Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (16 page)

Julio laughed long and hard, as if he rather enjoyed a good delivery on a midnight rant.

The wine had done its work. We killed the bottle, and when I got up to go, I felt infinitely better than I had when I arrived. Friendly was one of the ways I felt. I wondered briefly if Julio would make a pass, but I was sure he wouldn’t. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. I threw my arms around him, meaning to kiss him on the cheek, and came to consciousness about half a century later, swimming up slowly, surprised to find that my eyes were closed, that I was still standing, that there was more in the room than Julio’s mouth.

He’d moved so fast, I hadn’t even noticed, just found myself engulfed. In lips. In passion like I remembered from a long time before, but had almost forgotten about.

“Get out of here! This is not your home, get out!”

“This
is
my home, goddammit! I paid for it so you could pursue that hobby you call a career.”

“Hobby! For your precious Sadie, it was a religious vocation, for me it’s a hobby, you fucking hypocrite!”

The female voice was Marty’s, and the male one Don’s. I glanced quickly at my bedside clock—almost nine-fifteen, which didn’t surprise me. I’d been up past one the night before. What did surprise me was the presence of either half of this morning comedy team, especially Marty. Don must have arrived home from his business trip. But why the hell had the police let Marty out? Had they arrested someone else? Someone they suspected of having killed Katy Montebello as well as Sadie?

I rubbed my eyes, thinking to throw on clothes, race downstairs, and demand to know what was going on. But then it occurred to me that wouldn’t be tactful. Also that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was too embarrassed, I told myself. And, more to the point, far too curious.

“Would you shut up? You’re going to wake the children.”

“I thought you came to get the children.”

“I didn’t plan to terrify them, however.”

“Goddammit, you started this, not me!”

“You’re the one who ordered me out of my own goddamn house!”

“A house that you left to go live with your floozy.”

I held my breath. There was real potential for violence here.

Instead of the crack of fist on soft flesh that I half expected, there was silence, silence for so long, I was puzzled. And then I came bolt upright as the truth of it hit me:
Omigod
,
he's choking her
! I threw off the covers and was halfway out the door when I heard a sob, a deep, masculine sob that sounded as if it had been held in far too long.

“Oh, Marty, I can’t believe she’s dead!”

Marty said, “Oh, Don!” as concerned as if he were a younger Keil with a skinned knee, and I pictured her opening her arms to him.

I thought briefly that it was no wonder that Dr. Freud had been puzzled by women, because so was I, and I was one. The hell of it was I was also thinking that, much as I hated to admit it, I might have done the same thing. But it occurred to me that Marty and I were two very different creatures. I might have put my anger and hurt aside because I’m a sucker for birds with broken wings. (This doesn’t mean I’m a suffering angel—I know perfectly well that’s probably more about power than compassion, but it’s still wimp behavior, and I do it because I can’t help it.) Marty, on the other hand, always had an angle. What was it this time?

I got dressed slowly, listening to Don’s sobs, now genuinely more embarrassed than curious. I didn’t want to be a fly on this particular wall, and I was sure Keil, Libby, and Ava didn’t either (well, Keil and Libby anyway).

Finally Marty said, “I’m sorry I called her a floozy.”

“You were upset.”

“Leave the kids with me, Don. I’ve just spent two days in jail.”

“Leave the kids with you?”

“Please, Don.”

“Rebecca’s here, isn’t she? And your mother? Marty, I’m all alone. I’ve just lost Sadie—I need something. I’ve been flying for two days—”

“Flying! I’ve been in
jail
!”

“Jail!” I could tell it hadn’t sunk in the first time she said it. “For what?”

“For killing your little girlfriend, asshole. As if I cared who you’re fucking. As if I weren’t
thrilled
to get rid of you.”

Don said, “
Did
you kill her?” in an utterly bewildered tone of voice, as if the thought had just occurred to him, and as if he considered it very possible indeed.

“Did I kill her! No, I didn’t kill her. I was framed, goddammit. They let me go when they got the autopsy report. She was dead before she was stabbed—stabbed in the eye with my letter opener, by the way. The letter opener you gave me.”

“Oooohhh.” It was a loud, masculine moan—Don’s—but it was followed quickly by a scream of distress from Libby’s room.

“Mommy, shut up! Shut up!”

I heard the sound of small racing feet on the stairs. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

Libby must have catapulted into his arms. I heard restless sounds from Keil’s room and knew that his pride wouldn’t allow him to do what Libby had done, and felt terribly, terribly sorry for him. And for her. I even wasted a little sympathy on Ava, for having to listen to all that profanity.

The funny thing was, it suddenly occurred to me that Libby had acted more adult than all the rest of us put together. Neither parent should have exposed the kids to so much darkness, so much ugliness, such nasty weeping emotional sores. Ava and I should have stopped it, should have protected them. I was ashamed that I hadn’t and determined not to let them get away with starting up again. I found my shoes and put on red lipstick, for authority.

“Hello, Don.” He and Libby were sitting at the table, Marty making oatmeal, wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, hair clean but dry, a hint that she’d gotten home the night before and washed away the aroma of jail.

Don also must have gotten home the night before; at any rate, he hadn’t come here directly from the airport. He was wearing Monterey clothes—faded gray jeans and a turquoise polo shirt, complete with pony. His thin, brownish, nondescript hair was mussed, and his glasses were spotted.

He was not a handsome man at the best of times, though he had a square enough jaw, but right now he was showing the strain of deep loss and draining travel. His shoulders, usually so proudly held in an entrepreneur’s almost defiant posture, were slightly hunched. His skin looked gray and crumpled.

“Rebecca. I hope we didn’t wake you.” He made to stand, but I waved him back down.

“It was time to get up, anyway. Marty, it’s good to see you home.” (I had to say this because she was my client, but I kept my fingers crossed.)

“Rebecca,” said Libby in that singsongy way kids have, making four or five syllables out of three. “Have you got a boyfriend?”

I supposed she was trying to keep the talk on safe ground, any old subject but murder and hate. “I sort of do,” I said, pouring myself some coffee. “He’s in Cambridge right now, though. In Massachusetts—you know where Boston is? It’s near there.”

“I mean a new one.”

“A new one?”

“Esperanza called this morning. Real early.”

I was beginning to get her drift. I said, “I stopped to see her last night. About the white thing.” I winked, trying to make contact on another level, a shared secret that Marty and Don couldn’t get in on.

But Libby wouldn’t be stopped. She said, “Esperanza says she saw you and Julio making out after she was supposed to be in bed.”

“We weren’t—” I tried to speak, but it did no good. I couldn’t be heard above Marty.

“Julio!” she shouted. Her back was ramrod-straight with fury. “Julio Soto?”

As if we both knew a thousand Julios.

“Julio!” she shouted again.

So Julio was “J.” But what to do? Better not to bring it up in front of Libby and Don.

I said, “Marty, if we have something to discuss, let’s discuss it.”

“I leave my children in your care and you throw yourself at the father of my daughter’s little friend!”

It’s funny how people with children, even those who abuse them one way or another, use the kids as weapons of self-righteousness.

Libby gave me a horrified look, unable to believe what she’d started, thoroughly ashamed. This wasn’t fair to her. It simply wasn’t fair. And I’d come downstairs to protect her.

“Libby, I’m really sorry,” I said, meaning sorry I couldn’t help her, but of course, she misunderstood.

She rushed to my rescue: “But you didn’t do anything. Anybody could see Julio has a crush on you.”

To which Marty replied, “Rebecca Schwartz, you
bitch
!”

“I didn’t realize,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “that I was stepping on your toes.”

“Stepping on
my
toes. Do you think I give a good goddamn about that womanizing
Hispanic
person?”

The way she spat it out, she might as well have used the pejorative for Hispanic as the word itself.

“He’s been involved with every woman in Monterey
except
me. This is about you, not me, Rebecca. I thought you of all people could be trusted not to get hot pants for some good-looking
chili pepper
.”

I heard, not bells this time, but a country song about poker that my southern law partner had taught me. I knew when to hold ’em, I knew when to fold ’em.

“Sweetheart,” I said to Libby, “this isn’t a good time for houseguests. I have to leave now. I’ll call you later.”

She nodded, a tear in her eye.

To the company at large, I answered, “If anyone wants me, I’ll be at the Pelican Inn.” And I was outta there.

Thinking about the restful vacation I’d planned, I wondered briefly if I could get away with simply getting in the Volvo and driving. Driving home to my finny friends in their tiny little watery habitat without a strand of kelp in it.

But I couldn’t, of course. I had my clients, Ricky and Esperanza, though not Marty anymore, I supposed. That fiery little chili pepper. The phrase made me laugh now. It wasn’t the worst epithet I’d ever heard, but it was the thought that counted, and the thought was revolting. How dare she speak that way in front of Libby?

I was in deep. Whose daughter was Libby, anyway, Marty’s or mine? Marty’s, of course—I wasn’t going to kidnap her—but why couldn’t people with children treat them any better? And how could Don let Marty get away with that garbage? The wimp.

Well, anyway, I’d found out one thing. Put her in jail a couple of days, confront her with her ex-husband, threaten to steal her boyfriend, and she no longer resembled a cucumber.

* * *

There could have been a problem at the Pelican Inn. It was tourist season and I had no reservation. Even if I had, there could have been another problem. Check-in time was hours away.

However, luck was on my side. Someone had phoned me—someone so insistent I must be there that the clerk had decided the caller was right and earmarked a room for me, one that was already made up—presumably the extra one you suspect every hotel of saving in case the governor drops by.

I found all this out by asking without much hope if they had any vacancies. One clerk raised an eyebrow at another. “Uh-uh,” was the answer. “We have to save it for that Rebecca Schwartz person.”

An interesting five minutes ensued while things were sorted out, but once I’d found out they were saving a room for me, they could hardly take it back. In another five minutes, I was relaxing on my own pillow, contemplating my unwitting benefactor—Mr. Ricky Flynn, who, I surmised, had phoned Marty’s house and been summarily referred.

I was grateful, I was hungry, and I was nostalgic for Sunday morning brunch with Rob. I phoned my client and offered to treat him to a meal. Did Ricky Flynn decline? Not likely.

He knew a lovely place quite near Cannery Row—a coffeehouse sort of place that reminded me of spots in Berkeley, because it had a courtyard, something we Fogville denizens consider a rare treat. They offered the obligatory champagne-for-Sunday that Rob maintained had been invented for the ease and comfort of afternoon delighters, but which I’m quite sure is intended to ensure women a sound snooze while their men are engrossed in television sporting events. I felt a need to keep a clear head, so there was twice as much for Ricky.

Today he was wearing jeans, running shoes, a Hussong’s T-shirt, and his baseball cap. I got the impression this was his habitual fashion statement. It suited him.

“Esperanza called this morning.”

I nodded, trying not to look smug. “Thought she would.”

“In fact, Amber’s over at her house now. Boy, am I going to have to work hard to make it up to the kid—grounding her and all that for no reason. I really feel bad about not believing her.”

He was sounding oddly like a father and a grownup. I almost didn’t recognize him. “She did a pretty amazing thing, I thought. Taking the heat to protect her friend.”

And I was a little worried about that kind of self-sacrifice, but I was probably being a yenta. It was straight out of childhood fantasies. If Amber and Esperanza were anything like me and my little friend Maya, they’d probably sworn blood oaths with lipstick to be best friends forever and ever, and always, always come to the other one’s rescue, and never, never let the other one down. Of course, when Maya and I had become blood sisters, I’d imagined the trouble would come from evil magicians who might hold one of us captive in a stone castle, but I suppose that’s just a metaphor for your dad saying you’re grounded.

“She’s a stand-up kid,” Ricky said. “I’m really proud of her.” He carefully selected a comer of his omelet, cut it, chewed, and swallowed before he said, “I haven’t called the police yet.”

“You can let them know about the pearl as soon as we’re done here. But do me a favor—promise you don’t wait any longer than that.” I looked at my watch. “In fact, promise to do it by three o’clock. No later. I’ll call Jacobson and tell her to expect your call.’’

“Okay.” He masticated some more. “Jeez. I feel terrible about Esperanza. I mean about her trying to kill herself.” So that was why he’d called. He wanted me to tell him it was all okay. I sighed. Esperanza felt guilty about Sadie, and now Ricky felt guilty about Esperanza. The Sheffield Pearl had left a trail of carnage and guilt. I was beginning to think it had a curse on it.