Murder in the Marketplace (17 page)

Amy trailed after me as I took Barker out for his evening sniff. “In the movies the police never find out anything. They just shoot people and take bribes.”

“In real life the police work hard and sometimes are successful, just like anybody else.”

Barker pawed at the bone meal-flavored dirt around a rosebush; I pulled him away.

“Aunt Liz, do you think he really does suspect you and is just setting a trap? He looked at you weird.”

I paused on the front porch while Barker strained to get free and chase a cat at the end of the driveway. Drake’s kitchen window was still lit.

“He looks at everyone like that.” I was touched by the anxious way Amy clutched my arm as we went back inside. “What bothers him about me is that I’m so marginal.”

Amy’s brow wrinkled. “Marginal?”

“You know—on the edge. No real job. No secure income, health insurance, all that stuff. No safety net.” We went inside, and I locked up. “He’s not as stuffy as that sounds, but I bring out the conservative in him, just like he brings out the rebel in me.”

Amy nodded slowly. “That’s how I relate to my parents, actually.”

“It can get in the way of a friendship.” I felt some gratitude toward Amy. For a couple of months, I’d been struggling with my reluctance to give Drake a few signals. We’re friends; he’s acted as if it wouldn’t be a hardship for him to know me better, in the Old Testament sense.

But I had retreated instinctively, and he didn’t go far enough to risk rejection. Now that Amy had forced me to verbalize it, I saw the unhealthy dynamic at work. Drake didn’t accept me as the insecure, responsibility-shy person I am. I didn’t trust the controlling vibes he gave off when he lectured me about my lifestyle—or lack of it.

Amy headed for the bathroom. I gave my computer a wistful pat. It had been far too long since we’d been able to spend time together. I wanted its uncritical acceptance of whatever I told it, its low, comforting hum, and the way using it took me to a different place of my own making. And seeing it reminded me that in all the turmoil, I hadn’t checked my post office box for the last couple of days.

There could be an acceptance, even a check, even a favorable reply to a query, and I wouldn’t know. That was no way to run a freelance business.

I felt rebellious, coerced by my house into doing work that was not my sphere in the world. I would help out SoftWrite the next day, unless they managed to find another temp. Saturday I had Claudia Kaplan’s garden maintenance to do. I would work that afternoon to finish my census register, and Sunday, too. Monday I would be back at my computer, doing the work that was mine to do, that only
I
could do. Perhaps it didn’t involve a Pulitzer Prize or a fancy office with an imminent stock offering, but one good sale to
Ladies’ Home Journal
or
Smithsonian
would replace my hot water heater and keep me in lentils for a while.

Amy came back into the living room, wearing her oversized nightshirt, her eyelids drooping. The sun had colored her a little; her nose glowed, as did her shoulders where the T-shirt slipped off. She unfolded the bed. Barker didn’t even wait for her to get into it before he’d scrambled up onto the pillow.

“Down,” I said sternly, heading for my bedroom. “You’re not sleeping on beds in this house, dog.” But I knew when I closed my door that he was right back up there, curled beside Amy.

I envied them their easy slide into dreamland. The moon had time to climb all the way past my window before I could stop wondering who thought I needed a rhododendron from Farwell’s on the same day Bill Aronson was dying not three miles away.

Chapter 17

I was up with the dawn next day, though I didn’t feel well rested. I got my swimming stuff together and crept out of the house, Barker panting at my feet and me shushing him. It would have taken a lot more than the noise we made to wake up Amy.

That gray, early morning light always makes me want to tiptoe—and not just because the grass is wet. Birds were going crazy, calling from the redwood trees to the plums, hollering their good mornings and staking out their territories for the day. The air was still and cool, holding the scents of stock and evening primroses that release their fragrance at night. Nobody else in the whole world was awake to breathe that air—no one but me and the little black and white dog that pounced exuberantly through the grass.

I left the tote bag with my towel, swimsuit, and clean underwear on the front porch while Barker and I watered shrubs and flowers. I used the hose. He didn’t. We killed some snails and sprayed liquid kelp on the seedlings; it’s best to do this early so the sun won’t burn the leaves. I worked quietly, under the spell of the fresh newness of the day.

I was coiling the hose beside the front porch when the quiet ended. Barker started growling. At the end of the driveway a taxi paused, disgorging a woman and a big suitcase. The cabdriver didn’t even bother helping her; obviously he’d written off the tip. The woman plopped the bag down and turned to stare at Drake’s house.

She didn’t see me at first; that gave me some time to get my breath back and arrange my face. By the time she moved her laserlike glare around to the driveway, I had my gut reaction of dismay and foreboding well concealed. It had been many years, but I recognized my sister-in-law.

I waved feebly, and Renee, her face wearing a welcoming snarl, stomped down the driveway toward me. At least she hadn’t pounded on Drake’s door and made him decide to curtail my phone privileges.

Her eyes looked red, and her face was creased with sleep—or lack of it. The big shirt that matched her stirrup pants was rumpled and sported a fresh coffee stain.

“So.” She wasn’t going to indulge in any polite small talk. Her voice was the same strident bray. “I have to come all the way out here to get to talk to my daughter.” She kicked at Barker, who was writhing at her feet in the mistaken belief that she would find him adorable. “Where is she?”

The sun still wasn’t past the redwood trees that block the northeast corner of my garden. “It’s not even six-thirty, Renee. She’s sleeping.” I looked past her up the driveway. “If you leave your suitcase on the sidewalk, it may not be there when you want it.”

“I want to see Amy!” The words came out from between her teeth. Grinding them like that wasn’t good for her dental health, but this didn’t seem to be the right moment to share that information.

“See her all you want.” I picked up my tote bag from the porch. “I’m going for a swim.” Scooping up Barker in my free arm, I headed for my bus.

Renee no sooner saw me leaving than she wanted me to stay. “Wait! I’ve got some things to say to you.”

“I’ll be back after a while. Enjoy yourself.” I swung myself up into the driver’s seat.

Renee gaped at me. “You can’t just leave!”

I rolled the window down. “Look, you said you wanted to see Amy. She’s the reason you’re here, not me. I trust you’ll have everything settled when I’m back from my swim.”

I backed up the drive. Her suitcase was right at the edge of the sidewalk; I could have run over it “accidentally,” but  I didn’t. She was jogging up the drive to rescue it when I sped away.

I don’t usually like swimming early in the morning. But during the summer, that’s when the lap-swim hours are—mornings, or noon, a very crowded time. I prefer the spring and fall afternoons, with the sun warm on my back when I get out of the water.

This morning the pool in Rinconada Park had never felt so much like a refuge. I did my twenty-five laps, and some dead man’s float at the end for total relaxation. I would have floated longer, but the pool got crowded with the prework swimmers, carrying their garment bags and all the rest of the paraphernalia—blow-driers, shoe bags, makeup kits for the women; they practically move in to go swimming. I showered and washed my hair, not enjoying the punishing hardness of the spray, but reflecting that it saved wear and tear on my frail water heater. Then I pulled on my comfortable sweats, combed the hair off my face and walked out of the dressing room.

Drake was coming out of the men’s locker room, suited up for swimming. I had wondered if I’d run into him, since he was one of the before-work crowd. He usually went home afterward to shower and dress and have a big breakfast. He was lucky that his house, his work, and his exercise were all within a couple of miles of each other.

“You’re up early, Liz.” He put out a hand to stop me. It was disquieting to stand next to his nearly naked body. I didn’t want to think about why that should be. He wore the skimpy kind of racing suit that reveals any figure flaws, like his love handles and a bit of tummy overhang. Still, his stocky body had lots of muscles; he had gotten a rowing machine for his spare bedroom a few months before.

“I’m always up early.”

“I was, too, today.” He smiled. "Lots of gravel crunching in the driveway. Who’s your charming visitor? I saw her with a suitcase that said at least five days’ stay.”

“Need you ask? I thought you were a detective.”

“Amy’s mom. Maybe she’ll take Amy away.”

“Maybe.” This idea didn’t thrill me as it would have a couple of days ago. Amy was not as frightening as I had expected a teenager to be.

Drake got serious. “You going to that place today?”

“I’ll finish the week. This weekend, finish the census. Then I’m just going to write for a while. Dead bodies don’t turn up at my computer.”

“Well, I’ll probably be seeing you at SoftWrite today. Unless you decide not to go back there.”

“They may have found someone else, but if not, I’ll be there. Unless my sister-in-law loses her cool and dots me one.’’

“But Monday you won’t go back to SoftWrite?” He put his hand on my arm. “I’m not just pushing you for no reason, Liz.” He looked at me warmly, without his glasses in the way, so I got the full impact. “That message—you know as well as I do that someone might be setting you up to take the heat if this turns into a murder case. I don’t want you put in danger.” He hesitated. “Try to keep a low profile.”

“I am keeping a low profile. You’re just concentrating on the ground too much.”

I walked away, leaving him there in his skimpy suit and his goose bumps. The swim hadn’t altogether suppressed a panicky feeling that someone was out to get me. I’d gone to sleep with that feeling the night before, and it had still been there when I’d awakened.

“Hey,” Drake called. I looked around. “Don’t forget we’re planting a hedge Sunday.”

“Sure we are. But not rhododendrons.” I walked on, my anxiety lessened. Drake didn’t act as if I were on the suspect list. He had me firmly in the role of victim—not much better, but since I had no intention of being one, I could handle it. Whether or not we put in the hedge Sunday—and I would bet we didn’t—at least we could still be friends.

Chapter 18

Barker had been good in the bus. He hadn’t even chewed on the book I’d left out. I drove home slowly, regretting that my swim had produced so little relaxation. An unpleasant scene with Renee was practically guaranteed at some point that day, unless she had managed to collect Amy and leave before I got back. And that, too, would be unpleasant.

The house was quiet when I pulled up. Barker wouldn’t jump down from the bus door so I carried him in one arm, my swimming things in the other. We pushed the front door open cautiously.

Amy still slept on the Hide-a-bed. Stretched out beside her was Renee, who hadn’t changed from the wrinkled clothes she’d worn at her arrival. She snored softly, her mouth open as she slept—the better to let the words out when she woke up. I kept a grip on Barker while I tiptoed into my bedroom; with any luck I could get away before the Sleeping Beauties woke.

I was past the point of caring what I wore to SoftWrite, and Amy had dibs on my skirt for her interview. I pulled on blue jeans and a T-shirt I’d actually bought new at a North Face irregulars sale. I laced the high-tops and crept into the kitchen. Barker followed me to the back porch to hang my towel and suit in the sun. I carried the tote bag to the refrigerator and shoved an apple and a carton of the flavored yogurt I’d bought for Amy into it. A kitchen chair laid sideways in the doorway penned up Barker. Then I slipped past the muttering water heater and left by the back door, hoping Barker wouldn’t do anything horrible while my guests slept.

The sun was warm, but the air still held the cool freshness of morning. Walking toward University, the forebodings I’d felt earlier were replaced by an exhilarating sense of escape and freedom—and hunger caused by skipping my usual crunchy granola breakfast to avoid waking Renee. Under the circumstances, it seemed only right to splurge and have breakfast downtown, a frivolity that’s not often allowed in my budget.

I went to the Plantation because their sidewalk gets the morning sun, and they know how to do tea there. Some of these coffee places have no idea beyond a tea bag you can find in any supermarket. Apricot breakfast tea and a poppy-seed muffin cost almost as much as a whole day’s rice and beans, but I didn’t begrudge it. Avoiding Renee was worth every dollar.

Sitting at a little table in the sun, I watched the parade of businesspeople who thronged downtown in their expensive suits and fancy haircuts. They congregated around the tables, carrying newspapers and notebook computers; they streamed across the plaza toward City Hall and flocked into the banks and boardrooms. That morning I was one of them, with an office to go to. But I was better off than they were, because I didn’t have to come back to do it all again on Monday.

Finally I gave up my table and crossed the street to the post office. The lobby was unlocked, though the garage doors were still down along the counter where, during business hours, they make you wait and wait. I had several pieces of mail in my box. The big manila envelope addressed to me by a familiar-looking typeface—my own— went on the bottom of the stack. My fabulous proposal and clips had failed to impress the editors at
Sunset
magazine. However, there was a thin envelope from
Smithsonian
that I ripped open right then and there. They wanted to see the complete article I’d pitched in my query. The terms they discussed were princely. I tucked the letter tenderly into my tote bag, visions of a new water heater dancing in my head, and noticed that the last letter in my hand was from my mother.