by A B Plum
He clipped the mic on Ryn’s collar. “We’ll figure out how to prove you’re innocent. Right now, I think you should try to sleep.”
“How long will you be with Mr. Daniels?” I won’t sleep.
“Difficult to say.” He crossed to the door and then faced her. “I’m a step away.”
Chapter 32
Silence slunk out of the corners and took over the room. To offset the crypt-like quiet, Ryn punched the pillows with both fists. Grunting, she tucked the smallest pillow between her legs. Stone had hated her protest of reducing pressure on her lower back.
You could use my knee instead—if you had any interest at all in sex.
She ground her teeth against the replay and flopped on her back. She’d given up sleeping with a black satin night mask after Stone complained for one entire cross-country trip. If I’m going to sleep with someone, I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and see the woman next to me impersonating the Lone Ranger.
The day after she threw the damn mask in the waste basket at the Hotel Muelbach in Kansas City, Stone went out and returned with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar pair of diamond and sapphire earrings. After insisting she put them on, he said he’d learn to adjust if she really needed the night mask.
The maid had already cleaned their suite so Ryn accepted Stone’s gesture and made one of her own—she never slept with anything on her eyes again.
Lavender confided that Stone’s need to get his way as an adult stemmed from getting his way as a child. Like all her hippie friends, Lavender prized peace over discipline. It didn’t help that even in early childhood, Stone’s multi-faceted musical ability bordered on genius. As a teenager, he played the guitar brilliantly, composed brilliantly, and wrote brilliant lyrics. His performance bravura left his fans stunned. He made some of his best music the first year with Ryn, dedicating a dozen songs to her and publicly acknowledging his gratitude for her emotional support and savvy financial management.
Without warning, a red flower on a mound of snow flashed behind Ryn’s closed lids. The flower’s spiky red petals spread across the white field and turned into a lake with two black holes in the middle.
Sweat pooled in the hollow of Ryn’s throat. Choking, she reared up, her heart revved up to flight-velocity. She kicked at the sheets tangled around her legs.
“Comfrey?” she croaked. Her throat stung as if she’d swallowed a dozen emery boards.
A light in the hallway threw his shadow in front of him—a long, dark silhouette hideously grotesque on the cream-colored carpet because it was faceless.
Comfrey. Her brain overrode her panic. Comfrey, not the bogeyman.
“Do you wake up this frequently most nights?” The foot of the bed sagged a little as he sat down.
“How’s Mr. Daniels?” She faked a yawn.
“I’d like an answer—rather than a question.”
Damn, why had she called out to him like a child waking from a nightmare? She should’ve known he’d want to talk and talk and talk. “I’m not sure which is worse—having bad dreams or talking about them.”
“I didn’t ask you about your dreams.” The parentheses on both sides of his thin mouth warned he wasn’t taking any crap. “I asked if you wake up frequently most nights?”
“Yes, dammit.” Ryn imagined jumping out of bed, ripping off all the wires and stuffing them—one by one—down Comfrey’s giraffe throat. “I wake up frequently every night. I have wakened frequently every night for as long as I can remember. Isn’t that why I came to see you in the first place?”
Back rigid, eyes smoldering in the dim light, he snapped, “I thought you came because Danny Leopold sent you—not because you thought I might actually be able to help you.”
Ryn blinked. Her anger evaporated. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thanks for that whack upside my head.” With her index fingers, she rubbed the space between her eyebrows. “I’ve developed this nasty habit of getting in people’s faces, pushing them, confronting them. Just for the hell of it. I’m surprised someone hasn’t killed me.”
“Do you think you might have been the intended victim instead of Stone?”
His frankness slammed into her like an electrical shock. “God knows I’ve ticked off enough people.”
Amber’s irate face in the parking lot wavered, replaced by a quick flash of Danny’s barely suppressed fury, followed by Elijah’s chiseled, dark features closing when she told him he basically knew shit about the music business.
“I don’t know what anyone gains if I’m dead. I mean, you don’t kill people because they have the personality of a piss-ant, do you?”
“A good prosecuting attorney can probably make a strong case for you killing Stone—who sounds down right piss-ant-ish.”
Ryn snickered. “Any idea what a piss-ant is?”
The slack corners of Comfrey’s mouth tightened a little and turned up a near smile. “Never heard of such a beast, but I’ve known a few in my life.”
“So,” Ryn said, “a good PA could call in witnesses who can testify to my mood swings and my confrontational—provocative, he’d probably say—way of dealing with people. None of that’s proof I killed Stone—or that someone intended to kill me.”
“Sometimes juries have such a strong, unconscious prejudice for the victim that the accused—by default—is seen as the logical murderer simply because most of us recognize we’re capable of killing under the right circumstances. I doubt you and Stone kept your disagreements private. Certain people don’t like it when a woman wins an argument—especially in front of others.”
“In other words, woe unto a strong woman who speaks her mind?”
“If she’s involved with a rock legend, has a smart mouth, and is older—”
“I get it. I get it.” Ryn held her hands at ear level. “Guilty shrew that I was. Am.”
“I’m not saying you’re a shrew.” Comfrey’s unblinking eyes never left her face. “In fact,” he shrugged, his mouth twisting, “we may be exaggerating what a difficult person you are to be around. I’m only trying to point out how a wily prosecuting attorney can make you look like the feminist from hell.”
“And can a wily neuropsychiatrist hold his own against such a PA?”
“My nickname since med school has been ‘Cold Comfort’. Some people say the C in my middle name stands for corpse.” He threw Ryn a broad smile. “In the meantime, back at the sleep lab, I think I can help you. When did you start having sleep problems?”
The man never gives up. Ryn stared at the ceiling. The symmetry of the heavy white crown molding and velvety green walls somehow bridged the gap between the present and the past.
“We never found out who poisoned Beauty. But in my dreams, I’ve found the bastard.” Ryn blew her nose. “And I’ve killed him. Night after night.”
Chapter 33
The bitter aroma of fresh coffee—strong enough to bring the dead back to life—penetrated Ryn’s brain. Caught in that nebulous zone between sleep and dreaming, she couldn’t decide if she wanted to wake up. The coffee smell overpowered the dream—pleasant for a change and already swimming away from her grasp. She breathed in and out. In and out. Trying to trick her body into believing she was dozing and ready for the dream to return.
As if her nose controlled her body, she raised her head, opened her eyes, sniffed, and spoke directly into the mic. “What do you have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?”
“You’re certainly cheery this morning.” Trisha sounded as if she’d abducted Miss Mary Sunshine’s body sometime during the night.
“Wait till my first sip of coffee.” Where the heck was Comfrey? She wanted to know the results of her test.
“Would you like coffee now or after your shower?”
Ryn said before and asked what time it was and how long it would take to “unplug” her so she could shower. Trisha said she’d answer all questions along with the coffee’s delivery. She appeared almost immediately and performed the unplugging qui
ckly and efficiently. Doctor had left orders that Ryn could leave as soon as she woke and ate breakfast. Doctor, poor man, had received an emergency call at six o’clock, but he wanted to see Ryn in his office the following day.
Ryn passed on breakfast at the clinic. It was only eight. If she hurried her shower, maybe she could eat with Beau and send McCoy on his way.
Providing the building’s still standing.
No signs the fire department had swung by during the night relieved a fraction of the tension in Ryn’s gut. No response to the intercom raised the acid level to a four-alarm fire. Ryn bruised her knuckles on Mr. Smith’s door without getting an answer from the sixty-five-year-old manager. She returned to the intercom, let it buzz for five minutes, and finally gave up.
Her stomach would not stop rumbling.
Upscale, yuppie coffee houses stood on every corner or next to bagel factories and French bakeries in downtown Los Altos. Recalling Comfrey’s advice to eat more protein, Ryn bypassed these eateries and searched for a homey little breakfast café she’d seen en route to Safeway.
The twenty-by-thirty room in The Breakfast Place oozed bacon grease, onions, hash browns, and coffee. It was packed—including all six stools at the fake oak Formica counter. Not a single trendy teak or pastel-pink anywhere, but the off-white walls and red vinyl floor gleamed. A skinny Asian waitress loaded with heaping plates on both arms tossed her head toward the only free booth. Cut down to accommodate two people, it sat next to a large window filled with sunshine.
The hair on the back of Ryn’s neck stood straight up as she navigated the obstacle between the front door and the booth. The print on the menu cha-chaaed. For the first time since Stone’s murder, she was starving. The waitress stopped with two glass coffee pots extended in the pour position. Ryn shook her head and ordered OJ, poached eggs, English muffins, and a bowl of Special K while she waited for the cooked food.
No use worrying about McCoy and Beau on an empty stomach.
She’d finished the cereal and her nose twitched. Her scalp inched forward with a sudden snap that felt like the beginning of a bad headache. She pushed the empty bowl away and held onto the impulse to whirl around and confront whoever was watching her. But the stink of pizza, beer, and cigarettes mixed with marijuana grew stronger. The short, stubby hairs on the back of her clean-shaven neck refused to lie down.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, Miz Davis,” Bozo drawled as Ryn turned to face a bad dèjá vu moment. “Chance said that wuz you when we went to the head, but I didn’t believe him. Tole ’im he wuz imaginin’ things. Told him the hair wuz too short, but damned if he wuzn’t dead on.”
Bozo leaned over the back of the high booth he kept between him and Ryn.
What the hell are two misfits like him and El Creepo doing in an ordinary restaurant like The Breakfast Place?
“Bet you’re surprised to see us,” El Creepo chimed in, coming from behind Bozo and beaming at Ryn as if they were long-lost buds. He threw an arm over Bozo’s shoulders, squeezing his friend’s large blond head in a mock hammerlock.
“You win that bet.” Ryn swallowed around her heart which had leaped into her throat. She figured they’d meet in the Elysian Fields before meeting in an out-of-the way little café half a block from where she beat the crap out of them less than a week ago.
So much for her skills at predicting the future. Why didn’t management throw out these clowns? Their oniony breath and B.O. ruined her appetite.
“Elijah—the big black, er, uh African American—dude? He said you wanted to talk to us?” El Creepo scratched a spot on his right wrist while Bozo, Mr. Amenable, nodded, his brown eyes as moist as a lemur’s.
The waitress bustled up, elbowing her way to the booth, depositing the eggs and muffins in front of Ryn, gone again almost as soon as Ryn said she didn’t need anything else.
Which was a lie. What she needed, the waitress couldn’t deliver.
Ryn, Bozo, and El Creepo adjourned to Foothill Park after she paid the bill and suggested they find a quieter place to talk.
“Sounds to me like you’re tryin’ to rabbit on a done deal.” Bozo kicked at dirt under his feet, sending a few tufts of dry grass over his head.
“Sounds like that to me, too.” El Creepo cracked his knuckles and tilted his head to watch the grass fall from the sky like yellow-green slivers of rain.
“It’s kind of hard to go back on a deal I wasn’t part of.” Her neck muscles tensed from trying to watch both men on either side of her. “Elijah White didn’t have my authorization to make a deal.”
“He tole us the same thing.” Bozo chinned himself on the monkey bars, his biceps bulging as he lifted himself up five times and then dropped to the sand and wiped his hands on his shorts. “But he said he thought he could work somethin’ out. Said you weren’t an unreasonable person.”
“’Course we sorta wonder about that—seein’ we were the ones you up and ambushed outta the clear blue.” El Creepo took a turn at chinning himself—ten times without stopping. His stumbled landing ruined his moment of glory.
“Uh-huh.” Ryn turned her back to the bars and counted thirty cars at the four lights on Foothill Expressway. “I forgot I ambushed you.”
“Look,” Bozo growled. “We know our rights.” He pounded his chest like Tarzan.
Ryn kept walking, not glancing at either of them, acting as if the cars going back and forth had captured her total attention, certain El Creepo would have to put his oar in the water.
He came around to stand between her and the expressway traffic. He blasted her with his onion breath. “Yeah, we for sure know our rights.”
Ten to twelve feet away, a young woman with her toddler in the sandbox focused on them and then quickly looked the other way. Ryn walked to the swings, sat in one, and faced the expressway again. She dug her heels in the soft dirt and leaned forward in the metal seat.
“I hope you have a good lawyer—”
“You saying we’re gonna hafta sue you?” Bozo kicked more grass.
“We know how much you’re worth,” El Creepo hollered.
Ryn laughed. “If I get convicted of Stone’s murder, how much will I be worth—in your expert opinion?”
“Bullshit!” El Creepo grabbed one of the empty swings and gave it a shove hard enough to send the seat over the top. The chains clanked around the frame.
Down at the sand pile, the young mother removed her child and hurried out of the park.
Bozo clamped a hand on his buddy’s shoulder and threw Ryn a now-why’d-you-go-’n-make-him-mad glare. “Chill, dude. Don’t let her get to ya.”
Chance shrugged off the hand. “I’m cool. But I don’t ’preciate being made the fool.”
He shouted loud enough an old man on a nearby bench lowered his paper and peered over the top. Ryn pumped the swing twice, lifted into the air, and tuned out Chance and Bozo.
“Awww, shiiit,” Bozo announced. “Here come the cops.”
Ryn’s heart dropped and she stopped pumping, dragging her feet to slow down. “We’re not doing anything against the law.” She kept her voice low. “Act pleasant. Normal.”
Oops. If they act normal, we’ll all end up in jail.
Two Los Altos cops, both young and looking like brothers with their sandy military moustaches, freckled forearms, and hard abs approached the swings.
“Good morning.” Ryn turned on the twinkle and dimples as Stone used to say. How would the cops react if she volunteered her name?
Bozo and El Creepo grunted something—neither rude or polite, but unintelligible.
“We received a report of some loud swearing and strange behavior over this way.” The taller cop tilted his head and took in the middle swing wrapped around the bar. Like baby robins waiting for a worm, Bozo and El Creepo looked up, too, and their mouths fell open.
Ryn stared at the tips of her Nikes. Thank God, she’d told the barber to cut her hair ultra-short. If these cops had shown up at Safeway—unless they were psychic—she d
oubted they’d recognized her sitting in the park watching traffic.
“Okay, Harpo.” The talking cop sighed. “Be a good citizen and shimmy up there and flip that swing back in place. We don’t want any kids getting hurt because some idiot decided to vandalize the playground.”
El Creepo flinched at vandalize. Wordlessly, Harpo climbed up the frame and flipped over the swing. Ryn’s back jerked a little each time it fell. Harpo slid back to the ground and hoisted his shorts into place with his elbows before he swaggered over to stand next to Chance.
The second policeman, the one who had stood like a rock the whole time, shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. His gray eyes hardened. “Play as long as you want, but if we hear another complaint about foul language …”
He didn’t bother to finish the sentence. He dropped his shades back in place and sauntered off with his partner toward the sandbox.
Once they were out of earshot, Ryn said, “I think we should leave.”
“I’m not letting any pigs run me out of a public park.” Harpo jutted his chin and folded his arms across his chest.
“It’s a free country,” El Creepo added, giving the cops the bird behind their backs.
They’re only twenty-one. They don’t know any better. She glanced at her watch. She didn’t want to give them the benefit of a doubt, but she said, “I have an appointment and I’m late. Give me your address and phone number. I’ll drop by tonight around nine to listen to you play. The two of you. None of your buddies. Understand? Then, we’ll talk.”
“You won’t stand us up, will you?” Harpo’s pale brown eyes glowed with the same hope of an eight-year-old who still wanted to believe in Santa.
“I’ll call if I’m going to be more than fifteen minutes late.” What would she do with Beau? Brushing away the question, she hoped she wasn’t making one of the biggest mistakes in her life.
Chapter 34
Ryn crossed Foothill Park without looking back at Chance and Harpo braying, honking, barking, and laughing . They’d be damned lucky if the cops didn’t run them in for disturbing the peace. Wouldn’t that be too bad?