Your Chariot Awaits (25 page)

“He heard about an opening on some suburban police force there. He sent in a résumé and got called for an inter-view. I'm hoping he gets the job. I feel bad divorcing him when he's so . . . down-and-out.”

“But you're afraid of him.”

“Wouldn't you be, if you were me?”

“And you're telling me I should be afraid of him too.”

“I don't think he's going to deliberately come after you. But if you keep trying to find out who killed Jerry, and you get close enough to Donny that he starts to feel cornered, I think he'll do something to . . . protect himself.”

“Protect himself by getting me out of the way.”

“Stay out of it. Let the police handle it. It's their job, not yours. If he did it, they'll catch up with him sooner or later.”

“Sometimes killers never get caught.”

We sat there in silence until finally she picked a word out of something I'd said earlier. “You said Jerry had a Rolex?”

“He got it a month or so after I met him. You sound surprised.”

“I am. Jerry had expensive tastes—I'm sure you know that—but he didn't have that kind of money.”

“His brother said he used to be heavily into gambling. Maybe he still was, though if he was, I didn't know anything about it. But maybe he won a bundle. Was he gambling when you knew him?”

“Not that I knew. But he could have been, I suppose. We never went out anywhere together where someone we knew might see us.” She shook her head. “I don't know what ever made me think that kind of relationship could go anywhere.”

“Maybe you should work a little more on your relationship with Donny. It sounds as if he needs some help.”

“Counselor? Psychiatrist? Good whack alongside the head?”

“Maybe it's God he needs.” I almost looked around to see who'd said that.
Me?
Okay, I'd gone that far, so I added, “Maybe you need God too.”

She looked thoughtful, but what she said was, “When you called me, you said you were looking for a job. Is that true, or was it just some ploy to talk to me?”

“Both,” I admitted. “I don't know if you've heard, since you've been away, but F&N merged with another company. They're closing down here and moving everything to San Diego. Jerry was supposed to transfer there, as an assistant to his boss.”

“Really? I'm surprised he wanted to keep working with Findley. He thought the guy was a real jerk and was always making fun of him. I hope you find another job,” she added.

“Thank you.” I looked at her hopefully, but no offer was forthcoming.

She stood up. “Well, I should be getting home. Donny might try to call.”

I looked at my watch. “At this hour? It's past midnight.”

“An hour Donny thinks is the perfect time to call and check on me.”

Oh, Donny had known about Jerry, all right. I had no doubt about that. We walked to the door, and I opened it for her.

“Thanks for taking time to talk to me,” she said.

“Thanks for taking time to come all the way over here. I appreciate your concern.”

She put a slim hand on my arm. “And please, please listen to what I've said.”

A new thought suddenly hit me. “Maybe you're trying to protect Donny. Maybe all this stuff about divorce and being afraid of him is just a big smoke screen. Maybe you just want to stop any investigation that might lead to him and give him time to get out of the country!”

“You do have a suspicious mind.” She didn't sound critical, merely observant.

I offered Fitz's comment. “Goes with the territory.”

“Believe what you want, but I really was thinking of the danger to you. As I said before, I don't want another dead body on my conscience.”

“Jerry is on your conscience?”

“I can't help thinking that if I hadn't had a relationship with him, he'd still be alive.”

“You could be a responsible citizen and go to the police and tell them everything you've told me.”

“Yeah, I could, couldn't I? But Donny would know who'd tipped them off, and I'm afraid my desire for self-preservation exceeds my desire for exemplary citizenship. But
you
could go to them.”

Right. I could tell them all about how I thought Jerry's ex-girlfriend's husband may have done him in, or maybe it was his not-quite-ex-father-in-law.

Anyone else you're suspicious of?
I could hear Detective Sergeant Molino saying politely.
Maybe his cleaning lady's
cousin's ex-husband? Or his condo neighbor's former brother-in-law?

No, I needed something more solid than what I had here to take to the authorities. Although I'd rather that
something
solid
wasn't my dead body.

“You know, there's one puzzling point about Jerry's murder that I keep coming back to, and nothing you've said explains it. What was he doing here at my place that night?”

She looked thoughtful. “Maybe he wanted to make up with you.”

“It was the middle of the night. And he didn't come to the house, just to the limousine.”

“I don't know. That is odd, isn't it? For a while, I thought Jerry and I were soul mates. But, looking back, I think maybe I saw in him . . . what I wanted to see. And I think now that there was a lot I
didn't
see. So I have no idea what he may have been up to.”

Me too. Multifaceted Jerry, showing a different face to each of us. Which was the real Jerry? Or did he show that face to anyone?

Elena looked both ways down the street before heading out to her car.

“I really do like those TV ads with the two cats and the dog,” I called after her.

“Thanks. Watch for the next one. The cats are at a ritzy pet spa, having their nails and hair done.”

I watched until Elena's car was safely around the corner, then closed the door. I didn't see myself and Elena ever being big buddies, and I certainly couldn't condone her relationship with Jerry no matter how bad her marriage was. But I liked more than disliked her. Whether or not her husband had killed Jerry, I suspected she had good reason to be afraid of him.

And maybe I did too. I shivered.

27

I
t had been a long day, with unsettling surprises along the way, and I didn't think I'd sleep. But I did, and it was after nine when I woke the next morning. I might not have wakened even then, but for the persistent jangling of the phone. I picked it up and grunted into it.

“Mom, are you okay? The phone must have rung seven-teen times. I'm standing here worrying that you're lying there murdered in your bed!”

“I'm fine,” I muttered. “Except for this persistent ringing in my ears.”

I sat up in bed, and we brought each other up to date on what was going on with murder, limo, college plans, and Rachel's graduation this coming Friday night. Which reminded me I hadn't sent her a present yet. Which reminded me I needed to send flowers to Lancaster for Jerry's funeral, too. There was also a job to look for. Sarah again reminded me that I could come stay for a while or live with them permanently. I said I'd think about it.

I got the flowers taken care of by phone and credit card. I considered spending hours looking for some just-right graduation present for Rachel, but finally decided to send her what she liked best. Money. I already had a card, so I added a check and a stamp, and that was done.

Which left the more difficult problem of a job. But before I went to the Internet, I decided I'd try another route. I dressed and drove down to the Sweet Breeze, which was busy this morning. I asked Joella for a mocha latte rather than my usual French roast. I have this theory that changing your usual routine, even in so minor a matter as coffee, may break some cosmic rut and shoot your life off in a whole new direction.

I sat off in a corner with my latte—nonfat milk cancels out whipped cream on top, right?—and perused the help-wanted ads in the Olympia newspaper. I rationalized the cost of the latte as well by telling myself I'd have had to buy the news-paper if I weren't reading it here for free.

And what a dazzling array of jobs was available! Car sales-man, backhoe operator, bartender, exotic dancer, fence builder, hairstylist, lifeguard, pharmacist, rigging slinger. None of which I was even remotely qualified to do.

In a spare moment, Joella plopped down at my little table with a sigh of relief. “Finding anything?”

“Not unless the fact that I once slung a plate at my ex-husband qualifies me to be a rigging slinger, which I doubt. How are you doing? No more indigestion, I hope?”

“I'm fine. I'm thinking that after I'm not pregnant, maybe I'll wear a little pillow.” She patted her tummy. “There's some-thing about pregnancy that brings out the generosity in people.” She opened her pocket and showed me a nice collection of bills and change.

“You're too honest to do that,” I said, and she gave a sigh that said that was true. “But you could bring the baby here with you. A cute baby would surely encourage fantastic tips.”

I was just making idle small talk, but Joella gave me an odd, cheerless look. “A lady came in the other day and said she knows a couple who are desperate to adopt a baby.” She poked at a tiny dent in the table, as if she were trying to excavate it with a finger-nail. “Wonderful people, she says, and they'd take care of all the medical bills, including the ones I've already run up.”

I knew that pocketful of tips wouldn't much more than pay postage on the heavyweight bill she'd be receiving from the hospital for her visit to the emergency room.

“She wants me to meet this couple.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I'm thinking about it. It wouldn't be like just dumping the baby out there for someone else to decide who gets her.”

I couldn't tell if that's what she really thought or if she was trying to convince herself. But it was quite possible Joella would never even know her baby for more than a few precious minutes. That struck me as so sad. But adoption would solve so many problems for her and maybe the baby too. And adoption was a good thing, not something ugly or evil.

Joella briskly changed the subject. “I didn't have a chance to tell you before, but Detective Sergeant Molino was in again yesterday.”

“To update you on his cat's skin condition?”

“He wanted to know about your ‘activities' since the murder. If anyone different had been coming to the house, or if you'd been acting any differently than usual. He really got down to the nittygritty about your relationship with Jerry too. I think he's been talking to Jerry's neighbors at the condo.”

She didn't mention my late visitor last night, so apparently she hadn't heard Elena arrive or leave. I couldn't say for certain why, but I'd just as soon dear Detective Sergeant Molino . . . DDS Molino, I was thinking of him now . . . didn't know about that.

“Hey,” she said as I got up to leave, “someone was telling me there's an old-fashioned band concert in the park Thursday night. Want to go?”

“Sure. Let's do it.”

I'd circled the jobs that said to send a résumé to their business address. I ran off more copies of my résumé and did that. Several ads said to apply in person, so I drove over to Olympia to do that. I'd thought “apply in person” might mean an inter-view, but it meant only that they wanted you to show up in per-son to fill out an application; then they'd call if they were interested. I'd already registered with an employment agency over there, but I came back and registered with another one in Vigland.

I tried to feel as if I was making progress with all this activity, but mostly I felt as if I were trapped on some slow-moving treadmill.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, however, I had a pleasant surprise. The Vigland agency called. An assisted-living facility on the north side of town needed someone knowledgeable about insurance. Could I go right out there? Yes, indeedy.

The interview went okay, but I saw the applicants before and after me. Both were at least twenty years younger, and I was fairly certain both were also former F&N employees. I hoped age wouldn't matter here. This was, after all, a home for older people, and the manager wasn't much below sixty herself.

On the way home I picked up a copy of the weekly
Vigland
Tides
, thinking I'd check the ads
.
And there, right on the front page, was a photo of Fitz sitting at a computer at the CyberClam Café!

It was an excellent article, well written and informative. In addition to detailing Fitz's problems, it included information about a local woman who'd been “phished” on the Internet, which meant she'd received an e-mail that looked like a legitimate communication from her bank. She'd gone to the site they'd instructed for bringing her personal information up to date, and only later learned the site was a scam and her information had been stolen. Another older man had given personal information over the phone because the caller made him think she was from his credit-card company.

The article also pointed out that none of the usual methods of identity theft applied to Fitz, however, so it could happen to almost anyone. From there the article went on with what steps to take if you did find yourself a victim. I cut the article out to save for Fitz and studied the photo a minute longer.

A very attractive man, Keegan “Fitz” Fitzpatrick. I suspected senior ladies all over town were trying to figure some way to meet him. And they didn't even know he could cook.

I optimistically waited for the assisted-living facility to call. I did some housecleaning, noticing for the first time that I still had that photo of Jerry in the bedroom. I started to toss it, then felt a little guilty—he was, after all, dead—and stuffed it into a drawer instead.

The call came from the assisted-living facility on Thursday morning. They were sorry, but they had decided on another applicant. I suspected age had something to do with the decision, but I had no proof of that, of course.