Seventeen Days
Page 7
Rick laid a new board across the first step and started noisily banging in nails. She could no longer pretend she didn’t know he was here. She took a deep breath and opened the door. “Good morning,” she said.
He stopped hammering. “Good morning.” He seemed as wary as she was. “There’s no point in painting damaged wood,” he explained. “The porch is fine—it was just these two steps.”
Jenna said nothing. When had he measured the steps? Before or after she had asked him to paint? She supposed he would rather she hadn’t come out. He knew what he was doing, and she should leave him to it. She wanted to be neighborly, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The one question she should ask—how much this was going to cost—now seemed embarrassingly awkward. “Okay,” she said finally, “I’ll get out of your hair,” and then remembered he had said the same thing to her the last time they met and might think she was mocking him. Right after he had said it, he had asked about the color of her hair, and his hair—thick, black, curling a little at the back of his neck as he bent to drive in another nail…
Oh, my God. I am losing it. She retreated into the house. She resolved to ignore his very existence unless he came to the door with a question. She put away the dishes and went into the guest bedroom to work on a cutaway drawing. She struggled to concentrate and only partly succeeded. She heard—or imagined—sounds outside. The ladder banging against the house? The scraping of paint? A whirring—perhaps a sander? A whistling sound—yes, he was whistling. He did enjoy his work. Why else would he do it? He was definitely overqualified. What was the tune he was whistling? Concentrate, Jenna, concentrate.
She expected him to stop at noon to eat lunch in the pickup, as he had when he was repairing the roof, but instead he drove away before twelve. She didn’t see which way he headed—home for lunch, to town for supplies? No matter. She breathed more easily when he was gone. Why was it so oppressive just to have someone working on her property?
He was gone about an hour and got right back to work. To prove to herself she wasn’t a total coward, she went out to check on his progress. He had obviously been doing a very thorough, careful preparation. She could see places where he had sanded, spackled, and replaced caulking. The window screens he had removed were carefully stacked.
“How’s it going?” she asked, trying to sound casual and not as if she meant How much longer is this going to take?
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll start painting tomorrow.”
“Are you going to use a sprayer?” she asked.
He shook his head. “A roller.”
She couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so she tried the one subject that made him seem most human. “When do you have to pick Danny up?”
“Whenever I’m finished here,” he said. “He’s going to a friend’s after school—Connor O’Hara? He was at the barbecue.”
She nodded, although she didn’t remember which one Connor was. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” she said and retreated to the guest room and her drafting table.
She was concentrating on her work and didn’t know how much time had passed when the screen door banged. She heard Rick’s footsteps—those boots, such a masculine sound—and he called out, “Jenna?…Miss Scott?”
She met him in the hall and countered with, “Mr. Alvarez?”
“Sorry—Jenna. I knocked…”
“I was in the bedroom.”
“I just wanted to tell you I’m done for today and I’ll come back tomorrow at eight. Mind if I—?” He gestured toward the kitchen with both hands palm up so she could see how dirty they were.
“Oh, yes, of course.” He paced ahead of her into the kitchen and washed his hands at the sink.
“You’re going to get Danny now?” she asked.
“Yes. He loved the brownies, by the way.”
“Would you like a few more?”
“No, no, three was enough. Thank you.” He held up his dripping hands, and she offered him a dish towel. While he used it, his gaze fell on the sketch she had tacked up beside the sink. Again she had the odd feeling that she knew what he was thinking, which was absurd, when he had never given her any clues about anything. But she knew he had worked hard on this plan and wanted to make it a reality, and she was both the means to that end and a major obstacle.
He stepped toward her to hand back the dish towel, but he was too close for comfort. She had her back to the table and couldn’t go far. It was amazing how quickly he could rile her. “Does the concept of personal space mean anything to you?” she asked.
“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry, and he didn’t back away. Instead, he put his hand on her arm and leaned in to kiss her. Whoa! Out of context, the kiss was a good one, but it was of course perfectly outrageous. She pushed him away. She wanted very badly to slap his face—did women actually do that, or was it too melodramatic? What if he hit her back? Her heart was pounding. “I’m sorry,” he said, and this time the apology sounded more genuine. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Try harder!” she snapped. She could see he liked that—oh, yes, no doubt her outrage was very amusing to him. “Who raised you?” she demanded.
He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender, said, “Sorry” again, and left the room. She waited, almost holding her breath, until he left the house, letting the screen door bang behind him, and then she followed.
He was putting his equipment in the pickup, and she stood on the porch to watch him go. She hoped he would be embarrassed, reminded that this was her property and he was working here. He could be in real trouble. She could file a complaint against his contractor’s license, assuming he even had one. In the city she could have made one phone call, and if he wasn’t promptly fired at least he would never be in her house again.
She saw Nancy Hayes running down the hill from next door, coming over after school as she had before, and she went down the steps to meet her. Nancy waved, but when she saw Rick getting into his pickup she stopped dead in her tracks. She looked frightened. Hadn’t she said she thought Danny’s father was nice? What was she afraid of?
Rick drove away without a backward glance, and Nancy approached the house without her usual bounce. “Hi,” Jenna said. “What’s wrong?” Even if the girl could feel her anger, she shouldn’t be so frightened.
She came right up to the steps before she spoke. “He killed Mrs. Raymond,” she said.
“Who?”
“Him. Danny’s father.”
“No, of course he didn’t,” Jenna said at once. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Everybody says so.” Her certainty carried a chilling persuasiveness.
But no, it wasn’t true. “Remember what your mom said about gossip.”
“It isn’t gossip if it’s true,” Nancy said sulkily. It was a familiar refrain.
“Who said it was?”
“Everybody,” Nancy insisted.
“Kids at school?”
“Everybody,” she repeated. “It’s true. He killed Danny’s mother, too.”
“Nancy!” Jenna spoke so sharply that the girl jumped.
“He—”
“Don’t say it! Don’t say another word.” She was furious, horrified.
Nancy turned around and ran home.
It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true. He was Danny’s father. She had seen the sweetness between them. Five minutes ago he had kissed her. It was wrong and, God help her, she had liked it. She could still feel the gentle intensity of his lips against hers. He might be presumptuous, exasperating, and too damned attractive for his own good, but he wasn’t a killer.
Oh, God—Danny. If Nancy had heard this at school, what about Danny? Would the other kids have told Danny this ugly lie?
She didn’t get any work done for the rest of the day.
She locked the door before she went to bed.
Chapter Seven
Friday, February 22: President Bush demands Iraq begin withdrawal from Kuwait by noon February 23 to avoid groun
d war.
In the morning, Jenna’s very first waking thought, as she surfaced out of a dream, was—I am not going to get this damned house painted. As disturbing as Nancy’s words had been, she had sternly dismissed them. The kiss was another matter. She needed to talk to somebody else about this; she needed some advice. Rosalie Hayes was her first choice. Did he have a reputation around San Ignacio that would put her own in question if she continued to work with him? The Latin lover—a stereotype, worse than a stereotype, really a cliché, a silly cliché. Rosalie liked him, and he had made her those beautiful cabinets. Monica had been friendly with him. They were both married women—was that possible? Was this San Ignacio or Peyton Place? Did he think—and this made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up—this was the kind of discount he was giving her?
Then again, maybe a kiss was just a kiss. Against her will, which was legally assault, but her resistance had been minimal. He had apologized—and he had put them both in an extremely awkward position. She couldn’t see how they could even face each other again.
While she ate breakfast she decided she would go next door first thing and ask, as discreetly as possible, if there was anything she should worry about. She hoped Rosalie’s disapproval had kept Nancy from telling her about the gossip. Ought she to call first or just walk up the hill?
Tires crunched on gravel. Damn! Now she would have to deal with him first—and walk up the hill with his eyes on her? She got up and put the dishes in the sink. What if he came to the door? This was intolerable; she could not be afraid in her own house. She picked up her purse and the cardboard box Jim Kelly had given her. She did need groceries, and she could stop at Rosalie’s before she drove into town.
Rick was carrying cans of paint from the pickup when she came out. He wore paint-spattered white pants and shirt instead of his usual jeans. She strode purposefully toward her car without looking in his direction. The morning was beautiful, clear and sunny, with all the promise of California’s early spring.
“Jenna,” he said urgently. He put down the cans of paint and approached her, and she stopped and waited, chin up.
“Good morning,” she said coolly.
“Morning,” he echoed. “Listen, I’m sorry if I was out of line yesterday.”
“If?” she said. He sounded sincere, but she hated that he was so calm. He was always so self-assured. Had he thought of the danger to his license? “Were you trying to collect for the discount?” she asked.
“No!” he said. Ah, she had gotten under his skin that time. “God—no. I just wanted to kiss you. It was inappropriate, and it won’t happen again. I’m really sorry.”
“Okay,” she said. “Apology accepted,” and she strode on to her car. Knowing how well she had handled herself gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She hadn’t become flustered or made a fool of herself. Good job, Jenna. She resisted checking in the rearview mirror to see if he was still standing there or had started work. Rosalie’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so she drove on to town.
As soon as she walked into Sam’s Grocery she knew Nancy hadn’t made anything up. Gathered inside were Rosalie, Gabe Burrows, Jim Kelly of course, and three other people she either hadn’t met or didn’t remember—a thin brunette and an older couple with matching glasses and white hair. They all looked in her direction, and their expressions, excited and a little guilty, told her they had been gossiping. She could easily guess what the subject was.
They had no facts, of course. Chief Allan had no evidence, no suspects. He had posted a notice in the store asking anyone with information, anyone who might have been the last to see Barbara Raymond alive, to contact him. The body had been sent to Carroll City, where they had a coroner and a crime lab.
Rick Alvarez had been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion. Apparently he didn’t know. She hoped Danny didn’t know. Everybody else, it seemed, had heard the rumors.
“This is awful,” she said. “Who started this? He’s at my house right now, painting.” She realized she could easily fan the fire by telling them he had forced himself on her, but a derisive voice in her head said, Lighten up, lady; it was only a kiss.
“You shouldn’t leave him alone in your house,” Gabe Burrows said.
“Don’t, Gabe,” Rosalie said. She had apparently heard this before. “Rick is no thief, and I don’t believe he’s a killer, either.” She didn’t, but she relished the juiciness of the gossip. Jenna had seen signs the very first day in her kitchen that she liked to gossip, even though she deplored the habit in Nancy. Like mother, like daughter. Jenna was sickened—and now she couldn’t possibly ask her if he was a sexual predator.
“You’re too trusting,” Gabe told Rosalie. “You take everybody at face value.”
The thin, dark-haired woman stepped forward and offered Jenna her hand. “We haven’t met,” she said, “I’m Charlene Dickens.”
“Jenna Scott,” she replied, but she didn’t take Charlene’s hand. “I understood the police didn’t have any suspects. Why do you think Rick Alvarez did it?”
There was an eager rush to fill her in on all the supposed details. Some of them gave her pause, but others were completely ridiculous. He, or at least his pickup, had been seen at Mrs. Raymond’s cabin. He hadn’t been in church the morning after. He owned a knife. They were both from L.A.
“It’s a big place,” Jenna pointed out, trying to be the voice of reason. More than three million people lived in Los Angeles! “Where was Danny when Rick was with Barbara Raymond?” she asked.
“You can scoff,” Charlene said, “but don’t be surprised when Vince shows up to arrest him.”
“A man who would murder one woman wouldn’t hesitate at a second,” the older lady said. “He killed his own wife.”
“There have been rumors since he first came,” Rosalie said, “but nobody really knows—where’s the proof?”
“Oh, I know he did it,” Charlene said. “It was in the newspapers. I was working in the city at the time, and I remember—”
“Yesterday you said you weren’t sure,” Rosalie countered.
“Well, I remember now. Don’t you think it’s suspicious that he never talks about her? Not a single word to anybody about the boy’s mother? What do you suppose he’s hiding if he didn’t kill her? And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring,” she added triumphantly.
“If it was in the papers,” Jenna asked, “why is he walking around free?”
“Oh, he got off on a technicality or something. It happens all the time. Now he’s here, and he’s done it again, and none of us is safe.” She folded her arms and smiled smugly.
Jenna wanted to slap her. “Did you start these rumors?” she asked.
“They’re not rumors,” Charlene said, “and I didn’t start anything; I heard it from several people. I’m not making things up.”
“I don’t believe any of this,” Jenna said.
“I don’t either,” said Rosalie. “Not that he murdered his wife, or that he would have deliberately killed Mrs. Raymond. Maybe some kind of accident…”
“She was stabbed several times,” the older man said. “He would have been hard put to do that accidentally.”
Jenna turned to Jim Kelly, who hadn’t said a word since she entered. “I came in to get groceries,” she said. She couldn’t tell how he felt about the gossip, but he helped her gather what she needed.
“Do you want me to go home with you?” Rosalie asked.
“No. I’m not afraid of Rick Alvarez!” At least not that way.
“Do you buy any of this?” she asked Jim Kelly as he put the box in the trunk.
“It’s a small town,” he said noncommittally. “People talk.” His store was the hub of the community; perhaps he was wise not to take sides.
“Thank you,” she said, and he went back into the store. If there were sides to be taken here, she would choose the side of Rick and Danny. She banged the trunk lid down, left the car there, and marched across the street to the hardware store.
“Good morning,” Jenna said coolly.
“Everything okay with the paint?” Megan asked. They had sold her the paint and arranged with Rick for its delivery. Harvey played cards with him. These were not strangers; they were neighbors. They had known him for three years and, although they barely knew her, they had known her grandfather. This was not like reading the National Enquirer. Real people were involved—beautiful, illfated Barbara Raymond, skilled handyman Rick Alvarez, sweet-natured little Danny.
Jenna walked over to the Local Artists case and picked up the little carving of the sleeping cat. A foolish gesture maybe, but the wood had a cool, comforting feeling in her hand. She paid Megan without saying another word and stalked out.
Doubts crept in as she drove home. It sounded like such nonsense, but could it be all smoke and no fire? What if Rick had tried to kiss Mrs. Raymond—“I couldn’t resist”—and she had fought back, slapped his face? The little carving in her pocket was proof of his skill with a knife. Oh, please, she thought, Danny’s already lost his mother. Let’s not railroad his father. She had considered locking the front door when she left, but hadn’t. She didn’t know whether she should regret the lapse now or not.
When she drove in, he was nowhere in sight. The sun was shining on the front of the house, and it was better not to paint in direct sunlight, so he might be around back. Or he might be inside waiting for her. Against her rational will, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was the scene in the movie where the audience would yell, “Don’t go in the house!”
She took the box of groceries and went slowly inside. She listened for any suspicious sound and didn’t hear anything, but when she passed the guest bedroom, Rick was standing inside the doorway. Would his audacity never end? Anger trumped fear. She slammed the box down on the kitchen table and marched in to give him a piece of her mind.