Caught in the Net

by Jessica Thomas

  “Very literate, Alex. I’m impressed. Anyway, the Doc took a look, and guess what? Your Mr. Foot had come ashore with . . .”

  Before I could make my usual disclaimer, a pale and red-eyed Janet re-entered the kitchen.

  “A bullet hole in the back of his head.”

  Chapter 9

  As one, Sonny and I jumped to our feet, each grabbing one of Janet’s arms and pushing her firmly into a nearby chair. We stood for a moment, one on either side of her, until we were reasonably sure she was not about to faint. Well, experience is a great teacher, right? And Mrs. Peres hadn’t produced two dummies, had she? Sure enough, Janet turned a shade paler than she already was, and her hands were shaking, although she managed to mutter, “I’m okay, I’m okay,” several times until she seemed to convince herself, if no one else. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Go ahead with your conversation, I really am all right.”

  “Not much more to say.” Sonny shrugged and leaned back against the sink, nursing his coffee mug.

  “I guess not,” I agreed. “This pretty well has to be an end to it. It just about has to be some kind of drug deal gone sour. Somebody must have tried to pull a fast one around payment, or tried to sell bad stuff . . . something along those lines. No doubt the—uh, remains of the younger guy will turn up somewhere in a day or so.”

  “Well, apparently I’m definitely in the minority.” Sonny poured himself another mug of coffee.

  Between Sonny’s thirst and Janet’s tender tummy, I guess I could forget about l’amour. “Everybody shares your theory, Alex. But I still disagree. I think when forensics removes that bullet it will be a thirty-two, and it will be a perfect match with the one removed from the old man at the liquor store in Plymouth. And I think the younger guy is alive and well. I think he got safely ashore in that Zodiac and he’s right here in Ptown. I know it. I feel it. I know there is something I’m still missing, but I’m that close.” He held thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Something is obvious and I just can’t quite see it. But I will, believe me, I will.”

  Janet still looked a little green. I did not think it was time to pass the pastry around. And Sonny was definitely in one of his “stuck” modes. Somehow the day seemed headed south. “But still, Sonny, it could be drugs. Even if these two men are the ones who’ve been robbing stores around New England and New York, wherever . . . they could have been doing it to get money to buy drugs, couldn’t they? I mean, it’s no secret drugs do come in through New Bedford. Maybe they’re starting up around here, too. Hell, maybe Harmon and his cronies are right. Maybe there is some ‘mother ship’ lurking out there.”

  “Well, maybe,” Sonny admitted. “I know it’s possible I’m completely wrong and it’s just the age-old thieves-fell-out story. But as of right now, I’m still going with something much more close-up and personal. I mean, why would the two robbers need to keep robbing stores over a period of months? Once they got enough money to make an initial drug purchase, their profits from the resale should have been plenty to keep buying more and selling more. That’s the way it works. It’s just like any other product. You replenish your inventory using profits from sales.”

  He stretched comfortably. “Anyway, let’s get off this unhappy and unproductive subject, Alex, we’re ruining Janet’s day. What

  have you two dreamed up to do on a nice, sunny morning?”

  “There’s a minor problem of logistics,” I replied.

  “Never your strong point.”

  “Oh, shut up. You see, both Janet and I need to go to the supermarket, as you so kindly pointed out earlier. I also have to deliver Diane Miller’s confidential final report and bill. Although,” I added ruefully, “at this point it’s about as confidential as appearing on Jerry Springer. Still, she doesn’t know I goofed, and I don’t want her to see someone outside her house waiting in the car, while I run in with the news that her husband has forgotten that pesky little clause about cleaving only to each other.”

  “Well, it might not be PC for conserving fossil fuel and working toward clean air, but why don’t you just take two cars?”

  “Because I don’t have a car,” Janet answered. Her voice was still shaky, and she still looked as if she weren’t entirely with us.

  Sonny looked surprised. “Oh. I just assumed you did.”

  “No. A friend drove me down to Provincetown last—ah, Sunday, I guess, and helped me find the little apartment. Then she drove back to Boston that night. I really haven’t ever felt I needed a car in Boston. I think they are just an expensive nuisance in a big city, don’t you?” She smiled at Sonny and I was relieved that she was looking less pale. Although it suited her, in some metaphysical poetic way.

  “Some people feel that way,” he said. “All I know is I want one when I want one. Anyway, Alex, just drop Janet at the market. Let her do the shopping while you go tell Ms. Miller that Ray has a presidential problem with his zipper.” He snickered.

  “Oh, Sonny, hush,” I snapped. “It’s bad enough I slipped the other night and told you who I was working for. Then I left the report and photos where Janet couldn’t miss them. I really don’t want to make it worse by laughing at them, even behind their backs. I doubt either one of them is going to find it funny. Or—or—the other person involved, either, if it ever gets that far. But your shopping idea makes sense. Is that all right with you, Janet?”

  “Oh, sure, whatever is easiest,” Janet answered indifferently. She was staring out the kitchen window as if she were miles away. I began to wonder if maybe someone she knew had died violently when she was a child and she might have witnessed it, or maybe she was still thinking about her dysfunctional family. Now that would depress anybody.

  Sonny left shortly to do ‘this and that,’ he said, looking thoughtful as he gave Fargo a good-ye rumple. I made out a grocery list of essentials—dog food, beer, pastry, chips—you know, the basic food groups. Janet looked at it, shook her head in disgust, and was prompted to offer to make dinner. I leapt at the idea. Real home-cooked meals don’t come my way all that often. Even when I eat at Mom’s, which is fairly rare, I notice a lot of convenience and precooked items that were not on our table when I was a kid. And maybe getting creative in the kitchen would make Janet forget her troubles, whatever they were.

  Fargo seemed so woebegone I let him come along with us, and the three of us got into the car. As we drove across town toward the supermarket, Fargo looked mad at being relegated to the rear seat, Janet looked wan and distracted, I was less than thrilled at my impending errand. We were a sour and silent trio, and apparently not one of us felt up to any attempt to improve our mutual mood.

  I dropped Janet at the market with a cryptic, “I’ll pick you up in an hour.” She nodded in unspoken agreement and gave a halfhearted wave. Fargo slithered into the front seat with a heavy sigh and a dirty look and I threw the car into gear with a jerk.

  Diane Miller opened her door, admitting me to what was now a familiar setting. She held an armload of laundry headed to or from the washer. The little girl was cutting pages from an expensive magazine into strange shapes and snorting with pleasure as they fell to the floor. The baby was rattling his bars and shouting, “Gaaaghga,” which seemed a logical comment on the way my day was going.

  “Oh, it’s you,” was Diane’s gracious greeting.

  “Yes, indeed.” I tried to smile and gave it up. “I have a report and a few photos to go over with you, Mrs. Miller. Then I think we can probably bring my activities in your behalf to a close here.” God, I sounded like a barrister in a Dickens novel.

  “What have you got? As if I couldn’t guess. This didn’t take long. I hope you’ve been thorough about this. Did you say you had photos?” Her eyes glinted with malice and she flashed a half smile.

  “Is there somewhere we could sit down? It might be easier.”

  “Come this way.” She dumped the laundry onto the couch, and I followed her into the kitchen, where she swept some dirty dishes into a far corner of the table and indica
ted a chair. I sat down, and handed her a copy of my report but gave her a brief verbal account of where I had followed Ray and whom he’d been with. I handed her the pictures in chronological order.

  She flipped through them with glum disinterest until she got to the one of his kissing Marcia’s hand.

  “Bitch. Bastard! I’ll kill him! If he wants a divorce, it’s going to cost him plenty! He won’t have a pair of socks left when I finish with him! And she’ll be sorry. I’ll name her in any divorce! And I’ll sue her and get that tacky old shop and every cent she’s got!” Her voice climbed to a shriek, and her daughter wandered in brandishing the scissors and looking frightened.

  I gave her the sincere smile I reserve for children. “It’s all right. Everything is okay,” I lied in that awful oozy voice people who know nothing about kids always use when they’re trying to convince them of something they, and everybody else, knows isn’t true. “Mommy is just a little upset.” I relieved her of the scissors none too gently and she began to wail, which upped the decimal level of her brother’s cries. I was ready to admit total defeat for this day and trot to the locker room.

  Diane managed a deep breath and said crisply, “Go turn on the TV for you and Kevin—I’m sorry, this is not your fault. Now you stop that yowling, this minute—would you like coffee?”

  I sorted out the pronouns and said no thanks. I didn’t want coffee. The way this day was going I needed a double bourbon without much ice. Dangling that thought in front of myself like a hundred-proof carrot, I began to try to wind down my connection with my client.

  “Mrs. Miller, I understand your unhappiness around this situation, but that photo could merely mean that your husband paid an evening business house call to Ms. Robby. It could be that simple.” I probably sounded about like I did when I was getting ready to take the scissors away from the kid.

  Diane shot me a look that put a fast quietus on any further discussion along those lines. I tried a slightly different tack. “Well, even if there’s a more personal relationship involved, I can’t believe it’s of a permanent nature. Look, how old is Ray . . . thirty-three or four?” She nodded. “Then I really can’t see his leaving his wife and family to spend the rest of his life with a woman who’s a good fifteen years older than he is, can you?”

  Diane sniffed. “Well, maybe not. It just scares me to death. What would I do with these two kids and no father for them? And there’s never enough money to go ‘round if you separate! He’s unhappy and always going out somewhere, even if it isn’t with another woman, and I’m stuck here all the time by myself with just the kids. Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I open one more jar of baby food. And I just about get one mess cleaned up, and one of them has made another!”

  I wondered briefly if I looked like her mother, reached for a cigarette and thought I better not. I said. “Ummh,” which was all it took to put the needle back on her record.

  “I know things are a mess and I’m a mess and I don’t blame him for not wanting to be at home, but I just can’t seem to get it together anymore. You’d never believe it, but there was a time when we both were very happy with each other. We talked. We did things together. And I do still love him. I think. The bastard.”

  The tears rolled, and I am a sucker for tears.

  “Look, Diane, this is none of my business but maybe you two should talk with a counselor. I’m sure neither of you really wants to break up a family. Maybe you could get assistance on getting somebody to help around the house or a sitter so you could both go out to dinner or away for a weekend or something. I don’t think Ray really wants to leave you. If he did, he’d have picked a twenty-yearold in a tight red skirt and no bra. And I know Marcia Robby. Things may not have progressed as far as it would seem on the surface.”

  There. Next week I’d have new business cards printed: Alex Peres, Private Investigator and Marriage Counselor. Well, why shouldn’t lesbians be marriage counselors? Priests are.

  “Anyway, I think your husband is like the little boy who decided to run away from home. He just went round and round the block because he knew he wasn’t supposed to cross the street.”

  Diane managed a smile and scooped everything back into the manila envelope. “I’ll be careful what I do with this, and I’ll cool down for a couple of days before I do anything. I really am not a complete imbecile, although I can’t blame you for thinking that I am. Wait a sec and I’ll get you a check.”

  She was back in a moment, and we walked together toward the door. She handed me the check. “Thanks. And I still say your prices are more immoral than the people you investigate.” We grinned at each other and somehow I felt better than I had an hour ago.

  In the car I looked at my watch: still a good half hour before picking up Janet. Plenty of time for that bourbon at the Rat. Fargo read my mind and laid a sorrowful head on my knee. So I speeded up and made it to Race Point in fast time and let him out. He ran at top speed along the hard-sand section of the beach, low to the ground, flat out with that beautiful power and those rippling muscles.

  Watching him run was better than the bourbon would have been. While he chased imaginary prey up and down the beach, I had a cigarette. That felt good, too. Perhaps the day was salvageable after all.

  I pulled up in front of the market where Janet stood waiting with a full cart of groceries and got out to help her load them in the car. Another, older, woman came through the exit at that moment. As I walked around the car both women called “Hi, Alex!” and then turned to look at each other in confusion.

  I laughed. “Hello, Aunt Mae, may I introduce my friend Janet Meacham? And, Janet, meet my aunt, Mae Cartwright.” The two women shook hands, and Janet looked thrilled.

  “Oh, Mrs. Cartwright, I bought your two books on herbs the other day. I’ve skimmed through both of them, and they’re just delightful. I can’t wait for a rainy day to curl up and read them thoroughly.”

  “Well, aren’t you nice!” Aunt Mae was beaming and trying to look modest at the same time and failing miserably. “Are you an herbalist?”

  Janet raised a negating hand to her mouth. “Oh, goodness, no. I just love to cook with them. I know very little about them. Alex knows them much better than I do.”

  Aunt Mae laughed. “I find that very hard to believe.”

  I made a face. “Obviously, you two don’t need me for a few minutes. I’ll walk over and get a bottle of wine for tonight. Excuse me, ladies.”

  I browsed a bit and finally bought a bottle of Beaujolais. No, I didn’t know what we were having for dinner, and no, I didn’t care. I like red wine.

  I returned just in time to hear, “Why, Janet, I would be delighted to sign the books, and yes, there is a third. It would be my pleasure to give you a copy.” Apparently Janet had made a good impression.

  I knew she had, when Aunt Mae continued. “Cooking with herbs is just the tip of the iceberg. For years, you know, they were our only medicines and I find that interesting—especially when one finds the same herbs used in today’s commercial remedies. Of course, I don’t recommend them to anyone, I’m not a doctor . . .”

  Janet reached out to touch her hand. “How wise! But the history of them as medicines must be fascinating! And to realize so many of them actually worked!”

  I finally cleared my throat gently.

  Aunt Mae gave me one of those familial moues that meant, “Don’t be so impatient.” But she addressed herself sweetly to Janet. “I won’t keep you girls, and I must get home. But Janet, on Monday afternoon I’m going up to Orleans to this marvelous place where they grow herbs for wholesale to retail nurseries, florists and so on.”

  With a broad gesture she continued. “They have thousands of plants and seedlings this time of year in their greenhouses. It’s really something to see . . . and smell. I’ve known the owners for years— a charming couple—why don’t you ride down with me and meet them? I know they’d love to show you around.”

  She delivered the final inducement. “You might even
let me help you pick up one or two plants for a window sill. That’s how I started. And food tastes so much better seasoned with herbs snipped fresh, right from the plant.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Cartwright, that sounds just wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like that greenhouse—I’m sure—it will be a real treat. Between your books and the greenhouse . . . I’m learning, I’m learning.” She was ready to include me in the trip. “Alex, you’re coming, of course?”

  Aunt Mae laughed and answered for me. “Alexandra? All she would think to do with herbs would be sprinkle them on Fargo’s food. To Alexandra the word ‘cook’ means some explorer who discovered Hawaii.”

  “I grow basil and dill every year in the back yard,” I protested.

  “And it took me ten years to get you to do it.” Aunt Mae had settled the issue. They agreed she would pick up Janet around two on Monday at her apartment, and we parted.

  Janet’s mood seemed to have improved measurably. She was bubbly about meeting Aunt Mae and about the planned excursion. Fargo and I were more interested in the grocery bags with which he now happily shared the back seat. And we three arrived back at my place in considerably better humor than we had left it. We carried in the bags and Janet put aside the few items she had picked up for herself. I put away the staples. And we were all ready to begin dinner.

  I soon discovered that my part in this production was apparently limited to being told to set the wine on the steps outside the back door.

  I came back in and gave Janet a hug. “I’m glad to see you know that ‘room temperature’ for red wine doesn’t mean seventy-five degrees.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t. The ‘room temperature’ that gives red wine its best taste is fifty-five degrees, which is the temperature of most old European wine cellars.”

  “Now where did you learn that?” I asked. “It’s not common knowledge. I’m supposed to be the wine expert.”

  “Hah!” She began to pound the chicken breasts. “I convinced the CG to send me to cooking school. I did well and eventually became manager and head chef of the Officers’ Club outside Seattle. Believe it or not, I learned it there.”