Pierre used plastic cups for coffee, and the used liners were thrown away. The cups weighed nothing, and she found it difficult to hold the cup in the air by its little plastic handle and set it down on the counter without spilling the coffee. She wished it were heavy like a real cup.
He turned sideways on the stool and looked at the kids without drinking any of the coffee. The few conversations that survived his entrance sputtered and stopped as voices from his radio filled the room. She stood where she had left the coffee cup and studied the outline of his face. She could not look away from him.
“You must be new,” he said when he turned toward her again.
She cleared her throat before speaking. “This is my first day.”
He looked into the kitchen and examined the recesses and corners of the back room. She was glad he did not scrutinize her that way.
“I don’t see Pierre around,” he said.
“He left.”
“And that other kid, Bill. Did he leave, too?”
“He said he was going out for a smoke.”
“Left you in charge then?”
“I guess so.”
“My name is Sam, by the way.” He pointed to his name tag. She looked at his name tag that said “Sam Wright,” but she already knew what it said. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated a moment. His eyes, green like the seawater that came up the inlet toward Anchorage, opened wider and waited. He would think she was deciding whether to tell him her true name. That was not the reason for her delay.
“Maria,” she said softly.
“Glad to meet you, Maria. I work this district in the mornings.”
Behind him the morning children left their seats and scattered into the street. They were difficult to ignore, but he ignored them. She had the feeling she was watching them for him because he was not watching.
“I don’t seem to be very good for business,” he said after the last of them had left. There was only one customer who remained.
“They didn’t buy anything. They just sat there.”
“Pierre’s friends, I guess. How about you? Have you known Pierre for quite a while?”
“Since yesterday when he hired me. I’m not like them, if that’s what you want to know.”
She hadn’t meant to speak that way. Her voice sounded harsh to her. She had not meant to be harsh.
“I didn’t think you were,” he said. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Anchorage.”
“Alaska. You’re a long way from home. Your parents know where you are, I hope.”
“My father knows. I’m eighteen.”
“I see. I guess you can go where you want then, but this doesn’t happen to be the best place to work. Maybe you’ve noticed that already.”
“You work here,” she said.
He laughed then, just loud enough for her to hear. She was pleased she had made him laugh. She felt she could finally take a breath without shaking.
“Yes I do, and I come in here quite often. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“Why would it bother me?”
“I don’t know. It seems to bother everyone else. Whenever I ask one of these kids something, they can’t get away from me fast enough.”
“Maybe they’re afraid of you.”
“Maybe, or maybe they’re afraid of Pierre. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
Just then a boy came into the Donut Shop as though he had heard the policeman talking about their fear and would prove him wrong. Heavy black sunglasses hid his eyes. He walked to the opposite end of the counter and stared menacingly toward the back of the shop where there was no one to menace. When she walked over to him, he abruptly ordered coffee to go. He didn’t look at her. She poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup. Her hands did not shake this time.
“That’s thirty-five cents,” she said.
“Pierre doesn’t charge me anything,” he said.
“He didn’t tell me to give coffee away.”
“You drink it then. I don’t want it.”
Nevertheless he remained standing in the same place. What did he want? She knew if she looked at the policeman he would step in to help her, but she didn’t want any help. She pulled the coffee away from him.
“I’m not getting you anything more.”
Ever so slowly the boy who pretended to be something else lowered his head to look at her and equally slowly lifted it again to the back wall. She saw his eyes through the dark glasses.
“I’ll come back when Pierre is here,” he said.
Then he turned and walked away. His head bobbed in rhythm to an internal meter that slowed his progress to the door.
Sam got up from the stool after the boy had left and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Fine customers you have here, Maria. I guess he delivered his message.”
“What message?” she asked.
“Don’t talk to the cop.”
“He’s nothing. There are lots like him around here.”
“Yes there are.”
He took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the counter. His hand remained over it as though it might blow away. She looked up from the money and was held at attention by the seawater color of his eyes.
“Did Pierre tell you about the last girl who worked here?”
She shook her head but said nothing.
“We can’t find her, but we found her baby a few days ago—a little baby girl.”
“She had a baby?”
“That’s right. The baby was dead—abandoned. We think the mother is dead, too. Nobody here seems to know anything about it. How can that be?”
He waited for her answer, but she had none.
“Think about it, Maria. You work here for a while, and one day you don’t show up and nobody thinks anything about it. Nobody asks any questions. What kind of place is that?”
She still had no answers for his questions, but she felt she might drown if she did not look away from his sea-green eyes. She did not look away.
“I didn’t ask any questions, either,” he said, and he looked as if he might drown, too. “If I were you, Maria, I would find a job somewhere else.”
She slowly removed the dollar bill from his fingers and rang up the sale on the cash register. She held the change out for him.
“You keep that,” he said without touching the money in her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
It was her first tip, and she continued to hold the money that he had not touched. After he left, she noticed he had not touched the coffee either.
Chapter 13
Sam woke to the familiar sounds of waves washing the rocks beneath his open window and seagulls screeching over the water. He stared at the ceiling and followed a deep crack in the plaster. Someday he would fix that crack and smooth the ceiling. He was tired of waking up to it.
He got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. He filled the coffee machine with water and looked through the windows to the west side of Simpson’s house. It needed paint. Simpson hated any mess on the beach but was less particular with his house. The roof of Georgia’s house rose above Simpson’s, rose above them all.
He picked up a coffee cup from the sink, rinsed it, and put it under the drip basket of the coffee maker. When the cup was almost full, he pulled it out and slid the coffeepot in its place. A small stream of coffee dripped onto the hot plate during the exchange. He leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped the hot strong coffee.
He had the tired feeling that follows too much sleep—too much sleep after too little. He had slept late as he always did on his first day off to make up the time missed through the week, as if in one splurge he could compensate for the absurd hours of his shift. He felt as if he could sleep for a week, but he was awake and already standing.
He sat down at the kitchen table—a luxury reserved for his weekends. He was quite certain it was Thursday. Not that it made any difference, but he looke
d at the calendar from Popp’s Hardware anyway. There were circles around Thursday and Friday to remind him of his days off. It was Thursday.
He heard noise at the kitchen door, then the sound of a key in the lock. He looked down at himself to see what he was wearing—Jockey shorts and a T-shirt. There was more fumbling with the lock and he smiled. She would be angry if it did not soon give way. She was an artist with keys.
The door popped open and Georgia caught her breath. She was startled to see him sitting at the kitchen table. His smile continued. Who did she think would be at the table?
“Oh hi,” she said.
“Morning.”
“I thought you’d be awake.”
“I am. Want some coffee?”
“Thanks. I’ll get it.”
She opened a cupboard and took out a clean cup. When she pulled the coffeepot out from the machine, coffee poured from the basket and sizzled onto the hot plate. She gave a surprised squeak and thrust the pot back to catch the coffee.
“It’s not done brewing yet,” she said.
“I just got up.”
She found a dishcloth lying in the sink and carefully wiped around the glass beaker. She bent down and peered into the coffeepot. “Ah,” she said, convinced there would be no more surprises. She poured a cup for herself, topped his off, and went to the refrigerator for milk. He had not often seen her dressed for work, and he watched an interesting curve form through her dress as she bent down to put the milk away.
Georgia sat across the table from him and crossed her legs. Although he thought he knew why she had come, he waited for her to tell him. He was certain that would come soon enough.
“I’m on my way to work. We had quite a stir at the office yesterday,” she said. “What do you know about Ben Abbott?”
“I was wondering if you would have anything to do with that,” Sam said.
“Why didn’t you ask me then?”
“Do you have anything to do with it?”
“Everybody in the firm has something to do with it. Mildred Abbott is our biggest client. But I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”
“Yes. Are you working on what they call damage control?”
“Not for Mrs. Abbott. She just wants to know what happened.”
“So do we. Quite a guy, this Ben Abbott. The perfect father, if he was the father.”
“I read your report yesterday, Sam. It must have been horrible to find that baby.”
“It was worse for the baby. So what kind of jerk is this Abbott?”
“I guess Ben was a pretty mixed-up kid.”
“He was twenty-five years old. That’s not a kid.”
“No, it’s not,” Georgia said.
“He might have killed them, you know—both the mother and the child.”
“I don’t think he did that.”
“I don’t think so either, not directly, but he let them live in that fleabag hotel. So did your client, this Mrs. Abbott and all her money. She left them there, too.”
“She didn’t know about the baby. Not until yesterday. She wants to talk to you.”
“Me?”
It made him angry to think that this rich lady thought she could decide when she would talk, and who she would talk to, and have a bunch of lawyers smoothing the way.
“Let me explain,” Georgia said.
“She needs to talk to Detective Markowitz, not me. He’s handling the follow-up.”
“Let me explain, Sam. There were two guys on the boat when Ben drowned, and a girl. The latest friend, I gather. The girl thinks Ben may have been involved in some type of illegal behavior.”
“You’re beginning to sound like a lawyer, Georgia.”
“I am a lawyer. I’m representing this girl.”
“Why?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? This could get awfully messy.”
“But why you? Do you think I’ll help you all make it less messy?”
“Maybe.”
“What did you tell these people about us?” he asked.
“Which people?”
“Your lawyer partners and your rich lady client who owns the Tribune and half the free world. Those people.”
“I told them we’re neighbors and friends.”
“Friends,” he said with sarcastic amusement. “None of the good stuff?”
Georgia did not smile. She had not smiled once since coming. “No.”
“And the girl? What did you tell her?”
“I told her she could trust you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“She knew Alberta Sanchez pretty well, Sam. She could help.”
“You’re talking to the wrong cop. Like I said, Markowitz is handling the follow-up. He’s the expert here.”
“I’ve read your follow-up reports,” Georgia said. “They’re part of the public record. Look, Sam, this girl is scared to death. She thinks she might drown, too. She won’t talk if anyone else comes. I won’t let her.”
Georgia stared into his eyes. Her eyes were not as he had ever seen them before, not as when they were eye to eye with his and demanding nothing more than pleasure. Faint wrinkles spread from the corners of each eye and deepened into future folds. She looked almost sad. He considered reaching across the table and touching her hand, but what would he do after that?
“I wish you would have told me about this,” she said softly.
“How could I tell you? I just found out about this Abbott guy yesterday,” Sam said.
“That’s not what I mean. I wish you would have told me about the baby.”
“Why? What good would that do?”
Georgia remained silent a moment, but did not answer his question. “This is Mrs. Abbott’s address,” she said. She removed a folded piece of paper that she had held in her hand the entire conversation and placed it on the table before him. “It’s just north of Volunteer Park. The girl will be there at one o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be there, too. You decide if you want to come.”
She stood, picked up her coffee cup, and took it to the sink. If she had left the cup on the table, if she had not hesitated, he might have remained silent and let her go. He rose and stood beside her at the kitchen counter.
“The baby’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon,” Sam said. “Maybe you should tell Mrs. Abbott—in case this baby is her grandchild.”
“I will.”
“I guess it’s really not a funeral. It’s a memorial service of some kind. They’re not going to bury the baby until we find the mother.”
Georgia brought her hand up to her mouth to cover her tightly pressed lips. Nothing covered her eyes, however—sad eyes that he had never seen before.
Sam looked away from her, out to the blue, sunshine water, and tried to hear its soothing sounds. He didn’t want to think about the baby. He wanted to take his coffee out to the deck in these last days of summer, or take the kayak, Gloria, past the bluff and up to Shilshole Bay, or fix the crack in his bedroom ceiling. He didn’t want to think about Alberta Sanchez, or Ben Abbott, or baby Olivia. He didn’t even want to think about Georgia.
“This little baby seems to be turning up everywhere,” he said softly—to himself.
Chapter 14
The Abbott property occupied an entire block with the house standing in the center. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the property. There was a gate at the entrance supported by brick columns. Sam drove his car through the open gate and parked in the circular drive beside Georgia’s red sports car. The house was like the English manors he’d seen on television, and he wondered if a butler would answer the doorbell.
“You must be Officer Wright,” said the woman who opened the door. She was in her fifties and looked more like a librarian or a gardener than a butler. “I’m Mildred Abbott. Please come in.”
“I’m sorry about your son, Mrs. Abbott.” He thought he should say that. He would have said that in any home.
“Thank you. Your police divers are still trying to find h
im.”
Mrs. Abbott turned abruptly and led him down a long hallway. His footsteps clashed loudly on the hardwood floor. In a small room with big windows, Georgia was sitting in a white wicker chair among a forest of plants.
“You know Georgia, of course,” Mrs. Abbott said. “We thought it would be best if we discussed a few things before calling Diane. Please sit down.”
Sam chose a chair next to Georgia. She greeted him with a face that looked like a sheet of paper with nothing written on it, with none of the good stuff anyway. Mrs. Abbott sat across from them.
“Would you like coffee or tea?” Mrs. Abbott asked and gestured to a tray with two silver pots on a glass table.
He was tempted to say tea just to see if Georgia’s face would change, but he chose coffee instead. He wondered what Georgia was drinking. Mrs. Abbott poured coffee into a cup with a saucer beneath it and handed the saucer to him. The china felt fragile and he could not slip his finger through the narrow cup handle. He thanked Mrs. Abbott, took a sip, and put the cup and saucer back down on the table. He thought the coffee ought to taste better with all the fuss that attended it.
“That poor child,” Mrs. Abbott whispered. “Georgia has told you that we believe Ben was the baby’s father. Georgia has suggested we could check the blood types to be certain, but I see no point in that. I just can’t understand how my son would let such a thing happen.”
Mrs. Abbott looked at him and waited for him to say something that would help her understand, but it had been too long since he had trouble believing such things. He remained silent.
“When my husband died ten years ago, Ben seemed to lose his way. I always thought, or at least I hoped, he would find it someday. He was not interested in business. He spent a year at the newspaper after college, but he didn’t like it. He said everybody was watching him. I suppose, Officer Wright, that you might think he was just a spoiled kid. I wouldn’t blame you. That’s what I thought, too. He lived here in this house until a little over a year ago. I told him that he must get out on his own. He lived on the boat after that. He and my husband did enjoy that boat. They would take off for weeks at a time, just the two of them, and sail around to all the islands or up to Canada. They would come back in such good spirits. But now the boat is gone, too.”
First Avenue Page 12