Dead Dreams (3 page)

I gave her a brief history of the McIntyre fortune, and that pacified her for the moment.

The next few days, Mother called again and again, asking to meet Sarah, but Sarah kept making excuses. Once, she claimed she was late for a show, a matinee to a ballet in the city. Then, another day, she insisted the brakes on her brand-new, forest-green Jaguar XK-coupe, no less, needed servicing. She even, by way of excuse, said her dry cleaning was messed up.

“But, can’t you even have coffee with her,
once
?” I asked Sarah one rare evening when I didn’t have work and we were watching an oldie movie and crunching on a microwaveable pop-corn—the kind they’d recently confirmed could be carcinogenic.

With her mouth full she just waved at me as though I were a mosquito and pointed to the TV: her signal to shut up and watch the screen.

My ears should have perked up at the warning signs, the excuses that bordered on lies, but still, I could see why someone would be wary about meeting her roommate’s parents, especially if the parents were anything like mine and had their noses in places even a dog wouldn’t think of sniffing. I would have run away from them, given the chance.

Besides, I was juggling two jobs: a receptionist at Stay Fit in the wee hours of the morning, and a Starbucks barista in the afternoon. Thus my mind wasn’t always sharp, even with all the free caffeine. I never suspected Sarah wanted to avoid meeting my parents, my friends, co-workers, or, for that matter, Mrs. Mott, the only neighbor I was on talking terms with, for a reason.

“Mrs. Mott could really do with some help,” I said, while balancing a half-dozen cardboard cartons and heading toward the little old lady’s apartment next door. She seemed frail and had her doctor with her.

“I’m busy,” Sarah said, while applying a deep copper hue to her French-tipped toenails.

“It’s too bad you won’t meet her. She used to be a concert pianist in her younger days. She’s a neat lady.”

“I have a doctor’s appointment,” she said without looking up.

“Are you sick?”

“Just routine stuff. Maybe I can meet her another day.”

I stared at Sarah. “She’s moving to a senior home. She had a heart attack yesterday. There won’t be another day.” And I stalked out the door.

Mrs. Mott had more clothes than I’d ever imagined a lady in her seventies would possess. She must have not gotten rid of anything since she was twenty. I had volunteered to box them all for her—without first finding out what I’d signed myself up for.

When I was downstairs, stuffing the cartons in the rented U-Haul that would take Mrs. Mott’s clothes to her new residence, a siren sounded. Two police cruisers drove up and parked right behind it. I looked at the curb to see if the truck was parked illegally, as the sirens kept blaring behind the truck. Two cops stepped out of each of the Impala cruisers and headed toward me. I’d never had any trouble with the law, not even a speeding ticket, but still I was nervous about the four officers trudging toward me, their one hand on a holster, so I quickly turned and skipped back toward the apartment.

“Hey, Miss, wait up!” the lady cop hollered after me. She had her blonde hair scooped up in a tight ponytail. I had never achieved this no-wisp look, even when I had my hair gelled for my ballet-bun days.

I stopped in my tracks and told myself there was nothing to be worried about. “Yes?” I faced them as they now stood, shoulder-to-shoulder behind me. Fast walkers.

“Do you live in there?” the lady officer, Sergeant. Charlene Twist, asked. She pointed to the entrance to my apartment building.

I nodded. “What’s up?”

“Do you know a Mrs. Marcia Mott?”

I didn’t know Mrs. Mott’s first name, so I just stared dumbly at her. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Do you know her? She’s about seventy-five.”

“If you mean my next-door neighbor, sure. She’s moving out. But I can’t chat. I actually took a couple hours emergency leave to help her move her stuff.” I jerked my head toward the U-Haul truck.

“Has the ambulance been here?”

“They’re coming soon. Mrs. Mott’s doctor’s in the apartment with her. He can probably answer questions about her condition.”

“It’s not her condition we’re worried about.”

Sorry I asked.
“What do you want to know?”

“Mrs. Mott’s son said his mother thought she saw someone prowling a couple of days back and that gave her a scare. We don’t know how this is related to her present condition, but we need to ask neighbors if they saw anything suspicious.”

“Prowling? Where?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to verify. She hasn’t been cogent in her details. It might be nothing.”

“I can’t say I noticed anything suspicious.” I’d had that dream and thought I’d seen a face peering at me from outside my bedroom window at three in the morning a couple nights back, but my imagination tended to get wild, especially when I lacked sleep. Besides, we were on the third floor, and I seriously doubted anyone would want to rob anything I had. In any case, when I’d rubbed my eyes, the face disappeared.

“If you recall anything concrete, give me a call.” The lady cop handed me a business card, which I slipped into my jeans pocket.

That evening, Sarah came home with a patch on her arm. I thought she looked pale.

“What happened?” I asked, pointing at the tape on the inside of her arm.

“Had to get to the doctor’s again. Just a blood test.”

“You’re not super sick, are you?” Thoughts of cancer ran through my mind. My dad was a doctor and always brought home horror stories. “Have you been having hot flashes?”

“Do I look menopausal?”

“Hot flashes—that’s one of the symptoms of cancer. I saw you shivering the first day you came here. At the interview.”

Sarah barked out a laugh. “Don’t be silly. I’m healthy as a horse. What did the cops want?”

“The ones I met downstairs?”

“Did you speak with any others?”

“No. Mrs. Mott thought she saw prowlers. They just want to be cautious.”

“Just keep me out of it, whatever it is.” She slunk to her bedroom, but before she slammed the door, I hollered after her.

“Don’t worry the U.S. government isn’t after you.” Paranoia runs in her veins, I mumbled to myself. But still, I was worried for her. If she was ill, with some blood disease or something horrible, would she tell me?

Sarah glared at me as she turned and closed the door.

Later that evening, as we wolfed down some sushi takeout, I persisted with the same meet-my-friends theme. “You should hangout with some of my friends.” Not that I had too many chums to boast of, or had I the luxury to socialize much with time being my enemy. “If you’re going to make the Bay Area your home, it can’t hurt to meet new people around here.”

“I have enough friends.”

Really? Who? I was going to ask, but didn’t.

So, Sarah stayed a loner, refusing my attempts to include her when I asked her out for ice cream with my co-workers one rare afternoon. Only once did she accept my invitation for her to work out as my guest at Stay Fit. She came to exercise but forgot her gear and had to borrow my yellow sweats. One of my co-workers, Susan Summers, saw her back, mistook her for me, and complained to Thao that I’d gone Zumba-ing during my official hours. After that, Sarah never wanted to step inside Stay Fit.

At least we got to spend some girl time there when I had a fifteen minute break. She probed about my lost love, Drew, a topic I’d rather not dwell on. On our way home in my second-hand Cooper Mini, a black-top with a faded green bottom half—it was a graduation gift my parents had insisted upon—Sarah said, “I’m sorry about Mrs. Mott.”

I’d overheard two other neighbors whispering in the lobby about how Mrs. Mott passed away. She’d seemed so healthy when I’d met her a month back. Seventy-five is a ripe age, and the heart attack must have weakened her. But still.

“Me, too. I’m going to miss her.”

“How’d she die?”

“Another heart attack. The cops came again and asked about loiterers.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I didn’t see any. Did you?”

She shrugged. “That’s the thing with the heart. You can never tell its condition till it’s too late.”

That was probably the most profound thing Sarah had ever shared with me.

The first night the burglar broke into our home, I was wiped out and zonked out of my skull. Susan Summers at Stay Fit had called in sick last-minute, and I’d had to add two hours to my unearthly morning shift, after which I couldn’t even grab lunch before I had scoot to Starbucks, driving like a mad duck in my Mini Cooper. Friday afternoon was an especially busy time for Starbucks. Forget about time to down a latte or two to keep my eyelids from drooping. The moment I got home at eight, I stuffed my mouth with leftover pepperoni pizza, cold from the refrigerator, and practically crawled to the shower before hitting the sack. A bag of potatoes would have looked more awake than I did.

***

“Brie, wake up,” Sarah whispered as she shook my arm vigorously.

Who is she afraid of waking with all that whispering?
I was the only one in the bedroom. I glanced at my bedside clock. The green light of the digital claimed it was three ten. Or, I should say,
already
three ten, since I always dragged myself out of bed at four thirty to brace myself for Stay Fit.