by Lora Roberts
“If you say so.” I headed straight down Van Ness, the lengthiest way to get on 101. “It’ll take a while in all this traffic.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.” She had her hand in her raincoat pocket again.
“I won’t.”
Chapter 10
The BigMart wasn’t quite open when we got there. I parked as close to the front as I could on Hannah’s instructions; on my own I like to park farther away, but I wasn’t going to say anything. More people would see the bus up front, and maybe we’d be spotted. I had driven as slowly as I dared on the highway, hoping to be pulled over. When Hannah complained, I said that Babe wouldn’t make it any faster. Since anything Babe does above fifty sounds like a lot of effort, with the rattling and the roar of the engine, she believed me.
No one had taken the least notice of the old VW bus with the two women in it. I began to think Hannah was right, and all middle-aged women looked alike to John Q. Public.
While we waited for the store to open, Hannah fidgeted nervously with the gun in her pocket. It gave me an uneasy feeling.
“What are you shopping for, anyway?”
She stopped fidgeting and looked at me. “You’re coming too.”
“I could just wait in the car.”
She snorted. “Right. And leave me here. No, you’re coming in with me. And while I’m at it, give me the car keys.”
I didn’t want to. “You’ll lose them, then we’ll both be stranded.”
“Maybe I’ll just strand you.” She thought about that for a minute. “You’d call the police, of course. They’d know what car to look for. I’d have to steal a different car, and I don’t want to go to so much trouble. No, I’ll just keep you here, driving for me.” She looked around the bus with distaste. “No matter how old and nasty your car is.
“It’s a classic,” I said, defending Babe. “Over two hundred thousand miles, and still running fine.”
“Fine?” Hannah’s voice was heavy with disbelief. “Fine is how a Mercedes runs. Not this heap of yours.” She held out her hand. “Pass over the keys.”
I did so reluctantly. She put them in her other raincoat pocket, opposite the gun. I wondered if I could pick her pocket and get away without her knowing.
“The store is opening.” I nodded at the big glass doors, which were being unlocked and pushed open. “What did you say we’re shopping for?”
“Clothes. I’m going to change. And necessities. I might be on the road for a while.”
“Look, Hannah, you can’t just keep running. Sooner or later you have to face the police.”
“No, I don’t.” She waited until I was on the ground before she climbed down. “At some point, they’ll figure out that Naomi killed herself, and then I can go back.”
She sounded supremely confident. It shook me. I was still positive that Naomi hadn’t killed herself, because she had seemed, no matter how impaired by alcohol, to have a plan for revenge, and I didn’t think the revenge was making it look as if Hannah had killed her. But if Naomi didn’t kill herself, and Hannah didn’t do it, who was left? Not Kim, surely. Naomi was her aunt, after all. Not Don, whose handling of any glass would have caused comment. It was impossible to know what had happened if Hannah had not been the cause of Naomi’s death.
Hannah seemed to know what she was doing in the BigMart. I thought she must shop a lot cheaper than she needed to, before I saw the big display in the housewares section. “Let Hannah Couch Choose Your Dishes!” There was a cardboard cutout of the woman herself, wearing a homey apron and offering a pretty bowl of cookie dough. I had to admit, the dishes were nice, though nowhere near as cheap as Thrift Savers, the secondhand store in San Carlos where I get whatever kitchen tools and appliances I need. I don’t need many, because I’m not a cook.
Of course, I immediately thought of the person who is a cook. Drake had been fixing me dinner most nights. He needed no additional gizmos of any kind. His kitchen was stuffed to the gills with gourmet accessories. It didn’t get in the way of his cooking, though. Last night had been green curry chicken and vegetables with jasmine rice; he’d claimed it was simple, but it tasted wonderfully complex. I would have worried about becoming too dependent on his offerings if he hadn’t made it clear he would cook dinner for me the rest of my life if I wanted. I hoped he didn’t know that I was missing in action, perhaps even a suspect in a murder case. He hates that.
Hannah breezed past her cardboard twin without a glance. I took many glances, wondering if anyone would notice the striking similarities between the woman with the bowl and the woman in the headscarf and fancy raincoat who pushed the hangers along the racks with single-minded intensity. Her choices, when she made them, were very sensible, just what I would have worn if I’d been fleeing a horde of police and fans: elastic-waist jeans, denim jacket, turtleneck, thick socks, and sneakers. She got a hairbrush and a toothbrush too.
“They have everything here, don’t they?” My task was to push the shopping cart, while she followed behind me. “Maybe you could just get a new car while you’re at it.”
“It’s a good value in here,” she said rebukingly. “When they asked if I wanted to do a merchandising deal, I didn’t hesitate. People need cheap things that are nice-looking. I use the line of serveware I developed for them myself. The dishes are pretty and durable, and if one breaks, it’s easy to replace it.”
I had been hoping that when we got to the checkout, she would pay with a credit card and the cashier would notice the name on the card. Of course, she was far more prepared than that. She had cash. According to Judi Kershay, celebrities usually didn’t carry cash, but Hannah was not a typical celebrity.
“Shopping with your daughter? That’s so nice.” The checker was between my age and Hannah’s. She folded the clothes and put them in a big bag.
“Yeah, this is Mom’s first outing since the gallbladder surgery. Isn’t it, Mom? You having fun?”
Hannah bared her teeth in a ferocious smile. “Yes, dear. So kind of you to bring me.”
“You know, your mom looks just like Hannah Couch. Have you ever noticed that?” The checker peered in a friendly way at Hannah. “You could stand over there next to her picture and be her twin.” I opened my mouth to reply. Hannah beat me to it. “I hear that all the time,” she said dismissively.
“Especially since you were ill,” I added. “You used to be much better looking than her.”
“Oh, I think she’s a fine-looking woman.” The clerk pushed the receipt into the bag and handed it to me, since my mom was too ill to carry things herself. “Probably has a lot of plastic surgery to stay that way, though.”
“Bet she spends most of her time in bandages,” I agreed.
“Thank you so much,” Hannah said to the clerk. “Now, where are the bathrooms?”
“You don’t want to wait too long in your condition.” I was beginning to enjoy myself. “We’d better go now if we’re going to get home okay.”
The clerk pointed us to the bathrooms and turned to her next customer. I could hear her telling that woman what a close family we must be.
As soon as we were inside the rest room, Hannah locked the door and ordered me into a stall. “Lock it, and don’t come out until I tell you to.”
This was my chance. I listened to the rustling noises of her taking off her clothes, and figured I could rush her, get the gun and my car keys, and get away before she could get dressed enough to follow me.
I threw open the stall door and zoomed out. I had misjudged the time it would take her to change; Hannah was already dressed in the jeans and turtleneck. She was just putting the gun in the pocket of her new jacket.
“I didn’t tell you it was time to go.” She gestured with the gun. “But since you’re here, you can put those things into the shopping bag. I won’t be needing them.”
She used the hairbrush and wiped off her makeup with a paper towel while I crammed her clothes into the shopping bag and then, at her insistence, took them out and fold
ed them neatly into the shopping bag. When she was done, she looked like any anonymous fifty-plus woman. Outside its usual bun, her hair straggled around her face, and without makeup, she looked more worn. She stuck her feet into the tennies and told me to tie them. I made the laces tight. I didn’t want her to think I enjoyed my role as lady’s maid.
The gun went into her jacket pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder, gestured to me to pick up the shopping bag, and unlocked the restroom. I had thought someone might be waiting to demand an explanation for the locked door, but no one was there. We left the store, unremarked and unremarkable.
“Where to now?” I climbed into the bus and took the keys from Hannah. She settled herself on the passenger side.
“I need someplace to think, to just go to earth for a while.” She frowned while I started the bus. “We could check into a motel, I guess.”
“Not at ten A.M. They don’t give rooms until the afternoon.” I tried to sound knowledgeable, though I know nothing about motels myself. I always stay in the bus when I travel.
Hannah looked around with distaste. “I’d like a telephone. There isn’t one here.”
“You have one.” I pointed to her purse, where her silenced phone reposed.
“I can’t use that one.” She sounded impatient. “You can easily trace the frequency and find out where the phone is being used. That wouldn’t be smart, would it?”
“Who are you calling, anyway? The police?”
“My lawyer.”
“There’s a pay phone over there.” I pointed to the corner of the parking lot, near the entrance onto El Camino.
“I won’t be able to talk to him directly. I’ll have to leave a message for him to call me back. Waiting at the pay phone wouldn’t be smart either.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Don’t you live somewhere around here?”
“I don’t have a telephone.”
She snorted with laughter. “You are a funny person, aren’t you? I almost laughed out loud when you told that sales clerk I’d had gallbladder surgery.” She nodded in decision. “We’ll go to your house. Drive on.”
“Hannah, this is a very bad idea of yours.”
“Nonsense. I know just what I’m doing. It’s the last place anyone will look for me.” She gestured again with the gun. “Drive.”
Chapter 11
“This is your house?”
Hannah did not sound impressed. We had driven through the placid, tree-lined streets of Palo Alto, past the big old houses and the even bigger new houses, and she had gotten the idea that everyone who lived there was wealthy. Many folks have that idea. It’s not altogether true.
“This is it.” I pulled up the bus in front of the garage and put on the handbrake.
Hannah craned her neck to look back at Drake’s house. A mow-and-blow crew came every week to keep his yard tidy, and the previous summer he’d had the house painted in yuppie colors of pale gray with peach trim, so it looked nice.
My house didn’t look bad. I painted it myself, and touched it up when necessary; white paint with green trim, very traditional for a turn-of-the-century cottage. I had reshingled the roof, though I’d had to hire someone to come in and patch my patches. But I hadn’t yet gotten the front porch fixed. In good weather my garden made up for any deficiencies, but everything was sleeping in January except for the calla lilies at the side of the house and the grape hyacinths and green shoots of daffodils along the walkway.
Drake’s car wasn’t in the gravel parking area between his house and mine. If he knew about the situation I’d gotten into, and police know most things, he didn’t realize it had moved down to our place. I half hoped he’d never find out. I don’t look for trouble at all. I only want a quiet life and time to garden and appreciative editors. I can’t help it if other stuff happens. When it does, he tends to act as if I’ve brought it on myself some way. I’d like to know how I brought Hannah Couch on myself.
Hannah’s sharp eyes noted every crack in the sidewalk, every loose board in the porch floor. I unlocked the front door, and Barker bounded out of the house to stand just in front of her, sniffing in that intensely personal way dogs do.
“Don’t be rude,” I said, not really meaning it.
“Too late,” Hannah retorted. “Down, dog! Down.”
“He’s not up. Just tall.” I snapped my fingers, and Barker backed off, regarding her with bright, interested eyes. He was still a puppy in many ways, though two years old. I wished that he was the kind of dog you could train to guard and attack. I fantasized about ordering him to hold Hannah, like a dog I had seen at a police demonstration one time, who had given the impression that if you moved any portion of your body, he would quickly bite it off. But Barker was a sociable fellow, ready to like everyone.
Hannah walked around my living room, her lips pursed. “Interesting,” she said finally. “I see you have a Stickley chair.”
“I do?” I followed her gaze to the shabby morris chair across from my equally shabby sofa. I usually sat in the other chair, an undistinguished overstuffed armchair with plenty of room for me, my feet, and my book.
“Yes, with the original finish, it looks like. You could get a nice little sum for that.”
“What’s ‘a nice little sum’? Five hundred dollars?”
She looked at me with pity. “You should read more broadly, Liz. A signed Stickley”—she walked over and peered at the lower edge of the chair, then pointed out the signature to me—”goes for anywhere in the neighborhood of one thousand to five thousand dollars, depending on the finish. This one’s in pretty good condition.” She squeezed the top cushion experimentally. “And what feels like the original cushions and upholstery. Closer to the upper end, I’d say.”
“Goodness.” Right there in my house, I had the means to pay my property taxes. Of course, I’d have to find someone who agreed with Hannah about the value of my chair, and who would give me major bucks for it. That’s always the sticking point with these collectible things. People will say how much they’re worth, but no one steps up to hand over the money. “Do you want to buy it?”
“I’m not doing Arts and Crafts anymore,” she said. “But I do know some dealers who might be interested.”
I imagined her getting in touch with dealers from her prison cell, ordering them to check out my morris chair. It would never happen.
“Certainly you do a good evocation of shabby chic.” Hannah looked at the couch, over which I’d thrown an old quilt to disguise upholstery flaws. I had inherited all the furniture when the two houses had come into my possession, and since it was all still usable, had seen no reason to spend my scanty resources on anything new. The friend who’d been the previous owner had taken good care of her things. Some of them, like the morris chair, must have come from her parents.
“I don’t evoke shabby chic. I’m poor, and I have the furniture of a poor person. We do exist, you know.”
She drew herself up. “Of course I know. I certainly wasn’t born into a fortune. Everything I have, I’ve earned. That’s why I’m not willing to let it all go up in smoke because Naomi”—she blinked and turned her head away— “because Naomi decided to take the coward’s way.” Her last words were muffled. She groped for her crumpled hankie, looked at it, and put it away.
I handed her my clean one. She snuffled into it, then looked at the monogram. “So what is your last name? This is an M.”
“My last name is Sullivan. I get my hankies at the thrift store, with the rest of my linens.” I grinned at her, trying to lighten the moment. “It’s very exclusive.”
She ignored the attempt at humor. “Can I have a glass of water?”
“Of course.” I went into the kitchen and, for a special touch, put ice in a tall glass, which had also come from the thrift store. She followed me, sitting at the table. Her mental calculator was still running.
“This kind of table is collectible now,” she said, examining the cherry-red top, the chrome legs. She pulled out one of the end leave
s. “You’ve been using all this furniture? It’s in such good shape.”
“The woman who left it to me had only one child, no grandchildren.” I spared a thought for Vivian, the sweet lady. Every day I blessed her. My cottage may not seem like much, but before it I was living in Babe, and indoor plumbing is the greatest advance civilization has made, in my opinion. I felt lucky to be under my own roof, most of the time. I did not feel lucky to have Hannah and her gun with me.
“That’s a clever idea.” Hannah nodded at my kitchen curtains. “Those old tablecloths are—”
“Collectible, I guess.”
“Actually, they are, but you’ve cut them up, and the sun’s probably faded them, so they’re no longer desirable as tablecloths.” Hannah drank some of her water. She didn’t say anything about it being tap water, no lime, no fizz, but her face was expressive of her feelings. “They make nice curtains, though. Bright.”
“I like them.” I had a stack of Vivian’s tablecloths, which I used on occasion for their rightful function, but their exuberant forties patterns of red apples, yellow bananas, and purple grapes seemed fitting for kitchen curtains at a time of low cash reserves. “You know, this collectible thing is like a made-up value. People see in your magazine and on your TV show that they’ve got something collectible, but nine times out of ten no one will give them anywhere near the money you’re talking about. Don’t you think that’s a disservice?”
“Not at all.” She sipped her water genteelly. Since it looked like she wasn’t going to put a bullet through me anytime soon, I busied myself setting out food; I had gotten up very early that morning, and I was hungry. There wasn’t much to eat, and I didn’t feel like undergoing Hannah’s scrutiny on anything I cooked. I’m not much of a cook, though I can get along okay. But anyone can make a peanut butter and jam sandwich, and when the jam comes from my friend Bridget’s secret blackberry patch, it’s fit for any number of media queens. As a sop to Her Highness, I trimmed the crusts off the bread and cut the sandwiches into fingers. Bridget actually did that to appease her horde of young children, but Hannah was pretty childish in some ways, so I figured it was worth a try.