by Lois Winston
“You’ve done so much already.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’m fine, honestly. It’s only because Dr. Lewis is such a fussbudget that I have to stay overnight anyway. You go on home, there’s no need for you to stay any longer.”
“I won’t stay forever. I’ve got to rescue Anna from Jim before he lets her eat a gallon of ice cream. He thinks that’s how you charm children.”
“Tell him I appreciate this. And everything else.” I reached for the glass of ice water by my bed, but Daria beat me to it, adding fresh water from the pitcher before handing it to me. “He’s been so kind to me since Andy left,” I told her. “Both of you have.”
She gave me one of those oh-nonsense looks she’s so good at, but it was tinged with genuine affection. “I talked to him about twenty minutes ago,” she said. “He and Anna were playing hide-and-seek.”
“I hope you reminded Anna not to climb on the furniture.” Daria’s house was always picture perfect. Nothing worn or mussed or out of place. Even the flowers she habitually bunched in vases seemed to dip and fall with artistic grace. It was the sort of place Anna could destroy in short order.
“We’ll get along just fine. Don’t worry.” Daria took my half-empty glass and placed it on the bedside table.
I took her hand and held it between my own. “I’m so lucky to have a friend like you. I can’t begin to tell you how much it means.”
“Don’t be silly. That’s what friends do, they help one another.”
When Daria left I closed my eyes again, but didn’t sleep. In a little while the nurse came in, took my temperature and blood pressure, then leaned over the bed and peered at the pad between my legs, like a mechanic doing a quick oil check. “You’re coming along just fine,” she observed, scratching something on my chart before turning to an older woman in the next bed who had been snoring and moaning in her sleep since I’d arrived. When she’d poked and muttered around there for a bit, she left.
Fifteen minutes later the nurse returned with two trays which she placed next to our beds. “Enjoy,” she announced brightly as she swooped out of the room.
The older woman sat up in bed. “You got anything serious?”
I shook my head. “I had a miscarriage.”
She removed the lid from her tray and inspected the meal. “Well, you’re young, plenty of chance to have another. Least you can go home tomorrow. Me, I’m here for a while.”
“Oh.” Then, thinking my response probably sounded rude, I added, “I hope it isn’t bad.”
“Just the usual female complaints.” With that, she switched on the television and fixed her attention on the screen.
My mind sorted through possibilities, trying to determine what, exactly, the usual female complaints were. Finally I gave up, pushed away my tray, rolled over and pressed a pillow to my ears to block the sound of the television.
But I didn’t sleep. I didn’t cry either, at least not outwardly, but warm tears stung my eyes and tightened my throat. It wasn’t the sharp, all-consuming grief you’d feel for the loss of a child or other loved one, but there was a sadness all the same. A quiet sadness deep inside.
If Andy had been there with me, would he have been sad? Would he have felt any sort of loss at all? Part of me was glad I was alone, so that I wouldn’t have to know.
~*~
When Daria arrived at ten the next morning, I was already fully dressed, discharge papers in hand.
“You don’t have to prove how tough you are, Kate, especially to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are. Up and dressed before I arrive, refusing to come stay with me for a couple of days, talking about work already. Just as though nothing had happened.” Without looking at her, I started gathering my things, but Daria placed a hand lightly on my arm, momentarily halting my frenetic activity.
“You would have had the baby, wouldn’t you?” she asked softly. “Even though it would have made things more difficult with Andy.”
“Things are already about as difficult as they can get.”
Then her arms were around me, gently rocking, quieting the raw, uneven breaths that caught in my chest. “It’s okay to feel sad, Kate. This isn’t something you can just ignore.”
Wiping a wayward tear, I hugged her in return. “It’s not just that. I’m beginning to feel like I’m mired in quicksand. Every step sends me deeper. You’ve got a family, a husband who adores you, a job you’re good at . . . a sense of purpose. Me, I’m floundering.”
“Just take things one step at a time. It’s the only way.”
I thought it an odd comment from a woman who had her calendar for the following year half filled by July. Never one to leave things to chance, Daria orchestrated her life with a precision I was sure the CIA would find admirable. But the advice was sound, particularly for someone like myself, who couldn’t think far enough ahead to manage a whole week’s grocery shopping at once.
Following hospital regulations, I left in a wheelchair and Daria picked me up at the front door. She drove slowly and carefully all the way home.
“I’m not ill,” I told her.
She smiled. “Are you sure you won’t come home with me for the afternoon? Chris and Heather took Anna to the park, so you’d have quiet if that’s what you want.”
“I’m sure, but thanks.”
“How about an early dinner then? Jim’s got a poker game.”
“Can I let you know later?”
“Of course. Give me a call this afternoon.”
~*~
In the end I went to Daria’s, sooner rather than later. My own house was empty and cold, like my body. The lone message on the machine was from Michael. Although the sound of his voice was instantly soothing, I couldn’t bring myself to call him. Not yet anyway.
Jim was leaving just as I arrived, but he got out of the car to give me an affectionate bear hug. “You managing to hang in there?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s been a rough couple of months for you—what with Andy, Pepper . . . and now this.”
I’d never thought about it in that way, but he was right. There’d certainly been a lot of loss to deal with. “You and Daria have been a big help to me,” I told him.
He tweaked my chin. “It’s good to see you feeling so chipper.” Then he trotted back to the car and drove off with a wave.
Daria was in the kitchen, making salad. Although it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, she was already sipping a glass of wine. “Pull up a chair and pour yourself some. I’ll be finished in a minute.”
While Daria was accustomed to midday imbibing, I was not. But the idea sounded suddenly appealing. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured with theatrical flourish. “I guess this is the silver lining. I can drink again.”
I caught Daria about to utter one of her infamous caustic remarks, but she stopped short and handed me an avocado instead. “Why don’t you cut this while I finish up with the dip?”
“Dip no less. I might have known you couldn’t keep a simple meal simple.” Daria was given to excess, and before I knew her well enough to understand that she didn’t expect people to reciprocate in kind, I had been intimidated by her lavish spreads. Now I simply enjoyed them.
“Dips are hardly complicated.”
To my mind, anything that didn’t move directly from freezer to microwave to table was complicated. “How did you make out with the little terror last night?”
“If you’re talking about your daughter, we made out splendidly.” Daria began chopping tomatoes. “You act like I’m some frail old thing.”
“It has been a number of years since you’ve had a five year old around full time.”
“I’m only a year older than Pepper, and she seemed to manage just fine.” Her voice had a clipped, almost arrogant tone to it, a tone I’d noticed before when she spoke of Pepper. Envy was an uncomfortable companion, I thought. “By the way,” she chided, “I understand you spent yesterday morni
ng with that detective friend of yours, the one who’s investigating Pepper’s death.”
Her remark caught me by surprise, and I looked up. “Anna mentioned it,” she explained.
I watched as she scooped the tomatoes into a bowl, biting her lip to avoid the question she didn’t want to ask. “It’s okay,” I assured her, “nothing happened. We spent the day questioning a potential suspect.”
“Oh? Who?” She leaned across the counter eagerly, her curiosity apparently topping her relief in having my virtue confirmed.
I explained about Tony as best I could without mentioning Jake. I wasn’t sure what information was classified, but I didn’t see how clearing Tony could hurt anything. “So now they’re back to looking for leads,” I told her.
“What about Robert? I thought he was on their list.”
“I guess he is, but there’s nothing that ties him to the murder.”
“Still, he doesn’t have an alibi for the night she was killed.”
I agreed, he didn’t.
“And then there’s the stuff with that car. What did the police decide about that?”
With a groan, I explained they hadn’t decided anything. Not that I was aware of at any rate. “They questioned Mrs. Stevenson, and now she’s not so sure what she saw, and they talked to Robert who says the Tom he told me about was a client, not an employee; I just got it mixed up.”
“The way women are apt to do.”
“Right, only I don’t think he said that in so many words. It turns out the man’s car might not be a Cherokee anyway, but some other kind of similar car, and now Robert thinks I’ve been meddling.”
“And your detective, what does he think?”
Unfortunately, I’d been too preoccupied with the kisses and caresses to find out. “He’s keeping an open mind,” I told her, figuring it was probably the truth.
Forehead creased in thought, Daria dumped a bag of blue corn chips into a basket. “I don’t like to gossip,” she said after a moment. Like hell she didn’t, I thought. “But in times like these we have to be objective. Robert does drink heavily and you know what that does to people with a temper.”
“We’ve been over this before. Besides, he seems to have adored Pepper.”
Daria scowled. “Maybe. But she could be a real bitch. And for a man of his disposition, not to mention his prominence in the community, well, having a wife like Pepper must have been quite a challenge. Then this thing with Tony. I mean a grown son popping up like that out of nowhere. Imagine if Robert found out. Maybe he never planned to kill her, but something set him off and he just . . . just snapped.” She punctuated her last words with a click of her fingers.
“I don’t know, I can’t imagine Robert snapping. I’m not sure he even knows the meaning of the word.” I drained the last of my wine and refilled my glass. “This is all so sordid. Let’s talk about something more cheerful.”
“I just hope the police are keeping their eyes on Robert, that’s all,” Daria said. Then she smiled, a perfect dental-ad smile, handed me the chips and salsa, grabbed the bottle of wine and motioned to the back deck. “Let’s sit outside. You can give me some ideas for Jim’s birthday next week. I got him a book, some golf stuff and a new leather briefcase, but none of it is really special.”
Daria liked things to be special. Anniversaries, birthdays, Father’s Day, Valentine’s Day. She had even discovered holidays most of us had never heard of. And she orchestrated them all to the hilt.
“Since we’re going to Mexico the following week, I didn’t want to plan a big trip for his birthday, but I can’t just treat it like an ordinary day, either. What do you think? Maybe a simple breakfast of croissants and fresh fruit, and then a drive through the Napa Valley. I’ve already set things up with his receptionist so that he has the day off, but of course he doesn’t know that.”
“It will be a wonderful surprise,” I told her. Knowing Daria, I was certain the house, and maybe the car too, would be decked out with balloons and streamers and cutesy little heart decals. She’d wish him happy birthday at least a dozen times, then ask if there wasn’t really something he would rather be doing that day than whatever she had planned. And she would meet his reassurances with grateful kisses and tender little love pats.
We poured ourselves a third glass of wine and settled down to the serious business of nibbling and catching up. I leaned back in the warm sunshine and stretched, feeling, in spite of everything, remarkably lighthearted.
The amazing powers of wine and friendship.
EIGHTEEN
The doorbell rang the next morning just as I was sitting down to coffee and blueberry muffins spread with real butter, an indulgence I did not usually allow myself. Daria had insisted I take the day off, and although I’d argued with her at the time, now I was glad. Not because I was feeling ill—except for some mild cramps and a gray, shadowy sorrow, I felt pretty good—but because there is something wonderful, almost magical, about playing hooky, kind of like the extra hour when we turn the clocks back at the end of October. A stretch of time outside of time.
But not, apparently, outside the mundane trappings of everyday living. Anna, Max and I arrived at the door simultaneously. One of us barked, one of us pressed her nose against the glass, and one of us adjusted her robe, then opened the door warily.
“What a reception,” Michael said, and kissed me on the forehead.
I’d finally returned his call when I stumbled home from Daria’s the night before, but seeing him sent an unexpected spark of pleasure through my body.
“Is that the best you can do?” I chided, lifting my face to his.
He grinned, then kissed me again, on the mouth this time and not as hastily, but it was still a sweet kiss rather than a seductive one. “These are for you,” he said, handing me a bouquet of yellow roses tied with a shiny white ribbon. “It’s kind of sappy, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“They’re lovely,” I said, touched as much by his shyness as the gift itself. “And flowers are never sappy.” I lifted the bouquet from Max’s prying nose. “Can you stay for coffee?”
“A mind reader as well.”
Anna and Max followed us into the kitchen, setting themselves down, one on each side of Michael. With equally large eyes, they watched him, Anna somewhat suspiciously, Max with studied anticipation.
“Can policemen do whatever they want?” Anna asked after a moment.
“They have to obey the laws, just like everyone else.”
“But if you did something bad, who’d catch you?”
Michael leaned back in his chair and launched into an explanation, but I interrupted, shooing Anna away. “This is grownup time,” I told her. “Go watch television.”
I could see her weighing the options. That I’d actually encouraged her to watch television meant I really wanted her out of the way, and those were precisely the times she found my activities most interesting.
“Go on,” I prodded, “you can take a muffin with you.”
Reluctantly, she grabbed a muffin and ambled off. While Michael gazed out the window, his eyes dark and unreadable, I set a plate of muffins on the table and handed him a cup of coffee. Then, standing behind him, I draped my arms around his neck and kissed top of his head. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to be.” I sat down next to him in the chair Anna had vacated, and smiled. “How was your weekend?”
“Lousy. I spent most of it working and the rest of it arguing with Barbara.”
“About?”
He shrugged. “Money mostly, I guess. At least that’s what we started on.”
I took a long, slow, sip of coffee and then studied the rim of the cup. “Did you fight a lot during your marriage?”
“Not really.” Michael’s fingers picked at the nicked edge of the table. “Do you and Andy fight?”
“No, hardly ever.”
There was a long silence during which we looked at one another uncertainly. Finall
y Michael spoke. “Kate, maybe this isn’t the right time, but we need to talk about things.”
I nodded. “But not just yet.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
A weak smile flickered across his face. “You do care for me though, don’t you?”
“More than I should,” I said softly, running my hand along the bare skin above his wrist. Then I took a muffin from the plate and handed it to him. “Now, about the work part of your weekend. Tell me what’s happening with the case.”
He frowned. “I only wish there were something to tell.”
“You followed up on Tony’s story?”
Michael nodded glumly. “It appears he’s telling the truth.”
“Which means?”
“Which means we’re back at the beginning, with virtually nothing. Yesterday I sat down and went over things once more, but I came up empty-handed.” He paused for a moment, pressing his lips together tightly. “We know Pepper was strangled. We know there was a brief struggle first, during which she was hit on the head with some kind of heavy, sharp object. But we haven’t been able to locate it or come up with any leads based on physical evidence. The only thing we have is that swatch of silk fabric that got caught in the bedpost.”
“The tie she was strangled with.”
“At this point that’s just a theory.” Michael shifted his weight, leaning forward with both elbows on the table, and continued his analysis. “We’re pretty certain it wasn’t some psychopath, killing just for the fun of it. Somebody was out to get Pepper, but we’re having a devil of a time coming up with a list of possible suspects. And every time we think we’re on to something, it turns out to be a dead end.”
I got up and poured him a second cup of coffee, which he accepted with a distracted nod of his head.
“It’s crazy,” he said, “there’s more we don’t know about this case than we do know. Hell, we can’t even pinpoint the means of entry, although I’m betting the killer was someone with a key, and possibly the alarm code.”