He was staring at the nearly-finished cutaway on her drafting table. He looked up as she approached and said, “Wow!” He gave her a look of astonished respect. “Is this what you’ve been working on?” he asked.
“Yes, but—”
“What’s it for?”
She took a deep breath to calm herself. “A book—about alternate energy sources,” she said. “What—”
“Wow,” he said again. He shook his head in genuine appreciation. “You don’t use a computer?”
“CAD? No, I’ll probably have to eventually. They’re taking over. Why—?”
“I’d better get back to work,” he said, and then he simply left the house, giving her no clue as to why he had been inside in the first place. Every time she thought she knew where she was with him, he threw her another curve.
She knew she should tell him about the rumors before he heard worse somewhere else—would any of these gossiping cowards say those things to his face? She should tell him, if only so he could protect Danny. Kids could be cruel. Even here someone might taunt Danny. These were good people, churchgoing families, and yet they were so quick to believe the worst and spread lies.
Be fair, she thought. She had only talked to a few people. Nancy’s “everybody” might be a few idiots with time on their hands. Maybe she shouldn’t dignify this nonsense by repeating it to Rick.
No, she should. She definitely should.
She didn’t.
She put the little carving of the sleeping cat on her bedside table, a small symbol of defiance. It was also very beautiful. Would a man who created such beauty with a knife use the same tool to end a woman’s life?
Rick certainly seemed unaware of any of this drama behind the scenes. He must know about the murder, but he had never even mentioned it to her in passing. He worked all morning painting her house, doing a neat, careful job. He left again at lunchtime and drove back sooner than she expected.
She was still trying to figure out what to do about the gossip. Small town, small minds. Would they do more than talk—boycott his business, burn down his house, steal his tools? He should be warned. Maybe somebody else—Rosalie? Harvey?—would tell him. Maybe it would all die down. Or maybe she would become a target herself because she was harboring a murderer…or at least giving him a job.
Rick, oblivious to rumors, with an apparently clear conscience, whistled while he worked. She looked out to see what he was doing, and oh, my God, he was taking off his shirt! In February? Oh, all right, the day was warm, and he was working hard. He was broad-shouldered, well-muscled, a shade browner than her best summer tan, with only a little wiry black chest hair. ¡Ay, caramba! Maybe she would pray for rain.
At the end of the day, he knocked on the door—this time she heard him—to ask if she wanted him to continue the next day. He was wearing his shirt.
“I’ll have to bring Danny because it’s Saturday. It’s up to you—it works for me either way. I can come back on Monday instead.”
“Won’t it be boring for Danny?” she asked.
He shook his head. “He can help,” he said and, maybe in case she objected to child labor, quickly added, “or play or read.”
Jenna hesitated. She would love two days respite from this constant distraction and tension. She would also like to get it done with as soon as possible, and surely Rick wouldn’t try anything with Danny around. In the end, the decision was more about the feeling that Danny, if not Rick, was safer here, painting her house, than out in the dangerous, gossiping world. “Fine,” she said. “Come tomorrow. Bring Danny. If you like, I’ll make you both lunch.”
“That would be great,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh—nine o’clock?”
“Fine,” she said again. That was that—no awkwardness. Apology made and accepted. He had been a perfect gentleman. No doubt she was an idiot.
****
Only when she awoke in the middle of the night, in the too-quiet darkness, did the doubts creep in again. Things always seemed worst in the middle of the night, she reminded herself, but fear took hold, and a particular horror on Danny’s behalf.
Rick had never shown the slightest sign of guilt. He hadn’t been nervous or upset when she had seen him soon after the murder—but he never was. Sunday morning, when they had sat casually on the steps, and he had told her he was a teacher in L.A.—that was not the demeanor of a troubled conscience. But when the police car zoomed by, everything changed. She had been sure she knew the reason, but wasn’t that romantic nonsense? Maybe the fear evoked by the sight of the car was not for the possibility of danger to Danny but for his own discovery? If he wasn’t the killer, who was? If it was a stranger, someone from out of town, might he still be out there in the dark? What was the creaking sound she was hearing? No, it was only the old house settling.
What the hell was Rick up to in the house while she was gone? She wasn’t sure whether the drafting table was visible without stepping inside, whether he could have spotted it as he passed by. She would have to check. Maybe she had left the guest bedroom window open, and he needed to close it before painting?
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Had she remembered to lock the front door?
Why hadn’t he said anything to anybody in San Ignacio about his late wife—in three years, not one word? Was his silence merely the exaggeration of a silly gossip? Had anybody asked? A lot of married men didn’t wear wedding rings in any case, and it might be inconvenient when working with tools. He was no longer married. It was ludicrous to suppose it had any significance.
Did Rosalie’s belief Rick could have killed Mrs. Raymond by accident mean she knew or suspected he was likely to have approached her, because he had a history of sleeping around? I couldn’t resist…I just wanted to kiss you.
What had he said about Barbara Raymond at the barbecue? She remembered precisely and didn’t want to remember. Where had he been during the hour or so when she didn’t see him, and why did he leave so early? Because Danny was tired. He did own a knife, of course, but almost every man in San Ignacio did. Why would he murder a woman he didn’t even know? How could anyone know whether he had known her before or not? They were both from L.A.
Why had he left L.A. and teaching? Had he left voluntarily, or was he fired or asked to leave because of a scandal? Why would he have killed his wife? Not money—anger, jealousy, a custody dispute? Or what if she had been terminally ill and it was a mercy killing? But surely not with a knife…
Why didn’t Rick want Danny to speak Spanish? Oh, now she was being ridiculous.
Who started the gossip? Why were so many people so quick to believe in his guilt? Because he was a relative outsider, a latecomer? She didn’t think they were racist, but she didn’t know what her own feelings about him were. What did she know about him? Good father, good craftsman…good kisser. Hadn’t she read a murder mystery in which the handyman did it?
If she was ever going to get back to sleep, she must trust that these shadows would vanish in the morning light.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, February 23: Allies’ ground offensive begins at 5 p.m. PST.
Saturday was easier. Danny lightened the mood considerably. Rick had dressed him in old clothes and let him get paint all over himself as long as he stayed on the drop cloths. She hadn’t wanted amateur help, but trusted Rick to correct Danny’s mistakes. Yes, he seemed trustworthy, not someone you would suspect of murder. Nancy, so often underfoot before, was conspicuous by her absence, but Jenna didn’t suppose he would notice.
She had been afraid having to keep an eye on Danny would slow him down, but the work was going very quickly. She could hear their voices from time to time, and once she heard Danny trying to whistle. She hoped he would stay off the ladder. He was such a great kid. What would happen to him if his father was charged with murder? Did he have grandparents somewhere?
She didn’t want to suggest Rick was no longer welcome in her kitchen, although in fact he wasn’t, but she served lunch on t
he porch, and the three of them sat together and ate tuna sandwiches, apples, potato chips, and the last three of Rosalie’s brownies. Danny ate two of the brownies and most of the potato chips and did almost all the talking, his usual shyness swamped by the joy of creative labor. Like father, like son.
Unlike Nancy, he liked school. He liked everything about it. Reading, arithmetic, art, recess, everything. Today at least, he wanted to be a painter when he grew up, but she was sure being a truck driver was a more usual ambition. “Your house is very easy to paint,” he told Jenna. “It’s only a little house.” There was paint on his face, and he had added a milk mustache, so he resembled an impish little clown.
“How is your house?” she asked. “Is it sad today?”
“No, it’s happy,” he said blithely. Rick raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She liked it that she and Danny had a secret together, an inside joke. “Your house is very pretty,” he said.
“Very pretty,” Rick agreed. He looked right at her when he said it, but there was nothing flirtatious in his expression.
“But it should have trucks,” Danny said.
“Trucks?” she asked. “In the kitchen? On the porch? On the roof?”
Danny smothered a giggle with both hands. “Not on the roof,” he said.
“No, that would be silly,” she agreed.
“In the driveway,” he said. “They could go up and down the road. A dump truck and a fire truck and a cement mixer.”
“A cement mixer? Wouldn’t it be messy?”
“No, cement mixers are the best. Cement mixers are super cool.”
“Oh, okay, if they’re super cool…”
Rick was obviously enjoying Danny’s happiness, watching him with amused pride. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, and this time the feeling was not selfish, not personal. These two had such a sweet, special bond, and it must be protected. She was glad she had chosen their side.
When they finished eating, Danny said, “Thank you for the lunch, Miss Scott,” with his usual dutiful politeness and added, “It was dee-licious.” She wanted to ask him to call her Jenna, but his father might not approve.
Rick said, “Thank you, Miss Scott,” too, with the hint of a smile. She could not figure him out.
In the afternoon, Danny’s energy flagged, and Rick put a drop cloth in the cab of the pickup so he could curl up and go to sleep. He put a sunshade on the windshield and left both doors standing open, but Jenna didn’t think it could be very comfortable. She wanted to suggest he bring him into the house, but no—it wasn’t her responsibility. She had provided lunch. If he wanted anything else from her, he would have to ask. Later Danny was running around the yard when he wasn’t sitting on the steps with a book.
When Rick was finished painting, Danny helped him carry equipment to the pickup and chatted happily while they cleaned up. She went out on the porch to say goodbye. Rick said, “I’ll be back Monday to do the trim.”
She just nodded, but to Danny she said, “Thank you for helping. Hasta la vista.” She met Rick’s gaze with her chin up. He was Danny’s father, but he couldn’t tell her what language to speak.
As he climbed into the truck, Danny said, “I like Miss Scott. She’s super nice.” Rick had nothing to say on the subject.
****
While she was making her solitary dinner, Rosalie called to ask if she had heard that the ground war had begun. She hadn’t and didn’t want to. Ever so casually, Rosalie asked how the painting was going. “Fine,” Jenna told her. “It’s almost done. He’s doing a very good job. I’ll be glad to have it finished.” Rosalie didn’t mention the rumors or the murder case, but her voice had a cautious tone, as if the children were listening.
Jenna went to bed a little early and woke up sometime in the night from a disturbing dream…physically disturbing. She couldn’t remember any details, but one image lingered—Rick Alvarez, as he had looked standing in the sunshine in her yard with his shirt off. Damn the man! He was in her yard, in her house, in her life—he could at least stay out of her dreams! She did not want a man in her life now, not even in her dreams, and she most certainly didn’t want him, with his perfect biceps and his thick black hair and his cute little son, disturbing her sleep, disturbing her life. Patrick had thought he was Rhett Butler. No doubt this guy thought he was…
Oh, stop it, Jenna! It wasn’t as if he had asked her to dream about him. He had kissed her, though. He’d better not be dreaming about her! It was intolerable to think that when he looked at her with a slight smile and said, “Thank you, Miss Scott,” he might have been remembering something he had dreamed or imagined about her.
He wouldn’t try anything on Monday if he wanted to get paid. He had been genuinely shocked when she implied he might expect to take it out in trade. Exactly how much did she owe him? When the painting was finished, she needn’t hire him ever again, but it would be difficult in a place like San Ignacio to avoid him altogether. He might have to leave town because the gossip would keep anyone else from hiring him, and she would never see him again. She would never see Danny again, either, and she would miss his innocent friendship.
It was a dream. Get over it! Aside from the kiss and his earnest apology, everything that had passed between them had been casual and friendly. Or at least it had been on his part; she had been a little bit rude to him—“prickly” he called it—and now she was blaming him for her dream. Just because she didn’t know what he was thinking didn’t mean he was doing anything wrong. She was as bad as the gossips.
She finally succumbed to sleep and did not dream again.
Chapter Nine
Sunday, February 24: Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf hails first day of allied ground offensive as “dramatic success.”
Sunday morning Jenna slept late, ate a big breakfast, and took a leisurely stroll along the harbor. No painting would be done today, and much of San Ignacio was in church. Would it shame them into more charitable views or give them another gathering place for gossip? Rick had said “not today” when she asked if he attended church—would he go today and meet hostile stares and awkward silences? Had anybody told him what she couldn’t?
She was walking slowly back to the house when Nancy came running over as so often before. She looked unhappy. Still sulky about the way Jenna had spoken to her? Or angry about something else? Something else. “Stupid old war,” she grumbled. “There’s nothing else on TV—all day and all night.” She fell in beside Jenna, and they continued toward the house. “Boring!”
“Yes,” she agreed, although it wasn’t exactly the right word. The very idea made her skin crawl. Strong, healthy young men, expensively trained, the best of their generation, killing each other for no good reason—no reason was good enough.
“The ’raqis are running away.”
“That sounds very smart of them. What have you been reading?”
“Nazis,” Nancy said succinctly. She stopped in the path and waited for Jenna to turn back to face her. Her face was flushed, her eyes wary. She was unsure of what the reaction would be to the news she was bursting to tell.
“What?” Jenna asked. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she knew what was coming.
“Danny’s father is in jail.”
She didn’t even consider whether it was true before she asked, “Where’s Danny?”
Nancy shrugged. “He wasn’t in Sunday school.”
“Come on. I need to talk to your mother.” She took the girl’s hand, and they walked up the hill to the Hayes house. Rosalie might relish gossip, but she could also have facts. She was on good terms with Vince Allan.
Nancy led her in through the back door. The TV was on in the living room, a blur of serious words. Larry was slumped on the couch, staring at the screen. He glared at her resentfully and said nothing. He looked haggard and miserable, and the flickering images threw an unhealthy light on his face. Mike was watching too, leaning forward, elbows on knees.
Rosalie mildly reprimanded Nancy for repeati
ng gossip and sent her back outside before she drew Jenna with her into the kitchen, away from the war talk. Rosalie was calm and sympathetic, no light of malice in her eyes. “He’s not in jail,” she assured her. “He wasn’t arrested. Vince took him in for questioning, that’s all.” Not “asked him to come in,” but “took him in,” which sounded much more ominous. Or had she been careless in her choice of words or exaggerated for effect? Had Violet been “taken in” when she was questioned about the cabin?
“And—”
Rosalie shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“Did he question anybody else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So why Rick? Why Rick first?” Anger was building in her. “Was there a reason? Evidence? Or was it the stupid gossip? The police aren’t supposed to act on rumors!”
“Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”
But Jenna couldn’t sit down; she didn’t want coffee; she didn’t want to stay. She was so angry and so deeply, deeply sorry she hadn’t warned him, hadn’t given him a chance to defend himself. She rushed home and sat down in the outdated kitchen of her freshly painted house and wept.
****
It was after dark when she heard the pickup in the driveway. She didn’t know what to think—her body was immediately thrown into crisis mode, her heart pounding. She hurried to the door, and Rick came up the steps. The moon, only days from full, made the porch light unnecessary. “Don’t unlock the screen,” he said. “I don’t want to scare you.” It seemed a very strange beginning. “I just wanted to ask you a question—one question.”
“What is it?”
“Do you believe I killed Barbara Raymond?”
“No,” she said and was glad of the conviction in her voice.
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