Be Mine (30 page)

She smiled, then poised her pencil over her notepad as Tom looked to
the left, then right to ensure that no one else would hear.

“I was going to do this myself at my terminal but you’ve got access
to more data banks. And you’re better than me.”

“Quit sucking up, buddy.”

“The guy I’m interested in is Frank G. Yarrow.” He spelled the name.
“I want to know everything about him.”

“What do you need?”

“Run a shotgun search of all news sources, big and small. All
archives. I want any hits fitting him. Anything and everything, like Little
League, school science fairs, arrests, car wrecks, cutlines, obits, family
tree, military duty. Online newsletters, community papers. Nothing’s too small.
The guy should be in the mid-thirties range and might be involved in security
of some sort. But don’t limit the search to that.”

“How far back?”

“As far as you can go.”

“When do you need it?”

“I’m going out shortly. So how about for tomorrow morning?”

“Okay. I’ve got to do some filing in the back. It’ll get real quiet
later, so I’ll likely finish it tonight.”

“Sounds good. And, Lil, let’s keep this search between us.”

Heading back into the newsroom, Tom chided himself for not jumping
on Yarrow’s name sooner. Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit on his hands
waiting for anyone to feed him stuff on Yarrow.

He’d launch his own full-court press now.

Since he’d arrived at Della Thompson’s
house in Glen Park, Tom was anxious to talk to Molly alone about Frank Yarrow.

He’d considered pulling her aside but rejected the idea, deciding it
would be better to wait until the others left. She might be inclined to open up
to him a little without a small audience.

The evening wasn’t what you’d call a party but rather a gathering of
trusted colleagues and friends who’d come to support Molly in the wake of the
tragic events. The wine, finger food, and inside jokes seemed to help. It was
good to see her smile and hear her laugh, Tom thought.

Violet Stewart and Acker left early. As well-respected managers, they
kept a professional distance, never discussing rumors about pending corporate
strategy, leaving the hard-core gossip for the staffers.

“What I hear is that the corporation’s debt has ballooned and there
may be cuts,” Mandy Carmel said.

“That would explain why they’d put Irene Pepper in charge of Metro,
the largest news department with the most fat,” Simon Lepp said.

“She’s lethal with the cost-cutting knives,” Tom said.

“Well, when all is said and done, my girl Molly’s going to be just
fine.” Thompson patted her knee. “I’ve been screening her messages. Agents have
been calling about a book deal when this is over.”

Tom mentioned that Pepper was pushing for Molly to write a
first-person story for the
Star
.

“No way! Save it for the book, girl.” Thompson poured more wine for
herself and Molly. “Listen to me. Don’t give it away to Pepper. Take a leave.”

Lepp was taken by Thompson’s home and how she’d gotten it for a
steal.

“Your place is a gem. Mind if I take a tour?”

“Be my guest,” Thompson said.

Not long afterward, Henry Cain, a
Star
photographer, and
Mandy Carmel left. As Tom helped himself to another ginger ale, he noticed
white roses in a vase near a corner window. Had to be the most recent ones from
Yarrow. He was inspecting them when Lepp decided to go, leaving him alone with
Molly and Thompson.

Tom wasted no time.

“I’ve got a story on Sydowski’s suspect list coming out tomorrow.
I’m not naming people. But mostly all your old boyfriends, the ones you dated
for more than a month, are on it.”

Molly said nothing as Tom assured her he was not publishing the
names but wanted to review them with her. They discussed the likelihood that
Duane Ford, Rob Glazer, Cecil Lowe, Manny Lewis, Steve Murdoch, Pete Marlin, or
Park Williams could’ve killed Hooper and Beamon. On the face of it, none seemed
a plausible candidate, Tom agreed.

“It could be some head case who’s seen me on the show,” Molly said.

“Do you know who’s been sending you the white roses with these
cryptic notes?” he asked, showing her copies he’d made.

Molly poured more wine, looked at them, and shook her head.

“I got so many flowers, and I get strange stuff through the paper
and Vincent’s show. So no, not really.”

“I did some checking and I found out. It’s Frank Yarrow. I didn’t
recognize his name, but he’s on Sydowski’s list. You know him?”

Molly nodded, then set down her glass and said nothing.

“Aren’t you concerned he could’ve had something to do with the
murders? Look at his strange notes and the timing of the flowers,” Tom said.

“I told Sydowski all I know about Frank a long time ago, right after
Cliff’s funeral. I told him that he’d come to talk to me.”

“He came to see you after Hoop’s funeral! Jesus! That’s chilling
timing. What did he talk about? Did he threaten you?”

“No. Nothing like that. Frank doesn’t even live in California. It
was coincidental that he was in town on business. It’s a little complicated
with Frank and me.”

“Uncomplicate it for us. Tell us about him.”

Molly cupped her face with her hands and gazed at the small flames
dying in the fireplace.

“We were teens in Texas when I got pregnant. It all ended badly.”

This part of Molly’s life was a revelation. Thompson exchanged
glances with Tom. After hesitating, Thompson said softly, “You were pregnant?”

Staring at her glass, Molly journeyed back through the years of her
life.

“I was seventeen,” she began. “Frank was the father. He wanted me to
keep it. I didn’t know what to do. I was torn. Frank and I argued during this
whole time. God, he wanted to talk about wedding plans. I was
seventeen
.
He came by my parents’ home one night and picked me up in his truck. Said he
wanted to drive to the river to talk but we argued. I started running from him
and I fell and I lost the baby.” Molly drank more wine.

“We broke up and moved on with our lives. I went off to college. I
think he, or his family, moved around Texas, then around the country. Sometimes
he would write and call me. I always put him off. Anything I ever shared with
him died years ago on that riverbank. I left it all behind and moved on. We
were kids. It was sad. It’s over.”

“So after all these years he comes looking for you in San Francisco at your boyfriend’s funeral?” Tom asked.

“He was in town on business when he’d learned of Hooper’s murder,”
Molly said. “Wants to take up with me again. He got divorced recently. He
wanted me to consider starting over with him. I told him no, get on with your
life. He was just reacting to his divorce. He’s kind of shy and withdrawn. It
makes sense that he would send me the flowers with these odd little notes.”

“What does he do?”

“Corporate security consultant or something like that.”

“You’re not concerned that he could be linked to the murders?”

“I really think his problems coincided with mine,” she said.
“Frank’s not violent. How would he even know about Cliff and Ray after all
these years? He doesn’t even live in California. I told Sydowski all about him.
I doubt he’s a serious suspect. It makes no sense.”

Tom looked at her for a long moment as he considered her history
with Frank Yarrow.

“Nothing in this case makes sense,” he said.

Ida Lyndstrum was awakened
at her large
home in the Western Addition. The green digits on her bedside clock glowed 2:45
A.M.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”

It had to have been her upstairs tenant with his comings and goings
at all hours. She was becoming disappointed with him. He had been so well
mannered and quiet. A nonsmoker who kept to himself. A gentleman, really. But
he was always trudging up and down the outside stairs to the apartment at such
ungodly times.

Don’t you ever sleep, Mr. Night Owl?

Ida had a vague memory of a car door thudding.

She drew back her curtain on the window facing her driveway. His car
was gone. It must’ve been him. Where was he going at this hour? My word. Oh,
what did it matter? Ida sat up. He had every right to come and go as he
pleased, but he might try to be considerate some of the time. If he kept this
up she was going to have to speak to him about it.

Ida slid her wrinkled fingers along her quilted bedspread for
Clementine’s soft fawn and white coat. But her fat tabby cat wasn’t there. She
was likely off prowling, or sulking.

“Where are you, Clemmie? Did Mr. Noisy wake you too?”

In the silence, Ida heard a distinct but distant meowing and
immediately knew she was in trouble. Her old house had a sealed-off interior
stairway and air duct system. Clementine could slip into the passageway where
she occasionally prowled for mice. It led to the upstairs apartment. And
judging from the meowing, Clementine had used it tonight. It sounded as if
she’d intruded into the apartment and was crying to be rescued.

Ida knew Clemmie would not come back out on her own. She also knew
she was a big baby who’d be frightened in the apartment. Her fear would lead to
damage, which was the case three years ago.

That had cost her six hundred dollars to repair a tenant’s sofa.

“Oh! Clemmie!”

Ida was forced to break a rule, and likely some sort of law. She
grumbled as her feet found her slippers and she pulled on her sweater. She
snatched her keys from the kitchen peg, trudged outside and around her house to
the backstairs. Her intention was to enter the apartment, scoop up Clementine,
and leave.

No one would be the wiser, Ida reasoned, hoping her naughty cat had
not wreaked havoc in the premises. After knocking and ensuring that no one was
home, Ida entered. “Clementine,” she whispered. “Come here this instant.”

There was no sign of her. Ida heard a meow from the bedroom and
switched on some lights. The one-bedroom apartment was very tidy and clean. Ida
approved. The walls were bare, save for a nice landscape painting of the coast.
A laptop computer on a desk. Some orderly files. A few newspapers set neatly to
the side.

Oh, that’s nice, Ida cooed like the grandmother she was, as she bent
down to examine a framed photograph of a man and a pretty woman. It was taken
some time ago. It looked like her tenant. And the girl looked familiar. Ida
squinted, didn’t have her proper glasses.

She straightened and tapped her finger to her lips. Now, why did
that woman look so familiar? She was pondering that question when something
nudged her from behind. Her breath caught in her throat.

She turned to find her cat. “My Lord! You bad, bad cat!”

Ida collected Clementine into her arms, locked the apartment, and
hurried downstairs back into her house. She continued wondering about the woman
in the picture for nearly an hour before she fell asleep.