Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (6 page)

I straightened my spine, put my shoulders back, lifted my chin. Sucking my stomach in, I cocked one hip slightly and smiled at the mirror. Better. My breasts hadn't sagged yet, and posed this way, my body looked strong and curvy. With a smile pasted on it my face wasn't so bad-well-shaped, nearly blue eyes under dark brows, high cheekbones, wide mouth. The wrinkles were smile lines, I assured myself.

A moment of this and I rolled my eyes and let my body sag. This sort of classic feminine posturing only went so far with me. It was time to get down to reality.

Still, I watched myself out of the corner of my eye as I dressed. I liked looking at myself and the room, reflected in the slightly flawed glass of the antique mirror over the old dresser. This dresser and the matching bed, with their baroque, scrolling lines and deep mahogany-red wood, lent a certain dignity and gravitas to my otherwise very plain bedroom.

It was a simple room, a small, square box with one window, the walls painted soft white, the floor a grayed-white Berber-weave carpet. But the old bed with its carved headboard and footboard and the ornate dresser seemed, if anything, more resonant than they had ever been against the gentle, even cream. Picking up on the idea, I'd purchased undyed linen sheets and a cotton comforter in warm white, and let the furniture, which I'd inherited from my parents, speak for itself.

My mother's jewelry box, a beautifully crafted bit of rosewood with brass fittings, sat on the dresser. I opened it and took out a string of turquoise and lapis beads, transported back in a flash to a small girl who had loved to play with her mother's jewelry.

Fastening the beads around my neck, I paused. How often had I watched my mother do this, looking into the same mirror? I could see her vividly, as she had been shortly before she died, her neatly cropped brown hair just showing gray, her functional glasses perched on the end of her nose. For a woman who, in most ways, was a hardheaded, pragmatic sort, she'd loved personal adornment-clothes, makeup, jewelry. And despite my somewhat humble lifestyle, I felt I'd inherited a bit of this from her.

I stared at myself. It had been a long time since the image of my mother had come to me so powerfully. She, and my father, had died in a car crash in my eighteenth year. Suddenly I missed her. If she were alive, would I feel quite so lost?

My eyes filled with tears. I blinked them away and sat down on the bed, overwhelmed by the need for some sort of unconditional love and acceptance.

I have to get some help with this; the words repeated themselves in my head. The bit of paper Kris had given me was on the dresser where I'd unceremoniously tossed it. I stood, picked the scrap up, unfolded it. Dr. Alan Todd, it said. And a phone number. I put it back.

You haven't got time for another maudlin wallow in self pity, Gail. Get dressed. Five minutes later I surveyed myself with a glimmer of satisfaction.

The amethyst-colored knit dress clung and flowed in all the right places; the scooped neck and scalloped edging on hem, neckline, and cap sleeves were subtly flattering. This dress, and the little black wool sweater that went with it, had cost a fortune by my standards, but I had to admit, I felt better about myself every time I wore it.

Black stockings against the fog's chill, comfortable black suede flats, and a slight application of eyeliner, lip gloss, and blush, and I was ready. My hair, mostly dried by now, waved and curled about my face. I ran my fingers through it and let it alone. Kris had encouraged me to wear it this way. "It looks sexy," she said. I seldom did so, but I was going to follow her advice tonight.

Roey's excited yaps alerted me to Clay's truck pulling up my driveway. Grabbing my favorite jacket, a woven silk blazer in a soft charcoal-black, I headed for the door.

Clay Bishop was getting out of his pickup in a slow, deliberate fashion, which was typical of him. He smiled at the leaping, barking Roey, ran his eyes over the house and garden, glanced down the hill at the horses. He'd seen all this before, of course, but it was like Clay to look at everything in this quietly appraising way. The more I got to know the man, the more I was aware of the level thoughtfulness hidden behind a serene exterior. Clay Bishop was a force to be reckoned with.

I liked this. Had I been feeling even a little more engaged by life, I probably would have liked Clay quite a bit. As it was, however, I felt tepidly pleased by his company and was content to leave it at that. I wasn't sure Clay was, though.

"Hello, Gail." Clay's smile was instant, warm, upon seeing me in the doorway.

I smiled back. "Hi, Clay."

No doubt about it, this was a handsome man. At roughly six foot, Clay was tall enough for my taste, which runs to large in men. He was slender, though, verging on thin, despite the well-developed muscles visible under the short-sleeved polo shirt. It was his face that made him so attractive; the high, hard cheekbones and nice blue-green eyes under strong brows were the perfect contrast to the blond mustache and the brownish-blond hair almost equally spangled with sunbleached gold and premature silver. If his chin was a little weak, and his mouth a little soft, the mustache mostly hid it.

Clay held the truck door open for me, and I smiled to myself as I managed, only semi-awkwardly, to clamber in without revealing an undue amount of thigh.

However I looked at it, Clay was a good deal. Trouble was, I wasn't in a shopping mood.

Tonight's program was supposed to be dinner out and an early evening. I'd declined Clay's initial invitation to dinner and a movie on the grounds that I was on call. He'd amended it to dinner, with the understanding that he'd drive me home at any minute. How could I complain?

Riding beside him in the truck, I was happy to be quiet. The nice thing about dating someone to whom I was reasonably indifferent was that I didn't feel any big need to entertain the guy. If Clay found me boring, so be it.

You weren't indifferent to that guy you met last summer; I could hear Kris's voice in my mind. It was true, too. I had been a long way from indifferent to Blue Winter. The thought of him caused a little prickle to run down my spine, even now.

"How's your horse doing?" I asked Clay. When in doubt, stick to horses as a topic; everybody loves to talk about their horses.

"Oh, Freddy's fine," Clay said easily. "I've been riding him back in the hills some, after work. That's his best lick. He's real good outside."

Unlike his brother, Bart, Clay's involvement with horses was minimal. He kept his bay gelding, a ranch horse he'd bought in Nevada, in the family stable, and rode him occasionally, but that was it. His only other contact with the family business was as a handyman. Clay repaired the old barns and fences, built retaining walls where they were needed, wired sheds for electricity ... etc.

Clay nodded. Once again we were quiet. The silence didn't seem entirely comfortable, but I simply couldn't think of anything to say. It was Clay who initiated conversation once again. "I'm sorry I'm not being very good company. I just got back from a funeral; I guess it upset me a little."

"Marianne," Clay said slowly. "Marianne Moore. I can hardly believe it." He looked across the truck at me. "She was murdered."

"That's the weirdest part. There doesn't seem to be any motive. The cops are completely stuck. It's pretty terrible. I guess it's got me down."

"I understand."

We both lapsed back into silence, which lasted all the way to the restaurant. Clouds turned out to be in downtown Santa Cruz, a place that was familiar to me from my childhood. In those days the little villages that dotted the county had boasted a grocery store, a gas station, and a restaurant or two, at best. For all major purchases, one had to go to "town." Which meant either Santa Cruz or Watsonville.

And the big store in downtown Santa Cruz was Leask's. This was an old-fashioned department store, family-run. a place where they had everything. Everyone shopped at Leask's.

Things had changed. Various malls sprawled about the countryside, a 7.2 earthquake had nearly demolished downtown Santa Cruz, and Leask's had folded. But change hadn't stopped there. The downtown area had been rebuilt, slowly and steadily, in a much slicker, more urban style, and was once again popular. And the space that had housed Leask's was now a movie theater and Clouds.

As we walked through the door of the restaurant I told Clay, "This is where I used to buy my shoes when I was a kid."

He smiled. "I remember. Me, too. This was the shoe department, wasn't it?"

I smiled back at him. This was one of the ties Clay and I had-we had been born and raised in Santa Cruz County. That was unusual; most folks who live in Santa Cruz, like the rest of California, are transplants from somewhere else. To be a second, or in Clay's case, third-generation resident was uncommon, and it created a subtle bond.

Looking around Clouds now, I was struck by the strong urban flavor. This was no funky beach-town restaurant; this was a sophisticated, upscale, big-city bar, with an elegant little raised restaurant seating area alongside. My dress felt right at home.

"Would you like to sit down at the bar and have a drink?" Clay asked.

"I'd love to."

We settled ourselves on bar stools, me with a sigh of satisfaction. I like bars. Or rather, I like the restful and yet convivial atmosphere some bars seem to have, and Clouds, despite its sleek mahogany and stainless-steel exterior and trendy track lighting, had a good and friendly feel.

The bartender approached with an inquiring smile. "What'll you have?"

I ordered a vodka tonic; Clay chose a beer.

She made my drink; I watched the deft, competent motions, no action wasted. When she placed the drink in front of me she gave me a friendly grin. I smiled back, thinking that maybe I would have been better off as a bartender. A lot less stress than being a veterinarian.

The woman poured and brought Clay's beer. "How's it going?" she said as she set it down. Judging by her tone, she knew him.

The woman grinned; she was instantly likable. Though I was sure that a certain outwardly friendly stance was an integral part of her job, she had a sparkle that seemed genuine.

"So how do you like this job?" I asked her curiously.

She smiled again; she'd learned to smile.

"Well ..." I watched her think, fingering a charm hung around her neck. She was about my age and had wavy brown-blond hair that fell to her waist, confined in a simple ponytail. No makeup, eyeglasses, her one concession to the dressy style of the restaurant being an all-black outfit. But while the waitresses wore skimpy tube tops and tight low-waisted pants, she wore a simple fitted black shell and black jeans. Plain, professional, somehow elegant.

"It's a job," she said at last. "I've been doing it for ten years. I like this place," she added. "They're good people to work for." Then she grinned again. "But I'm not exactly using my education." Her hand moved; I saw that the charm she'd been fingering was a Phi Beta Kappa symbol. She was educated enough, then.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked me.

"I'm a horse vet."

I saw her eyes widen slightly; the mobile face became even more friendly. "Really?" Her eyes moved to Clay. "And you have horses, right? Is that how you met?"

Clay smiled, a quiet, self-deprecating smile, mostly in the eyes. "Yeah. Gail's my vet."

Another man sat down at the bar; Caroline moved in his direction.

I watched her go, thinking that her animated, fair-skinned face had an unusual quality. She wasn't exactly pretty-her features were a little too strong for that-but she had a lightness and a vivacity that were unique and perhaps more attractive than mere physical beauty.

"She's nice," I said to Clay. "Do you know her well?"

"Not really." Clay gave me that quiet smile. "Just from coming in here. She's friendly."

I nodded, picturing this handsome man sitting in the bar alone. Naturally Caroline would chat with him. Which is what you ought to be doing, I reminded myself. Good manners demanded it. Yet I found it difficult to make conversation with Clay. He responded easily and was always polite and friendly; still, I had a sense of a deep inner reserve.