by Ann Ripley
Louise leaned forward. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”
“I hate to think Eddie’s involved in these deaths, or Josef Reingold either. But obviously, Eddie’s in a bind, and maybe this was his primitive way of gettin’ out of it.” He put a hand on hers and said, “What do you think we should do—call the sheriff?”
She gently slid her hand free. “I don’t trust that sheriff much, and besides, I doubt he’ll put a bodyguard on Frank.”
“Frank’s pretty smart,” said Pete, seeming to take the removal of her hand in stride. “I hope he can take care of himself.” He paid the bill, but Louise insisted on leaving the tip. Then he suggested they discuss things further at his house, of which he obviously was very proud. She agreed without thinking twice.
Louise fairly floated along as they made their way through the packed crowd. The wine had gone to her head—and not for the first time in her life. Oh, well, since nothing special was planned for Saturday morning, she could afford a small hangover. They left the crowd behind at Tenth Street, turned north, then walked two blocks down Spruce.
“Second house,” he said proudly. It was a low-slung sandstone-and-frame home with a prime view of the Flatirons. Inside, Louise could see evidence of the craftsman style: quarter-sawn oak beams in the ceiling, and intricate built-in cupboards in each room. “It was built in 1900 by a Boulder doctor,” said Pete. “I picked it up for a song in the mid-eighties. That was the depth of the market here. The walls are solid stone, three foot thick, so it’s cool in summer and warm in winter.”
At some point, Pete had flipped a switch on a remote control, causing quiet Chopin preludes to play. The music immediately made her feel good, maybe too good. It spread an ambience she should have recognized as dangerous. On the other hand, was there anything wrong with the fact that she felt relaxed and happy, for the first time in days?
She was surprised by his taste. Again. Sparse, modern furniture rested on Oriental throw rugs. Built-in bookshelves from the original house were augmented by freestanding ones, and seemed to be everywhere. The walls held a collection of art that was mostly western in theme, with the exception of a couple of modern pieces. One instantly attracted her: a bright painting with an abstract feel, of a swimming pool and a figure sitting beside it. The figure radiated silence and solitude. Louise went over to examine it, doubting it could be a David Hockney—but it was. She smiled. “Hockney. I am impressed.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, refusing to give up his corny western facade. “I was fortunate to pick that up in my California period, back in the late seventies. Couldn’t touch it now, that’s for sure.”
She couldn’t help but be drawn to the books, the central feature of the room. There were rows of classics and a big collection of poetry. “Shelley,” she said, slipping out a volume from a shelf, and flipping through until she found Epipsychidion. She wanted to see if she had remembered it right when she quoted it to her husband a week ago.
“Interesting poet,” said Pete. “Do you think he drowned himself, or were the waves of the Mediterranean just too much for his little craft?”
“He had a lot to live for, didn’t he? Mary Shelley, good friends, work he loved. I’d hate to think he killed himself.”
“Who knows?” said Pete. “Poets live on the edge.” He came over to see what she was reading, and looked at her inquisitively.
She said simply, “Bill and I always liked this one,” and closed the book.
“It’s nice to have someone who appreciates literature.” He grinned. Their eyes met for an instant, and then he said, “C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
She trailed behind him as he showed off the modernized kitchen, softened with Mexican tiles he had ordered specially made in a French blue. He and Louise drifted through the rest of the house, finally reaching the master bedroom. It was so understated that at first Louise didn’t realize how beautiful it was—until an evening breeze caused the long taupe curtains to swell at the wide window. The rest of the room was done in off-white, with a puffy off-white comforter tucked primly around the mattress of the bed, and voluminous deep red pillows strewn near the antique headboard.
The room definitely had a nice atmosphere. And the bed looked lovely; they were standing right next to it.
But this couldn’t go on. She knew this with every fiber of her slightly inebriated body, because every fiber of her body had somehow been activated. Was it the paintings, the books, his familiarity with poetry, his pristine and innocent-looking comforter? Whatever it was, she had the sense she had already lost control. Maybe the problems with Bill were deeper than she realized. Maybe he had been away too long for her to remain faithful.…
It had started on the mall, when Pete bent his head solicitously toward her so he could hear her better as they forged through the noisy crowd. Even then she could discern a softening look in his pale eyes. It was the first time she had admitted to herself that she was attracted to him.
And now here they were in this bedroom with its supreme good taste and its promise of earthly delights, to be shared in that bed with its deceptively innocent look.
The whole house had defined and illuminated Pete Fitzsimmons, the man. A man with a soul and spirit. In no sense a good old boy—except when he wanted to play the part—but, instead, a deeply sensitive and artistic human being. One who loved art, literature, and—cats.
Pete had put his hand on her shoulder, the part not covered by her little sleeveless dress. A ripple of feeling went through her that threatened to obliterate twenty-one years of a happy marriage.
“Louise,” he said, and turned her around to him so they were facing each other and she could not avoid what was happening. Tall, warm, and comforting, he put his arms around her in an embrace that made her feel safe from all earthly harm. With a gentle but not intrusive touch, almost as if he were posing her for another picture, he raised her chin. She felt dizzy, helpless, mesmerized by those searching eyes, the soft, parted lips, the pressing body—
Then, something happened. A warm object thudded into the back of her bare calves, and then leaped onto the bed beside them. She yelped and jumped. “What the—”
Pete jerked back, too, and cried “Toughy! You little son of a gun!”
Thank heavens for Toughy, Louise thought. She sighed gratefully and leaned down to greet the feline. “So this is Toughy. How d’you do, Toughy. You really know how to make an entrance.”
“Gosh, I miss Bill. Did you know that this is the longest separation we’ve had in years?”
“Keeps you by his side, does he? That’s what I’d do, if I were married to you. Otherwise—girl like you—couldn’t tell what trouble she might get into.”
Pete was jaunty and full of jokes, as if their romantic moment had never happened. Louise was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter watching him open a can of premier cat food for the slightly-worse-for-wear orange tabby who prowled the counter’s length. Toughy nudged Pete affectionately each time he went by, stopped politely for Louise to scratch him behind the ears, then restlessly pursued the remainder of the countertop.
“See,” said Pete, “male, unfixed, and hungry. That’s my Toughy. How can I ask him to stay home all day and sit on the living room windowsill like a wuss?”
“So it’s his destiny to go out and get in fights that send the gentler neighborhood cats to the vet.”
“Yep, until I block that cat door. With the mountain lion situation like it is, I may come to that.” He shot her a halfway serious look from under the reckless eyebrows. “So, back to Bill. I kind of figured you were the loyal wife—even when I was puttin’ the moves on you.” Louise felt herself blushing in embarrassment. As far as this man was concerned, it was just a trial balloon—putting the moves on her to see how far he could get. He had no guilt, and he didn’t expect her to have any, either. But did she? She wouldn’t carry this as a secret the rest of her life. But on the other hand, she didn’t intend to tell Bill, at least no
t right away.
Then Pete surprised her. He leaned both arms on the counter and said, “Look, Louise. If you didn’t miss your husband—I’d think less of you. You’re not only awfully pretty, you’re better than that. You’re like an old shoe. And that’s the very best thing I can say about a woman.”
With that, he dumped the cat food in a clean cat dish and set it on the floor, causing Toughy to jump lithely down from the counter and stick his nose into it. “Now that we’ve got that straight, d’you want to catch the art movie with me? I promise I won’t even try to hold your hand. For sure, it’s too early for you to go home to that lonely house.”
“Thanks for likening me to an old shoe. I can’t remember when I’ve had a compliment just like that.”
Fleetingly, she wondered what it would be like to have love affairs with other men, which would have been easy to do on a number of occasions during her marriage. Here she was tonight, with an especially attractive, intelligent, naturalistic man who, to read from his eyes, had great depths of passion.
Pete wouldn’t have “taken” her—they would have taken each other in an egalitarian kind of way, in his beautiful, shadowy bedroom. But when the cat pounced, the little sexual pang inside her evaporated like a drop of dew in the western sun. And, of course, it helped that the wine was wearing off. Although he was a lovable man, she didn’t need or want Pete. She wanted no arms around her except her darling Bill’s.
“So hold on for a minute,” he was saying, and disappeared to retrieve his cell phone. She wandered into the dining room and over to a big rolltop desk. She couldn’t help seeing the set of papers in the upper corner. Leaning over, she looked at the name on the top. Reingold. It was a business proposal, handily—for her—prepared in a graphic, easy-to-read style. It named Pete, Josef Reingold, and two others in a one-thousand-unit housing project on land proposed to be annexed to the city of Longmont. Pete had attached a Post-It note to the front. “Josef—What do you say we call it the Twin Peaks Mountain Shadows Development?”
She smiled at how ridiculous the name was. Even she knew that if you could see the twin peaks of the Rockies, you were on the plains, not in the mountains’ shadows. But Pete had created a name that would appeal to home buyers, whether or not it made any sense.
Such a skilled marketer. Once again, she realized she was in the presence of a real mover and shaker, fully as competent as the movers and shakers she met and sometimes had to deal with in Washington, D.C. Pete Fitzsimmons was skilled in everything: capital acquisition, marketing, and especially, a flair for people management that would be the envy of many a Washington pol.
She heard footsteps, and barely had time to scamper away from the desk.
“Ready?” he asked.
Louise looked at him, and her suspicions mounted as quickly as one of those piles of afternoon thunderheads over the Flatirons. He’d called her an “old shoe,” which somehow had felt good—but was that to assuage whatever shame she might have felt at nearly being persuaded onto that big white bed?
And Pete pretended to be concerned about the Porter murders, and about Frank Porter’s short-range future on this earth. Yet here he was, deeply involved with Josef Reingold, the key figure in any Eddie Porter plot to murder his family. Not only that, but Pete himself had just as much motive as anyone else to get rid of the two “knee-jerk” Porters who were going to sell the ranch for open space.
As she looked up at his smiling face, however, her suspicions dissatisfied, like those clouds that dropped their brief rains on the Front Range and sailed on eastward to Kansas.
Chapter 15
A FEW MINUTES LATER, THEY were standing in front of the movie house, and Louise was having second thoughts. Pete said, “Look, pardner, I promised—no hanky-panky. I want to be your friend. Remember that old shoe business? Let’s just be old shoes together. Anyway, what’re ya gonna do, go home and fight with lions again?”
A shiver ran through her. “No, thanks. I just have a lot of free-floating worry.”
“About what?”
“Well, Frank Porter, for one. What’s Eddie Porter up to? I’m even worried about Bill. I haven’t heard from him in days.”
“Aw, c’mon. Better to worry with me than alone in that house with lions prowling around it.”
She nodded reluctantly and they went in.
It was dark inside the theater itself, for the feature had begun. “Gives new meaning to film noir,” she said, giggling. They stumbled down die aisle and felt their way into two seats. After awhile, she could see a little, and noticed two men come down the aisle and sit far to the front of the theater. She and Pete exchanged glances; he had seen them, too.
Since the movie was not compelling—the agonized French heroine was too self-engrossed for her taste—Louise found herself focusing on die late arrivals. Finally, as the story was moving toward a predictable conclusion, she had an idea. Plucking Pete’s sleeve, she whispered, “Those two…”
“Yeah, I know. You’ve been watching them instead of the movie. I’m beginning to read your mind. Let’s just duck out the front door.” They hurried down the side aisle and opened the exit door near the stage, throwing illumination from a streetlight onto the couple. Josef Rein-gold, again, this time with Tom Spangler. They were so busy talking in their isolated theater seats that they didn’t appear to notice Louise and Pete’s departure.
But they looked back, as they started down the street, to see the theater door had been shoved open right after them. Out came Reingold and Spangler. The nuclear plant manager, jovial as ever, caught up with them and said, “We decided to join the artsy crowd tonight, like you. But what a dismal film!”
Josef Reingold, who had paused to light a cigarette, sauntered up to join them. He eyed Louise and Pete, nodding politely to her. “Mrs. Eldridge, hello. And Pete, my friend.”
“So, you two are just out for a little Friday night fun,” said Pete. He appeared to be a little nervous in the presence of Josef Reingold, while Louise was busy trying to figure out what linked the developer to the plant manager. Was Reingold lusting after Spangler’s prime piece of undeveloped property near the plant?
Then Tom Spangler took the mystery out of it. “Josef invited me out for die evening, because my wife and family are back visiting in Oklahoma. Not often do I get a night out with the boys.” His eyes shone—evidence he enjoyed palling around with the debonair Reingold? Or the effort of keeping up this aw, shucks facade? He studied his watch. “Heck, it’s ten, and I don’t know about you folks, but it’s gettin’ to be my bedtime.”
They bid good night to each other, and Louise and Pete went to the parking garage where she had left her car earlier in the day. “Reingold keeps interesting company,” she said. Pete looked at her strangely, as if she’d gone a step too far. “Louise, you’re getting a little paranoid, aren’tcha? Did you ever think that Tom Spangler is just one of the guys? Next, it might be me Josef is talkin’ to. As for your investigating habits, if I were your husband, I would worry about you—because you put everybody on your shit list.”
They stood awkwardly next to her car. Pete seemed to realize the reason for her silence. His criticism had made her embarrassed and uncomfortable. He said, “Some people are not as bad as you think, if you only knew them on a day-to-day basis. How can I say this? Land is fair game. Anyone can buy land … and make a ton of money. Land is destiny. It’s my destiny. Don’t think of me as a ruthless fellow. I’m just a guy who likes land.” His eyes widened. “Hey, wait. You couldn’t think that I—”
“No, of course not,” she protested. But she remembered the papers she’d peeked at on his desk.
He reached over and took her hand. “You don’t look convinced, but I’ll take your word on it. Louise, look, we’re just beginning to become real good friends. Why, we’ve gotten through the hostilities stage—sparring with words, and that sort of silly stuff. And through the romantic stage—when I foolishly, but not unnaturally, tried to seduce you. And now you’re aimi
ng to make me into a suspect.” He shook his curly head. “I sure wish you wouldn’t do it. I think you should just go home, lock your doors, and go to bed.”
She didn’t know what to say. Actually, Pete was beginning to sound just like Bill, constantly asking her to quell her natural curiosity. But unlike Bill, Pete had his own selfish motives.
“Thanks for the warning, Pete. And thanks for the evening.” Her voice was remote. So much for a budding friendship.
For some reason, she felt tears coming to her eyes. She turned away from him and let them roll down her cheeks. Probably the wine.
Anxious to get home now, Louise pulled into the downtown traffic, a residue of tears still on her cheeks. A bumper sticker on a passing sports car provided a welcome distraction. HONK IF YOU’VE BEEN DIVORCED FROM DANA, it read. Irrationally, her tears began to turn to laughter.
Mood swings, she thought. Don’t tell me I’m in that stage of life. Oh well, maybe veering from crying jags to fits of laughing goes with fooling around with other men, getting shot at, and facing down a mountain lion.
Louise speedily maneuvered past a couple of cars to catch a look at the driver. It was a lush-looking female with a mass of long, dark hair. Dana herself. What an egocentric she must be, but an egocentric with a sense of humor. Dana must have felt the stare from the neighboring car, for she flung her long mane aside and turned big, flashing eyes on Louise, then broke into a grin. She stepped on the gas, and her car fairly leaped down the road.
Louise was still chuckling when she spied a gray Jaguar pulling into the next lane. It was Reingold. As the stream of cars hurried north through town, her thoughts churned. He was going to his house, and she simply would continue the twelve miles north to her house. This was what Pete, Bill, and Marty—all the current men in her life—would suggest.
They were in north Boulder, with its desultory factories and abbreviated strip malls, homeless shelter, and topless bar. Reingold’s car gracefully swerved left at the street next to the bar, and Louise realized he must live in Boulder Heights, a subdivision of close-in but exclusive mountain homes that Ann had described to her.