Murder at Moot Point (17 page)

Wes had stopped cracking his neck knuckles and turned, displaying the full force of his mood. The deputy nodded and took off. Charlie grabbed some clothes and headed for the bathroom before she received the same treatment.

They were the first two people at Rose's. She poured them coffee and juice and told them they'd have to wait for the grill to warm up. “And the cook.”

Wes said, “I thought somebody was in there killing you.”

“I was lying on the ceiling and having an awful time getting back to my body and my bed and panicking.”

“At least you got enough sleep to dream.”

“You don't look like you had much. Was it just me and the fingerprints or Joseph too?”

“Joseph his mother calls him, I call him Joe. She's married to a hotshot lawyer who's got his little balls all primed to get the kid off the hook with influence. As if poor old young Joe didn't have enough strikes against him without influence.”

“Is it drugs or—”

“Rape.” His coloring this morning reminded Charlie of the storm color of the sea yesterday. His eyes were streaked with red. Bloody dots on his chin and neck bespoke a hasty shave.

“Oh, Wes, I'm sorry.”

“It's not the first time. I been on the phone all night trying to talk everybody into stopping long enough to think. Counseling is wonderful but it's not going stop the problem if the kid's running loose. There are victims out there who are not going to appreciate it.”

“And I thought I had problems with Libby. It must be tearing you up.”

“I know what you think of me, Charlie, but honest to God I only had him with me for four years. I swear he didn't get this off me. I walk on eggshells trying not to step on toes of small people behind me if I just need to back up. Or away.”

“Where are Joseph and his mom and her lawyer?”

“California, where else?” Then he remembered who he was talking to and shrugged.

Charlie couldn't be sure whether the sky was going to clear today or not. It was a gray morning but the sun hadn't breached the mountaintops on the other side of 101 yet. The sea was still angry though. It flung foam halfway up bird-island rocks off the point and roiled and tumbled against the beach below the village to rattle Rose's windows. The fresh salty sea wind seeped through the walls to mix with frying bacon and fresh-brewed coffee—making Charlie long to come here sometime on a real vacation.

Even under his staggering load of worries, Wes managed to plow through his veggie-and-cream-cheese omelet and automatically reach for her half-eaten Sunday special. She cupped her hands around her hot coffee mug and allowed herself to enjoy the implied intimacy of that act without letting it show on her face. What would it be like to live with someone so familiar he didn't think twice about being that familiar? No way, Charlie Greene.

“Wasn't Deputy Tortle supposed to come baby-sit me this morning?”

“Oh, shit. I completely forgot.”

“Only reason I remembered,” Charlie said, “is she just walked in the door. She has spotted us and doesn't look exactly—Good morning, Deputy. Won't you join us?”

“Please don't get up,” the deputy said.

But her boss was already on his feet with the last strip of Charlie's bacon in his hand. “Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. I forgot all about you coming this morning. How'd you find us?”

“Woman's intuition,” Linda answered pointedly, and added a slow blink, then a “sir.”

“Right. Well, sit down, Tuttle, I'll buy you breakfast to make up for it.” He was about six inches off the chair when he noticed the deputy standing straight and tall. And rigid. “Uh, Tortle, I mean. What will you have? Rose, there's another customer here. Put it on my bill.”

“Deputy Linda Tortle,” Charlie reminded him. His was a very selective memory. He knew who Rose was. But then again he had a codependency problem with food.

“Deputy Linda Tortle, I recommend the omelet of the day highly,” Wes said magnanimously and settled with relief as Linda lowered herself into the chair next to Charlie.

Linda ordered French toast and bacon and, when the sheriff left, moved over to his chair facing Charlie, her expression warming not at all. “So, you must have really pissed him off last night. What'd you do, lock him out?”

“Who, the sheriff? No.”

“When I got there this little man was fixing the door. Said the sheriff had busted it.”

“Oh, that was because he and Deputy Olson heard me screaming.”

“What were you doing, reading Brother Dennis's screenplay again?” She couldn't hide the grin that slipped into her eyes before she could lower those magnificent lashes on it.

“No, I was dreaming, and apparently woke up screaming just as the sheriff pulled up. I was dreaming I was having an OOBE like Jack does and I couldn't get back into my body. How was Peety?”

The long, stern face softened. “We got in a workout at the gym, dinner at his favorite hamburger joint, a movie, and made it home in time to catch a late one on TV. That's why I was late this morning. Not that anybody was there to notice.”

“Does Wes treat all female deputies like he treats you?”

“There're only two of us. Mona knows how to blend in—you'll notice I didn't say fit in—and she knows how to curtsy without you realizing it. Quite an art. But then I don't suppose she has anything on you. Your fingerprints are on a murder weapon and you're walking around free.”

“More like under house arrest.”

When they reached cabin three at the Hide-a-bye, the maid was just coming in to clean and there was a note asking Charlie to come to the office and pick up the new key since the door had been replaced. When they left the office the sun was high enough to begin burning off the gloom hanging over the Pacific and to warm their shoulders when they lingered in open spots. Little birds chirped and sang and darted from bush to bush, their berry picking causing branches to jerk and tremble at odd intervals and spacing as though a confused breeze had come along to fondle only selected branches. Bigger birds called and crooned in the higher trees, leaving behind an echo something like a jungle sound track.

Charlie sighed and stretched. “Is there any reason why I have to stay in the cabin, if my jailor goes on a walk with me?”

“Usually I could come up with twenty in a minute, but I don't know how you'd get away from me. And a morning like this shouldn't be wasted. You make one suspicious move though and I'll put cuffs on you.”

They walked down the stairs and along the beach, Charlie picking up shells and putting them down again. Large doses of nature could make her nervous but the thought of sitting around the cabin all day staring back at Deputy Linda was far more daunting. Something about Mother Nature Charlie didn't trust. The raw beauty here was undeniable, but even while her eyes took pleasure in it her ears were pricking to the vast ominous empty silence. Which was filled with sounds. Maybe that was it.

Seabirds “screed” and squawked on one side of her and land birds chirped and called on the other. Sun or no, the Pacific was all roiled up and thundering. There was no end of sound, but it was all a sort of floating background noise to the silence. She tried to explain some of this to her companion but got only a raised eyebrow and a frown. It didn't really make sense. Her fingerprints being on that gun didn't make sense either, but apparently it was true.

Maybe it had something to do with perception somehow. Like that sign in the Earth Spirit,
To the blind all things are sudden
.

“What's wrong with those fingerprints on the gun?”

“Revolver. I don't see anything wrong with them. They're a lot easier to explain than Jack Monroe overhearing our conversation yesterday, unless you were wearing a wire or misreporting what he said to you over the phone. Both of which in the light of day look highly possible.”

“What about the prints needs explaining? The sheriff said they were very clear and would hold up in court.”

“They're backwards.”

“Oh, backwards.” Their pace picked up as the deputy seemed to feel a need for exercise. Charlie dreaded that the day would come when eating only half of what was on her plate and trying to fool her appetite with diet colas wouldn't suffice and she'd need to get in the exercise mode, too. Did they have Jazzercise classes in prison?

“Since I've already shot off my big mouth I might as well tell you what I think,” Linda said finally, not even breathing heavily. “Backwards is no mystery to me at all. You shoot Mrs. Glick wearing gloves or wipe off the prints afterward, get rattled, and forget to wear gloves when sticking the weapon into the Baggie butt first.”

“The prints were on the barrel? Backwards? Why would I put the gun in a plastic bag, why not just throw it into the ditch?”

“I don't know. That's not my problem.”

“Why would I shoot that old woman in the fog anyway?” Why would anyone? It always came back to that.

“That's not my problem either. That's not my job. That's for the judge and the jury. But come the word on this radio,” she clicked her fingernails on the black box hanging from her belt, “come the right moment, my job could be that of arresting officer. Is that clear, Ms. Greene?”

“Do you only just do your job, Deputy Tortle?” Aren't you tempted to think for yourself?

“Unlike a mutual acquaintance of ours, yes.”

Charlie wondered if Wes Bennett had any idea of the trouble his consistently offended deputy could cause him in the next election. Linda might be able to lessen the risk to her job and Peety's future while still getting revenge by serving as the source of anonymous leaks to the media about her boss's private life and, at least on one instance, of his coddling a particular female suspect in a murder case. It was a man's world still, but thwarted women had long ago found ways to gouge chinks in its privileged armor.

The
Peter Iredale
was on them before Charlie was ready. That seemed always to be her introduction to it.

“Hey, you all right? Don't try anything flaky on me now,” Linda warned.

Charlie sat in the sand, her heart pumping louder than the surf. “I was here last night.”

“With Sheriff Bennett?”

“I keep coming here in my dreams,” Charlie said dully. “And when I try to get back to the Hide-a-bye I keep hitting the ceiling on my back.”

“You make one suspicious twitch and you're cuffed.”

“I don't understand why that wreck has such an effect on me.”

“Been there since 1906. Some stupid skipper beached it. Lucky it wasn't an oil tanker.”

The iron ribs of the
Peter Iredale
were dressed in foam today as the breakers assaulted it. Early this morning it had been wreathed in a dim and foggy dawn but Charlie had seen it clearly. Early this morning the tide was higher and the ocean had been a somber oily color. Today it was a bright green, the white foam sparking in the sun, what remained of the rusty skeleton looking darkly out of place.

Chapter 19

Monday morning found Charlie still under the informal house arrest and on the phone to Congdon and Morse Representation, Inc. She'd called home earlier to find Tuxedo still in residence. Richard Morse was all for rushing up there and informing the authorities they couldn't railroad Charlie just to clear a murder case off the books.

“I have some influence in the world, after all. And where I don't I can find people who do,” he said over the sounds of the remodeling job going on in the hallways. “Just because you're a single mother doesn't mean they—”

“Thanks, but to paraphrase a friend of mine, influence might not be the best idea at the moment.” Charlie couldn't imagine what influence he thought he could have in a Moot County, Oregon murder investigation. “I'll keep you informed of what's happening and if I need a lawyer. Can you switch me to Larry?”

Not until further posturing, indignation, and reassurances of his support he couldn't. Charlie owed him enough already, but hearing it all made her feel a lot less alone in the world and she was grateful. She'd met Richard Morse when she worked as a Hollywood liaison for a large literary agency in New York, and he'd eventually convinced her to come out to California and work for him. It was nice to live in the sunshine again and Libby hadn't minded the move one bit.

Larry, her assistant, offered to come up and play Sir Galahad, too.

“That's sweet, Larry, I appreciate it, but I haven't really been charged with anything yet. Right now what I need is for you to start going through my phone log. The ones marked with asterisks are have-to progress checks.” Anyone who thought the life of a Hollywood script agent glamorous would be surprised to watch one at work at her desk all day with a phone growing out of her ear. “Oh, and would you call Keegan Monroe and tell him his Dad is fine? I don't know if Jack thought to call Keegan.”

They worked on an excuse (unavoidably detained out of town—let them think she was in New York) to reschedule a lunch with studio execs trying to screw David Hynd out of payment for certain hasty rewrites later dumped in story committee. And they discussed which of her phone messages he should answer for her and which should await her return.

Charlie sat back in the recliner and swiveled to stare out the front wall of window at another gray day. The sky was a lighter gray than the ocean and she could just make out the line on the horizon where they met. Coming straight at them at an immensely slow rate was a black-hulled ship with a light-colored superstructure and short puffs of black smoke issuing from its stacks. Charlie watched it while disjointed thoughts nudged each other for her listless attention.

Deputy Olsen sat at the Formica table contentedly playing solitaire. Today was Georgette Glick's memorial service and Charlie wanted to go, just to watch people's reactions. But her presence would probably infuriate Randolph Glick. Both Richard Morse and Larry reminded her of Randolph and his threats to Wes about his influence in Salem. They also reminded her of Joseph Bennett's lawyer stepfather. She hadn't seen Wes Bennett since breakfast the day before. Deputies Olsen and Tortle had been taking turns as her baby-sitter and Wes had sent over groceries to stock the kitchen. It looked like she was truly stuck this time.