“We’re doing Chinese tonight, sweetheart.” Greg returned to his shaving. “That okay with you?”
“Sure,” I mumbled, still lost in my thoughts about the Blond Bomber.
Should I talk to Dev Frye about it? Did I have a legal obligation to go to the police? Could I live with myself if another woman was killed and the murderer turns out to be Brian Eddy? These were questions I did not want to discuss tonight over Mongolian beef and Kung Pao chicken.
Who knows? Maybe my fortune cookie tonight will say something helpful, like Relax, he didn’t do it.
Then again, it might also say He who hesitates is lost.
You are a decisive individual was the sage advice offered up by my fortune cookie Saturday night. It should have read You are a procrastinating nincompoop.
We were spending a couple of hours at a small, grassy park located next to the Seal Beach pier and overlooking the beach. Dogs weren’t allowed at the park, but every now and then the local police would turn a blind eye when it came to Greg and Wainwright, especially if it wasn’t the busy tourist season. I was staked out under a small tree in a folding beach chair, reading the latest Chuck Zito mystery novel, while Greg played Frisbee with Wainwright. It was a gorgeous April day, slightly warm, with a gentle breeze coming off the ocean. Lots of folks were around enjoying a relaxing Sunday, including two young boys who came here regularly. Greg and Wainwright were well known at the beach, and now so was I. Greg and the boys were throwing the round disk back and forth while Wainwright ran between them, trying to nab it or scoop up a wild throw. Sometimes he succeeded, then he would change the throwing game into a game of catch-me-if-you-can. There was nothing Wainwright liked more than to play Frisbee on the beach. If kids were involved, all the better. I think he’d even give up an occasional meal to do it, if he had to.
I hadn’t said anything to Greg yet about my conversation with Lillian Ramsey. There were several opportunities over breakfast, including one moment when Greg asked if I was okay. He’d said I seemed preoccupied. That had been the perfect moment, and I had let it slide by, sloughing off his question as if slicked with softened butter.
“How’s the book?” Greg asked, rolling up to where I sat. He was hot but full of life and energy. His blue eyes studied me with concern.
“Very good.”
“Yeah? Seems it would be much better if you’d turn the pages. You’ve been staring into space for the past ten minutes.”
“Have I?”
I looked past Greg and watched Wainwright rolling around with the two boys. The big yellow dog looked pooped but happy. I put down the book and rummaged around in the large thermal bag sitting next to me. Pulling out a cold soda, I handed it to Greg. He took it silently, his eyes never leaving my face. I tried to ignore him as I pulled out a jumbo Cool Whip container filled with water for the dog.
“Wainwright,” I called, “come here, boy.” I snapped the lid off the plastic container and placed it down on the ground. The dog bounded over and lapped up the water with gusto.
Greg started to say something, but Silas, one of the boys, came up to us. He handed Greg the Frisbee. “We gotta go. Thanks for letting us play with Wainwright. He’s a cool dog.”
“Anytime, Silas.” Greg gave the boy a wink. “We enjoy it as much as you do.”
Silas was eleven years old with shaggy black hair, intelligent brown eyes, and skin kissed by the sun. The boy with him was his younger brother. He sported a buzz cut and equally tanned skin. His name was Billy. Both boys had their tee shirts off.
As the boys scampered off, I got up and started packing up my book and chair, still not meeting Greg’s eyes. “It’s really getting hot out here. Mind if we go home?”
“Not at all, sweetheart, I was thinking the same thing myself. I brought some work home from the shop that I need to attack this afternoon.”
Greg downed the soda in two huge gulps. He took his empty can and the one I had drained earlier and rolled over to a homeless man who sat on a bench near our van. He handed him the cans. The homeless man was very old and was called Pops by everyone who lived in the area. Greg handed him the cans and a five-dollar bill.
“Thanks for watching my van, Pops,” Greg said to him. “Great job.”
It was a ritual that happened every time we drove the few blocks to the beach instead of walking. Not that the van needed watching—it was the middle of the day, and it was parked in a handicapped space right in front of the park, but Greg and Pops had an understanding. Pops believed in working for his money. So the entire time we were at the beach, Pops never left the bench next to our vehicle. That was his job—that and collecting cans and bottles. Sometimes we would have brunch at a small restaurant across the street before enjoying the park. On those days, Greg would order an omelet with extra crispy hash browns and sliced tomatoes to accompany the five-dollar bill. He told Pops the meal was a well-earned bonus.
How could I not love this man?
Once at home, Wainwright slurped down more water before plopping down on the cool tile floor for a nap. Seamus joined him. Cats love comfort, and Seamus thought there was nothing more comfortable than using a golden retriever as a pillow.
After cleaning up, Greg went into our home office and dug into his work. I went out to our covered patio and plunked myself down on a chaise. For a few minutes, I thought about what I was going to do with the chicken breasts I’d defrosted for dinner, then I tried once again to concentrate on my book. But all I could think about was Lil and her request.
It wasn’t too long before Greg was at the open patio door. “Ice cream or Thin Mints?” he asked me with a smile.
“What?”
“Is this a Cherry Garcia problem or a Thin Mint problem you’re stewing over?”
I laughed in spite of my worry over Lil. Greg not only loved me, he knew me. Whenever faced with a problem I can’t quite resolve, I drown myself in specific comfort foods.
I’m told that most people gain weight when they marry. In the short time I’ve been married to Greg, I’ve lost nearly fifteen pounds. I must be happy because there has been a lot less emotional eating in the past five months.
“It’s a bucket-o-puddin’ kind of problem,” I told him with a dead-serious face.
Instantly, Greg dropped his smile, and his face clouded over. “You sure?”
I nodded. Bucket-o-puddin’ referred to a large container of pre-made chocolate pudding and was code for a very serious problem.
Greg disappeared and returned with a container of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream and two spoons. As he stripped the seal off of the container, I joined him at our redwood picnic table.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re out of pudding.”
As I reached for a spoon, he stopped me. “Before you start, you have to promise to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“I do.”
“I do was back in November. Here I’m looking for an I will.”
I smiled slightly. “I will.”
He popped open the container and handed me a spoon. “Would you do the honors of breaking ground?”
“I will.” I dug into the smooth virgin ice cream and extracted a large spoonful. Again, how could I not love this man?
By the time the pint was almost empty, I had told him what Lil suspected and what she was asking me to do. Like a slow-moving storm, Greg’s face clouded with each word, but he let me talk, not interrupting until I was finished. I did note, however, that he was digging into the ice cream with more urgency as the topic darkened and my possible involvement deepened. After I put down my spoon, Greg pulled the container to him and polished it off in silence. I went into the house and came back out with two large glasses of water with lemon slices.
“Did Lil tell you exactly why she thinks Brian is the Blond Bomber?”
“No, and I didn’t want her to. Not until I’m sure I can and will help.” I took a drink. “The less I know, the better.”
“Wow” w
as all he said before taking his own big drink of water.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” I took another drink. “I had planned to this morning, but I knew you would be upset, and I didn’t want to ruin your day.”
For several minutes, Greg remained as still as death. He looked at me, his eyes telling me nothing about what was going on inside him. I didn’t think it was a good sign.
“Jesus, Odelia.” When he spoke, his voice was strong but not angry. “It’s barely been six months since the last time you buddied up with danger. Couldn’t you have at least waited until we passed our first anniversary?”
He sighed deeply. “When I decided I couldn’t live without you, I realized that I would have to live with this penchant of yours to stumble into unsavory situations. I had just hoped that once we married and you moved to Seal Beach, it would at least slow down, not accelerate.”
“Geez, it’s not like I left a trail of bloody bread crumbs from Newport Beach to here.” I started to say more, but he stopped me by raising a hand like a flesh-colored stop sign.
“Let me finish.” He ran his hand through his styled, longish hair. “I’m not thrilled about this, to say the least. But I tried ranting and raving once, and it didn’t work. So, here’s the deal, and it’s a three-parter, so please keep your panties on and don’t interrupt.”
In an uncharacteristic wise move, I kept my mouth shut and heard him out.
“The first part of the deal,” he began, taking both of my hands in both of his, “is that whatever you get involved with, I’m your partner on it. I’m your partner in life. I might as well be your partner in crime, so to speak.”
My mouth fell open with surprise. “You want to help Lil find out if her son is the Blond Bomber?”
“No, I want to help you. It’s important to me to keep you safe, and if helping you help Lil will do that, I’m in. The second part of the deal is, you do not, under any circumstances, try to find the Blond Bomber. You are only to look for proof that Brian Eddy is not the killer, not flush out the real killer. Leave that to the professionals. You understand?”
“Are you kidding? I have no intention of mixing it up with the Blond Bomber.”
Greg chuckled. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. But you do have a knack for finding trouble you never intended on finding.” He paused and locked his eyes onto mine. “The third part of the deal is that you have to promise to always keep me informed.”
“Absolutely.” And I meant it. After spending the bulk of my forty-eight years alone, it felt great to have a partner—to belong, not to someone, but with someone. It was no longer Odelia Patience Grey versus the world, but me and Greg in a loving and strong partnership, ready to take on whatever life threw our way—even if that “whatever” was murder and mayhem. We probably should have had that written into our wedding vows.
“So,” he said. “What’s next? Telling Dev?”
“No, not yet, for exactly the reasons Lil fears.”
Greg nodded in understanding.
“What’s next,” I continued, “is talking to Mike Steele. First thing tomorrow morning.”
At this point, Greg threw back his head and laughed out loud. When he stopped laughing, he said, “Too bad I have an important meeting tomorrow. I’d give anything to be there for that. Could you video it somehow?”
When I lived in Newport Beach, I used to walk most mornings around the Back Bay area with Zee and some of the other members of Reality Check. Originally organized to offer advice and support for women of size fighting it out in a skinny-obsessed world, it now offers support to anyone who feels they don’t fit into what society considers normal. In addition to plus-size men and women, the group now has members who are little people, who are deaf, and who are in wheelchairs.
Now that I live in Seal Beach, I walk with Wainwright. Greg is not a morning person. Before I moved in, Wainwright’s morning exercise consisted of dashing through his doggie door to relieve himself and running laps around the back patio while his master snoozed. These days, he and I walk around the neighborhood and down to the beach. The big, friendly animal is happier than a pig in a mud puddle with this arrangement. Meanwhile, back at Casa de Stevens-Grey, Seamus remains curled up, warm and snug, with Greg. It’s a win-win on all fronts. I miss walking with my friends, but to perk me up, Greg bought me an iPod, so now it’s me, Wainwright, and a playlist of upbeat rock ’n’ roll oldies walking the early morning beat.
This morning, it about broke my heart to see Wainwright standing by the back door, his leash hanging from his mouth. I soothed my guilt with the knowledge that Greg took the dog to work with him every day. The animal is far from neglected.
As Mike Steele is an early bird and his day is usually jam-packed, I decided the best time to get his attention would be early in the morning, before the office officially opened.
I am a corporate paralegal at the law firm of Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, or “Woobie” as we people in the trenches affectionately call it. Although I technically work for all the attorneys in the firm, my supervising attorney is Michael Steele, a brilliant attorney who considers arrogance a virtue and sarcasm a grace. Steele also had the bad habit of going through secretaries like the Tasmanian Devil. It was a toss-up whether they left because of his obnoxious work habits or because they eventually had an affair with him and decided it wasn’t worth the aggravation to stick around when it was over, which was in pretty short order.
Now don’t get me wrong: to my knowledge, Steele has never sexually harassed any of these women. That wouldn’t be his style. No, he’s more of the “woo them with charm and attention” type. Then, after they got to know him, they usually ran screaming from the office. My guess is a lot of the women thought the affair would turn into a commitment or at the very least a cushy job.
Much to everyone’s happiness except Steele’s, those days seem to be over. For nearly five months, Jill Bernelli has worked as Steele’s assistant. She also assists Jolene McHugh, another attorney, and myself. Jill is the domestic partner of Sally Kipman, a former high-school classmate of mine, and is the picture of efficiency and patience. No matter what Steele throws at her, she catches it and throws it back like a catcher destined for the Baseball Hall of Fame. In a short time, Jill has become a favorite with Woobie attorneys and staff alike. And something tells me that even Steele secretly adores her. He may not have a secretary he can bed, but he definitely has a secretary who can match him in both his work and his wit.
I let myself into the office suite at about seven thirty. Woobie opens officially at eight thirty, with most of the staff arriving around nine. In my hands were two large cups of designer coffee, one for me and one as an offering to Steele. The coffee didn’t come from one of the ubiquitous chains but rather from a little independent café near the beach that I knew was a favorite brunch hangout for Steele on weekends.
Yes, I’ll admit it, the special brew was a bribe, an offering at the altar of knowledge and egotism—an attempt to soothe the bear before I asked him to share his honey.
I found Steele right where I expected to find him—at his desk, his suit jacket already off and carefully hung on the wooden hanger on the back of his door. His fingers were busy on the keyboard of his computer, probably reading and responding to e-mails that had accumulated since last night.
I knocked lightly on his doorjamb. He looked up, surprise registering on his handsome, freshly shaven face.
“Jesus, Grey, a little early for a newlywed like you, isn’t it?” His fingers continued to stab at the keyboard while he spoke.
“I need to ask you something, Steele. Got a minute?”
“What? Greg filing for divorce already?” He looked back at the computer screen. “Whatever you do, ask for shared custody of the dog. That’ll force Greg to give you anything you want in the settlement.”
I stepped into his office and carefully put one of the cups of coffee down on his desk in line with his peripheral vision. As soon as he spotted the famili
ar logo on the paper cup, he stopped typing and gave me his full attention.
“This must be pretty serious, Grey, for you to come bearing gifts.” He picked up the cup, took off the lid, and took a long, appreciative sniff.
“A little half and half, no sugar, right?”
He took a small sip and smiled. “You know me too well.”
He took a bigger sip. After he swallowed, he turned in his chair and faced me. I set my own coffee down, shut the door, and took a seat across from him.
“A shut door conference?” Steele narrowed his eyes at me. “You leaving the firm, Grey? Is that what this is all about?”
I honestly couldn’t tell if his question held a tone of disappointment or of hope.
“No, I’m not leaving the firm, so you can just keep the cork in the champagne.”
It was my turn to take a sip of coffee, but for me it was a stall tactic. I wasn’t sure quite how to open the subject of a serial killer.
Steele leaned back in his chair and swiveled slightly. The chair gave off its familiar squeak. For all his obsession with perfection, Steele seems to love that damn squeak. Everyone has tried to get him to oil it. Tina Swanson, our office manager, even sent an office services person down once with a can of WD-40, but Steele banished him back to the copy room with the threat of termination if he ever touched his chair. Personally, I also like the squeak; it’s like a bell on a cat. When we hear the squeak, we know Steele’s in his office hard at work and not prowling the halls, looking for someone to annoy.
He took a deep drink of coffee and waited.
I also took another drink of coffee. “You won’t believe this,”
I began.
“I believe everything you say, Grey. No one could make up the shit you get into.”
He laughed. I didn’t.
When I didn’t respond on cue, he leaned forward and put his coffee firmly down on his desk. He stared at me, eye to eye.
“Please tell me you haven’t gotten yourself involved with another stiff.”
Booby Trap Page 2