Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not really. Lance was on the beach this afternoon about the time the arm must have been deposited in the gazebo. He had to pass the gazebo on his way back up to the house. Somewhere in all that are motive, means, and opportunity. But for what, I don’t know.”

  “Right.” His head hurt. “Anything else?”

  “That’s it. I can’t imagine Lance being involved, he seems so ordinary. I mean, it must take a certain sort of warped creature to cut off heads and arms and carry them around town. But, my God, Roger, you can’t ignore a certain volume of coincidence.”

  “No.” So now he knew what she had been holding back. He hoped she was finished, but she took a breath and continued.

  “I was trying to put Lillian Morrow and the Silver Threads group somehow at the center of the arm business. Mrs. Morrow is certainly spooky, and she seems to have a mission. I thought maybe she had done something to goose up her son’s murder investigation.”

  “I hesitate to even ask,” he said. “But how the hell do you know Lillian Morrow?”

  “She came to my office this morning after the inquest. She wants me to intercede with you, make you take over the investigation.”

  “Dammit, Kate!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?”

  “Because earlier it was none of your business!” she shouted back. “I’ve told Eddie Green everything except what we found out at Clyde’s. I’ll call him on the way home and tell him about that. And about this place.”

  He moved back a few paces and kicked at some dirt clods before he could trust himself to speak again, he was so nonplussed and angry. He hated being protected. When he turned to her again, she had walked over to close the shack door.

  “How could you think this was none of my business?” he asked.

  “Sorry. Maybe that was the wrong expression,” she said. When a dirt clod skittered in her direction, she kicked it back. “Roger, you’re being manipulated. And I don’t mean by Lillian Morrow.”

  “But maybe by you?”

  “That’s different.” Then she smiled shyly to herself. “I think.”

  “So?”

  “Roger, my love, I think someone wants you dead. Or at least permanently out of the picture.”

  “So why doesn’t ‘someone’ just put a gun to my head?”

  “Too quick. I believe this whole crime has been set up for your benefit by someone who knows your health is still vulnerable. I think he, or she, wants vengeance,” she said. “He won’t shoot you. He wants to watch you twist in the wind for a while.”

  Tejeda made himself laugh, but he and Eddie Green had already covered this territory. “What have you been reading?”

  “Human nature.”

  “And you’re some kind of expert on human nature?”

  “I’m no slouch.” She was walking toward him. “Look who I fell in love with.”

  “Just tell me what picture you think I’m being gotten out of.”

  “There are so many possibilities,” she said, and held up her hand to tick them off. “You said Arty Silver had friends. The case against him certainly wouldn’t be as strong with you gone. Then maybe the family of a victim is enraged that you didn’t get Arty soon enough to save their son. Or you got the wrong man and he’s afraid you’ll figure that out. Putting aside the garden variety of wacko who might think you’re the reincarnation of Satan, there are more personal possibilities.”

  “Personal? Like what?”

  “My ex-husband is up to something. And so is your ex-wife.”

  She had counted down all the fingers on one hand. He took the fist this made and pulled up one of the fingers. “Did it occur to you that I’m not the intended victim?” he asked.

  “No.” She furrowed her brow and looked off into the dark for a moment. When she brought her gaze back to his face, he could see more sadness than fear. “Do you mean me?”

  “Think about it.”

  Kate leaned her head against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her.

  “My offer still stands,” she said.

  “For Australia?”

  “No. For financing. I know we’re too far into this mess to back out. If you work as a policeman, there are certain procedures you have to follow. Certain niceties. If you work as an independent, you don’t have to be so fucking nice.”

  14

  “Where’s breakfast, you say?” Rachel laughed. “You mean, where’s lunch?”

  “Never mind.” Kate had taken one look at what Rachel was wearing and headed straight to the pantry for a bottle of catsup. Keep it casual, she had told everyone in the house. The baronial trappings of a formal dinner in her dining room could be downright scary to the uninitiated. The day already promised to be like a picnic in a mine field, with a variety of potential combustibles that ranged from Cassie to the appearance of assorted severed body parts.

  She carried the catsup back into the kitchen, looked at Rachel again, and debated whether to ask her to change into street clothes. But she didn’t have the heart; Rachel seemed to feel very elegant, her hair fanned out from her face like Oprah’s and a tiny gold heart glued to the nail of her left pinkie. That much of her appearance was fine. It was the other that set Kate’s teeth on edge. Dress comfortably, Kate had told Rachel when she hired her to serve dinner. But sometime during a cleaning foray Rachel must have discovered the old store of servants’ uniforms, because she was now garbed in black livery like Garbo’s maid, with prissy white apron ruffles cresting her shoulders in stiff fins.

  Kate sighed. Rachel was a picture, sitting in a straight kitchen chair while she arranged radish roses around the edge of a satellite-dish-size silver tray. On ice in front of her were artful canapés composed of smoked salmon and beluga caviar—Trinh had used Gourmet magazine as a source for her English as a Second Language homework. A lovely picture, Kate thought, just not the one she had had in mind.

  “You’ll need Arnold Schwarzenegger to pass that tray around,” Kate said.

  “It won’t be passed. Mr. Reece said to put it on the low table in the sitting room.”

  “I’m glad someone’s on top of things.” Kate slid a canapé from under the plastic wrap. It tasted about the way it looked—artful. “Have you seen Lance?”

  “No. Mr. Roger came through here ten minutes ago looking for him too. I’ll tell you the same thing: when I drove up about seven, Lance was walking down to the beach with a surfboard under his arm.” She poked a fresh rosemary stem under a radish for garnish. “And yes, when I see him, I’ll tell him you’re all looking for him.”

  “You sound tired, Rachel,” Kate said. “Take a break.”

  “I’m not tired.” Rachel beamed. “I don’t know when I ever had so much fun. Everything is so beautiful. Go look in the dining room.”

  With a sinking feeling Kate picked up the catsup bottle and slowly opened the dining-room door.

  The fire in the grate cast a rosy light, an antidote to the gray afternoon sky. But it wasn’t enough to dispel the chilly formality of the dining room. Outside of a china-shop clearance sale, Kate couldn’t remember ever having seen such a display of china, crystal, and silver since the days when her grandfather had had a domestic staff of five. Someone would be up half the night washing dishes.

  Trinh was helping Reece arrange champagne flutes on the sideboard for dessert. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she chirped.

  “You too.” Kate handed the catsup bottle to Reece. “What happened to keep it simple?”

  “You want this on the table?” He looked at the catsup and laughed. “William Randolph Hearst gave his guests paper napkins to take the edge off.”

  “Not a bad idea. I suppose I couldn’t persuade you to use Grandma’s crockery instead of the china.”

  “Not a chance.” Reece reached past her to adjust the alignment of silver candlesticks. “People expect all this when they come here. You don’t want to disappoint anyone, do you?”

  “I just w
ant people to feel comfortable,” she sighed.

  “They will. The bar is well-stocked and Trinh has some new jokes.”

  “Just promise me,” Kate said. “No footmen. And no dinner jacket for you.”

  “Me?” He grinned. He wore tattered cutoffs and a creamy cashmere sweater. She suspected that if she looked closely enough, she would find a fair amount of beach sand clinging to the hair of his scrawny ankles. He was certainly casual now, but guests weren’t due for another hour and she had seen Reece’s garment bag hanging on a bedroom door upstairs; he could do a lot of dressing in an hour.

  Kate took another look at the phalanxes of forks and spoons aligned beside each plate. “After what’s happened, do you think all this is appropriate?”

  Reece shrugged. “What’s happened?”

  Trinh drew a finger across her throat. “You know.”

  “Oh. That.” Reece seemed to weigh the problem quickly. Decision apparently made, he drew Kate into a quick, hard hug, then turned her toward the hall door. “Go bother someone else. Trinh and I are having fun.”

  Kate hesitated. “Have you seen Lance?”

  “He came over this morning and borrowed my board, but I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Where’s Richie?”

  “Stayed with his mother last night. She said the press people worried her.” Reece put his hand against the middle of Kate’s back and gently propelled her toward the door. “Theresa went up for a shower. Roger is on the telephone in the study. Lydia is on her way over. The queen is in her parlor and the king is in the counting house counting out his money. Now, beat it.”

  “I’m going.”

  Everything in the house seemed so holiday-ordinary, she thought as she walked toward the study. She yawned. On the way home last night, they had stopped by Eddie Green’s house and ruined what was left of his night to tell him about the shack and Don Kelley. The sun had been up before they finally got to bed, and the house was already stirring before Kate finally managed to fall asleep. Now she felt somewhat disconnected, lost in a crack between the normal household hum and the Twilight Zone of the night before.

  She hoped that what she wore—raw silk gray skirt, pale pink sweater with her grandmother’s Tiffany dragonfly pin, low heels—was noncommittal, neither dressy nor overly casual. And not at all festive. She kept thinking about something Lillian Morrow had said, about the pain of not knowing where her son’s remains were, while his killer was out there somewhere, probably getting ready to enjoy his Thanksgiving dinner. It was Lillian Morrow’s grief and not her own, she reminded herself, but the boy’s horrible death had touched this house, and there ought to be some acknowledgment.

  Reece certainly didn’t share her feelings, Kate thought as she walked toward the voices coming from the front of the house. She yawned again; maybe this morbid feeling was only a concomitant of too little sleep.

  She found Tejeda and Eddie Green in the study, Bloody Marys in hand as they bent over a large ribbon-festooned carton and an enormous basket of long-stemmed red roses. To Kate the gifts looked straight enough, if somewhat extravagant, but Eddie and Tejeda found them awfully funny. When Eddie looked up and saw her, he gagged on his drink, trying to stifle a laugh.

  “What’s in the box?” Kate asked. “A gross of whoopie cushions?”

  “Could be.” Tejeda held out his hand to her. “Carl sent his construction person over with it.”

  “Harry Miller?”

  “No. The little bearded one.”

  “Mike Rios,” Kate said. “If Carl sent this stuff, it isn’t whoopie cushions. Carl was never amused by intestinal gas. Or much of anything else. So, what’s so funny?”

  “I didn’t know Carl was such a sentimental bastard.” Tejeda reached into the flowers for a tiny florist card. “Read it.”

  “‘Happy Holidays.’” She started to laugh. “‘A pleasure to service your construction needs. From Angel Center Building Supply.’”

  “He must have missed the card,” Eddie said.

  “Maybe the florist made a mistake,” Kate said. “Or Rios delivered the wrong stuff. Carl’s no saint, but this isn’t like him. Unless he really is cracking up. What’s in the box?”

  “It’s addressed to you.” Tejeda nudged the carton with his toe. “Heavy.”

  “Yeah?” Eddie nudged it too. “About the weight of a dismembered corpse.”

  “Minus the head and left arm, right?” Kate knelt down to undo the ribbons.

  “Sergeant Green?” Trinh hovered in the doorway, looking nonplussed. “Your wife is here.”

  Before anyone could react, Eddie’s almost-ex-wife, Libby, swept in and planted herself squarely in front of Eddie. She clutched their ten-year-old son, Justin, tight against her. Justin looked thoroughly miserable. Kate didn’t know much about what had happened to Eddie’s marriage, except that the end had come during the investigation into Kate’s mother’s death. Eddie had carried the double burden of covering an extra load at work while Tejeda was out of commission, and of trying to pacify his own domestic muddle.

  Ordinarily, Kate thought, Libby would be a pretty woman. But she seemed tired and grim, and barely in control. Not unlike Cassie.

  Tejeda moved toward her. “Nice to see you, Libby. Have you met Kate?”

  Libby extended a hand to Kate, a habit of good manners apparently boring through her shield of hostility. Justin used the break in his mother’s hold to squirm free and run to his father.

  Big, tough Eddie Green seemed to melt as he held Justin. He kissed him noisily, ruffled his hair, and turned him around. “Did you say hello, Jus?”

  “Hi, Roger. Hi, Kate. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Glad you could come, sport,” Tejeda said, feigning a punch to Justin’s shoulder. “Richie brought home his octopus collection.”

  Justin grinned, showing his full set of braces. Cleaving to his father, he looked at everything in the room except his mother.

  “Eight o’clock.” Libby glared at Eddie. “You get him to my mother’s on time for once or I’m going to the judge again about Christmas.”

  “Jeez, Libby,” Eddie said. “Not in front of Justin.”

  “Eight o’clock,” Libby warned. Then she turned and left without bothering with good-byes.

  Justin leaned against his father. “Did you bring your watch?”

  “Don’t worry, Jus,” Eddie said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  Kate felt awkward. She wanted to offer Eddie a private place to be with his son for a while, but Justin, still clinging to Eddie, had discovered the carton in the middle of the floor.

  “Whose present?” he asked.

  “Mine,” Kate said. “Will you help me open it?”

  He broke away and dropped down eagerly beside her. With only one chipped nail and one paper cut between them, Kate and Justin managed to pry open the top of the carton.

  Justin sat back on his heels disappointed, but Kate smiled up at Eddie.

  “Wine,” she said. “A case of very good white wine.”

  “I knew that.” Eddie drained his Bloody Mary. She noticed the deep circles under his eyes, a slight tremor in the hand that held the glass. How much sleep had he missed last night? And how early had he started on Bloody Marys?

  “Dad,” Theresa called. “Grandma’s here. They just called from the gate.”

  “They’re early,” Kate said as they all walked out to the foyer.

  “No they’re not,” Tejeda said. “On time is for guests. Family comes early to help.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  He nodded toward Reece, who was coming down the stairs. “I thought you knew.”

  “Touché,” she said.

  Reece still wore the cashmere sweater, but he had traded his cutoffs for beautifully tailored gray flannel slacks. She noticed that while he had slipped on cordovan loafers, his ankles were bare.

  “You pass wardrobe,” she called up to him. “Now it’s show time.”

  A light rain had begun
to fall. Tejeda took an umbrella from the stand by the door and ran down the front steps to meet his parents while Kate and the others waited under the shelter of the portico.

  Kate watched him laughing, joking with his parents, exchanging noisy kisses and hugs while they got covered dishes out of the station wagon and umbrellas opened. She saw in the easy, loving rapport he had with his parents the source for his strong relationships with his own children. She felt a pang of emotion she hoped wasn’t envy. No, she thought, it was something like what Goldilocks must have felt when the three bears came back from their walk; a fear of being engulfed, they had such a strong presence wherever they went.

  Kate smiled. It was show time, all right. Today, during dinner at their son’s lover’s house, Linda and Ricardo Tejeda would have their first meeting with Cassie since she decamped for New Mexico, leaving their son and grandchildren to sweep up her dust.

  “Told you so,” Reece whispered in Kate’s ear. She nodded; he had been right, the Tejedas were dressed for a party. Kate suspected that Tejeda’s father, Ricardo, the Santa Angelica High School marching-band director, was always dressed for a party. He was a very tall, straight, commanding-looking man with a head of crisp silver hair. In his black three-piece suit he looked to Kate as if he should have at least a brace of drummers behind him.

  Physically, Linda was a striking contrast to Ricardo: she was small, a bit rounded, her blue-black hair set off by a red knit costume that looked like about three months’ worth of her teaching salary. She seemed soft, but Kate knew that after twenty-some years of managing high-school-English students, Linda had a granite core.

  Linda and Ricardo seemed to bring light with them into the foyer.