Final Appeal

by Joanne Fluke

  “It sounds wonderful.” Toni sighed. “But, Doris, you know I can’t cook a meal like that.”

  “You won’t have to. I’ll make the dinner and bring it down to your place. All you have to do is look gorgeous and accept compliments.”

  “But that’s cheating, Doris. And I’ve never cheated in my life!”

  “It’s not really cheating if you come up here and help me make it. Now go and call him and invite him to dinner. And then run down to your place and bring back an apron. We’ve got cooking to do.”

  It was a long time before Michael moved. The phone had rung twice before; ten rings each time, but he hadn’t felt composed enough to answer. Now it was ringing again, and he roused himself enough to pick it up. It was probably Stan, calling to tell him that he had to go back to Oakdale now that he’d seen the article in the paper, and decided that Michael should be locked up after all.

  “Mikey? It’s Stan. I’m glad I caught you.”

  Michael was so nervous he almost laughed out loud. Why wouldn’t Stan catch him? He was supposed to stay right here, behind locked doors.

  “Where were you, Mike? I called twice and no one answered. Were you sleeping?”

  “No.” Michael thought fast. “But I took a long shower, Stan. That must have been when you called. The cord’s not long enough to reach in the bathroom.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t worry about it, Mikey. Normally, I wouldn’t call in the middle of the day, but I wanted to get to you first, before you saw the news on the television. One of the jurors who served at your trial was murdered last night. Her name was Margo Jantzen. But the police don’t suspect you, so relax. There’s no cause for alarm.”

  “They—they don’t suspect me?”

  “No. Two things happened, Mike. Good things for you. A couple of nurses from Oakdale swear they spotted you at the Oakland Airport last night.”

  “They do?”

  “That’s right. Of course, you and I both know they’re wrong, but we’re the only ones who know that.”

  “I’ve got a double?”

  “Apparently. The ticket agent remembers selling you a one-way ticket to New York, and the police in California have called off their search. Isn’t that good news?”

  Michael swallowed hard. “Yes, Yes, it’s very good news. Does that mean I can see you now?”

  “Not yet, Mike. They’ll still figure you’ll try to contact me, so we’d better lay low for a while longer, just until we’re sure.”

  “Whatever you say Stan, You said there were two good things?”

  “That’s right, Michael.” My contact at the police station told me there’s an important development in the Jantzen murder. She’s the juror, remember?”

  “Yes, Stan. I remember.”

  “Well, they’ve discovered evidence that she was blackmailing her former employer. They’re concentrating on that aspect now, to the exclusion of anything else. They haven’t even discovered that she was a juror at your trial.”

  “That’s wonderful, Stan. Thanks for telling me.”

  “What’s wrong, Mikey? You sound worried. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, Stan. It’s just . . .” Michael paused for a second. Should he tell Stan about the sleepwalking?

  “Come on, Mikey. Spit it out. Whatever it is, I can fix it.”

  Michael took a deep breath. “I think I might be sleepwalking, Stan.”

  “Is that all?” Stan chuckled. “Look, Mike. Don’t worry about it. You used to sleepwalk as a kid, right after we moved into Aunt Alice’s place. She was worried that you might hurt yourself, but you never did. And it stopped after a couple of months, when you got used to your new surroundings.”

  Michael tried to remember the first few months at Aunt Alice’s, but the memories were too vague. “I don’t think I remember that, Stan.”

  “Of course you don’t. You couldn’t have been more than three years old. Anyway, you shouldn’t let it upset you. It’s probably just a reaction to your new environment. Have a brandy or something right before you go to bed, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “You don’t think it’s dangerous?”

  “I seriously doubt it. If you’re still sleepwalking after a couple of weeks, we’ll figure something out. Okay?”

  “Okay, Stan.”

  “I’ve got to dash off, Mikey. I’ve a briefcase full of papers to file for your appeal. I’ll talk to you at nine o’clock tonight, right?”

  “Right.”

  Michael had no sooner hung up the phone than it rang again. Was it Stan calling back to say he’d reconsidered? That he thought sleepwalking was dangerous after all, and Michael should go back to Oakdale? His fingers were shaking as he picked up the receiver.

  “Hi, Mike. It’s Toni. I am calling to invite you to my place for dinner.”

  Michael was so surprised it wasn’t Stan, his mind went completely blank. Finally, he forced out an answer. “Thanks, Toni. I’d really like to, but—” his mind raced, trying to think of an excuse, “I’m having a problem with work.”

  “You mean with your writing?”

  “Yes,” Michael answered, remembering he’d told Toni and Doris that he was a writer. “It’s my main character. Something just isn’t working right.”

  “That’s too bad, Mike.” Toni’s voice was sympathetic. “Maybe you need to relax and get away from it for a while. After all, you need to eat dinner somewhere and it might as well be at my place.”

  Michael began to smile. It was true he needed to relax and get away from it, but Toni didn’t know that it was his anxiety about his sleepwalking. But talking to Toni seemed to make him feel better. It was also true that he had to eat dinner. “You’re right, Toni. I’d like to come if you’re sure I won’t be intruding.”

  “Intruding? Don’t be silly. We’re having ham, sweet potatoes, and spinach soufflé. With coffee and Lemon meringue pie for dessert. We’ll eat at six, if that’s all right with you.”

  Michael’s mouth was watering as he accepted her invitation and hung up the phone. If the cinnamon rolls were any indication, Toni was a terrific cook, and he hadn’t had a good home-cooked meal in more than ten years.

  Just thinking about the meal Toni had described was making him hungry. Michael found a box of crackers in the cupboard and made himself a snack of Brie and crackers. After he’d eaten he felt much better. Stan hadn’t been a bit worried about his sleepwalking. And Stan was usually right. He’d go over it one more time to try to see things objectively.

  Michael sat down on the couch and went through the whole thing again. The phone book had been open to Margo Jantzen’s name. He’d gone out into the rain last night. Those were the facts, but they didn’t add up to murder. He’d never done anything the least bit violent while he was sleepwalking as a kid, and he’d checked his damp clothing carefully and found no evidence of bloodstains. It was possible, even probable, that’d he’d walked a few blocks in the rain and then retraced his steps and gone back to bed.

  A glance at the clock, and Michael was on his feet. He had to hurry. It was already five-thirty, and Toni had said to come at six. He felt so relieved, he found himself singing an old Beatles refrain while he was dressing in tan slacks, a wine-colored sweater, and a pair of brown loafers. They were bound to be acceptable, even though he had no concept of the current styles. He’d have to remember to check the ads in the paper to see what the well dressed man was wearing.

  Michael was about to go out the door when he remembered the dinner parities he’d gone to with Carole. Everyone had arrived with a gift for the hostess. It didn’t have to be much. You could arrive with a box of candy, a bouquet of flowers, or a bottle of wine. Almost anything was acceptable, but no one had arrived empty-handed. He couldn’t go out to buy candy or flowers, but there might be some wine in the apartment. All he had to do was find it.

  There was a shelf of white wine in the refrigerator, but Toni was serving ham. Wasn’t there some rule about red wine with meat? If Stan h
ad bought white wine, he’d probably picked up some red at the same time. But where had he stored it?

  After a five-minute search, Michael was ready to give up until he remembered Stan’s advice about drinking brandy before he went to bed. If he had brandy, there was a liquor cabinet. Was it behind the stained glass doors he’d noticed in the living room?

  Michael hurried to the living room, pulled open the doors, and smiled as he saw vodka, gin, brandy, Scotch, and every brand of liquor conceivable. And there were twelve bottles of something called Lafite Rothschild nestled in the built-in wine rack. He grabbed one and headed out the door. He knew nothing about wines. He’d always served beer because it was all he could afford. He’d just have to trust that his brother’s taste would please Toni.

  CHAPTER 9

  Neal Wallace was scowling as he unlocked his mailbox and pulled up on the metal door. The rusty hinges were stuck again. How the hell was he supposed to get his mail when the damn door wouldn’t open? Somebody ought to drag Hennessy out of his fancy beach house in Malibu and force him to move into his own rotten building. Then things would be fixed in a hurry! A couple of years ago some judge had actually sentenced a slum landlord to six weeks of living in one of his units. Neal had read all about it in the paper. If he could only remember the judge’s name, he’d sic him on Hennessy.

  There were plenty of things wrong with Hennessy’s building. The pipes leaked, the toilets flushed erratically, and there were hunks of plaster missing from the walls. It was clear the place was falling apart, but Hennessy refused to make repairs. Unless he was openly breaking some law, he didn’t have to. When Neal had complained about his toilet, Hennessy had told him to fix it himself or move out. There were people on the waiting list to get his loft. Artists were willing to put up with massive inconvenience as their lofts were big with plenty of light. Good work space was tough to find.

  Neal’s face was like a thundercloud as he struggled with the mailbox door. The morning had begun very badly. There had been a late-night party for a friend who was leaving town, with plenty of food and drinks. And when he’d crawled out of bed this morning with a pounding head and the terrible thirst of a man who’d munched on salted peanuts all night, he’d discovered that he was out of orange juice.

  There had been no choice but to go out and buy some. The water was terrible, and he refused to drink it. It tasted every bit as vile as it looked, with particles of sludge from the decrepit pipes. For all Neal knew, it could be toxic. Maybe he ought to sic the Hazardous Waste Commission on Hennessy.

  There was a convenience store three blocks down, and Neal had thrown on an old pair of jeans and a Cal Arts sweatshirt to make the trek. And while he was standing in line behind some construction workers who were getting refills on their plastic cups of coffee, some little queer had tried to pick him up! Why did everyone assume that all artists were gay?

  On the way home, Neal had studied his reflection in every window he passed. He didn’t look gay. Sure, he pulled his long brown hair back in a ponytail, but long hair was coming back. And he didn’t walk gay. No mincing little steps or a swish of the butt. Of course, he wore an earring, but that shouldn’t matter. Pirates had worn gold studs in their ears.

  And now the mailbox wouldn’t open. Neal felt like ripping the whole bunch right off the wall. He’d be doing the rest of the tenants a favor. Hennessy would have to replace them to comply with postal regulations.

  It took another few tugs and a good whack with his fist, but at last the door opened with a squeal of protest. Neal stared at the contents of his narrow metal cubicle with shock. There was a whole pile of letters inside, all addressed to him. Not circulars, not bills or advertising offers, but real, personal letters. Neon by Neal was finally getting some public notice. And it was all because he’d landed that commission from the City of Los Angeles.

  A pale blue envelope with the Avant Garde insignia caught Neal’s attention, and he ripped it open eagerly. There was a questionnaire inside with a handwritten note from the editor. Could he please be so kind as to fill out the enclosed? Avant Garde was interested in his formal training, his current work, and his future goals. Neal knew exactly what the questionnaire meant. An acquaintance of his had gotten one once. Avant Garde was sounding him out about a feature!

  Neal picked up the bag with his orange juice and dropped the letters inside. Then he held it under one arm while he unlocked his door. The moment he was inside, he plopped down on the awful green and white flowered couch his mother had given him when she’d redecorated her living room, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. The couch was white wicker, one of Neal’s least favorite materials, with a thin cushion on top. Definitely uncomfortable. And the chair that matched it wasn’t any better.

  He reached for the orange juice and took a swig straight from the bottle, a habit he’d developed in his teenage years that had driven his mother crazy. Who should he call to share his good news? He’d better wait until Avant Garde had made a firm commitment before he told his mother. She’d call all the ladies in her bridge club to brag, and if the article failed to appear, she’d take it out on him. His mother’s wrath was something Neal went out of his way to avoid.

  Neal reached for the phone and dialed the Cal Arts switchboard. The only person he really wanted to tell was Tom. Tom had landed a teaching position after they’d graduated, and he was still doing some decent work on the side. One of his pieces had hung in the County Art Museum. It wasn’t his best work. Those pieces were a little wild for the general public. but it was still a real achievement. Because this was Tom’s conference hour, he’d probably be in his office on campus.

  After a moment’s thought, Neal hung up the phone before the call could go through. Tom would be so excited at the news that he’d rush right over with a bottle of champagne. Then they’d sit around and get stoned all night, and two nights in a row were more than Neal’s system could take. He had to be in good shape to start work on the city mural tomorrow. It was the most ambitious project he’d ever attempted. As far as he knew, no one had ever done a neon mural on a freeway overpass before. His scaffolding was already in place, and the electrical cables were in. He’d provided the workers with a diagram of the wiring, and everything had been done to his specifications. Tomorrow Neal would personally connect the tubes so that the mayor could throw the switch at the public unveiling this weekend.

  Neal shivered a little as he thought about the scaffolding. Whenever he made signs, he hired someone else to climb up on the roof to bolt them in place. Heights scared him. He got dizzy just climbing up on a step stool to get something out of the cupboard. The thought of lowering himself on the scaffolding with nothing but the freeway beneath him was a real white-knuckle proposition. He’d been planning on hiring a crew to connect the tubes while he directed them by walkie-talkie from the nice safe ground below. But then the hostess of On the Town, a local television program, had called to ask if she could do on-the-spot coverage.

  The request from On the Town had changed Neal’s whole outlook. His fear of heights had seemed insignificant in light of the publicity he’d get. It had always been his dream to be featured on the cover of a national magazine, and now he had a good shot at it, especially if On the Town got some good footage of the fearless artist at work, his ass hanging out in the breeze.

  Neal looked through the rest of his mail and sorted it into piles. A letter from a lady who’d been to MONA, the Museum of Neon Art, and had seen his display. She wanted to buy Blue Flamingo, the piece he’d donated to the museum. Everyone loved that damn thing. He could make a fortune if he mass produced it, but that wouldn’t be fair to MONA. He’d call and try to sell her one of his other works.

  Two people wanted estimates on business signs, a restaurant on Pico and a real estate office in the valley. Neal hated to do signs, but they were his bread and butter. It was boring work, and they never wanted anything creative or different, but he always got his money up front, and it paid the rent. After On the T
own made him famous, maybe he could turn down the sign work.

  Another letter, on cream-colored monogrammed stationery, sounded promising. A lady in Beverly Hills wanted to commission a large neon sculpture for her husband’s office. Beause he owned a film production company, Neal knew that it meant plenty of people going in and out to admire his creation. This could lead the way to a goldmine in private commissions.

  The rest of the mail was stuff he could answer later. There was a student who wanted to work as his apprentice for the summer, and a request for him to teach a class in neon technique. They couldn’t pay much, just a small stipend. He’d call to find out how small their stipend was.

  The last letter, written in ballpoint pen on tablet paper, was a real gem. It was a plea for help from a couple in Minnesota named Deke and Sally Torgesen. Neal had no idea how they’d gotten his address. The Torgesens had inherited her grandfather’s farm, and they were turning the old barn into a neon museum. They’d resurrected over a hundred antique neon signs. That was very nice, but the last few sentences were the ones that had captured Neal’s interest.

  Deke and Sally were doing the outside wall of their museum, the one that faced the highway, in neon. They were using an original quilt pattern that had been designed by Sally’s great-grandmother. Because the pattern called for a rainbow of colors, they were desperate to know the mixture of gases that would make up a good strong purple.

  Neal laid Deke and Sally’s letter on top of his pile. It was the one he’d answer first, right after he’d filled out the Avant Garde questionnaire. A barn draped with a neon quilt. The concept fired his imagination. When he got the money for the city mural, he might just fly out to see it.

  Michael watched through the peephole as the delivery man walked away. It was a bit like Christmas, and Stan had played Santa again. When they’d talked last night, Michael had mentioned he wanted a computer. Was there some way he could rent one? Since Stan had told him to stay in behind locked doors, he might as well put the time to good use by learning something about the new technology. Then he’d be better equipped to find a regular job after Stan had won his appeal.