she knew, but now he couldn’t and all she could do was avenge his death.
Her head felt like static, like blurs and spots. She wrinkled her brow, stopped walking and felt lost even though there was only one way and that was ahead. She couldn’t remember anymore what the photo of Arthur and the Other Woman, that photo she was going to take had to do with catching Stephen’s killer. Light-headed and fearful, she felt determination and clear vision bleed out of her.
Then she remembered her mother needed proof she didn’t have to stand by her husband. And remembered that Arthur was afraid she was going to tell about the other woman. Had been all along, since before she ran away, and had thought Stephen knew, too. Thought she’d be with Stephen last night and that he’d get them both. So if she trapped Arthur with her camera, exposed his secret like his worst fear, it’d be evidence for the murder, too. She’d get him for everything at once.
She could tell the police she’d had the photos earlier. That Stephen had actually shown them to Arthur to try and force him to leave the house in San Rafael. And forced to the wall that way—Arthur struck back. It could have been true if she’d thought of it sooner.
She walked forward with confidence, invincible, carrying the forces of right in her shopping bag. The little houseboat was quiet, its curtains drawn and a warm light issuing from within. Her body temperature rose at the thought, however quickly squelched, of what was going on inside.
She reminded herself of the need to stay calm.
A wave of vertigo hit. She’d forgotten something of vital importance. Lots of things. Like how she’d photograph through curtains. Like even if she found an opening, how she was going to take a clear photo without a flash. Without alerting them to her presence. Without being caught because if they did come after her, where could she go? There were sharks in the Bay. That’s why people hadn’t escaped from Alcatraz, and she didn’t like water in the first place.
She tried to think of Stephen, think like him. Would he have said to give it up? Or would he have said to be brave, to grow up, to do something—anything except whine or feel sorry for herself? Get control of your life, he’d said over and over. This was what he’d meant, and she tiptoed on, toward the pastry-box square of boat.
There was no getting access to the front of it. She knew that from earlier trips. But there was the catwalk on the side and maybe at the back, the part that faced Richardson Bay’s openness—nothing but birds wheeling overhead, and a dilapidated, anchor-out “pirate” boat using the Bay illegally, as homestead and toilet. The rear of the houseboat, the view of water and anchor-outs and Tiburon across Richardson Bay—he wouldn’t block that with a curtain, would he? If he did, why live on the water at all? The day was clear, all fog burned off, and maybe there’d be enough light back there so that she didn’t need a flash, could do her work without alerting him.
&
nbsp; She took a deep breath, looked left and right, put down the shopping bag, shoved the camera into the waistband of her jeans, and climbed onto the narrow catwalk that rimmed the boat. Pressure rose in her throat, what felt like air bubbles popped in her brain. She wasn’t good with the idea of falling into the icy Bay.
She had to be brave, she told herself with each creeping sideways step. Had to risk something. Had to do something, Stephen said.
She stepped as lightly as she could, on tiptoes, sideways, knowing that the anchor-out or the neighbors could see her, call out or call the police, ruin everything. This no longer seemed a foolproof or wonderful idea, but she had nowhere else to go, no other option.
Slowly she made her way to the back of the small houseboat. She thought she heard voices inside, but they were muffled and distant.
And finally she was at the end of the walk, and with one careful, deep step, down onto a small floating deck with two padded, bird-stained chaise lounges positioned for drinks at sunset, she thought bitterly, the water staining red and yellow, Arthur and the bitch cooing.
All this as she turned, eager and at the same time reluctant to see if these windows were also covered.
They were not. In fact, French doors covering the entire back of the boat were open. She crouched, half hidden by a large palm in a redwood tub, and peered around. Sunshine, intensified as it bounced off the Bay, poured through the open doors onto a polished wood floor, an oriental carpet and a carton with a stack of Styrofoam cups and what looked like trash all around it.
And nothing more she could see. Puzzled, still crouching, she edged forward, tilting her head so as to see further.
Time and Trouble Page 27
