“What did she ask?”
Heather could tell that Marlena was tired of the whole topic. She had the attention span of a gnat.
Heather was sorry for having that thought. Those weren’t her words. She wasn’t even sure what a gnat was, except not attentive. Those were her mother’s—Kay’s—and they were hurled at Heather too often. In fact, those words had started the whole quarrel with Kay that ended with being told in so many words that she was adopted. Because Heather said her classes bored her and Kay said she had the attention span of a gnat. And when Heather said she was sick and tired of hearing that stupid saying, that pushed more buttons, more and more until blammo!, out came the thing about being like what she came from.
But Marlena really didn’t have much of an attention span. Now, she shrugged and looked at her manicure. “About…jeez, I don’t know. Nothing specific. Like what was he like. And about…the Marine Center. How he volunteered there.”
Mr. V looked confused. “Why the hell does that matter?” Then he shook his head. “Is she coming back?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. She gave me her card, in case I—”
“I don’t ever, ever want to hear that you talked to her—or any of them—again, you get that?”
Marlena nodded. “But why?”
“Because I say so. Because I’ve got pride and so should you. I can’t believe it doesn’t make you as mad as it makes me.” He waited. Heather couldn’t imagine what he meant, but he wasn’t looking at her, anyway.
“Don’t you feel insulted?” he demanded. He even looked at Heather now, too.
Heather was ready to feel insulted, but she couldn’t think why. She waited to hear his reason. Marlena looked worried and waiting, too.
“Acting like she can barge in, Miss High and Mighty, whenever she wants to waste your time. Like your job doesn’t count, only hers does. Doesn’t that make you angry? Like we don’t matter here at all! Like we don’t work! And”—he pounded a fist against the door frame near him—“and you know who’s paying her? That rich brat! If he wasn’t a Riddock, you think there’d be people investigating what doesn’t need investigating? People like him who don’t have to lift a finger their whole life make me sick. And so do the people they hire— And then to do it on my dime! In my offices! I resent that.”
“You mean the investigator?” stupid Marlena asked.
Mr. V ignored her question. “Whole family stinks, including the kid. Thinks he can buy anything, including you girls, don’t you see? Like a prince, he thinks he is. He can afford to hire whoever he wants, to find out whatever might help him, no matter what it costs. You going to fall for something like that?”
Marlena’s eyes were wide. “I…I never thought about it that way.”
“That’s your whole problem right there. Start thinking from now on—think about it the only way it makes sense! We don’t count to rich bastards like Riddock. Only they count. I’m not having my office and my business interfered with, you understand? I’m not laying down and letting rich bastards run right over me. You get that?”
Marlena nodded. “Yessir,” she said meekly. So, Heather thought, the girl had actually noticed how angry she’d made him. If she’d kept her mouth shut in the first place, none of this would have had to happen.
“I don’t want you cooperating with somebody taking advantage of you and of me that way, so if she gets in touch with you, you tell her to go to hell.”
“She won’t—I don’t know anything else to—”
“You hear me? Tell her to go to hell.”
“Yessir,” Marlena said in a voice so crushed and flat Heather’s heart expanded with joy.
“That’s my girl,” he said in a brand new, soothing voice. Marlena beamed up at him, and he smiled down at her. Heather’s heart returned to its normal state. God but she hated this job.
Twelve
“Thanks for seeing me,” Billie said.
“My pleasure.” Michael Specht helped her into an upholstered chair at a small conference table, managing to make the gesture one of hospitality, as if she were a fragile, cherished guest, and not his hireling. She felt as if their script had been edited while she was elsewhere. Last time, he’d gone from frosty to awkward appreciation. Today, his expressions and gestures suggested that in her absence, they’d become close friends or, in fact, something more than friends.
“What’s up?” he asked as he settled in next to her. The distance between them was precisely on the line between businesslike and intimate.
Billie spoke from behind that line. “It’s not that I’ve accumulated a terrific amount of anything. But I did find people who knew him, who were friendly with him, who think highly of him—or at least say that he wouldn’t have hurt anyone deliberately, ever.”
“Good!”
His smile was more than encouraging, and encouraging more than business alone.
She didn’t mind at all.
Her pheromones had been dormant for many seasons, but obviously more things than riding a bike came right back after a long hiatus. Somewhere inside a chronic tension eased as she remembered how much fun this particular game could be.
She kept her voice businesslike, hid the glee that wanted to creep in. “I’m troubled that neither of these people was on the list of contacts. Apparently, there’s likely to be other animal-involved people with whom Gavin associated, to one degree or another. People who knew him as a decent, good person and dedicated worker. But they weren’t on the list. Emma’s notes from an interview made mention of the Marine Mammal Center, just in passing, and that’s where I got the information about Veronica Napoles.”
“The llama lady?”
So he knew about her.
“We had to rely on Gavin at first for names, and he hasn’t been totally comprehensible since he found Tracy’s body, or perhaps before then, too. We got other sources from his mother, who doesn’t really know him. That’s harsh, but she truly has invented a different person than the one she gave birth to. So I’d hoped Emma—and you—would be able to either find these names helpful, or find new names. And you did. Good.”
She felt overly praised. Teacher’s pet. Not a totally comfortable sensation. She pushed on. “Animals accept Gavin for who and what he is,” Billie said. “People who saw him around animals saw a sweet and gentle young man, and I thought that if I could speak to more of them maybe we’d find a good character witness. Maybe several.”
“Good idea.”
“Also, we don’t know enough about Tracy, including whether there was someone who’d want to murder her. Were there other suspects?”
“Sounds as if you have someone in mind.”
“Veronica said Tracy’s estranged husband made anonymous phone calls, harassing Tracy—Tracy was staying with her. Veronica said his alibi for the time of her death was weak. Besides, the spouse—the significant other—is always the prime suspect, isn’t he? For logical reasons, because half the time he is the murderer.”
The lawyer looked at his fingernails, and then at her. His lips curled into the hint of a smile. “Your statistics are accurate, but there are several things to consider. One is that everybody except nocturnal animals is likely to have a weak alibi for the predawn hours. Many, many people sleep alone,” he said, pausing to let her consider what he might have meant by adding that, aside from the logic of weak alibis. “Also,” he finally continued, “it’s wise not to read too much into whatever Veronica Napoles has to say about Robby Lester. I’ve heard her claims to the police and they’re unfortunately based on bile. I wish they seemed useful, something I could use in court, but they aren’t. She’s on the defensive with a mile-wide chip on her shoulder against Robby Lester and…” He shook his head.
“What?” Veronica had struck Billie as a level-headed sort. And what was his smile-smirk about? Anti-female bullshit coming up? But that couldn’t be, or why would he hire female investigators?
He leaned closer to her. “First of all on a general level, an ano
nymous phone call by definition can’t be from any one named person. That’s supposition, an allegation with zero to back it up. Second, the beatings: fact is, she was in a small accident around that time. There’s a police report, an insurance report. Her car wasn’t bad, but she did some damage to the other car and to herself—she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. And third, Robby Lester is not that woman’s favorite person, and she is not even close to objective about him. And the feeling’s mutual. It is true that he’s an angry guy right now—and angry at her.”
“Why?”
“Because Tracy left Robby for Veronica.”
“You mean…romantically?”
“You got it.”
She felt his eyes on her, checking her reaction, which was one of surprise shot through with an unexpected surge of anger. She tried to show no expression, although she was frantically sorting backward, through her conversation with Veronica, looking to see if the woman had deliberately misled or conned her.
But replaying the conversations in her head, she didn’t think Veronica had lied. She’d said that Tracy stayed there, that was all, and why should she have said anything beyond that?
“Anybody who winds up odd man out—no pun intended—in a love triangle is understandably upset,” Specht said. “But for a guy like Robby, who’s pretty much what’s called a ‘man’s man,’ Veronica was a successful rival—at least that’s how he sees it—and that was a double-whammy blow to the side of the head.”
“Enough to kill Tracy over?”
Specht exhaled loudly, sounding as if he’d just sprinted across the room. “For my client’s sake, I would like that, but he was checked out and, apparently, there were no links, nothing tangible to put him at the scene, no evidence of threats before or after she left him. With the single exception of the llama lady’s allegations. That’s why she wasn’t on your list. She’s old, unfortunately useless, news.” He shrugged, and then his mood shifted again, lightened up. “You said you wanted to do some things. Such as?”
“I’d like to talk to Gavin Riddock. Maybe I can do better than his mother at getting names. Maybe he’s less confused now.”
“Locked in a cell? I doubt that, but sure, go ahead. I’ll arrange it, no problem. You have a different approach and style than the rest of us—maybe he’ll open up, remember things for you.”
“And to follow up on some of these other friends of his.”
“The animal folks?”
“Primarily.”
“Then don’t wear your mink to the interviews, you hear? The paint splats are permanent.”
“I planned to wear the leopard skin. It’s already spotted.”
He walked her to the door of the office. “How about we touch base again in a few days? Best for me would be late afternoon, early evening. Could you make a detour in your home commute and take a few minutes over a drink somewhere?”
Had they just moved into stage two: open flirtation—or was this in fact only what he said, an easier way to meet?
Anxiety coexisted with—or amped up—the pleasurable buzz he produced in her. It was one thing to speculate and secretly fantasize about, but messing with an employer was bad business practice.
She could almost see Emma in the background, hands on hips, saying, “How stupid do you have to be? How stupid can you be?”
“Where and when?” She’d keep it businesslike. And play dumb. Being blond had advantages and she was happy to play to people’s prejudices. She’d pretend she hadn’t noticed any subtext to this business meeting. See what happened.
*
“Come in, come in,” Lizzie Tomkins said, standing to the side of her doorway. “It’s chilly out there. Awful, isn’t it? This whole business, just awful.” Billie estimated her to be in her early forties, a woman who seemed at ease with herself, but wary of Billie. She wore denim overalls, a white turtleneck, clogs, and a nervous smile. “I was heartsick for her, of course,” she said, leading Billie into a small living room furnished in greens and tans. California colors. Live oaks and summertime hills. The sofa had needlepoint throw cushions; one with an elephant on it, one with a whale. “And for Gavin, too,” she added emphatically. “An all-around tragedy.”
She shooed a cat off the sofa, offered a seat, which Billie accepted, went to the back of the house and shouted, “Keep it down, guys!” into the backyard, and then returned, offering coffee that Billie declined. Finally, after marking her place in a book that had been facedown on her chair, Lizzie settled in. “Veronica called and told me you wanted to talk about Tracy’s murder. What is it you want to know about Gavin? Or is it about Tracy? I wasn’t clear on that.”
“You knew them both.”
“Still do know Gavin, one could say,” Lizzie said mildly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
Lizzie’s smile widened. “Nor was I implying! Nor do I know him much, to be honest. Or Tracy—didn’t know her that well. We met in the gym I belong to, saw her there now and then, and then she showed up for a while in a group I belong to. And Gavin was part of it, too.”
“Which one was that?”
The smile looked as if it must ache at its edges. “I’d have to think about that. I’m pretty much in all the local ones. Whatever people who aren’t overfond of us call ‘animal activist groups.’ I don’t like that classification, do you?”
Billie shrugged. “I’ve never had cause to think about it much,” she said softly. “What bothers you about it?”
“Makes us sound…pushy. Nobody calls other similar groups `activists.’ Besides, we’re activist people, not animals. I think there must be a less objectionable term, myself. Call us ‘not-for-profit lobbyists on behalf of animals.’ That sounds all-American enough. And that’s all we’re doing, speaking up for creatures who can’t speak for themselves. None of the groups are the crazies you read about in the papers, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Her smile slowly faded. Billie realized that Lizzie Tomkins was on high alert, scanning the airwaves for hostility. She was afraid Billie might label and disparage her activities, might say that these groups had led Gavin astray. Whatever Lizzie feared, Billie tried to dispel through smiles and nods. “Sounds good to me, but could you give me a for instance? I ask because we aren’t clear on what groups and possible contacts Gavin Riddock actually has. Something specific in which he was involved?”
“Poor darling. He does get confused, doesn’t he? I think some of what makes him seem odd sometimes is pure fear—his. Of not knowing what to say or do. Of things rushing past him. And I imagine being in jail might push him over the edge—for fearful confusion, I mean.”
“A group?” Billie prompted. “A project?”
“Oh—forgive me! Well, he was there for the wetlands protests, I think. You remember, the condos were going in, destroying natural habitat.”
Billie didn’t remember, at least not which project Lizzie meant. There seemed to be an endless ongoing clash between animal and human habitats.
“I remember him there. I think he had a special fondness for birds and like all of us, was quite in awe of the great white herons who lived—and thanks to us, still live—there.”
“Was Tracy also involved?”
Lizzie’s brow crinkled and she was silent for some time. “Tell the truth, I can’t remember. Sometimes, I blur the memories of cases I worked on personally versus group projects we all were on, and then, it’s hard remembering who worked writing letters, or picketing, or whatever on which thing. Tracy…I don’t actually remember her much. Not there. No. Was she active? Now Gavin, I know he was involved in the dog-park fracas— In all of these, he couldn’t make policy or anything, but he’d mail flyers, things like that. And I remember him at a meeting about the leghold-trap issue. About the red foxes that are eating the eggs of—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, but what did you mean about your cases? Did these groups go to court, or what?”
Lizzie laughed. “I meant my job. I’m a pet mediator.”
Billie had an image of a tabby cat and a donkey seated at a conference table, Lizzie Tomkins between them. Good for Alice in Wonderland, but not as a character witness testifying to anybody else’s stability. “I’m not sure I completely understand,” she said slowly.
“I mediate disputes when people are having problems that concern pets. You know, the neighbor’s dog barking all night, or a cat that invaded a neighbor’s aviary.”
Billie immediately thought of Max’s parents’ aviary, which in turn reminded her of Jesse the Petless. Maybe she’d stop off at the bird store today.
“I get involved in everything from poop disputes to— Well right now, I’m involved in a divorce custody case of a Great Dane. Trust me, there are cases aplenty.”
“I’ve never heard of such a profession. Are you the only person in the world doing this?”
“Not by a long shot. Not even the only person hereabouts. There’s one on salary from the county. Me, I freelance. Work all over this part of California. People hear about me and call, or sometimes police call because they’re sick of the repeated complaints, and then people pay what they can. It’s not a princely sum, but I’m okay. My husband has a normal job. The bills get paid.”
“Amazing,” Billie said. “Truly. I have a million questions, but I suppose I should get back to—”
“Gavin. Right. Nice boy. A man, actually, isn’t he? But he always seemed so boyish.”
“Do you recall any incidents, anything he said or did that you’d think characterized him? That shows that he was nonaggressive.”
“Everything says it! He loved those animals. He looked stricken when he saw what a leghold trap does to a fox. I never saw him raise a hand or his voice to anybody. To anything! But you want something specific, an incident…” She stared into space.
“And Tracy?” Billie prompted. “You don’t remember her?”
“Only a bit. I know they were old friends. It was an odd combo and, frankly, I always thought she must have been using him. In the sense of his being useful—not in a bad way—like a sympathetic ear. Somebody who wouldn’t tell. That’s what I assumed, anyway.”
Whatever Doesn't Kill You (An Emma Howe and Billie August Mystery Book 2) Page 10