by Lois Winston
“Of course it does.”
“The police are wrong, I’m sure. It has to have been some drug-crazed psychopath looking for a few bucks to support his habit. I can’t believe anyone who knew Pepper would want to kill her.”
I nodded, but said nothing. Robert’s theory didn’t explain the jewelry and wallet in the Dumpster, but he didn’t appear to be in the mood for a lesson in logic.
“She was well liked, wasn’t she, among the women in town?” he asked.
“Yes, she was.” Not the entire truth maybe, but under the circumstances I felt any other answer would have been cruel.
“Good. She wanted to be accepted.”
If you were beautiful and rich, I didn’t see that you had to worry much about being accepted, but then I’d never been either.
Robert turned so he was facing me and swallowed hard to clear his throat. “The police keep asking me the same questions over and over. And I have absolutely nothing new to tell them. They even asked me about drugs, if you can imagine. Hell, Pepper wouldn’t even let us eat anything with preservatives.”
“They said she’d taken a sleeping pill that night, though.”
He laughed in an offhand manner. “I know. I use the stuff sometimes, and I’ve been trying to convince her that taking a pill now and then isn’t the end of the world. What with this Wine Festival and God knows what else on her mind, she’d had trouble sleeping the last few weeks. I guess she finally decided to take my advice.”
Draining what was left in his glass, Robert went to the chest in the far corner and poured himself another, this time a straight scotch. “This morning someone from the police came by to ask me about the gardener of all people.”
“They think the gardener might have had something to do with her death?” I asked this in a most astonished tone, more than a little relieved that my name had been kept out of it.
“Apparently he’s left town.” Robert began pacing around the room. “I just wish they would arrest someone and close the case.”
“I’m sure it’s their highest priority at the moment.” Suddenly, and a little guiltily, I remembered the car. My wild flights of inventiveness and sinister speculation earlier that afternoon with Stone now seemed laughable. “Do you by chance know anyone with a blue Jeep Cherokee?”
“No, why?”
“Mrs. Stevenson, the woman who lives diagonally across from you, has seen one parked in front of her house on a number of occasions.”
“No, it’s no one I know.”
Of course Mrs. Stevenson had only said she thought it was Robert she’d seen get into the car, and her powers of observation were none too acute. “She thought she saw you talking to the driver the other day.”
“Which day was that?”
“Saturday.”
He took a moment to think about it “Oh, right Tom. He works for me. Comes by to drop off things that need my immediate attention. I guess I never really thought about his car, but it is a Cherokee. A dark one, maybe blue.”
Robert sat down on the other end of the couch and turned toward me, smiling so that his whole face relaxed. “I don’t know why he parks down there, probably because it’s easier to turn around or some such thing. I’ll speak to him about it.”
I found myself smiling back, feeling a fool for even mentioning the car to Stone. “That’s okay. I don’t think she minds, she just found it curious, that’s all.”
“When did she see it last? Before Saturday, that is.”
“I don’t know, maybe a couple of days before. Why?”
He shrugged. “Just wondering.”
I looked at my watch and realized I’d stayed longer than I’d intended. Realized too, that if I hadn’t had Anna to think about and a job to go to the next morning, I might have stayed even longer. In many ways visiting with Robert was easier and more pleasant than visiting with Pepper had been.
Just then a phone rang and Robert reached for it He listened in silence, then glanced at me.
“Can I call you back? I’m busy right now.” Another pause. “No, a neighbor. One of Pepper’s friends.” Without saying good-bye, he hung up and smiled at me. “Work, it never leaves me alone.”
“I’ve got to be going anyway.”
Standing, he called to the girls and then walked with me to the door. “I meant it about dinner. Maybe sometime this week? I promise to be better company than I’ve been so far.”
“I’ll have to let you know, but I’d like to.”
“Thanks for watching Kimberly again. I shouldn’t have to impose on you after this.”
“It’s no problem. Keeps Anna out of my hair when she has a friend to play with.”
“And thanks for listening to me. I can see why Pepper was so fond of you.” Briefly, he touched my hand, a friendly gesture that lasted just a trifle longer than necessary. “I’ll call you about dinner.”
TEN
Although the Courtyard Gallery doesn’t open until eleven o’clock, I arrived the next morning a little after nine so that Daria would have ample time to brief me on my duties. But the whole time I was sitting there in one of her straight-back, ultramodern chairs listening to a detailed explanation of the inventory system, I was worrying about having made a fool of myself over the Cherokee the other morning with Michael Stone. And I thought that before he sent half the Walnut Hills police force out on a wild goose chase, I owed him an update.
The problem was, I didn’t want to talk to him. Well, in truth, I did want to, but a sleepless night of soul searching had convinced me it would be better if I didn’t. Finally, just before eleven, when Daria went into the back room to check on something, I called the station and asked to leave a message for Lieutenant Stone.
“He’s here right now. You can speak to him yourself.” It was the same sultry voice as before, the kind that can make the word “hello” sound like an invitation. Unwittingly, I found myself wondering if the body matched the voice.
“Actually I don’t really need to talk to him. It’s a short message.”
But my words were wasted; Stone was already on the line. “Lieutenant Stone here.”
“It’s Kate Austen,” I said, trying hard to sound cool and businesslike.
His voice grew softer. “I was hoping it might be you.”
A string of goose bumps rose along my neck and shoulders. So much for good intentions. “I just wanted to leave a message. About the Jeep Cherokee Mrs. Stevenson saw.”
“Ah, a business call.”
“Of course.”
He laughed. “Too bad.”
I explained that the car belonged to someone named Tom who worked for Robert.
“And just how did you find out all this?”
“I asked him.”
“Asked who?”
“Robert.”
Silence.
“I saw him last night, when I dropped off Kimberly.”
“I thought I told you to leave the detective work to me,” Stone said. “What if there had been something sinister involved?”
“He was hardly going to do me in with Anna and his own daughter standing there. Besides, he’s not like that, he’s nice.”
Stone grunted. “It isn’t likely he would admit to being buddies with a killer anyway.”
Suddenly I felt deflated. “I just wanted to save you some trouble.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather you let me do my job in my own fashion.” He turned away from the phone and mumbled to somebody nearby. “Sorry, there’s another call. I gotta go.”
I was about ready to hang up, kicking myself for even calling, when his tone grew softer. “It’s almost lunchtime,” he said. “Why don’t I come over there in about half an hour and we’ll explore the possibilities.”
“You mean about Robert?”
“I mean all the possibilities.”
My stomach did a little flip but I couldn’t decide if it was disappointment, I felt, or relief. “I can’t. I’m at work.”
“I didn’t know you worked.�
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“Today’s my first day. I’m kind of a glorified gofer at the Courtyard Gallery. A friend of mine owns it.” I looked around to make sure Daria was still out of the room. “The one who reminds you of a hot oven.”
He chuckled. “Then I won’t even offer to stop by for a visit. Thanks for the call.”
~*~
A little before noon Daria announced that she was taking me to lunch. Paul could tend the gallery himself.
“It’s kind of a welcome aboard present,” she said. “You won’t get treated like this every day.”
“I should hope not, I’d get fat.”
“In fact,” said Paul, looping his long blue-jeaned legs around the rungs of the cashier’s stool, “you’ll be lucky if you even get a lunch break from now on.”
Paul’s in his late twenties, angular of build, with a long, thin face and hair the color of corn silk. There’s something of the imp in him, particularly where Daria’s concerned. That was evident as he leaned his elbows on the counter and smiled broadly in her direction. “Isn’t that so?”
Daria glared at both of us and then picked up her purse. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
The restaurant was one of those trendy places serving Southwest cuisine, California style. Small portions and big prices. But it was one of my favorites, with an outdoor eating area and colorful shade umbrellas.
A waiter led us to our table, a slate and glass affair with a single yellow rose in the center. “Can I get you anything from the bar?” he asked.
After listening to the day’s by-the-glass specials, Daria ordered a glass of Kendall-Jackson chardonnay, then looked at me expectantly.
“Just water, thank you.”
“You’re really crazy, Kate,” she said when the young man left. “You won’t drink, you won’t get near a pollutant, and you take vitamin supplements. All to protect a baby you’re not going to have anyway.”
“What makes you so sure I won’t be having it?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense, that’s why. More than that. You’d be really stupid to go ahead with it, especially if you have any hope of getting Andy back.”
“That’s a pretty barbaric choice, don’t you think? My husband or my child. Sounds like something out of a Grimm fairy tale.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Daria said, taking a sip of wine and eying me over the top of the glass. “It’s not a baby yet, and you know it. We’ve been through this before.”
In the abstract, I agreed with her. But we weren’t talking theory here. This was, or would be, my child. Anna’s little brother or sister. And that changed things. Just how much was what I was still trying to decide.
Daria leaned back in her chair, looped a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess it comes down to how much you value your marriage.” Her silver earrings caught the sun, so that her words were punctuated with a flicker of light. “You’ve got to look at the big picture. And I hate to sound like a nag, but you’d better do it soon or it will be too late.”
I sighed deeply, feeling the full weight of her words in the pit of my stomach. “I know. It’s just that every time I think I’ve made up my mind, I start thinking of all the reasons I should do just the opposite.”
“Well, it’s your life,” she said, knitting her brows, “but I know what I would do in your place.”
“But you always know what you want.” Daria’s worldview was clear and crisp, and totally lacking in shades of gray.
“I understand it’s not an easy decision Kate, but you’ve got to think realistically.”
“Believe it or not, that’s what I’m trying to do.”
She reached out a smooth white arm and squeezed my hand affectionately. “I’ll stand by you, whatever your decision,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded, and then swallowed hard to mask the lump in my throat.
When the food arrived, Daria lifted a forkful of grilled eggplant, then set it back on her plate and leaned across the table. “Guess what? Jim’s taking me to Mexico in a couple of weeks. Just the two of us. White sand, blue water, lazy afternoons”—she grinned—”and mucho opportunity for frolicking.”
“Frolicking?”
“Yes, you know.” She smiled at her food while I stared at her blankly. “Sex,” she said, mouthing the word almost silently. “Honestly, Kate, sometimes you’re very difficult to talk to.”
“Only when you speak in code.”
“Anyway, I can hardly wait. We both need the rest.”
“Jim did look pretty wrung out the other day.”
She nodded. “Poor baby, he’s been working so hard. We haven’t had any time to ourselves at all.” She picked up the bite of eggplant again and this time it made it all the way to her mouth. She chewed dreamily. “He practically ordered me to go out and buy myself a new wardrobe of resort wear. Top to bottom.”
“You’re lucky. I’m beginning to think good marriages are an endangered species.”
She stabbed the air with her fork. “That’s why you shouldn’t give up on Andy.”
“What do you mean, give up? He’s the one who left.”
“Yes, but you didn’t exactly beg him not to go.”
“What was I suppose to do?” I asked, pulling myself up straight. “Deck myself out in Saran Wrap? Or maybe coat his body with whipped cream and lick it off, very slowly?”
“That might have done the trick. Really, Kate, sometimes you sound like you don’t even care.”
“I’m not sure I do anymore.”
“You can’t mean that?”
“I can, and I do.” Although, until that moment I’d never actually put it in those terms. “Aren’t you going to eat those corncakes?” I asked, pointing to the two thick fritters on her plate.
She shook her head. “They’re loaded with oil.”
I reached across the table and speared a corncake. “May I?”
“Be my guest” She moved her wine glass and pushed her plate in my direction. “What’s so wrong with Andy? He’s intelligent good looking, considerate, fun.”
“And the only person he gives a damn about is himself. He never really even saw me, Daria. It was as though I existed only as a reflection of his own wants and needs.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Have you been reading some feminist rubbish? You wouldn’t be in Walnut Hills living the good life if it weren’t for him. Nothing is perfect.”
I thought of the men I might have married. Larry, my high school sweetheart, had gained nearly a hundred pounds and lost most of his hair. Jonathan, who’d once told me I was the most exciting woman in the world—a remark I thought, even then, showed limited vision—was now a struggling playwright recently divorced from wife number four. And Bradley, with sorrowful puppy-dog eyes and a girlfriend in every city across the US, was dead of a drug overdose. All in all I could have done worse than Andy, and Daria was certainly right in saying that nothing is perfect. So why was I so increasingly unwilling to give Andy the benefit of the doubt?
“I’m not so sure Andy’s going to be coming back home in any case,” I told her, reaching for the remaining corncake.
“He’ll be back, but he certainly won’t stay long if that’s your attitude.”
The waiter came to refill my water glass and Daria ordered a second glass of wine, then leaned across the table toward me. “You’re not so young anymore, Kate. Being a divorced woman, especially one with children, is no piece of cake. Have you really stopped to consider what it would be like?”
She brushed at an invisible speck in the air and shot me a meaningful glance. “Remember Jane Martin? I ran into her the other day and she looks awful. She’s living in some rented tract house on the fringe of Walnut Creek, working two boring jobs just to afford that.”
“Jane’s experience is hardly typical,” I reminded her. Until their divorce last year, the Martins had lived in a big, Spanish-style house, complete with pool and tennis courts. Jane had dressed
like a model, thrown lavish parties and spent the better part of her week at the club spa being coiffed and manicured and massaged. But her husband was not only running around with his boss’s wife, he was dipping into company profits, as well. It finally all caught up with him. Jane had been lucky to walk away with her diamonds, which she promptly sold in order to buy food and clothing for her children. My situation wasn’t exactly analogous. “Besides,” I told her, “money isn’t the issue here.”
“Well, even if you don’t end up in the poorhouse, you’ll still be a divorced woman. A castoff. I hate to sound crass, but that’s the truth.” Daria scowled at the packets of sugar substitute she was busily rearranging. “You know those dreary groups of puffy-eyed women, the kind who spend half an hour with a calculator dividing up their restaurant tab, is that what you want?”
“Good God, listen to yourself. This is the nineties. Things have changed.”
“Some things never change.” Then she smiled broadly and patted my hand. “Just think it through carefully, Kate. I want you to be happy.”
Daria declined dessert for both of us, without so much as a glance in my direction, paid the bill, and then spent ten minutes powdering her nose. And cheeks and eyelids.
“We need to stop by Mrs. Van Horn’s on the way back,” she announced gloomily. “She wants us to take a look at the decor before advising her on art purchases.”
This, in itself, was not unusual. The gallery was more than a shop, it was a service, which was one of the factors that accounted for its success. But it was clear from Daria’s tone that she wasn’t looking forward to this visit.
“Sounds like fun,” I said, trying for the enthusiasm befitting a new employee.
“Wait until you meet Mrs. Van Horn.”
Easing the car carefully out of a tight parking space, Daria headed for the Van Horns on the other side of town. She turned the radio on low and hummed along with a Strauss waltz for a few minutes before asking, “What’s the latest on Pepper’s murder? The papers have been useless.”