by Sue Grafton
Nikki gave me chilled white wine in a glass with a thin stem while she drank Perrier. “Here’s to parole,” she said.
“You look much more relaxed,” I said.
“Oh I am. I feel great. It’s so good to have him here. I follow him everywhere. I feel like a puppy dog. He gets no peace.”
Her hands were moving automatically and I could see that she was translating for him simultaneously with her comments to me. It made me feel rude and clumsy that I couldn’t sign too. I felt as if there were things I wanted to say to him myself, questions I wanted to ask about the silence in his head. It was like charades of some kind, Nikki using body, arms, face, her whole self totally involved, Colin signing back to her casually. He seemed to speak much more quickly than she, without deliberation. Sometimes Nikki would halt, struggling for a word, remembering, laughing at herself as she relayed to him her own forgetfulness. His smile in those moments was indulgent, full of affection, and I envied them this special world of secrets, of self-mockery, wherein Colin was the master and Nikki the apprentice. I couldn’t imagine Nikki with any other kind of child.
Colin placed the smooth dough in the bowl, turning it once to coat its pale surface with butter, covering it carefully then with a clean white towel. Nikki motioned him into the living room, where she showed him the photo album. Colin settled on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the album open on the coffee table in front of him. His face was still but his eyes took in everything and he was already engrossed in the snapshots.
Nikki and I went out onto the deck. It was getting late but there was still enough sunlight to create the illusion of warmth. She stood at the railing, staring out at the ocean that rumbled below us. I could see tangles of kelp just under the surface in places, dark strands undulating in waves of paler green.
“Nikki, did you talk to anyone about where I was and what I was up to?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she said, startled. “What makes you ask?”
I filled her in on the events of the last few days— Sharon Napier’s death, my talks with Greg and Diane, the letter I’d found among Libby Glass’s effects. My trust in her was instinctive.
“Would you recognize his handwriting?”
“Sure.”
I took the manila envelope out of my purse, carefully removing the letter, which I unfolded for her. She glanced at it briefly.
“That’s him,” she said.
“I’d like you to read it,” I said. “I want to see if it coincides with your intuitions about what was going on.”
Reluctantly her gaze dropped back to the pale blue pages, when she finished, she seemed almost embarrassed. “I wouldn’t have guessed it was that serious. His other affairs weren’t.”
“What about Charlotte Mercer?”
“She’s a bitch. She’s an alcoholic. She called me once. I hated her. And she hated him. You should have heard what she said.”
I folded the letter carefully. “I didn’t get it. From Charlotte Mercer to Libby Glass. That’s quite a leap. I assumed he was a man of taste.”
Nikki shrugged. “He was easily seduced. It was his own vanity. Charlotte is beautiful . . . in her own way.”
“Was she in the process of divorcing? Is that how they met?”
Nikki shook her head. “We socialized with them. Judge Mercer was a sort of mentor of Laurence’s at one point. I don’t imagine he ever found out about the affair—it would have killed him, I think. He’s the only decent judge we’ve got anyway. You know what the rest are like.”
“I only talked to her a short time,” I said, “but I can’t see how she could be involved. It had to be somebody who knew where I was and how could she have come by that kind of information? Somebody had to have followed me up to Las Vegas. Sharon’s murder was too closely timed to have been coincidence.”
Colin appeared at Nikki’s side, placing the open photograph album up on the railing. He pointed to one of the snapshots, saying something I couldn’t understand at all, an indistinct blur of vowels. It was the first time I’d heard him speak. His voice was deeper than I would have imagined for a twelve-year-old.
“That’s Diane’s junior-high-school graduation,” Nikki said to him. Colin looked at her for a moment and then pointed again more emphatically. He put his index finger in front of his mouth and moved it up and down rapidly. Nikki frowned.
“ ‘Who’ what, honey?”
Colin placed his finger on the picture of a group of people.
“That’s Diane and Greg and Diane’s friend, Terri, and Diane’s mother,” she said to him, enunciating carefully and signing at the same time.
A puzzled smile formed on Colin’s face. Colin spread his hands out, putting his thumb against his forehead and then his chin.
Nikki laughed this time, her expression as puzzled as his.
“No, that’s Nana,” she said, pointing to a snapshot one page back. “This is Diane’s mother, not Daddy’s. The mother of Greg and Diane. Don’t you remember Nana? Oh God, how could he,” she flashed at me. “She died when he was a year old.” She looked back at him.
Colin made some guttural sounds, something negative and frustrated. I wondered what would happen to his temper when puberty really caught up with him. Again the thumb against the forehead, then the chin. Nikki shot me another look. “He keeps saying ‘Daddy’s mother’ for Gwen. How do you explain ‘ex-wife’?” She signed again patiently.
Colin shook his head slightly, suddenly unsure of himself. He watched her for a moment more as though some other explanation might be forthcoming. He took the album and backed away, eyes still fixed on Nikki’s face. He signed once more, flushing uncomfortably. Apparently, he didn’t want to look foolish in front of me.
“We’ll go through those together in a minute,” she signed to him, translating for me.
Colin moved slowly back through the sliding glass doors, pushing the screen door shut.
“Sorry for the interruption,” she said briefly.
“That’s all right, I’ve got to go anyway,” I said.
“You can stay for supper if you like. I’ve made a big pot of beef bourguignon. It’s great with Colin’s bread.”
“Thanks but I’ve got all kinds of things to do,” I said.
Nikki walked me to the door, signing our final chitchat without even being aware of it.
I got in my car and sat for a moment, puzzled by Colin’s puzzlement over Gwen. That was odd. Very odd.
19
When I got back to my apartment, Charlie Scorsoni was sitting on my doorstep. I felt grubby and unprepared and I realized with embarrassment that I’d been entertaining a fantasy of how we’d meet again and it wasn’t like this.
“God, don’t get all excited, Millhone,” he said when he saw the expression on my face.
I got out my key. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you catch me at the worst possible times.”
“You have a date,” he said.
“No, I don’t have a date. I look like shit.” I unlocked the door and flipped on the desk lamp, letting him follow me in.
“At least I caught you in a good mood,” he said, making himself at home. He sauntered out to the kitchen and got out the last beer. The familiarity in his manner made me cross.
“Look, I’ve got laundry to do. I haven’t been to the grocery store for a week. My mail is piled up, the whole place is covered with dust. I haven’t even shaved my legs since I saw you last.”
“You need a haircut too,” he said.
“No I don’t. It always looks like this.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “Get dressed. We’ll go out.”
“I don’t want to go out. I want to get my life in shape.”
“You can do that tomorrow. It’s Sunday. I bet you always do shit like that on Sunday anyway.”
I stared at him. It was true. “Wait a minute. Here’s how it’s supposed to go,” I said patiently. “I get home. I do all my chores, get a good night’s sleep, whi
ch I could sorely use, then tomorrow I call you and we see each other tomorrow night.”
“I gotta be at the office tomorrow night. I have a client coming in.”
“On Sunday night?”
“We’ve got a court appearance first thing Monday morning and this is the only thing we could work out. I just got back into town myself Thursday night and I’m up to my ass.”
I stared at him some more, wavering. “Where would we go? Would I have to dress up?”
“Well I’m not going to take you anywhere looking like that,” he said.
I glanced down. I was still wearing jeans and the shirt I’d slept in but I wasn’t ready to back down yet. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked perversely.
“Take a shower and change clothes. I’ll pick up some stuff at the grocery store if you give me a list. By the time I get that done, you’ll be ready, yes?”
“I like to shop for my own stuff. Anyway, all I need is milk and beer.”
“Then I’ll take you to a supermarket after we eat,” he said, emphasizing every single word.
We drove down to the Ranch House in Ojai, one of those elegant restaurants where the waiter stands at your table and recites the menu like a narrative poem.
“Shall I order for us or would that offend your feminine sensibilities?”
“Go ahead,” I said, feeling oddly relieved, “I’d like that.” While he and the waiter conferred, I studied Charlie’s face surreptitiously. It was strong and square, good jawline, visible dent in his chin, full mouth. His nose looked like it might have been broken once but mended skillfully, leaving only the slightest trace just below the bridge. His glasses had large lenses, tinted a blue-gray, and behind them, his blue eyes were as clear as sky. Sandy lashes, sandy brows, his thick sandy hair only beginning to recede. He had big hands, big bones in his wrists, and I could see a feathering of sandy hair at the cuff. There was something else about him, too, smoldering and opaque, the same sense I’d had before of sexuality that surfaced now and then. Sometimes he seemed to emit an almost audible hum, like a line of power stations marching inexorably across a hillside, ominous and marked with danger signs. I was afraid of him.
The waiter was nodding and moving away. Charlie turned back to me, obscurely amused. I felt myself go mute, but he pretended not to notice and I felt dimly grateful, faintly flushed. I was overcome with the same self-consciousness I’d felt once at a birthday party in the sixth grade when I realized that all the other little girls had worn nylon stockings and I was still wearing stupid white ankle socks.
The waiter returned with a bottle of wine and Charlie went through the usual ritual. When our glasses were filled, he touched his rim to mine, his eyes on my face. I sipped, startled by the delicacy of the wine, which was pale and cool.
“So how’s the investigation going?” he asked when the waiter had left.
I shook my head, taking a moment to orient myself. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said shortly and then caught myself. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said in a softened tone. “I just don’t think talking about it will help. It’s not going well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “It’s bound to improve.”
I shrugged and watched while he lit a cigarette and snapped the lighter shut. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.
“Now and then,” he said. He offered me the pack and I shook my head again. He seemed relaxed, in possession of himself, a man of sophistication and grace. I felt doltish and tongue-tied, but he didn’t seem to expect anything of me, talking on about inconsequential things. He seemed to operate at half speed, taking his own time about everything. It made me aware of the usual tension with which I live, that keyed-up state of raw nerve that makes me grind my teeth in my sleep. Sometimes I get so wired that I forget to eat at all, only remembering at night, even then not being hungry but wolfing down food anyway as though the speed and quantity of consumption might atone for the infrequency. With Charlie, I could feel my time clock readjust, my pace slowing to match his. When I finished the second glass of wine, I heaved a sigh and only then did I realize that I’d been holding myself tensely, like a joke snake ready to jump out of a box.
“Feel better?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then we’ll eat.”
The meal that followed was one of the most sensual I ever experienced: fresh, tender bread with a crust of flaky layers, spread with a buttery pâté, Boston lettuce with a delicate vinaigrette, sand dabs sautéed in butter and served with succulent green grapes. There were fresh raspberries for dessert with a dollop of tart cream, and all the time Charlie’s face across the table from me, shadowed by that suggestion of caution, that hint of something stark and fearful held back, pulling me forward even while I felt myself kept in check.
“How’d you end up in law school?” I asked him when coffee arrived.
“Accident I guess. My father was a drunk and a bum, a real shit. Knocked me around a lot. Not seriously. More like a piece of furniture that got in his way. He beat my mother too.”
“Doesn’t do much for your self-esteem,” I ventured.
Charlie shrugged. “It was good for me actually. Made me tough. Let me know I couldn’t depend on anyone but myself, which is a lesson you might as well learn when you’re ten. I took care of me.”
“You worked your way through school?”
“Every nickel’s worth. I picked up money ghosting papers for jocks, sitting in on tests, writing C minus answers so no one would suspect. You’d be surprised how tricky it is to miss just enough questions to look genuine. I had regular jobs, too, but after I watched half a fraternity get into law school on my smarts, I figured I might as well try it myself.”
“What’d your father do when he didn’t drink?”
“Construction till his health broke down. He finally died of cancer. Took him six years. Bad stuff. I didn’t give a shit and he knew it. All that pain. Served him right,” he said and shook his head. “My mother died four months after he did. I thought she’d be relieved he was gone. Turns out she was dependent on the abuse.”
“Why do estate law? That doesn’t seem like you. I picture you doing criminal law, something like that.”
“Listen, my father pissed away everything he had. I ended up with nothing—less than nothing. It took me years to pay off his hospital bills and his fucking debts. I had to pay for my mother’s death, too, which at least was quick, God bless her, but hardly cheap. So now I show people how to outwit the government even in death. A lot of my clients are dead so we get along very well and I make sure their greedy heirs get more than they deserve. Also when you’re executor for somebody’s estate, you get paid on time and nobody calls you up about your bill.”
“Not a bad deal,” I said.
“Not at all,” he agreed.
“Have you ever been married?”
“Nope. I never had time for that. I work. That’s the only thing that interests me. I don’t like the idea of giving someone else the right to make demands. In exchange for what?”
I had to laugh. I felt the same way myself. His tone throughout was ironic and the look he laid on me then was oddly sexual, full of strange, compelling male heat as though money and power and sexuality were all somehow tangled up for him and fed on one another. There was really nothing open or loose or free about him, however candid he might seem, but I knew that it was precisely his opacity that appealed to me. Did he know that I was attracted to him? He gave little indication of his own feelings one way or the other.
When we finished our coffee, he signaled for the waiter without a word and paid the check. Conversation between us was dwindling anyway and I let it lie, feeling watchful, quiet, even wary of him again. We moved through the restaurant, our bodies close but our behavior polite, circumspect. He opened the door for me. I passed through. He’d made no gesture toward me, verbally or otherwise, and, I was suddenly disconcerted, lest my sense of his pull turned out to be something generat
ed in me and not reciprocal. Charlie took my arm briefly, guiding me up a shallow step but as soon as we were on smooth pavement again, he dropped his hand. We went around to my side of the car. He opened the door and I got in. I didn’t think I’d said anything flirtatious and I was glad of that, curious still about his intentions toward me. He was so matter-of-fact, so removed.
We drove back to Santa Teresa, saying little. I was feeling mute again, not uncomfortable but languid. As we approached the outskirts of town, he reached over and took my hand noncommittally. It felt like a lowvoltage current was suffusing my left side. He kept his left hand on the steering wheel. With his right hand, he was carelessly, casually rubbing my fingers, his attitude inattentive. I was trying to be as casual as he, trying to pretend there might be some other way to interpret those smoldering sexual signals that made the air crackle between us and caused my mouth to go dry. What if I was wrong, I thought. What if I fell on the man like a dog on a bone only to discover that his meaning was merely friendly, absentminded, or impersonal? I couldn’t think about anything because there was no sound between us, nothing said, not anything I could react to or fix on—no way to divert myself. He was making it hard to breathe. I felt like a glass rod being rubbed on silk. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw his face turn toward me. I glanced at him.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Guess what we’re going to do?”
Charlie shifted in his seat slightly and pressed my hand between his legs. A charge shot through me and I groaned involuntarily. Charlie laughed, a low excited sound, and then he looked back at the road.
Making love with Charlie was like being taken into a big warm machine. Nothing was required of me. Everything was attended to with such ease, such fluidity. There were no awkward moments. There was no holding back, no self-consciousness, no hesitation, no heed. It was as though a channel had been opened between us, sexual energy flowing back and forth without impediment. We made love more than once. At first, there was too much hunger, too much heat. We came at each other with a clash, an intensity that admitted of no tenderness. We crashed against one other like waves on a breakwater, surges of pleasure driving straight up, curling back again. All of the emotional images were of pounding assault, sensations of boom and buffet and battering ram until he had broken through to me, rolling down again and over me until all my walls were reduced to rubble and ash. He raised himself up on his elbow then and kissed me long and sweet and it began all over again, only this time at his pace, half speed, agonizingly slow like the gradual ripening of a peach on a limb. I could feel myself go all rosy, turn to honey and oil—a mellowing ease filtering through me like a sedative. We lay there afterward, laughing and sweaty and out of breath and then he encompassed me in sleep, the weight of his big arms pinning me to the bed. But far from feeling trapped, I felt comforted and safe, as though nothing could ever harm me as long as I stayed in the shadow of this man, this sheltering cave of flesh, where I was tucked away until morning without waking once.