Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

by Julie Smith

  “They were very close.”

  “She’s an awfully sweet child, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He looked befuddled, not sure where I was going with that one.

  “I told her I’d try to find it for her. I wonder if you’d help me? I mean—” I wasn’t quite sure how to put delicately the fact that I wanted to search his house “—I thought we might look for it together.”

  Slowly intelligence began to seep into his expression, momentarily replacing the grief and pain. “Rebecca, how much is that thing worth?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

  “A lot?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  “Did Esperanza really find it on the beach?”

  It was no good. His mind had worked its way up through the mire of his loss.

  I wasn’t going to get away with a story about a sweet kid we had to help. “No. I’ll be honest with you, Don. There’s a possibility someone killed Sadie for it.”

  He stood up, jaw tensed. “Let’s look.”

  We tossed the house, starting with Sadie’s underwear drawer and jewelry box, working our way through her file cabinet, the toilet tank, the ice trays, the frozen food packages, the sugar bowl, everything we could think of. We searched Sadie’s car as well, and even a fake rock in which she and Don hid their door keys.

  We didn’t find the pearl—which made me feel jumpy on Esperanza’s account—but the exertion was good for both of us, I think. Don had more color when I left, and seemed to have recovered some of his energy.

  I left thinking I’d never spent so much time with Don, never really known what he was like. I liked him enormously. Anyone missing his girlfriend so desperately had to be a person of strong feelings. And all along I’d thought he was just another cold-blooded businessman.

  Marty was the warm one, I’d thought, because of her love of the ocean. That seemed out of character now that I knew the ice-cube Marty. But I knew it wasn’t, really. It was the doorway to her good side, the one she didn’t seem to know about herself. It would be easy to find it, I thought. If she could just work her way up the Darwinian ladder—transfer her affections from fish to reptiles—it wouldn’t be that much of a step up to birds and then on to mammals—rodents first, say, and then on up to the lower primates. From orangutans she could go to gorillas, and next thing you know, she might even get interested in bald-bodied apes.

  I was about a block from my hotel and engrossed in this silliness—I often get giddy when I drive—when I noticed Libby trudging along the street with a backpack, loaded down and forlorn.

  I waved and honked, but instead of breaking into a delighted grin, she covered her mouth with her hand, terror plain on her guileless features. Confused, she forgot to watch her step and stumbled on a raised piece of sidewalk.

  I pulled to the curb, jumped out, and helped her get up. “What is it, honey?”

  “I fell down.”

  “I don’t mean that. You looked like you were afraid of me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” She sounded mad now, had gone into a classic pout. She started to walk on.

  I said, “Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be okay.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She looked confused.

  “Libby? Is something wrong?”

  “No!” She fell into my arms, mouth working as she tried not to cry.

  I stroked her hair and assured her it would be okay, the words sounding stupid and dishonest even to me. Sure it would be okay—in about twenty years if she could find a good shrink. Things in this kid’s life had gone seriously wrong, and I wasn’t going to be able to kiss them away.

  Libby let go of me and bent down for her backpack. “I have to go now.”

  “Are you going to Esperanza’s?”

  She shook her head.

  “Amber’s?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Your dad’s?” But surely not. It was too far to walk.

  “I’m just taking a walk.” She spoke defiantly, but a nervous toss of the head gave her away.

  I thought I understood the backpack, even knew why she just happened to be so close to my hotel. Like Dr. Freud, I don’t believe in coincidences. With Sadie gone, Libby needed someone to talk to—maybe unconsciously, but she was looking for me, I thought. Sure. Much the way Julio was probably hanging by the phone waiting for my call.

  “Libby,” I said, “are you running away?”

  She nodded gravely, almost hanging her head, the way kids do when they fear dire punishment.

  “I don’t blame you,” I said.

  Her head snapped up, her face unbelieving. “You don’t?”

  “I’d probably do the same thing in your shoes. Come on. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

  “I’m not allowed to.”

  “I thought you were running away—aren’t you a free agent?”

  Her face brightened. “I know! I could have frozen yogurt.”

  Oh, boy. A real tough cookie, this one. To Marty she was “difficult”; to Ava she was “bad”; and she was so brainwashed she wouldn’t even eat butterfat.

  She got chocolate chips on her strawberry yogurt swirled with white chocolate. And then, perhaps regretting the healthful strawberry influence, she decided on Oreo crumbles as well. I had a Diet Coke.

  I was curious. “Would you have run away if you’d been at your dad’s house today?”

  She colored. “I don’t think so. At least Daddy’d be home.”

  “Your mom isn’t?”

  “She drove Grandma home. I wanted to go; I thought I’d keep her company after she’d been in jail and all—but she wouldn’t let me. She just left Keil to boss me.” She covered her mouth with her hands and closed her eyes—she’d shoveled in such a big spoonful her mouth was freezing.

  Her mouth still full, she said, “Do you know how much I hate that?”

  It was all I could do not to snap, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Chocolate dribbled from the comers.

  “How much do you hate it?” I said, absently. I was thinking about Marty’s refusal to let the kids stay with Don on a day she declined to spend with them.

  “A barrelful.”

  “How about a truckload?”

  “A boatload.”

  “A planeload.”

  She looked around before she spoke, mindful that the other customers didn’t hear. “A shitload.”

  “Not so loud. Your grandma will hear.”

  She had a giggle fit like the ones kids get in Three Men and a Baby when the baby wets her diaper. As this is not humor adults can readily share, there was nothing to do but wait till it passed. “You’re fun, Rebecca.”

  “Well, sort of fun. I’ve got bad news.”

  “I know. I have to go home.” She didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “Eventually, anyhow. Why don’t you call Keil and tell him where you are—and then we’ll go to a movie. Want to?”

  “Can I have popcorn?”

  Born for business, most kids. Always making deals. When I took her home, finally, I went in with her—or to the threshold, as it turned out—to make sure she didn’t get in any hot water.

  Marty met us at the door, dressed to go out, California casual in a snug-fitting knit pants outfit. She’d even been at her hair with a curling iron. She wore a squash blossom necklace, and she was preoccupied with fitting matching silver earrings into her ears.

  Libby spoke as if nothing had happened. “Hi, Mom. Can Esperanza sleep over?”

  “You’re grounded tonight, young lady. Keil told me what you did—taking off without even telling him.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  Marty relented a little. “You’re going to your dad’s tomorrow, but you’ll be home Tuesday night. She can sleep over then. How’s that?”

  “Okay.” She smiled as brightly as if her mom had said they were going to Disneyland, and slipped inside. “’Bye, Rebecca. I had fun
.”

  Marty said, “Thanks for taking care of her. Sorry I can’t ask you in—I’m in a hurry.”

  I wondered if this meant she was no longer angry with me. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but maybe that was as close as Marty got to making one.

  “Another time,” I said.

  I’d had to park about halfway up the block from Marty’s, on the opposite side of the street. I hadn’t yet reached my car when I heard a door slam, heels click. I turned automatically and saw Marty practically flying to her car—apparently she was late. As I got in my car, I saw her pull out. Another car, a dark one, a Chrysler, I thought, pulled out behind her and began to follow at a discreet distance. Or was it my imagination?

  It could be, I reasoned, but if it wasn’t, I couldn’t leave her alone—not with the Monterey murder rate rapidly climbing. I followed the car following Marty.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was only about seven-thirty, nowhere close to dark, but somehow I never could seem to get close enough to see the Chrysler’s license plate. It was a short ride, only as far as a fairly large, fairly impersonal motel where Marty didn’t register.

  Instead, she pulled into the parking lot, next to a silver compact of some sort, jumped out quickly, and rushed up the stairs, apparently to a room on the second floor. At this point I lost sight of her. I kept a good distance away, because the car that had followed her parked behind hers, perpendicular to it. The driver simply sat there a few moments and then drove off.

  I presumed that meant Marty was in no danger, but now I had to know who was in that car—at least I had to get the license number. I stepped on it, finally able to pull up parallel at a stoplight. It was Don in the car.

  I leaned over to adjust my radio and busied myself until the car behind me honked, informing me I’d missed the signal. Don was a safe distance ahead. I could only hope he hadn’t seen me, but my heart was beating fast.

  And that wasn’t entirely about my nearly embarrassing almost-encounter. I had to know about that silver compact. I drove back to the motel, took its license number, and found myself heading, without deciding to do so, toward Julio’s street.

  He had a car like that, his initial was “J,” and Marty had yelled at me for going over to his house. So what? How was their romance any of my business?

  It wasn’t. Anyway, I knew what I knew. I didn’t need confirmation.

  These arguments did no good. The Volvo seemed to have a mind of its own.

  On Julio’s block, cars were packed pretty closely together. I drove slowly. Was his car a Nissan or a Honda? Or maybe one of those funny little Fords? And what make was the one at the motel? Why hadn’t I noticed?

  I only realized I was holding my breath when I released it—I did see a silver compact, though not quite where it was supposed to be. Across the street, in fact. I’d nearly missed it, and had to turn around, craning my neck, to get a good look. It was the right color, but was it really a compact? Was it the same design as Julio’s? I slowed down to almost a crawl.

  And when I looked back, I saw what was about to happen, too late. I slammed the brake, but didn’t stop fast enough. Someone had had the nerve to park, not a normal-sized car, but a recreational vehicle that stuck out far more than the other cars, right in my path. I closed my eyes and braced myself. The thud was hideous. The shock was ugly. I was thrown mercilessly forward. Fortunately, I was wearing my seat belt. My body didn’t even bang anything.

  My eyes flew open, and I saw that I was awfully close to the beige back end of the RV. My hood seemed to be shorter than it had been a moment before. I sat there, trying to take that in, figure out why that would be, and also trying to catch my breath. If my heart had been beating fast before, it was now doing double time, hammering like John Henry. I could feel it, but I couldn’t hear it—because of the shouting.

  “Goddammit, you bitch! You stupid goddamn bitch!” I couldn’t see the shouter’s face, because his arms were going like windmills.

  “Rebecca! Rebecca, is that you?” The second shouter was Julio.

  Fear of the first shouter overcame my embarrassment. I jumped out of the car and into Julio’s arms, looking for any protection I could get from the mad van owner.

  “I just had the goddamn thing painted! Do you see the ‘For Sale’ sign? Goddamn thing’s for sale, you stupid bitch!”

  Julio said, “Take it easy, Mr. Donahue. What happened, Rebecca?”

  “I looked away for a second.”

  “Mr. Donahue, you really didn’t park very well.”

  I looked at the curb and saw that the van probably was more than the legal eighteen inches away.

  “Stupid bitch!” said my persecutor. He was a freckled man of about fifty. His hair had probably once been red, but it was now a pinkish-gray color, what there was of it. The top of his head was a contrasting pink. His suffused face clashed horribly.

  On their small front porch was an overweight woman in an apron, which she was clutching and squeezing as if wringing it out. She was probably terrified of the madman she was apparently married to.

  I stuck out my hand. “Rebecca Schwartz, Mr. Donahue.”

  “You wrecked my RV!”

  He wouldn’t shake.

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, but my insurance will pay for it.”

  “Insurance! I’m supposed to leave on a three-week trip to Europe in a week!”

  Maybe he was right—maybe I was stupid. I couldn’t really see how that applied.

  Julio said, “Rebecca, are you all right?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you up to moving your car?”

  I realized then it was still in the middle of the street. Cars were going around it, but people had come out of their modest homes to inspect the damage. I had become a neighborhood spectacle.

  I nodded, and then took a good look at my car. The front end was more or less pleated. I looked back at Julio. “Oh, my God. It’s totaled, isn’t it?”

  He nodded gravely. “You needed a new car anyway.”

  If I’d expected sympathy for the gaping wound that opened when I saw I’d killed my beloved old Volvo, I’d come to the wrong place entirely. This was the guy who’d complained about my car even when it looked good. Sadness turned to fury, and I would have stalked off if I’d had more than two steps to go. As it was, I gave the door a good slam.

  But of course, the damn thing wouldn’t start. I had to get the traitor and a couple of other neighbors to help me push it to the curb—after Mr. Donahue consented to move his precious RV—and then I had to endure the humiliation of describing the accident to the teenage policeman summoned by Mr. Donahue:

  “But, Miss Schwartz, what were you looking at?”

  “I thought I saw a bug.”

  “A bug?”

  “A bee. I thought there was a bee in the car. I tried to swat it.”

  “But your windows were closed,”

  “Officer, is this really relevant?”

  “It just seems so … unusual.”

  Julio offered to take me home, though he seemed to take it for granted I had to be medicated before I could travel.

  Without asking, he poured me a glass of wine and one for himself. He sat down and apparently felt I should sit next to him.

  “Were you coming to visit, I hope?” he said.

  “You didn’t go for the bee story?”

  “If you weren’t coming to visit, perhaps you were watching my house. Don’t you trust me, Rebecca?”

  He was wearing khaki pants and a black polo shirt, as if dressed for a date. That and the memory of the kiss threw me off for a moment.

  And then I remembered about the murders. I was so horrified, I gasped. “You mean was I hoping to catch you on your way to commit another murder, thereby clearing both my clients?”

  “Well, I heard that joke about the white rats. I haven’t been around that many lawyers, but people say they’ll do anything.”

  That made me mad. “You probably also think Jewish wo
men don’t date outside their faith.”

  His eyes went all twinkly on me. “Esperanza tells me otherwise.”

  “Little big mouth. Where is she anyway?”

  “At Amber’s. Could I ask you something?”

  Would I go out with him? Sure.

  Would I run away with him? Why not?

  Would I marry him? Maybe.

  “Would you tell me what you were up to when you demolished poor Mr. Donahue’s RV?”

  I’d had a glass of wine by now, and nothing to eat. I said, “I was trying to see if the silver car across the street was yours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s complicated. Maybe I’d better ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you seeing Marty?”

  “Seeing her? You mean dating?”

  “Something like that. To be euphemistic about it.”

  His brows knit in confusion. “Marty? Of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”

  I thought about whether I had a right to give Marty’s secrets away and decided it wasn’t the lawyer she’d asked to get the calendar, it was the friend. “Because Marty met someone at a motel a while ago whose initial is J.”

  Utter disbelief played over his features. Was he talking to a female filbert?

  I said, “Oh, hell,” and laid the whole thing out for him, from the calendar to Don.

  He was still mixed-up. “But what did you care?” he said. “What does it matter who she was seeing?”

  “You’re making this awfully difficult for me.”

  “Oh. You were checking on me.”

  I nodded, knowing I must be the color of Mr. Donahue’s scalp.

  “Well, that was sweet of you.”

  “You’re handsome, Julio, but I don’t know if you’re worth losing a car over.”

  “It was meant to be. That car was no good for you.”

  “I loved that car.” The wound opened up again. I guess I looked as sad as I felt. Julio must have wanted to give me something. Or maybe he was just antsy around the “l” word.

  He said: “Everyone knows who she’s seeing, by the way. I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling.”

  “Marty? You know who Marty’s seeing?”

  “Jim Lambert, the chairman of the board.”