1st Impressions

by Kate Calloway

  “You ladies like a lift?” Jess flashed a crooked grin. Erica and I scrambled into his moldy front seat, grateful for the refuge, and I introduced the two of them. “How’s the detective work going?” he asked, his green eyes smiling. “I hear you two have been busy.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure we’re actually getting anywhere.”

  “Oh, now, Cassie. You just hardly got started. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “Well, I’m glad someone is optimistic. Hey, listen, not to change the subject, but do you happen to know a kid named Alan Pinkerton?” I asked.

  Jess looked at me quizzically, tucking his long hair behind his ears.

  “Sure do. He’s on the football team with Dougie. Why do you want to know?” Jess’s truck was still running, but we sat idling at the curb.

  “Oh, no reason really. I just heard his name and couldn’t put a face to it.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen him around. Big, good-looking kid. Blond, real light blue eyes. He’s the running back. Not a lot of speed, but he’s big and can bowl them over real good. You seen any of the games?”

  I told Jess I hadn’t had that pleasure.

  “Oh, it ain’t much of a pleasure. Last year they went one and seven. Not enough boys to really make a team. Most of them play both ways. Even Dougie, who’s too small to be playing in the first place. I thought it would do him some good to be on a team. Teach him responsibility, you know? But if anything, he’s gotten worse.” Jess had been having trouble with his son since I’d known him.

  “He still stealing from you?” The kid had been pilfering small change and beer from the house last time I’d heard.

  “Not since I caught him red-handed. I swear to you, Cass, I don’t believe in hitting kids, but I damn near knocked him across the room that day. Not only was he standing there going through my wallet, but he had the nerve to lie to my face. Now neither he or his mother is speaking to me. I’ll tell you one thing. The day he turns eighteen can’t come soon enough.”

  “How’s little Jess?” I asked, referring to Jess’s ten-year-old daughter, Jessica, who’d spent the better part of a week last summer helping me put in a vegetable garden. I’d paid her handsomely, and we’d both enjoyed each other’s company, working side by side digging in the dirt, the hot sun tanning our backs. She’d asked a million questions about what it was like to be a private eye, and had shown a healthy curiosity about everything around her. A neat little kid.

  “She’s doin’ real good. Got her own lawn mowing route and is squirreling away money faster than her old man. Even opened her own bank account the other day.” Pride glowed on Jess’s face. Little Jess was the spitting image of Jess himself, with long brown hair she wore in a ponytail like her dad’s, and big green eyes that looked even bigger behind her wire-frame glasses. At ten, she hadn’t gotten tall yet, but you could tell from her gangly frame that she was going to shoot up any day now. Jess’s son Doug, on the other hand, was short and stout. Jess never said so, but I suspected the boy he’d raised as his own son had been sired by someone else. There was no question, however, about the parentage of little Jessie. She was a miniature version of her father.

  “You hear any good gossip lately?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah. I hear you and your lady friend here saved some little girl’s life on Pebble Cove last night. Nice goin’.”

  “It was all Cass,” Erica said, patting my knee. “She’s real calm in an emergency.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jess said, teasing. “I saw her jump up on the sofa screaming her head off when one of those cats of hers drug a mouse into the living room. Real brave, our Miz James.”

  “It was a rat!” I said, laughing with them. Erica gave my knee the lightest squeeze before moving her hand away. I felt the heat rush up, reddening my cheeks and sending disturbing signals to parts of my body I hadn’t acknowledged in a long while. I turned to look out the window.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon,” I said. “You want to drop us off at McGregors? I need to make some phone calls and do some shopping.”

  “At your service.” Jess drove the few blocks to the grocery store, where once again my outdoor office phone was free. I must be doing something right. Erica offered to start on the groceries while I tried Sheriff Booker’s office from the pay phone outside of McGregors. Naturally he was out, but I left a message with his secretary to call me ASAP, and then I called Martha.

  “Make it quick, kiddo. I’m up to my ears in paperwork,” she said.

  “Hello to you, too. What’s the status on the phone tap on Trindad’s place?”

  “No go. That asshole Grimes vetoed the order. Accused me of interfering with his investigation. He also says he’s been looking all over Kingdom Come for his prime suspect, a certain Ms. Trinidad. He thinks she’s avoiding him.” Martha’s laugh was bitter. “I don’t think he’s very fond of you either,” she added.

  “My heart is broken. Hey, I’ve got some stuff I want to run by you. Any chance you can come out to the house later?”

  “I don’t get off until four o’clock,” she said.

  “I thought we’d have a light supper. Maybe start off with a crab and avocado cocktail, work our way into some linguini alfredo or perhaps a small pork chop, lightly sautéed…”

  “Stop already! I’ll be there! God, you really know the way to a woman’s heart. I won’t be able to work now, with my stomach growling.” I laughed and left Martha to her paperwork.

  When I stepped out of the phone booth, I paused for a moment, gazing across the street at the window of Lizzie’s bar. I couldn’t see in, but I knew that Lizzie, standing behind the bar, could see out. There wasn’t much that went on along Main Street that Lizzie Thompson didn’t know about. And the way she’d fidgeted the day before, I guessed she knew something she wasn’t telling.

  Making my mind up quickly, I hurried across the street and let myself into the dark, smoky interior. If I was fast, I could meet up with Erica before she finished the shopping. There were only a few customers in the bar at this time of day, and they were busy at the pool table.

  “Kind of early for you, isn’t it Cass?” Lizzie said, leaning on the counter. She was a big woman with rough, weathered hands and a face to match. In her forties, with gray streaks running through her short, curly hair, she could look tough, when she wanted, but when she smiled, her toothy grin reminded me of a big, old, huggable teddy bear.

  “I’m not here to drink, Lizzie,” I said, waving the beer glass away. “I think you know why I’m here.” Lizzie’s eyes narrowed, and then opened wide with innocence. I waited her out, letting her go through all the facial expressions she could muster to convey ignorance and innocence, and in the end my patience paid off. Her hands started fidgeting again, and her eyes went straight for the window. “You must see an awful lot through that window, Lizzie. Kind of like watching a soap opera. I’ll bet there’s all sorts of stuff you know about people in this town.” I didn’t expect her to capitulate quite so easily, but apparently her self-imposed guilt was more of a strain than she could bear.

  “He was having an affair!” she blurted out suddenly. Then, lowering her voice, with a quick glance at the pool table, she went on. “I pride myself, Cassidy, on being the only soul in this whole damn town who does not spend the whole day gossiping. I listen, like any good bartender, and I see plenty, but I keep my mouth shut. People have come to know they can depend on me. They trust me with their secrets, they cry on my shoulder, they consider me a friend.”

  I nodded, knowing this was true, and understanding why divulging something secret, even about Walter Trinidad, was so difficult for her.

  “I never liked the bastard myself. And what that woman saw in him is beyond me. She’s as cute as a button, though from what I’ve gathered, Walter Trinidad was not her first, uh, outside interest.”

  “Who, Lizzie? For God’s sake, who are we talking about here?” As Jake frequently pointed out, pat
ience really wasn’t one of my virtues. Lizzie was stretching what little I had to the limit. She leaned closer, and whispered the name. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and breath mints, an interesting combination. “The postmaster’s wife?” I said aloud. Lizzie shot me a pained look, and I lowered my voice. “How do you know?”

  “Like you said, Cassie. I saw them with my own eyes right through this window. Two different times, he dropped her off in his Lincoln, right in front of McGregors. Anyone could have seen them. Like she was flaunting it, hoping she’d get caught.”

  “When was this, Lizzie?” I thought of Betty Beechcomb, a diminutive bleached blonde with fire engine red nails and ever-present three-inch spikes, trying to picture her with Walter Trinidad. Like Barbie with Godzilla, I thought.

  “The first time was about three weeks ago. And then again on Tuesday. The day before he was, uh, done in. They may have been together more than that, but those were the only two times I saw them.”

  “Time of day?”

  “The first time was about nine o’clock. Ed’s in that bowling league on Wednesday nights and they usually get out around ten. I reckon she was trying to beat him home. Then this last Tuesday, it was even later. Around eleven o’clock. I don’t know where Ed was that night, or maybe he was at home thinking she was out with the girls. But in a town this small, it was only a matter of time before poor Ed would’ve heard about it. If I saw them together twice, you can bet someone else probably saw them too.”

  “Do you think maybe Ed did find out, Lizzie? Has he acted strange lately, anything like that?”

  “Ed Beechcomb is a regular. Comes in a couple of times a week. Real quiet man. What I call totally P.W.”

  I raised my eyebrows and she grinned.

  “Pussy whipped,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I think little Betty could eat poor Ed alive. Sometimes I think the reason he comes in here so much is to get some rest. After working all day at the post office, he needs to get his strength up to handle what’s waiting for him at home.” Lizzie’s eyes had lit up, and she was clearly feeling better now that she’d gotten the story off her chest. Then, looking around the bar, she seemed to realize that she’d come perilously close to engaging in gossip, and she lowered her voice. “I’d hate to see him get hurt. You know how rumors in this town can fly. I mean, it’s entirely possible that there’s some perfectly innocent explanation for those two being together.” I could tell by her eyes she didn’t believe it any more than I did.

  “I’ll keep this confidential, Lizzie,” I said. “It may be nothing, but it’s definitely something worth looking into. You did the right thing.”

  She heaved a sigh, clearly relieved at having rid herself of the burden. Her smile exposed her slightly protruding teeth and with a shock, I realized that she was suddenly looking at me flirtatiously. Good ol’ Lizzie Thompson, who could arm-wrestle any man in town, was giving me the eye.

  I grinned back, with what I hoped was a combination of acknowledgment and appreciation without the least amount of encouragement. As I walked out, I wasn’t sure I had succeeded.

  By the time I rushed into McGregors, Erica was nearly done with the shopping.

  “I forgot to tell you to get some bread,” I said, slightly out of breath. She smiled and held up a long loaf of sourdough.

  “You also forgot to mention fresh parmesan. Fear not.” She showed me the cart, brimming with such a varied array of goodies that I laughed aloud. There were bags of potato chips, a box of brownie mix, large slabs of various cheeses, a jar of lumpfish caviar, several bottles of Oregon wine including an excellent Pinot Gris that had just come out and a dozen other delectables hidden beneath.

  “You did remember the pork chops?” I asked, half kidding.

  She smiled, her blue eyes flashing with merriment, and led the way to the check-out counter.

  Erica insisted on paying for the groceries and after a few minutes I gave up arguing. Behind us, we heard a sudden commotion and turned in time to see Jess’s son, Dougie, chasing hard after his younger sister. Dougie was more than twice as big as Jessie, with thick, bowed legs and a barrel chest. He had a wrestler’s body, along with a thick neck and squarish face. His hair was long in front, with brown bangs hanging down his forehead, but in back, his head was neatly shaved. I watched in disgust as Dougie caught up to little Jess, who had nearly made it out the door. Grabbing her long ponytail, Dougie yanked Jessie backwards and smacked her across the head, sending her sprawling, her wire-frame glasses skidding across the floor.

  “Hey! Knock it off!” I yelled. Once a teacher, always a teacher, I thought grimly, racing toward them.

  Dougie looked back at me and scowled, his dark eyes narrowing. “Get lost, creep,” he said. At first I thought he was addressing me, but then I saw Jessie get to her feet, retrieve her glasses and run full speed out of the store. It broke my heart to see tears pooling in her big green eyes.

  “What’s the matter, Dougie. Can’t you find someone your own size to pick on?” I took another step toward him, my fists clenched.

  He shot me a withering look and sauntered slowly out the doorway, saying nothing. I hadn’t really liked Dougie before, but this little episode pretty much sealed it for me. The kid was a loser.

  Back at the marina, we stopped by Erica’s car, which turned out to be a bright red Miata. Erica unloaded two large suitcases from the tiny trunk and between them and the groceries, it took us several trips to load everything into the boat.

  “I’m not moving in, honest,” Erica said, handing me one of her bags. “I’m just tired of living out of my overnight bag.”

  “You never did say where you were on your way to.”

  “Canada. By now I should be tooling my way across beautiful British Columbia, seeing the sights.”

  “On your own?” I asked.

  “It’s a long story, but yeah, definitely on my own.”

  Chapter Eight

  The gods and goddesses, in a rare burst of benevolence, parted the clouds for a thin but brilliant ray of sunshine while we unloaded the boat and toted our bags up to my house. Gammon and Panic were appropriately ecstatic upon our return, alternately rubbing against Erica and myself as we entered.

  “How’s your hot water supply?” Erica asked, taking her things down the hallway to the guest room she’d slept in.

  “Fine, why?”

  “Because even though I showered earlier, I’m cold and wet and would kill for a hot bath.”

  “Help yourself,” I said. “Or if you’d prefer, you can use the hot tub out back. I keep it heated.”

  Erica’s eyes lit up. “Really? I think I’m in heaven.” She disappeared into her room and when she emerged, wearing a white terry robe that just covered her thighs, I had to catch my breath. Her skin was a satiny brown and her legs, which started somewhere under her robe, went on forever. The robe revealed a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, and for the second time that day, I caught myself openly staring at her. “You going to join me?” she asked, returning my gaze. I was still dressed in my wet clothes, standing in the kitchen.

  “Uh, no. I better not. I’ve got some things I need to put away here.” This sounded lame, since most of the things had already been put away, but I didn’t trust the fluttering in my heart.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You can’t stand around in wet clothes all day. Leave what’s left for later and I’ll help you. Join me, okay?”

  Unable to think of a convincing reason not to, I told her I’d be out in a few minutes. I heard her go through the sliding glass door as I stood staring into the sink, trying to regain my composure. It had been years since I’d even been interested in a woman and even then, it hadn’t felt like this. My heart was slamming against my chest in rhythm with the little flips my stomach was doing. This is absurd, I thought. I’m acting like a lovesick adolescent. Except I knew that as an adolescent I’d never felt anything remotely close to this.

  Against my better judgment, I peeled off my wet clothes, pulled my
own terrycloth robe around me, belting it snugly, and took two Heinekens out of the refrigerator. Outside, the steam was already rising in hot puffs around the tub, which was sunken into the redwood deck surrounded by red cedar and Douglas fir. It was a beautiful scene, made more so by the shimmering image of a woman enveloped in steam. Erica had her back to me, her bare shoulders catching the glint of sun that still poked through the clouds. Quickly, I slipped out of my robe and into the steaming water.

  “This is great.” She turned to face me, her cheeks already flushed by the heat. I handed her an open Heineken which she gulped gratefully before settling back into the water. I made a point of not looking beneath the water, not wanting to invade her privacy, yet intensely aware of her nakedness so close to mine.

  “So, Ms. Trinidad,” I said in a calm voice belying my feelings, “tell me, what exactly do you do for a living? It occurs to me that I know almost nothing about you.”

  She laughed. Those little crinkly lines around her eyes and her perfect white teeth did nothing to calm the dancing in my heart. “You want my whole life story, or just the salient details?”

  “May as well hear the long version.”

  And so we talked.

  Erica was thirty-five, five years my senior. A journalism major at Berkeley, she’d landed a job with Rolling Stone right out of college, a minor miracle in the competitive world of journalism. By twenty-five she’d written her first novel.

  “It was terrible,” she said. “Full of all the things I believed in. Terribly serious. Thank God it was never published.”

  But from that point on she was hooked on writing, and in one of those rare moments of true inspiration, brought on, she said, by too much red wine, she decided to try her hand at romance novels.

  “I never actually liked romance, myself,” she said. “But I’d read somewhere how successful some of these writers were, and I thought, what the hell? So I gave it a try.”