Lye in Wait (17 page)

Pouring a bowl of granola, I joined them at the table. Erin grinned
around a mouthful of toast and peanut butter, and shoved the Cadyville Eye across the table to me.

"What's this?"

"Take a look," Meghan said, eyes wide and amused.

Unfolding the paper, I scanned the front page. For a moment I
pitied that poor woman in the lurid black-and-white photo right
under the headline. I'd already started to turn the page before I did
the double take.

"Oh no," I groaned.

"How come you didn't tell us your picture was gonna be in the
paper?" asked Erin, delighted at my expense.

"Because, smarty pants, I didn't know. And if I'd been asked,
I'd have said `no, thank you"'

It had to be the second picture that damn photographer had
taken the night of the fire. In it, I wore my white-and-blue-striped
pajamas, the ones still waiting to be washed because they smelled
like rotten smoke, and my fluffy blue bathrobe. The sprigs of light
hair sticking out around my face stood in high relief against the
dark, smoldering ruin behind me. My eyes, squinting against the
light and smoke, were half shut and puffy, as if I'd been crying
when that Valkyrie accosted me with her camera. It looked like I
was reaching toward the lens in supplication, when in reality I'd
been trying to shield my face from the glare of the flash. And let's
not forget the crowning touch: the lovely smear of black charcoal
across my cheek.

Maybe no one would recognize me.

Then I read the caption: "The blaze that burned a house to the
ground Saturday night devastated neighbor Sophie Mae Reynolds."
How had that blasted woman discovered my name? The story, as
I expected, contained few details about the actual fire, though
the reporter had connected it with Walter's death. The Eye called
it suicide, so apparently that was still the official story from the
Cadyville police department. But so much for anonymity.

"Why would they run this picture? I didn't even talk to the reporter. Oh, God. I look awful!"

"At least you weren't wearing those." Meghan pointed down at
my yellow ducky slippers.

"It wouldn't have mattered," I said, irritated. "You can't see my
feet." Like I'd wear my ducky slippers out in the mud like that.
Sheesh!

Meghan tried to wipe the humor from her face and look sympathetic. "Pictures with people in them are more interesting than
pictures without. And you do look rather, um, dramatic."

I glared. "That fire was plenty interesting-and dramaticwithout any contribution from me."

Erin finished her breakfast and loaded up her backpack for
school. Meghan put on her coat; she was taking Erin to school
early, both to explain to the teacher why her daughter hadn't finished her advanced placement math homework the night before,
and to give Erin a little extra time to work on it.

I flipped through the rest of the paper without really paying
much attention to it. The Eye wasn't known for its stellar reporting, and since it was a weekly, all the stories were pretty much old
news by the time it hit the streets.

But an article about the mayor caught my attention. I perused
it, waving distractedly to Erin as she shouted good-bye from the
hallway. When I was done, I put the paper down and sipped my
coffee, considering.

Apparently, someone had been harassing the mayor. It sounded
serious, except said harassment had taken the form of toilet paper
streaming from the numerous maples towering in the front yard
of his million-dollar home on the outskirts of town.

Could this really be the case Zahn wanted Detective Ambrose
to work on instead of finding out what had happened to Walter?
For heaven's sake, toilet papering trees was kid's stuff, not some
terrorist activity. But it would explain the sheepish look on the de tective's face when I'd asked what was more important than solving
a possible murder. Yes, thinking back on it, he'd been downright
embarrassed. Well, no wonder. God knew what would happen if
they caught someone egging the mayor's car on Halloween.

I flipped the paper into the recycle bin and did my breakfast
dishes. Then I took a shower and put on a pair of nice slacks and a
crisp white shirt. Looking at myself in the full-length mirror in the
hallway I thought about what jewelry would complete the look.
Something understated, but classy. I stood in front of my dresser,
looking at Walter's baby picture, before it hit me: I didn't have
any jewelry, classy or otherwise. Just the pair of gold stud earrings
I'd worn to the funeral yesterday and my watch. A wave of anger
washed over me as I threaded the studs through my earlobes.

My goal was to appear professional, but approachable. First, I'd
canvas the neighbors, find out if any of them had seen someone
around-or in-our house yesterday afternoon during the funeral. Later, I'd head down to Beans R Us. We didn't know nearly
enough about Debby and Jacob, and I needed their last names before I could find out more.

And maybe I'd stop at the Gold Leaf Tavern, say hello to the
owner, the guy with the ponytail and the wonderful eyes. If I was
thirsty. And had time...

Meghan had returned from dropping Erin off at school and
had fifteen minutes before her first client showed up, so I told her
my plan as she set out scented oils, lit candles, and plugged in the
small fountain in the corner of the massage room. She frowned,
but didn't try to talk me out of it.

"Be careful," was all she said.

I walked down the block until I had to crane my neck to see our
front yard, and started knocking on doors. But at nine a.m., not
many people were home. I didn't know the harried woman who
answered my knock with a baby on one hip, a toddler clinging to
her leg, and the television blaring behind her, but she couldn't help
me. The retired couple who lived next to her came to the door
together, radiating suspicion. Even after I'd explained about our
burglary they thought I was trying to sell them something. Mr.
Harpol, a widower who owned a Pembroke Welsh corgi like Brodie and sometimes stopped by for iced tea on summer evenings so
the two dogs could socialize, had been at Walter's funeral, too. So
had our friend Bette, a potter by trade, who answered her door in
canvas pants and a ratty old sweater, both liberally splattered with
clay slip. Both expressed horror at our break-in, and promised,
after lengthy conversations, to be extra vigilant.

I made notes of the people who weren't home. As my list grew,
discouragement infiltrated the determined optimism with which
I'd begun the enterprise. But I'd started, and I hate to leave something half done, so I worked my way back up the other side of
the street. Only four people answered their doors; two had been
at Walter's funeral, one hadn't been home the day before, and the
last, glaring at me out of red-rimmed eyes, told me he worked
nights and had been asleep. More notes, and then I went around to
the street behind us. Our house was hidden from the view of most
of those homes, but I plodded from one to another anyway, hoping I'd at least find someone who saw a strange car in the alley that
afternoon. No such luck.

Walter's landlady, Mrs. Gray, I saved for last. She was a talker
and had been known to take offense if you rushed off after initiat ing a conversation. Mrs. Gray fit her name to a T. Iron-gray curls
clung close to her scalp, her pewter-colored eyes sparkled under
long lashes, and she opened her door wearing one of her assortment of gray tracksuits.

Inviting me inside, she brewed tea while I told her about the
theft.

"That's terrible!" she said when I had finished my tale of woe.

I nodded while stirring honey into my Darjeeling. "So I'm
going from door to door this morning to see if anyone saw anything that might help us catch them. Him. Whomever."

"Well, I'm afraid I was at the funeral the same time you were,"
Mrs. Gray said.

"I know. But we left pretty early, and of course we don't know
exactly when they were in the house. You didn't notice anything
right before you left, did you?"

She shook her head. "I can't think of anything." Then, "Well,
I do remember one thing. I can't see that it would be of any help,
though."

I leaned forward, excited. "Please let me be the judge, Mrs.
Gray. You never know what might help."

"I was doing my hair, and I heard a car in the alley out back"

Bingo.

"What kind of car was it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I was in the bathroom. I just remember
thinking it was odd to hear a car, with Walter gone and the fire and
all."

Then why, I thought, didn't you go look? Aren't little old ladies
supposed to be inveterate busybodies? What I really needed was a
nosy old bird who kept binoculars on her windowsill and spent all her time watching the neighborhood goings on. You just can't find
a good stereotype when you need one.

"Did it sound like Walter's truck, or like a smaller car?"

"Um, more like a smaller car. I would have remembered if it
had sounded like Walter's truck."

I took a sip of tea, thinking. "Did it keep going or stop in the
alley?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry. I meant to look out the back window,
but I got distracted."

"That's okay. Do you remember hearing any doors shutting?
Like someone was getting out of the car?"

She frowned, squeezing the wrinkles in her forehead together.
"I think I did."

"One? Two?" I knew I was leading the witness, so to speak, but
couldn't help myself.

"Um, one. No, two. Well, one for sure."

Okay, now I had just forced this very nice lady who wanted to
be helpful to remember something that probably hadn't happened
at all. I dropped it.

But I'd drunk only half of my tea, and I wouldn't be allowed to
leave until I finished it. Not that I wanted to. It was so pleasant and
homey in her kitchen that the accumulation of the last few days
sloughed away. And my feet hurt.

Settling my posterior more firmly in the old-fashioned, red
vinyl kitchen chair, I asked, "How long did Walter rent that little
house from you?"

"Oh gosh-I guess I rented to Walter for almost twenty years.
But that little cottage? About six or seven years, I'd say. He moved
in there shortly after the Blys bought that house where you live. He lived in a duplex I used to own over on Cedar, but he loved that
little cottage, and when the other tenant moved out he asked if he
could move in." She blinked back tears.

"That fire was just awful. I'm sorry you lost the cottage," I said.

She nodded.

"Were you insured?"

"Oh, yes. Though I don't know whether I'll rebuild it or not."

"And twenty years is a long time to have a tenant. You've had a
terrible week, haven't you?"

She sighed. "Yes. Thank you for not offering platitudes. Because
"
this week has well and truly sucked."

Surprised, I laughed. She smiled, and those gray eyes brightened.

"You must have known Walter pretty well," I said.

I knew the whole family."

"Really? I didn't get that impression from the way you talked
with Tootie the other day, when you were getting her permission
to let us in Walter's house."

"Tootie. Yes, well. I don't think she remembers me. Actually,
that's not true. I'm sure she remembers me, but she remembers
Mavis Smart, not the Mrs. Gray you introduced on the phone."

"Mavis Smart? Your maiden name, I take it."

"Yes. Mr. Gray's been gone for many years now."

"Why didn't you tell her who you were?"

Mrs. Gray was quiet for a minute, looking out the window
at the brilliant autumn red of the burning bush in her side yard.
"Let's just say her memories of me aren't the best. I don't see any
reason to remind her of that time."

What on earth? But it was clear from the look she gave me that
Mrs. Gray would not divulge more than she already had. I stifled my raging curiosity, took another sip of tea, and asked what she
could tell me about Walter's childhood.

"He grew up like any normal kid," she said. "He had two brothers, and the three of them were close enough in age to spend a
lot of time together. They'd roam around the edges of town-it
was considerably smaller then-fishing and playing and getting
into the usual sort of trouble boys get into. Nothing too bad, just
boys being boys. Walter had a tendency to collect creatures. Frogs,
snakes, the occasional wounded bird. I don't think his parentshis mother, really-would allow him to keep a pet, but he always
had some animal or another out in the shed where they kept the
tools. He was a nice little boy. I liked him."

"Tootie mentioned something about him having a lot of grief
in his life. It was a bad time, and I didn't want to ask her about it.
Do you know what she was referring to?"

Mrs. Gray nodded. "That was later. It started when he was a
senior in high school. He took up with a girl from around here. I
don't remember her name. Shelly? Sherrie? No-Cherry. Because
of that hair of hers. Anyway, they were inseparable that year and
the summer after they graduated. He asked her to marry him, and
she said yes. But they both knew it would be a long engagement,
since he was going to college in Seattle-he wanted to be a biologist-and wouldn't be able to support a wife until he'd finished."

"Walter went to college?"

"For a while. He ended up dropping out."

"W ?"
Y*

She gave me a look. I was interrupting her story.

"Sorry. Please, go on."

"Well, he went to classes, and she stayed home, living with her
parents. Took a job working the counter at Cece's Variety." The
store was still there on First Street, a retro hodgepodge of drugstore dry goods, children's clothes, and gifts.

Mrs. Gray continued. "It wasn't like now, when people think
nothing of commuting from here to Seattle every day. The freeway
hadn't even been built this far north, and there were only what
we think of now as the back roads to travel back and forth on. So
Walter lived on campus at the University of Washington during
the week and came home on the weekends to see his family and
his girl.