Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  I liked this. Had I been feeling even a little more engaged by life, I probably would have liked Clay quite a bit. As it was, however, I felt tepidly pleased by his company and was content to leave it at that. I wasn't sure Clay was, though.

  "Hello, Gail." Clay's smile was instant, warm, upon seeing me in the doorway.

  I smiled back. "Hi, Clay."

  No doubt about it, this was a handsome man. At roughly six foot, Clay was tall enough for my taste, which runs to large in men. He was slender, though, verging on thin, despite the well-developed muscles visible under the short-sleeved polo shirt. It was his face that made him so attractive; the high, hard cheekbones and nice blue-green eyes under strong brows were the perfect contrast to the blond mustache and the brownish-blond hair almost equally spangled with sunbleached gold and premature silver. If his chin was a little weak, and his mouth a little soft, the mustache mostly hid it.

  Clay held the truck door open for me, and I smiled to myself as I managed, only semi-awkwardly, to clamber in without revealing an undue amount of thigh.

  However I looked at it, Clay was a good deal. Trouble was, I wasn't in a shopping mood.

  Tonight's program was supposed to be dinner out and an early evening. I'd declined Clay's initial invitation to dinner and a movie on the grounds that I was on call. He'd amended it to dinner, with the understanding that he'd drive me home at any minute. How could I complain?

  Riding beside him in the truck, I was happy to be quiet. The nice thing about dating someone to whom I was reasonably indifferent was that I didn't feel any big need to entertain the guy. If Clay found me boring, so be it.

  You weren't indifferent to that guy you met last summer; I could hear Kris's voice in my mind. It was true, too. I had been a long way from indifferent to Blue Winter. The thought of him caused a little prickle to run down my spine, even now.

  Tomorrow, I promised myself, tomorrow I'll go visit Blue. See if there are any sparks left.

  "So, have you ever been to Clouds?" Clay's voice broke into my thoughts.

  "No, I haven't. I've heard it's nice."

  "I think you'll like it."

  "I'm sure I will." There I went, murmuring conventional social chitchat. But I was damned if I knew what else to say.

  "How's your horse doing?" I asked Clay. When in doubt, stick to horses as a topic; everybody loves to talk about their horses.

  "Oh, Freddy's fine," Clay said easily. "I've been riding him back in the hills some, after work. That's his best lick. He's real good outside."

  Unlike his brother, Bart, Clay's involvement with horses was minimal. He kept his bay gelding, a ranch horse he'd bought in Nevada, in the family stable, and rode him occasionally, but that was it. His only other contact with the family business was as a handyman. Clay repaired the old barns and fences, built retaining walls where they were needed, wired sheds for electricity ... etc.

  "Have you been riding much?" he asked me.

  "When I can. I worked Plumber a little bit on the cow today."

  "How'd he go?"

  "Oh, he did fine."

  Clay nodded. Once again we were quiet. The silence didn't seem entirely comfortable, but I simply couldn't think of anything to say. It was Clay who initiated conversation once again. "I'm sorry I'm not being very good company. I just got back from a funeral; I guess it upset me a little."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Whose funeral?"

  "A neighbor. A woman who lived down the road from us. She was my age; we'd been friends since we were children."

  "That's too bad. She was young. What was her name?"

  "Marianne," Clay said slowly. "Marianne Moore. I can hardly believe it." He looked across the truck at me. "She was murdered."

  "Murdered?" I was startled. Murder wasn't what I'd expected to hear. Cancer, maybe. But not murder.

  "Yeah," Clay said. "They found her out in her barn. Somebody had hit her over the head and killed her."

  "That's grim."

  "I know. She was a real sweet woman. We all felt terrible."

  "It's hard to believe," I said. "Does anyone know why?"

  "That's the weirdest part. There doesn't seem to be any motive. The cops are completely stuck. It's pretty terrible. I guess it's got me down."

  "I understand."

  We both lapsed back into silence, which lasted all the way to the restaurant. Clouds turned out to be in downtown Santa Cruz, a place that was familiar to me from my childhood. In those days the little villages that dotted the county had boasted a grocery store, a gas station, and a restaurant or two, at best. For all major purchases, one had to go to "town." Which meant either Santa Cruz or Watsonville.

  And the big store in downtown Santa Cruz was Leask's. This was an old-fashioned department store, family-run. a place where they had everything. Everyone shopped at Leask's.

  Things had changed. Various malls sprawled about the countryside, a 7.2 earthquake had nearly demolished downtown Santa Cruz, and Leask's had folded. But change hadn't stopped there. The downtown area had been rebuilt, slowly and steadily, in a much slicker, more urban style, and was once again popular. And the space that had housed Leask's was now a movie theater and Clouds.

  As we walked through the door of the restaurant I told Clay, "This is where I used to buy my shoes when I was a kid."

  He smiled. "I remember. Me, too. This was the shoe department, wasn't it?"

  I smiled back at him. This was one of the ties Clay and I had-we had been born and raised in Santa Cruz County. That was unusual; most folks who live in Santa Cruz, like the rest of California, are transplants from somewhere else. To be a second, or in Clay's case, third-generation resident was uncommon, and it created a subtle bond.

  Looking around Clouds now, I was struck by the strong urban flavor. This was no funky beach-town restaurant; this was a sophisticated, upscale, big-city bar, with an elegant little raised restaurant seating area alongside. My dress felt right at home.

  "Would you like to sit down at the bar and have a drink?" Clay asked.

  "I'd love to."

  We settled ourselves on bar stools, me with a sigh of satisfaction. I like bars. Or rather, I like the restful and yet convivial atmosphere some bars seem to have, and Clouds, despite its sleek mahogany and stainless-steel exterior and trendy track lighting, had a good and friendly feel.

  The bartender approached with an inquiring smile. "What'll you have?"

  I ordered a vodka tonic; Clay chose a beer.

  She made my drink; I watched the deft, competent motions, no action wasted. When she placed the drink in front of me she gave me a friendly grin. I smiled back, thinking that maybe I would have been better off as a bartender. A lot less stress than being a veterinarian.

  The woman poured and brought Clay's beer. "How's it going?" she said as she set it down. Judging by her tone, she knew him.

  "Real well," Clay said. Looking at me, he added, "Gail, this is Caroline. Caroline, Gail McCarthy."

  "Nice to meet you." The bartender and I got the words out at about the same time.

  "Caroline's the best bartender in town," Clay said.

  The woman grinned; she was instantly likable. Though I was sure that a certain outwardly friendly stance was an integral part of her job, she had a sparkle that seemed genuine.

  "So how do you like this job?" I asked her curiously.

  She smiled again; she'd learned to smile.

  "Well ..." I watched her think, fingering a charm hung around her neck. She was about my age and had wavy brown-blond hair that fell to her waist, confined in a simple ponytail. No makeup, eyeglasses, her one concession to the dressy style of the restaurant being an all-black outfit. But while the waitresses wore skimpy tube tops and tight low-waisted pants, she wore a simple fitted black shell and black jeans. Plain, professional, somehow elegant.

  "It's a job," she said at last. "I've been doing it for ten years. I like this place," she added. "They're good people to work for." Then she grinned again. "But I'm not exactly usi
ng my education." Her hand moved; I saw that the charm she'd been fingering was a Phi Beta Kappa symbol. She was educated enough, then.

  "What do you do for a living?" she asked me.

  "I'm a horse vet."

  I saw her eyes widen slightly; the mobile face became even more friendly. "Really?" Her eyes moved to Clay. "And you have horses, right? Is that how you met?"

  Clay smiled, a quiet, self-deprecating smile, mostly in the eyes. "Yeah. Gail's my vet."

  Another man sat down at the bar; Caroline moved in his direction.

  I watched her go, thinking that her animated, fair-skinned face had an unusual quality. She wasn't exactly pretty-her features were a little too strong for that-but she had a lightness and a vivacity that were unique and perhaps more attractive than mere physical beauty.

  "She's nice," I said to Clay. "Do you know her well?"

  "Not really." Clay gave me that quiet smile. "Just from coming in here. She's friendly."

  I nodded, picturing this handsome man sitting in the bar alone. Naturally Caroline would chat with him. Which is what you ought to be doing, I reminded myself. Good manners demanded it. Yet I found it difficult to make conversation with Clay. He responded easily and was always polite and friendly; still, I had a sense of a deep inner reserve.

  "So, how are things going at the boarding stable?" I asked.

  "Pretty much the same as usual. Bart's always got some new problem." Clay began to recount his brother's latest horse-training saga; I listened with half my brain. The other half was roaming around the restaurant, watching Caroline tend bar, checking out the various patrons.

  Several women dressed in glamorous, big-city clothes sat together, laughing and talking. A blond girl in a white blouse and a silver-haired man, obviously a couple, leaned toward each other at the bar. A good sprinkling of single men, most of whom looked like young stockbroker types-a few of these were chatting in a desultory way.

  As usual, and despite my overall mood, I found myself intrigued by watching people. The little details of face, hair, and clothing, the small nuances of how each chose to present him-or herself, were endlessly fascinating. And a bar was the perfect venue.

  Clay had come to the end of his story. I smiled at him. "I like bars," I said.

  "It's better then watching TV, anyway."

  "Damn right," I said, with more emphasis than I'd intended. "TVs have ruined the neighborhood bar."

  Clay laughed. "That sounds pretty funny."

  "I know. But I think it's true. People used to go out in the evening, have a drink with their neighbors, pass the time of day in a social way. Now they stay home and stare at that stupid machine, which proceeds to mold their thought processes into a conventional pattern. It's a double evil."

  "You think going out drinking is better?"

  "Yes, 1 do," I said firmly. "Though it would be good if people walked or rode their bikes to the pub, like they would in a village."

  "Or their horses," Clay added.

  "That's right. I think having a drink and talking to people is a good thing, it's a slice of real life. It's," I stumbled a little, "it's living your life instead of absorbing this vicarious experience someone else has orchestrated. I think TV is terrible for people's minds. What they find attractive, what they want, how they look at the world, is all ordained by what they see on the stupid TV." I laughed. "I know I'm ranting on about this; it's a pet peeve."

  ''I'm surprised you don't have a 'Kill Your TV' bumper sticker on your truck," Clay teased.

  "I would if I were the bumper sticker-type. I don't have a TV, I've never had one, so I never got to kill it."

  Clay was smiling at me as if he thought I was amusing; I decided to put the ball in his court. "How about you? Do you have a TV? Do you watch it?"

  "I guess I'd better watch my step here." Despite his words, Clay sounded relaxed and confident, unworried by my peccadilloes. "Yeah, I've got a TV. I watch it. I like the news; I like to rent movies, watch the occasional sporting event. That's about it."

  "Well," I said, feeling mollified, "I do understand why people have them, but I still think the world would be a better place without TV."

  "What do you do in the evenings when you're home alone?" Clay asked curiously.

  "Read a book, play music, send e-mail," I replied promptly. Brave words. These days I mostly laid on the couch and stared at the wall.

  "So why is the computer so different from a TV?" Clay asked.

  "It's interactive. You have to use your mind." I was beginning to feel I'd gone on about this subject long enough. My drink was finished. "Are you hungry?" I asked Clay.

  "Of course." He stood up and motioned to Caroline. "We're going to sit down at a table and have dinner."

  "Right." Caroline gave me that engaging grin as I climbed off my bar stool. "Nice to meet you, Gail."

  "And you," I said.

  Clay had reserved a table for two in the corner, I found, and we were waited on by the owner of the place. The food was excellent, the wine also. Clay kept the conversation going smoothly. As we drove home, I reflected that it had been what you might call a perfect evening. My pager never even went off.

  So, why then this sense of inner malaise, this apathetic distress?

  When Clay pulled up in front of my house, I readied myself for the inevitable kiss. Not that I dreaded it. I just didn't feel much of anything about it, one way or the other. But instead of putting his arm around me, Clay sat quietly behind the steering wheel, looking through the windshield at my door. "How about a cup of coffee?" he said.

  Uh-oh. A cup of coffee after a date ... even I knew this was code for, "Would you like to go to bed?" And I was not, by any means, up for that.

  "I'm sorry, Clay," I said. "I'm tired." Honesty compelled me to add, "It's not that I don't like spending time with you. But I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else."

  Clay absorbed this without a flinch. Then he did put his arm around me. "How about a good-night kiss?"

  I kissed him willingly enough; his mouth felt soft and warm. As I started to climb out of the truck, he took my hand and held me back a moment.

  "I just want to tell you something."

  I looked at him.

  "I'd like to get to know you a lot better, and I'm willing to be patient."

  "Well, thanks," I said awkwardly, swinging my legs out the door. "I enjoyed this evening."

  Regulation words, but true enough. I shut the truck door and waved; Clay started the engine. In a minute he was gone. I stood on my porch, alone, wondering what possessed me. Why didn't I want to have a little fun with Clay?

  Roey yapped at me from the dog pen. I let her out, then went to the barn and fed the horses and the cow. Then the dog and cat got their dinners, and at last, I could peel my clothes off and climb into bed.

  Lying there, all alone in the dark, I could feel tears on my cheeks. Why was I crying? I didn't know, exactly. Just this endless sadness.

  You have got to get some help with this; it was the last thought I had before sleep blotted everything out.

  SIX

  I awoke to sunlight and the sound of my banty rooster crowing. The sun poured into my bedroom through the uncurtained window facing east, spreading butter-colored patches over the cream of the walls and bedspread. The little rooster's slightly hoarse crow was as cheerful as the light.

  Jack, the rooster, was somewhat unreliable as an alarm clock. He was apt to crow at two in the morning, or, as now, when the sun was already well above the horizon. I had no idea what went on in his tiny brain, but I liked his cocky crowing, and the sight of him and his mate, Red, pecking around the barnyard.

  Looking out the window, I could see unfettered blue sky, for once. Inexplicably, the fog had vanished. Suddenly I wanted to get up.

  All the morning chores were more pleasant in the summer sunlight. Rich red tints gleamed in the mahogany floor as I carried my cup of coffee onto the porch. Roses nodded brightly on the grape stake fence around the vegetable garden.
This morning, I thought, I'll tie them in.

  Contemplation of the day ahead brought an immediate wave of disconcerting disinterest. Chronic depression was such a boring thing, so damn repetitive. Once again, for reasons I didn't understand, the wheel was taking me back down. One minute I was reaching out in tentative enjoyment toward the sunny morning, the next I felt like going back to bed.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I took my coffee down the hill and fed the horses and the cow. Then I walked around the vegetable garden, surveying the roses, trying to see them truly through my disenchanted haze. How beautiful they were, with their seductive subtle shades, romantic associations, and long history. Madame Alfred, a cream-colored flower just flushed with warm coral, tangled with the apricot Lady Hillingdon. Buff-yellow Reve d'Or wound its way through the more intensely copper Crepuscule. Roses had become a passion of mine in the last year. I longed for them to lift my heart as they had once been able to do.

  Roses made me think of Blue Winter, who grew them for a living. I had promised myself I'd go out to the rose farm this morning. For lack of any excuse not to, I decided to follow through on it.

  I tied the Tea roses into the fence and weeded the tomatoes. Then I poured another cup of coffee and thought about getting dressed. I could hardly go traipsing out to the rose farm wearing my battered sweats.

  Wear something sexy; I could hear Kris's voice in my head. Shutting it out, I chose jeans and a white tank top with just a little lace trim. A denim shirt worn open as a jacket, and my hair woven back into a French braid, and I was done. I had met Blue Winter on a pack trip last summer; he probably wouldn't recognize me out of jeans.