“Shit.” The serenity was swallowed by a rush of stomach acid that came with the sudden realization that he had a column due day after tomorrow and he hadn’t even given it a moment’s thought. “Shit.” He didn’t know what the hell he’d write about since he’d misplaced his notes on athletic shoes during the move.
He dragged his unwilling body out of bed and rubbed the small of his back. Among other things, he expected the furniture movers to show up today, and Lord, would that be a blessing for his abused spine.
In the shower, he stood under the water and let it play over his face and shoulders. “Massage,” he said, not minding the water spraying into his mouth, only wishing he could adjust it to pound the tension out of his shoulders and neck. “I need a shower massager.” He smiled: He’d buy several and write about those. He could test them this afternoon after working up a sweat moving a little furniture with the van guys, or after horsing around with his sculpture, and write his column tonight. It would be easy and fun, as columns allowing vague sexual innuendo and double entendre always were, the paper would spring for the shower gadgets, and he’d have an afternoon of—he groaned, but thought it anyway—good clean fun.
When he exited the shower with its puny little sprayer, he heard Shelly outside his door, calling his name in a dull, whiny voice.
“What, dear?” She hated to be called “dear,” and he hated to be whined at. Synchronicity, he decided, pulling his jeans on.
“Can I take the car today?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Hormonal teenage whining, four-star quality this time.
“Number one, it’s my car. Number two, I told you yesterday that it’s off limits.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
“I can’t think of a better one,” he called smugly.
“Daa-ad, I need it. I have to go back to the mall.”
“You’ve spent two days there already.”
“I was doing job interviews.”
“All day?”
“Daa-ad!”
He pulled on loafers, smirking because she was getting ticked, taking untold pleasure in applying karmic torture. “Have you actually applied anywhere, Shel?” he called.
“Give me the truth, I can take it.”
“Yes! Everywhere! And I’m supposed to be back at Nigel’s Beauty Supply at eleven for an interview with the manager. I think she might hire me.”
“That’s great. You can walk.”
“Daa-ad! My hair’ll get all screwed up.”
“Messed up. I’ll drop you off, and you can walk home when you’re done.”
She mumbled something unintelligible but unmistakably rude, so he cheerfully informed her that if the movers showed up soon, she could take her bike. She mumbled something else, then begged him for a ride at ten-thirty. He made her wait a moment, then told her he’d do it. She left after that, doing sort of a combination drag-stomp to show him he wasn’t being a good, cooperative father.
The jeans were okay for another day, but the socks were the last pair, and the dressing room was practically bare. He needed to do laundry. The meager supply of shirts he had brought in the car had dwindled to one slightly used blue-stripe button-down and a gaudy blue and black rayon shirt with distant Hawaiian bloodlines. He chose the Hawaiian, and as he slipped it on, his gaze dropped to the three twenty-four-inch base cabinets built into the wall.
Tense with memories, he hooked a finger around the door handles of the one he thought hid the secret passage. He pulled it open and peered inside, jumping when Quint, afflicted with terminal curiosity, rubbed up alongside him.
The empty cabinet had two wooden shelf supports attached halfway up. The shelf itself lay in the bottom of the cabinet, making him suspect that no one had used it in many years. Then he realized that the Ewebeans probably just threw their belongings inside without ever worrying about refinements.
He reached up on the inside back and felt for the lever, found it easily, and pushed it. Silently, surprisingly, the hidden panel in the back of the cabinet slid open, revealing the utter blackness beyond.
Involuntarily he shivered as cool air wafted over his face. Something scuttled somewhere in the passage, something small and blessedly distant. More rats, Rick thought, more D-Con. Quint hissed, then stepped tentatively toward the darkness.
“Uh-uh, no way, cat. You’re not going in there.” He pushed the animal away and released the lever to close the panel, then rose and crossed to the bedroom dresser, where he’d left the Pavilions bag containing the D-Con. After grabbing a few traps, he retrieved his little high-beam flashlight from his duffel bag and returned to the cabinet.
The cat watched balefully as Rick kneeled down and opened the cabinet. After he readied the bait traps, he pushed the lever again and watched the panel reopen. He flicked on the flashlight.
If Robin hadn’t eavesdropped that night, would they still be alive?
Rarely had he let himself consider that possibility, but the police had never caught the murderer. Robin did have his reasons: School was going to start in a week, and he’d be sent away. After his attempt to get Rick out the window failed, he might have been desperate enough . . .
Nonsense. You saw him that night in a clean yellow-striped nightshirt. Besides, as strong as he was, Robin hadn’t even been able to force him out the window.
Quit driving yourself crazy, Piper! Set the damn traps and close this thing before the damn cat climbs in!
He shined the light into the opening and gasped when he saw the knife.
It lay just inside the passage, and seeing its long, thin blade filled his guts with ice. Carefully he picked it up by the end of the handle and brought it out where he could examine it more carefully. It was a filleting knife, its twelve-inch blade coated with dust, its cork-covered handle speckled with blackish stains. Blood.
The murder weapon.
Suddenly nauseous, Rick threw the knife back in the passage. He let the panel close, barely recognizing the strangled whimper he heard as his own. He slammed the cabinet door shut, then rose, frantically searching the bedroom, then the bathroom, for something he could use to secure the cabinet doors. Frustrated, he ended up standing in middle of the dressing room, telling himself he didn’t need to secure anything. That’s when he noticed the wire hangers hanging right in front of him. He snagged one and unkinked it, then quickly ran the wire through the cabinet handles and twisted it tight, so that nothing could get in.
Or out.
He sat back, breathing hard, still queasy, and feeling very childish and ashamed. Quint, who cared only about his stomach, circled around him, yowling.
“I put that wire there to keep you out of the cabinet,” he told the cat. Instantly he felt better, because he could tell anyone who wondered, including himself, that the cat was the reason. The wire would do until he could disable the panel. He grinned. The cat would be his excuse to nail up every panel in the house.
He busied himself, trying to forget about the knife in the passage. After feeding the cat, he called to verify that the movers would arrive, then gathered his laundry and carried it downstairs, only to find Carmen tossing Cody’s clothes in the washing machine. Silently she took his clothes from him, looked them over, then threw them in with Cody’s things.
“I can do our laundry, Carmen.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I get paid for this, remember?” She eyed him. “What’s on your mind?”
“I need a hammer and some nails.”
She raised her eyebrows but didn’t ask questions, just directed him to the toolbox on one of the laundry room shelves. He took a handful of tenpenny nails and a claw hammer. “I’ll bring this back later.”
“Hold on, Ricky. You’re gonna let me feed you breakfast today.”
“Well, coffee, maybe.”
She made him eat toast, too, then they lingered over second cups while he told her about the movers and jotted down what he wanted them to put where, and whether to leave, store, or
get rid of various pieces of furniture already in the house. When he told her, with great delight, to take down all the hyperthyroid paintings and return them to Jade, Carmen nodded approvingly.
“But the most important thing is to make sure all the furniture in my room is taken out and the new stuff put in. If I have to spend another night without my water bed, my back’s going to be ruined for good.”
“A water bed.” Carmen made a funny face, “I didn’t know you were such a playboy, Ricky.”
“I got it for my back, not for . . . that.”
“I’m teasing you, Ricky.” She laughed. “You’re so serious. How do you write those funny columns?”
Embarrassed, he shrugged.
“You ready, Dad?” Shelly swept into the room on the heels of her words. “We have to go! I can’t be late.”
He glanced at his watch. She was right. “Okay.” He glanced at the hammer and nails on the table. “I’ll get those later, Carmen. Is Cody around? I can take him with me—”
“He went to Home Depot a while ago with Hector. They’re buying weed killer and things. That boy of yours just loves working in the yard.”
Rick found that mildly amusing. “I hope he’s not driving Hector nuts.”
“No, he loves the company.”
“Let’s go, Dad!”
24
Armed with half a dozen decadent handheld shower massagers, Rick returned a couple hours later to find a moving van blocking the driveway, several roomfuls of ratty furniture stacked by the garage for the Salvation Army to take, and four burly guys with terminal butt-crack dragging his own furniture into the house, none too carefully. Carmen, hands on her hips, seemed to be in her element as she ordered them around.
“Need help?” he asked her.
“No, I’m fine,” She lowered her voice. “Morons, they’re morons. They bang up everything.”
“That’s what they’re paid to do,” he said lightly. He didn’t want to think about it.
Rolling her eyes, she looked heavenward. “They did the three bedrooms first. Cody’s in his room putting away his things.”
“So my bed’s up there?”
“Yeah, but I think they broke it. It’s in a bunch of pieces.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he said, then realized she was teasing him again. “If you don’t need me, I’m going to go put it together.”
“You should make them do it.”
He shook his head. “Like you said, morons. It only takes a few minutes if you know what you’re doing.” He paused. “Oh, Christ, the cat. I left the cat up there.”
“I know, don’t worry. I put him in my house.”
“You’re an angel.”
“I know,” she said, and blessed him with a smile.
“Call me if you need me.”
“Sure, Ricky.”
Upstairs, he found Cody having a great time unpacking and generally making a mess. Watching him, Rick thought that it would be a good idea to nail the closet panel shut right away, not only to keep Quint out, but because if Cody discovered it and went inside, he could be bitten by a rat. Since he didn’t know about the passages, he was unlikely to find it, but Rick decided he’d get to it, along with all the other panels in the house, within the next few days. The old beds and dressers were gone, replaced by his son’s roomful of high-impact white furniture, and topped off by his race-car bed. The room looked a million times better.
He left the boy shoving Legos in one of the drawers beneath the closet and walked down the hall to his room.
“What a relief,” he said, looking in. Despite the stacks of packing boxes, the master suite looked bigger than ever with his smooth bleached-oak furniture in place of the heavy, dark stuff. He set to work on the bed and, an hour later, had the mattress filling with the help of a garden hose he’d borrowed from the toolshed. Meanwhile, Rick attached a shower head, assured Carmen he was almost done using up all the hot water, and put away some of his clothes.
Twenty minutes later, the bed was filled. He coiled the hoses and headed downstairs, thinking that since he couldn’t test the shower massage until the water heater refilled, he’d kill an hour by starting work on the frame for his metal sculpture. That was, if Carmen didn’t need him.
A moment later, as Carmen shooed him out the front door, Shelly returned to announce she’d gotten a job at Nigel’s Beauty Supply and that she could get makeup really cheap. Her sullenness had evaporated completely, and when she whirled and kissed him on the cheek, he was filled with desire to buy her a car, cable, a phone, and whatever else she wanted. He refrained from saying so, and as he walked to the workshop, he contented himself by hoping that having a job would teach her some respect—if not for him, then for his wallet.
25
Two hours later, he pushed the welder’s mask back and surveyed his work. It didn’t look like much, but it was big. He grinned. The base and half the horse’s frame were complete. It was merely a stick figure, a simple skeleton upon which he’d build. Tomorrow, after the column was safely sent off, he’d finish the knight’s form, and after that, he’d start the real work: the painstaking heating, bending, and cutting of the metal he would weld together to eventually create his horse and rider.
Now, however, the dinner hour was closing in, and he needed to take a shower or three very badly. Grabbing his shirt from the stool where he’d left it, he thought about putting it on, then used it to wipe his brow instead. He paused, looking at the frame. “What the hell,” he said, and pulled the mask back over his face, deciding to allow himself just a minute more to complete a couple little finishing touches before cleaning up for the night.
“Hi!”
Startled, he turned, taking the acetylene torch with him, accidentally pointing it toward the friendly feminine voice.
She stood about ten feet away and was in the process of stepping farther back, her eyes on the flame.
Flustered, he shut off the torch’s valve. “Sorry,” he said, putting the tool down. “I didn’t mean to—You startled me.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, retracing her steps. “Your housekeeper said I’d find you here.”
Three feet from him, she halted. Rick stared dumbly, aware that she was the least Vegas-like female he’d seen for some time. She was no more than five three, with slender bones and small breasts. She wore a scoop-necked white tank top, tucked in to her jeans, and her mane of gold-red hair floated around her shoulders. This woman is my type, he thought, remembering Dakota’s efforts to fix him up. He’d have to explain that to O’Keefe sometime.
“I’m Audrey,” she said, extending her hand and smiling.
“Rick—” He snatched his hand back before it reached her, shoved the mask up, reextended his arm. “I’m Rick Piper. I’m afraid you have the advantage . . .”
“Oh.” She looked flustered this time. “You didn’t know I was coming?”
“No,” he said sheepishly. “I don’t even know who you are.” But I’d like to find out.
“My brother was supposed to phone you to let you know I’d be bringing this by.” She pulled an Express Mail envelope from her shoulder bag and handed it to him.
“Your brother?”
“Duane.”
“Duane?” he asked, puzzled.
“Oh.” Her smile lit up the room. “You probably call him Dakota.”
Before he could react, she was talking again, words spilling out in a nervous rush. “He said it came for you Monday and that it was vital you got it, but he didn’t have your address, so he sent it overnight to me and asked me to bring it over and make sure I gave it to you myself.” She smiled. “I just live over the hill in the Heights.”
“You’re Dakota’s sister?” he asked in amazement. He owed Dakota an apology. O’Keefe did know his type.
Audrey smiled. “He described you to me, but you don’t look quite like I expected.”
In response, Rick set the letter down and pulled the welder’s mask from his head and pl
aced it on the workbench. He looked down, saw the dirt and dust caked on his chest, hands, and arms, the stains on the jeans, and wondered what his face looked like. He grabbed his shirt and wiped his forehead. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
She laughed, just a throaty little chuckle, and he liked it very much. He thanked God for California girls. The Beach Boys were right.
“Duane talks about you sometimes,” she said. “He always says he wishes your, ah, sexual persuasion was, well, different.” She blushed.
“I’m glad it’s not,” he heard himself say. In Las Vegas, sex was a buy-and-sell commodity, and Rick hadn’t responded mentally or physically to a woman in a long, long time. Now his brain was alert, and there was an embarrassing twitch in his shorts. “Dakota’s a very good friend.”
She nodded. “He’s a good guy.” She continued to study him. “You’re not small at all.”
Before it dawned on him that she was talking about his height, he’d grabbed his shirt and draped it over his arm so it would conceal any embarrassing bulges in his jeans. “Small?” he asked, his voice cracking. He felt as if he were fourteen again, very embarrassed and very friendly.
“He said you were short. I thought you’d be five two or something.”
“Five nine without shoes.”
She grinned. “That’s tall. Men taller than that give me a stiff neck.” Suddenly she blushed. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded . . . I mean . . .” She regained her composure with visible effort. “Aren’t you going to open that?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess I should.” He snagged the envelope, fumbled, finally ripped it open. Inside was a folded piece of paper. A single sentence, in Dakota’s flamboyant hand, occupied the entire page: “I told you you’d like my sister.” He stared at it. Stared some more.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I, uh, hell. Here.” He thrust the note at her.
Audrey stared at the note, then blushed to the roots of her hair. “That rotten brother of mine,” she began. “I was so nervous coming here because he kept calling me and telling me that . . . that . . . Christ. This is ridiculous.” She took a deep breath. “I think Duane’s playing matchmaker.”
Bad Things Page 18