Black Coffee

by Jaye Watson

  That's all right. He may not like what I say, either.

  Chapter Nine

  As the train rolled onto the bridge across the Columbia, Emaline lifted her knapsack to her lap and pulled out her cell. "I should call Detec--"

  Harry snatched the phone from her hand. "Don't say his name, don't call anyone. And we're not getting off here." His furious whisper was barely audible.

  "But--" She took a deep breath and clung to what little patience she had left. "Why not?"

  "I'll explain later. While we're in the station, pretend to be asleep." He pulled his collar up so it half concealed his face. "Put your head on my shoulder."

  She obeyed, but at that moment, snuggling up to Harry was the last thing she wanted to do. Aside from his smell, his attitude didn't encourage conversation. He'd given surly replies to her few questions and in general had been the worst traveling companion possible.

  Using the broadcast station announcement to mask his words, he said, "There's a good possibility we were followed. They may not be sure of who I am, but we're not going to give them any hints. In Eugene we'll find a cheap motel. You can call Armbruster in the morning. I'm pretty sure he's clean."

  "They--whoever 'they' are--can't possibly know who I am."

  "Don't be too sure. Now, go to sleep."

  Incredibly, she did, and didn't awake until the train stopped briefly in Albany.

  Harry still wouldn't talk to her.

  Wide awake now, she watched the shadowy world outside the train slide by and thought about what she would be facing when she returned to Portland.

  Martha. It had been easy to put her thoughts and feelings about Martha aside while she concentrated on Harry. But now he was safe--I hope he's safe--and she had to face the fact that one of her best friends might be a murderer.

  "I don't think there's much doubt about it," she murmured. "The way she acted when I asked if she'd killed Walt..."

  "What are you talking about?" As before, Harry's voice was barely above a whisper.

  "Nothing. I mean, nothing that concerns you. Something from work."

  "You said you didn't have a job. Were you serious?"

  Unable to resist, she spoke in a normal volume. "Those bastards at the donation center accused me of pilfering. As if I'd take any of that junk." She put a whine in her voice. "I thought I'd be able to find something in Seattle, but then you turned up, wanting to go home. God, Bob, can't you do anything on your own?"

  She waited through a short silence, wondering if he'd play her game.

  "I didn't have any money." His whine matched hers.

  "I'm not surprised. You probably spent it all on booze. If you think I'm going to support you, think again."

  The man across the aisle leaned out. "Look, folks, it's late. Why don't you save your argument until we get to Eugene?"

  Harry flipped him the bird, and Emaline had to fight to contain her laughter. "Sorry." She sat back, pulled the Amtrak magazine from the seat pocket, and pretended to read it.

  They arrived in Eugene a little behind schedule. She'd called ahead for a motel reservation, but Harry had warned her to ask for only one room.

  "We're down on our luck and we're brother and sister, remember."

  "Down on our luck is right. I haven't enough cash left for both the motel and a cab. Good thing it's only about a mile to the motel."

  Unfortunately, that mile wasn't all easy going for a wheelchair. At first Harry insisted on walking, but his bad leg soon drove him back into the chair, which he reluctantly allowed her to push. They made a couple of detours, but eventually got there, well after midnight. By the time they'd checked in and were inside their room, she was exhausted. She tossed her knapsack on the bed closest to the door. "I hope you intend to shower."

  "What? You don't like eau d'dumpster?"

  "It's a good thing I have a strong stomach, or I wouldn't have been able to stand sitting next to you for seven hours."

  "Afraid you'll have to put up with it a little longer. Bob is a slob." He set the brakes on the wheelchair and pushed himself out of it. "I'll just be a minute." He went into the bathroom, cast thumping with each awkward step.

  Emaline and Harry had never been intimate, had only just gotten to the steamy kiss stage when he went off on his special assignment. She didn't know how to act around him now, despite the valentine gift he'd sent her. The message with it hadn't been exactly loverlike: Happy Valentine's Day. Wish I could be with you. I hope you'll think of me when you wear this. Yes, it had been a heart, but that's what people gave on Valentine Day. It didn't mean he was in love with her or anything.

  His behavior when he emerged from the bathroom only strengthened her doubts. Silently he sat on the side of the bed and unwrapped the dirty elastic bandage from around his cast. It fell from his leg in two pieces. Working one handed, he wrapped everything together and handed it to her. "We can't leave this here. Tomorrow I want you to find a dumpster somewhere far from here and get rid of it."

  "That was a disguise."

  "More or less. I'm just lucky Jim and I had the same hands smashed. My foot's not as damaged as his leg."

  When he removed his shoes, she saw that his feet were tightly wrapped in filthy rags. "Oh, Harry!"

  "They'll heal. So will the hand." He limped to the window and twitched the curtain aside a scant inch. After peering out for a good minute, he returned to the bed. "I'm beat. Don't make any calls tonight. We'll sort this out in the morning." He collapsed onto the bed, turned his back on her and pulled the blanket high. Within a minute she saw his body relax.

  Sleep did not come so easy to her.

  * * * *

  The continental breakfast in the office consisted of cello-wrapped sweetrolls and weak coffee. Emaline didn't care. They hadn't eaten on the train because Harry had refused to let her go to the snack bar. She shamelessly took four rolls and two cups of coffee--no creamer, no sugar--back to the room.

  Harry had washed the worst of the grime from his face and hands while she was gone. She set the coffee before him and tore open one of the rolls. "Talk. You don't get food until you do."

  "Cream and sugar?"

  "I take mine black. Why did we come to Eugene?"

  "Our tickets were for here. And it's less likely someone here will recognize me. I'll see that you get back to Portland."

  "I'll get myself back. Emily came from Eugene. How are you going to get home?"

  "Bob lives here. Harry's in New York. He'll fly into Portland in a few days. Look, Em, there's a lot I can't tell you. And a lot I want to know.

  "What on God's green earth made you pull such a crazy stunt? When I saw you on Wednesday-- My God, I thought my heart would stop. Don't you know how dangerous it was to come looking for me?"

  "Never mind that. How did Jim get hold of you? I thought you were lost."

  "We had a drop set up for emergencies. I hadn't been able to check it for a while, but Thursday I managed. Had to, after I saw you. The message said that I was to meet a woman at the depot Friday afternoon."

  "Why couldn't you... No never mind. It's probably a secret." She huffed. "I need more coffee. While I'm gone you can contact your secret pal and make your arrangements." She tossed him her phone and the last sweetroll. "It's a throwaway so you're probably safe using it. Five minutes. Make them count."

  She stood outside the motel office and watched the wall clock through the window while she sipped a second cup of the awful coffee. Where was a Starbuck's when you needed one? There was a 7-Eleven down the street, but she didn't want to leave Harry alone that long. He might disappear again.

  When she let herself back into the motel room, he greeted her with, "I'll be picked up within the hour. Have you got enough money to get back to Portland?"

  "I bought a round trip ticket, open return. I'll be fine." Keeping her voice steady was about all she could manage. She had been so sure they had a chance. Perhaps not a happy-ever-after future, but a...a strong friendship. Perhaps more than that. But this
hard, secretive man was not the Harry she'd believed herself to be falling in love with.

  "Em, I-- Shit!" He swiped a hand across his face. "This isn't the way I want us to be with one another. I want to tell you..." His hands fisted on top of his thighs. "I'll tell you everything, I promise. Just a few more days."

  "I'll hold you to that. Now, I'd better be going. It wouldn't do for me to see who picks you up, would it?"

  "You'd be safer if you weren't here. There's still a chance I'm a sitting duck."

  She touched his cheek, felt how tightly his jaw was clenched. "You know where I'll be. Come back safely." Slinging her knapsack over her shoulder, she walked out of the door.

  And wondered, once again, if she'd ever see him again.

  * * * *

  She had missed the morning train to Portland, and the Coast Starlighter had no open seats, so she ended up on an Amtrak bus and didn't arrive until nearly six that evening. TriMet got her home, but she got off one stop short of her usual one, so she could approach her house by a roundabout route. The last thing she wanted was for Mrs. Irvington, to see a street person entering the Banister house. The police would be there within minutes. She cut through two back yards to get to her own.

  Her message light was blinking madly, but she ignored it and headed straight for the bathroom and a long, hot shower. When she undressed, every garment, including her underwear, went into the trash.

  Clean, clad in comfortable sweats, she put the kettle on. A pot of tea was what she needed. And toast. Cinnamon toast. Comfort food.

  While the water heated, she called Mrs. Irvington. "I'm back, and way too tired to talk. I'll call you tomorrow." She endured the sweet old lady's concerned questions and advice and hung up as soon as she could.

  The message light was still blinking.

  With a sigh, she located her memo pad, picked up a pencil, and punched the button.

  "Em, I'm worried about Martha. Call me." Amy.

  "Dr. Banister, we can't seem to find the original of your report on the Winkler paternity suit. Please call me back as soon as possible." Fontina, and she'd call him when she was good and ready.

  "Martha needs help. Em. I'll do what I can, but she's always depended on you. Call me as soon as you get back." Jerri.

  There were six more calls, four from Jerri, two from Amy, all concerning Martha. In each on the sense of impending disaster was stronger. She was reaching for the phone to call Jerri when it rang.

  "Oh, God, Em, I'm so glad you're back. Marcie refuses to come back until the memorial service, and I don't know who else to call. Martha needs more than support and sympathy. She's coming unglued."

  "I can't--"

  "No, of course not. I'm here now, and I've arranged to stay overnight. But if you could come over tomorrow morning, I'd really appreciate it. I've already taken two days off this week."

  "Of course. I'll be there around seven."

  "Thanks. How did your interview go?"

  "Int-- Oh, yes, it was fine. I'll tell you about it tomorrow." As she set the phone down, she wondered what interview Jerri was talking about.

  That's the trouble with lies. You have to remember which ones you told to whom.

  Suddenly weary, she decided to head for bed. But before she went, she set the coffeemaker up for morning. Tea was just not strong enough for what she had to face tomorrow.

  * * * *

  Martha looked awful. Her usually nicely coiffed hair was tangled, dull. She wore baggy sweatpants, a too-big t-shirt with food stains down the front. The house had a sour smell to it, and an overflowing ashtray sat on the small table beside Walt's big leather recliner.

  "I'm still mad at you," was how Martha greeted her when she followed Jerri into the living room.

  "I'm not real happy with you, either. How could you do it, Martha?"

  "Em--"

  "It's okay, Jerri. Martha and I understand each other. Don't we, Martha?"

  "I understand you're a real bitch."

  "You've known that for years. And you're a real slob. Look at you. You stink. Your house is filthy. No wonder Marcie refuses to come home."

  Martha let out a shriek. "Go to hell!" she stormed out, heading toward the back of the house.

  "Em, she's in a precarious emotional state. You need to be gentle."

  "I don't think so. When we were in high school, she'd get in these moods where she let herself go. Wouldn't bathe, didn't comb her hair. Binged on chocolate." A quick glance around told her that chocolate was no longer Martha's source of comfort. Now it was bourbon. "Don't worry, Jerri. I'll take good care of her. You go home, get some rest."

  "I hate to leave you--"

  Emaline hugged Jerri. "Go. I'll call Amy if I need help."

  It took several more minutes of reassurance before Jerri was willing to leave. Once she'd gone, Emaline went looking for Martha. As expected, she was hiding in the bathroom. I hope Jerri made sure there was nothing in there she could harm herself with.

  Armed with a screwdriver and a meat skewer, Emaline tapped on the door. "Time to come out and face the music."

  "Go away!"

  "Nope. If you won't come out, I'll come in. You've used up all my patience."

  A click, a rattle, and the door swung open. "Yes. I did."

  "Huh?"

  "You asked me if I killed Walt. I just answered. I did. I fed him a whole carton of cigarettes. In brownies. When he got so sick, I gave him nicotine tea. And when he soiled himself, I used an infusion of tobacco to wash him with." She shoved past Emaline and stomped into the kitchen, where she poured three fingers of bourbon into a tumbler.

  After a good swig, she said, "So what are you going to do about it? The Medical Examiner released his body to the mortuary last week. He's been cremated. So I'm not a murder suspect."

  "You're proud of it, aren't you?"

  Martha finished the bourbon and set the glass carefully on the slate counter. "Proud? No. Glad to be rid of him? Yes, to be honest, I am." She stared at Emaline for a long time. "Oh, God, Em, what have I done?"

  She collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing. Harsh, wracking sobs that went on and on.

  Chapter Ten

  When Martha had wept herself dry, Emaline helped her to her feet and into the dining room. She'd heated a can of chicken noddle soup and spread some well-aged bread with peanut butter. There had been little else in the almost bare cupboard. Martha had never been much of a cook--Walt's one redeeming characteristic, in her opinion, was that he enjoyed cooking and was good at it--but it looked as if no one in the family had shopped for weeks.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Eat anyhow." She sat across the mahogany table and propped her chin on one hand. "I'm not sure what to do. The good-citizen, law-abiding part of me wants to call Detective Armbruster and tell him you're ready to confess to murder. The best-friend, he-got-what-he-deserved part understands and mostly approves."

  Martha nibbled on the bread and said nothing.

  "What I'd like to do is have you talk to Harry. But before you decide, I want you to think what it will mean if you get charged with murder. To Marcie. To you, for the rest of your life."

  "Walt had cancer."

  "What?"

  "He had cancer. Lung cancer. He refused surgery, but the doctor said it was probably too late anyhow."

  Stunned, all Emaline could do was sit and stare at Martha, who finally picked up her spoon and started eating her soup.

  "You said talk to Harry. I thought he was lost."

  "He was. But I found him." She waved aside the question that she could see in Martha's eyes. "Never mind. Long story. He'll be back in a few days. Will you talk to him?"

  "Do I have to?"

  "No, but I think you'll feel better if you get some sort of closure. Make a confession. I don't think Harry will arrest you. But it's a chance you'll have to take."

  "I'll think about it." She went back to spooning up soup. When her bowl was empty, she said, "Is there any more?"

  "The r
est of the can. Do you want more bread too?" As Emaline was carrying the bowl into the kitchen, she wondered if she'd ever lived a stranger week in her entire life.

  She muttered, "Probably not. I just hope everything gets back to normal soon."

  But it wouldn't. She was unemployed, with no idea what she was going to do. The gentle, humorous man she'd fallen in love with had showed her a dark, brooding side to himself that she wasn't sure she liked. And her best friend was a murderer.

  Normal would be good.

  The rest of the day, she took care of Martha. Got her showered and between fresh sheets for a nap. Picked up dirty clothes scattered around the bedroom and started a load of wash. Found a couple of cardboard boxes in the garage to hold Walt's clothes. "I wonder if Martha wants to keep any of this." She decided to pack everything. If either Martha or Marcie wanted to keep anything, it would be waiting. The contents of his bedside stand went into another box. Surely Martha would want to go through the small personal items someday. In the meantime, Martha wouldn't be constantly facing reminders of Walt in the bedroom.

  When she looked into his workroom, she realized it would take more than an afternoon to deal with. And it wasn't her place anyhow. "Maybe Martha will ask Marcie to do it. But not too soon, I think." She shut the door and wondered if there was any way she could keep Martha out of it. Surely her friend still had some feelings for Walt. His workroom, where he'd worked on his model trains and their landscapes was surely something both Martha and Marcie would treasure. Someday.

  Perhaps Martha would ask someone from the model railroad club to help her.

  When Martha got up from her long nap, she looked and sounded more like herself than she had for weeks. She said, as she emerged, in clean clothes and with her hair blow-dried into its usual pageboy, "I think I can cope now. I've been so... I don't know. We found out about the cancer a week before Perky--" Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes a moment. Before Emaline could take her into her arms, she said, "No, I need to stand on my own two feet. You and Amy and Jerri have been propping me up for long enough.

  "Walt didn't want to tell anyone about the cancer. He said he'd take care of himself when it got bad enough, but until then he wanted to go on as always. He did make sure his will was up to date and he wrote a letter for Marcie." Again she closed her eyes, and this time she sobbed aloud. "I didn't give it to her. We fought."