Through Deborah’s entire tirade, Tejeda had watched the two women with fascination. Mrs. Silver’s placid expression had never changed, as if she were anesthetized. He expected her to be embarrassed, or outraged, or to join the attack. But she just sat there smiling dumbly, no more a part of this scene than she was of the silent soap opera running across her television screen.
Deborah offered him even more to think about. She was the loose wheel he had been looking for. To him she didn’t seem physically healthy, she was so pale and emaciated. When he looked at her arms for the thick dark hair that gives away the bulimic and the anorectic, or for the needle marks of an addict, he found a homemade tattoo of a bleeding dagger inside her wrist. The drops of blood spelled “Dad.”
No one had yet offered much of a psychological profile of Arty. The defense certainly wasn’t offering him to county experts for probing. And because he wasn’t pleading insanity, the prosecution hadn’t gone to the expense of psychiatric opinion except beyond what was necessary to say that his personality at the time of arrest was consistent with what might be expected of a mass murderer.
Tejeda was beginning to see the crack, the line where two pictures that didn’t quite match were spliced together. If you took the little pinched-face kids at his elbow out of their best clothes, let their hair blow a little, they wouldn’t seem so ordinary. He thought about what that lineup would look like now: a mass murderer, a bulimic, a loony (to use Deborah’s description of her committed brother), and a blank spot where one had gone missing.
When Arty was arrested, the neighbors had been interviewed. They had been very protective. The Silvers, they said, were good people. Tejeda looked again at the patched walls, the ten or more randomly placed melon-sized patches in the plaster, and wondered how fair it was to judge them after five years of hell. How had they been different before Arty’s arrest?
Deborah slammed down the telephone. “Axel says keep your mouth shut.”
Mrs. Silver took a gulp of her gin and shuddered. With unfocused eyes she looked up at Tejeda. “Did Arty really say that to you?”
“Yes.” He stood to leave. “When the D.A. gives his opening statement Monday, it’s going to be pretty graphic. I think Arty wants to spare you.”
“If you’re sure that’s what he wants,” she sighed, and emptied the rest of her gin down into the source of her pain.
23
Tejeda jogged along beside a red mini-van, using it for cover. Occasionally he would look through its windows, past the Mom’s Taxi sticker, to keep tabs on the camera crew that was staking out the Rolls. He couldn’t imagine whom they thought they were fooling, hunkered down among the sparse landscaping of a parking-lot planter with a mound of video equipment at their feet. Ordinarily he wouldn’t bother to avoid them, but this time they wanted Theresa, the brokenhearted teenager who drove a Rolls-Royce. He couldn’t let them follow him inside the store, where Theresa, he hoped, was still waiting.
The van’s woman driver rolled down her window and smiled seductively at him. “Are we drag-racing?”
“Sure,” he laughed. “Think you can keep up?”
“The question is, can you?”
“Maybe not.”
The woman was attractive, funny. But not very good cover. He peeled off toward the freight entrance to the store.
She waved and tooted her horn twice. “I’ll be at the sidewalk sale on Sunday.”
He was still chuckling about her while he jogged down the truck ramp and into the loading bay. He passed two big rigs and a No Admittance sign, but no one stopped him until he was inside and halfway across the huge stockroom.
Even then, his presence wasn’t challenged. An enormously overweight security guard glanced up from a clipboard. “You should wear your store I.D. down here.”
Tejeda flashed his badge. “Where is the Juniors department?”
“Second floor.”
“Point me to the freight elevator.”
“What’s the problem?” The guard seemed more scared than worried. “No one called me. I’m supposed to be notified if something’s going down in the store.”
“There’s no problem. Yet. Where’s the elevator?”
The guard showed him, but had him log in first. “No arrests in the store, okay?” the man pleaded as the doors closed on his face.
Tejeda came out in another stockroom, which gave him a chance to case the sales floor through a crack in the big double doors, making sure there were no straggling reporters before he ventured into the open.
“Excuse me.” A young salesclerk, her arms loaded with bright pink sweaters, waited behind him to use the door.
He moved aside to let her pass. “Where’s the Juniors department?”
The clerk looked him up and down, tossed her hair back, and batted her eyes at him. “Follow me.”
He did, happily, watching her sway her narrow hips as she wended her way through the clothes racks. She was cute, and very young, and had him wondering again about his sudden appeal. He had been hit on twice in the last ten minutes. Not that he minded, it was just that he didn’t expect it. He had watched girls literally fall over each other to get close to Richie. That he understood; he had always thought that Richie had extraordinary good looks and charm. But himself? He knew he could raise Kate’s pulse, but that was different—that was love. So what was going on? He wondered whether maybe he had missed something. He was past forty and had a fresh scar on his face. Had he suddenly become the in type?
“Here we are,” the salesclerk announced. “Juniors. My name is Starr. If there is any way I can help you, just call.”
“Thanks,” he said as she slunk away to help a woman customer. He was still puzzling over this new power of his when Starr’s customer turned around, did a double-take, and gave him the same sort of overt appraisal. He found her stare especially bizarre, because the woman was Cassie.
As a reflex, he checked his fly. “Where’s Theresa?”
“In the fitting room,” Cassie said, selecting a pink sweater from the pair Starr held up for her. “She wears a size five and says her rear end is too big. Can you imagine?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it before.” He followed her around a rack of blue jeans. “How did you get here?”
“Theresa called me. She said she was frightened. You were awfully long getting back. She went out to check the car, and there were people all over it.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “You really should drive something less conspicuous.”
“Tell Theresa,” he said. “Look, Cass, we need a ride home. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Of course, I don’t have a Rolls, or a Jag, or a Mercedes. But I can get you there.” She pulled a pair of jeans off the rack, looked at the price tag, and shoved them back. “I need to know, however, where home is. Our house? Or her house?”
“If this is a problem, I can call Spud to come for us.”
“It’s no problem,” she said sweetly. “But it is confusing. Our house looks great—the neighbors tell me you have a gardener and a cleaning lady come once a week. You took so little away with you, I could hardly tell you had moved out. It appears that you’re planning to move right back in.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
She smiled. “You look great, Roger. Maybe a little tired, but I haven’t seen you so fit for years. You’re more relaxed, I think, the way you were when we first started going together.”
He listened to her go on for a while, not stopping her as what she said became increasingly intimate. At first he was letting his emotional reflexes have some play, testing to see whether he had any residual feeling for Cassie lurking in the corners. He had, as he had expected.
She was playing the right chords, talking about the good old days when things between them had still been happy. Then he realized that she had to stretch back into the old, old days, to the time before she changed her mind about the course she thought
their lives should take. Long before she had made a sharp right turn and asked her family not to follow.
She was saying how something had reminded her of a picnic they had had before Richie was born, and how she cherished the memory of that day—wildflowers in the meadow, just the two of them with no one else around. He remembered the day, and the hill of red ants under their blanket when they tried to make love, and the sudden rainstorm that had forced them into the car. As he listened, none of her stories seemed to recall the red ants. Or the kids.
He reached out and covered her hand. “The reason the house is intact is that there was nothing there I wanted to take except Richie and Theresa. I think it’s time to sell the place, Cassie. We could both use some money.”
“But where will you live?”
“With Kate,” he said. “I’m going to marry Kate.”
He was still wondering where that revelation had come from and what Kate might say about it, when Theresa emerged from the dressing room with a pile of clothes draped over her arm.
“Oh, Dad! Good, you’re back,” she said, looking around, hesitating. “Is it safe to come out?”
“I think so. Did you find something?”
“Isn’t this great?” she said, holding up pants, a shirt, and a sweater. “What do you think?”
“It’s great,” he agreed. “How much?”
She gave Cassie a quick and not very happy glance. “Ten dollars more than you said I could spend.”
Cassie reached for the price tag on the sweater. “Theresa, these aren’t even marked down.”
“Are you paying for them, Cassie?” Tejeda asked.
“No. But Theresa can find something on the sale rack. She didn’t look very carefully.”
He put his arm around Theresa and kissed her cheek. “I trust Theresa to know what she needs. She’s been on a clothes budget since she was fourteen, and she’s done a damned good job of sticking to it. Without my help. Or yours.”
“I didn’t mean to start something, Daddy,” Theresa whispered.
“This is between you and me, kid,” he said. “You have the charge card. Go take care of your business.”
Cassie’s face was dark as she watched Theresa hand her purchases over to Starr; she was no longer bothering with sweet memories.
“What do you think about the house?” Tejeda asked.
“Would we split the proceeds fifty-fifty?”
“I think a four-way split would be more fair. Theresa and Richie both need college money. You seem to be supporting yourself.”
“Roger, you sound so bitter.”
“Bitter? No. Pissed, maybe. You can’t walk in here and expect to start acting like Mom again. Not after the way you left.”
“Won’t you ever understand?”
“No.” He looked across the racks of clothes and watched Theresa sign her charge slip. “Not ever.”
Cassie leaned her back against the rack of jeans and sighed loudly. “You’ll spoil her, giving her a Rolls-Royce to drive. Theresa isn’t even sixteen.”
“You’re right, Cass. Tell you what. I have a stop to make and I don’t want to burden you with it. Why don’t we switch cars? You can drive the Rolls home—no one will bother you—and Theresa and I will take your bus.”
“Me drive the Rolls?”
“Go ahead, live a little.”
She seemed to loosen up as she thought about it. She gave him a sidelong glance. “My bus has a stick shift.”
“Theresa learns fast,” he said, but he hoped the old VW still had armrests for him to hang on to, and a good clutch. “Where did you park?”
“Behind the bookstore.” She rummaged in her big bag for keys. “I’ll ask again, does home mean our house or Kate’s house?”
“Take your pick.”
“Her house,” Cassie said. “I want to talk to Richie.”
“Chauffeur’s cap is on the seat if you want it.”
“Hell no.” Cassie took out a brush and fluffed her hair, then put on fresh lipstick. “Anyone mind if I take the long way?”
He shook his head. “Have a good time.”
The old VW bus seemed to make Theresa nervous. But she concentrated hard, and by the time they had made one full circuit around the parking lot, she had coordinated her feet on the clutch and the accelerator well enough so that Tejeda didn’t need to hold the dash to keep from hitting the windshield every time she shifted gears. Just the same, her first foray into traffic gave him white knuckles and damp armpits.
Pulling out after her third red light in a row, she managed to ease from first to second without a jolt.
“Nice job, sweetheart.”
“Theresa,” she said.
“I know your name.”
“Sorry, just a reflex.” She steeled herself for the shift into third gear. “Where are we going?”
“Silver’s Meats, Third and Ocean.”
“Oh, gross. Isn’t that where …?” With third gear there was a hiccup. “I’m sick of turkey, but we’re not going to buy any meat there, are we?”
“No. I want a quick word with the owner.”
“You want me to circle the block or park somewhere strange?”
“Just park out front.” He chuckled. “No one is following us.”
“Dad, I don’t ever want to be a cop.”
“I wasn’t aware you had considered the idea.”
“I hadn’t.” She remembered to put in the clutch when she braked for a stop sign. “I remember when you were looking for Arty Silver, when I was ten, and how all the kids at school were talking about the horrible things he did to those people he killed. They kept asking me if I had seen any of the bodies or if you told me anything gruesome. They thought I was like this expert on murder, and I didn’t know as much as they did. You sent Richie and me to stay with Grandma after Arty left that head on our lawn. Grandma wouldn’t even let us watch the news.
“Then last summer, when Kate’s mother was killed and you got all involved with her, people kept asking me what her house was like, and what she was like. I didn’t know. I had only met her like twice before she came and picked me up to move in with her, that night you went to the hospital.”
“Theresa, what are you saying?”
“You never tell me anything, but somehow I always end up in the middle of your cases. I mean, I’m like this motherless child, and I never knew why she left me. Do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Tell me what’s going on. Don’t make me wait in the car anymore, or hide in somebody’s house, or in a dressing room. God, I mean, it’s my life.”
“I’m sorry you felt left out. We were trying to protect you. Maybe we went too far,” he said. “You may come in and meet Arty Silver’s uncle. But if it starts to bother you, let me know.”
Fortunately, the block in front of Silver’s Meats was deserted—Theresa had lots of room to park next to the curb. There was a Closed sign on the front door of the store, but Tejeda knocked anyway. Lou Silver appeared from a back room, saw Tejeda, and hesitated for a moment before he came and unlocked the door.
“You have a problem?” Lou asked.
“Just need a quick word,” Tejeda said. “Lou, this is my daughter, Theresa.”
“Hi, kid. How’d a pretty thing like you get such a mug for a father.”
She smiled shyly and shrugged.
Tejeda went to the door of the cutting room and flipped on the lights. Everything was spotless again. “Has the health department been in?”
“Not till Monday.” Lou was at his elbow. “My wife and I talked it over last night. We decided not to reopen. At least, not at this location.” He ran his hand up the smooth, pristine enamel of the doorjamb, caressing it. “I’m too old to start over. Maybe it’s time to hang it up.”
“Lou, I have a question for you.”
“So what’s new?” Lou turned to Theresa. “Your father always has a question. One more thing, he says, and no matter what you tell him, it makes him think of another questi
on.”
“Last night when Sergeant Green and I picked you up, you were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with your brother and his wife, right?”
“That’s the question?”
“I saw your daughter and her husband. But where were your brother’s children?”
“What?”
“Your brother has four children. Why weren’t they with you at Thanksgiving?”
Lou stared at him. “Arty could hardly come, could he?”
“What about the other three? Over all the years I have known the Silver family, I don’t remember ever meeting Arty’s brothers and sister. Where were they yesterday?”
Lou scuffed his thumb up the stubble on his cheek and thought. “Deborah never comes to dinner—she won’t eat in public. Gets that from her mother’s side: all the Waters women have funny ideas about food.”
“Where were the boys?”
“Aaron has gone off somewhere and Baby isn’t speaking to his father.”
“Why?”
“Baby thinks my brother hasn’t done enough to help Arty. Baby worships Arty, always has. Sees him as some sort of, I don’t know … protector, I guess.”
“Protector from what? Is your brother a violent man?”
“No,” Lou protested. “People all the time talking about violence, makes me tired. Bunch of wimps. I mean, our father used to knock us around, make us do what we were supposed to. Look at us, we grew up okay. Is my brother a violent man? I would say he is a strict disciplinarian. He had four noisy kids to keep in line, and he did a damned good job. He was just a disciplinarian.”
Tejeda didn’t bother mentioning how well this discipline seemed to have worked. What was the point? “I’d like to talk to Baby. Is he in town?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a number for him. I haven’t seen much of him since he got out of the hospital.”
“The mental hospital?”
Lou bristled. “He’s okay. He kind of went over the deep end when Arty was arrested. But he’s okay now.”
Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries) Page 20