After a shower, I decided I definitely could use that massage. It might just enable me to get out of bed tomorrow. I fell asleep on the table. Apparently I was still not caught up on my sleep. The harp and flute music played its part.
After lying there for ten minutes after it was over, I slowly climbed down from the table and tried to remember how to get dressed. Then I hobbled my way toward the parking lot. As I turned the corner, but for her fast reactions, I would have bumped smack dab into Meredith.
“Hey, there, Jenny. How’s it going?”
“Getting better. I just had a lovely massage, and now I’m —hey, would you like to have lunch?”
“More detective work? I thought the police had closed the case.”
“They did.”
“But—?”
“Strictly a pleasure lunch.”
“Sounds great, if you don’t mind waiting an hour until I work out.”
“No problem, I’ll just go up on the deck and watch some tennis and soak up a little of that rare Seattle sunshine.”
“Are you sure? We could do it another day.”
“Today’s perfect. It will keep me from breaking my vow to not do anything that resembles work today. You know how those fingers tingle when they see a broom. Safer for me to stay away from the house altogether.”
Meredith laughed. “Okay, then, I’ll meet you on the deck when I’m finished.”
I wandered on up the stairs to the viewing deck and found an empty table. Nobody I knew up there, which was just fine. I was relaxing today. I’d just as soon not get into any polite conversation, or any other kind.
Not being used to this much sun, after a few minutes, I needed a drink. I went inside to the bar and pulled up a stool. Chills ran down my back when I realized I was sitting on the same stool where Amy had been sitting the last time I was here. A beer, that’s what she was drinking. And hadn’t she pushed away a platter with a half-eaten burger when I had ruined her appetite? Maybe Daniel would have won that bet. Maybe she had remained a beer and cheeseburger girl, after all.
“What can I get you?” a young man, not nearly as handsome as Jake had been, asked.
I smiled. “A root beer.”
“The hard stuff,” he said.
He knew Jake. They shared a line. When he put the drink down in front of me, I said, “I hear that line a lot around here.”
“Yeah, I guess I got it from one of— a guy who used to work here.”
“Jake?”
“Yeah. Jake. Great guy, wasn’t he?”
“I didn’t know him well,” I said, “but he sure was sweet.”
“Yeah, all the women went for him.”
“But he had a girlfriend didn’t he? Susan—?”
“Right. He and Susie were really tight. She’s having a lot of trouble getting over his death. Had to take some time off.”
“Did she go away for a while?”
“I think she went down to California, for some sunshine.”
I could relate. “Why do you think all the women were so crazy about Jake?”
The bartender grinned. “Besides the dimples?”
“Yeah, besides those.”
“He was just a nice guy. Listened real good too. Didn’t judge people, you know? They knew that, so they felt safe with him.”
“Do you think he would cheat on Susan?”
He looked surprised at my question, just as surprised as I was that I had asked it. I had, after all, decided to throw in the towel on this case. It was over. Charlie had said so and yesterday I had decided I agreed with him. Besides, today was my day off—from everything.
“I don’t know. No, I doubt it. Not Jake. Although he’d have plenty of opportunities. The women around here aren’t even subtle, you know what I mean? They come on like bitches in heat. Oh, sorry.” He blushed and I laughed.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t offend me. I’m just a minister.”
He looked at me and laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m also the mother of two young adults. So, you were saying that Jake had plenty of opportunities, due to the flirtatious nature of the female club attendees.”
“Right.” He put down the glass that he had dried three times. “I mean, it wasn’t only Jake. They come on to all of us. It’s just that Jake was like a magnet, you know?”
“A hunk.”
“Yeah. They go for that, these middle-aged women, not just middle-aged, all ages, but all pretty rich too. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here, right? My theory is it’s boredom. They’ve nothing to do at home, with maids and gardeners running around doing everything for them. So, they come here and hang out for hours, exercising, drinking, flirting.”
I leaned back on my stool. Didn’t want him to think I was coming on to him. I was glad I’d made it clear that I was a minister and a mother.
“Of course, Jake could flirt back too. The ladies like that, even expect it.”
“Did you ever see Jake with one of these flirtatious, bored females?”
He shook his head. “Outside of serving them and listening to their life stories? No.”
“Do you know who Amy Morrison was?”
“Amy? Sure. She hung out here a lot.”
“Did you think she and Jake had anything going?”
“Jeez, oh, sorry, but you sound more like a detective than a minister.”
“It’s my sideline,” I said.
He looked at me skeptically. I pulled Charlie’s card out of my purse, along with my ministry card.
“Holy shit! Oh, God! Sorry, but I didn’t think— I thought you were putting me on.”
I smiled, before sucking the last drops of my root beer through the straw.
Scooping up the thrice-dried glass to dry a bit more, he said, “What did you ask me? Oh, yeah, about Jake and Amy. I don’t know. I mean, she was a looker, and if he was looking, she’d be the one, but I can’t see it. Jake really liked Susie. He wasn’t the type to cheat. But he did spend a lot of time listening to Amy. I always thought he was a bit overindulgent, you know what I mean? But he said he liked listening, especially because she needed someone to talk to. Should have charged shrink fees.”
“Sounds like it. Let me ask you something else. Do you think Susan thought Jake was cheating on her?”
Realizing he was drying the same glass over, he put it down and pulled another out of the rinse water. “I can’t really say. Jake never said anything. Well, yeah, he did say she didn’t like his talking to all these women. She’d complain that he talked to them more than to her.”
A slight contradiction to what she had told Charlie and me about missing Jake most because of the way he listened to her. But we do that, don’t we, distort memories so that we can hold onto them tightly in our grieving moments?
“And what would he tell her when she complained?”
“That it was part of the job. But she was pretty insecure, I guess. Worried about him a lot.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back in town?”
“You’d have to check with the front office, but judging from the way she looked the last time I saw her, it could take her a while to get over losing Jake. And I don’t think she can jump around leading aerobics classes until she does.”
“Understandable.”
“Yeah. I really miss the guy too.”
I took enough change out of my wallet to pay for my root beer and then some, and climbed down from my stool. “Well, thanks for the information.”
“Sure. Anytime.” He glanced down at my cards that I’d left on the bar. “Reverend.”
I went back outside, hoping that the tennis matches would be sufficiently interesting to keep my mind off Amy Morrison and Jake Holbrook. It was over. Whatever had happened, it was between the two of them and it was over.
“Taking up tennis, Jenny?”
I turned to see Erica Stratton, dressed in a tennis skirt and blouse. Her muscular legs reflected the hours she spent on the court.
“N
o, not me. I’m just relaxing after an advanced aerobics workout.” I cringed as the words slipped out. I hated it when I said things to impress people as much as I hated it when I found a way to slip into a conversation the fact that I’d had dinner with Jude Law. Well, we hadn’t exactly eaten together—just at the same restaurant at the same time.
“You work out a lot?” Erica looked me up and down. I was glad my jeans covered the little pockets of cellulite that seemed to have become particularly fond of my legs.
“Not nearly enough,” I confessed, no doubt making up for my effort to try to impress her. “How about you?”
She made herself comfortable at my table. “I try to get in a couple sets every day. I’m just waiting for my mixed doubles partner.”
“That wouldn’t happen to be Anthony Morrison, would it?”
She looked up at me. “No, it wouldn’t. Anthony’s out of my league, I’m afraid.”
“On the court anyway,” I mumbled. Where had this cattiness come from? What had happened to that nonjudgmental attitude I’d been working so hard on lately?
“Spit it out already, Jenny. So, you know Anthony and I are having an affair. What else is new?”
“Sorry, I guess I just wanted to verify it for my own information. I should have just asked you straight out.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“Would you have given me an honest answer?”
She thought about that for a moment as she played with the top button of her blouse, buttoning and unbuttoning it, finally deciding to leave it unbuttoned. “Probably. Actually, I’m quite proud of it.” She laughed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant I rather like being Anthony Morrison’s mistress. I didn’t mean I’m particularly proud of cheating on my husband.”
I was glad to hear that.
“But it’s not as if I’m the only one. Richard fools around plenty too.” She laughed again, less self-consciously this time.
Peyton Place was right. I wondered if Jim Gimble cheated on Dana, or vice versa, steadfast school teacher though she was.
“There are a lot of women attracted to Richard—who go for the tall, weak, and handsome type,” Erica said.
“Including Amy Morrison?”
“Hardly.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Probably because he told me she turned him down flat, more than once. Did some damage to the poor man’s ego.”
Had she bruised his ego enough to turn him into a spiteful murderer?
Erica grabbed her tennis racquet off the chair beside me, nervously twirling it in circles on her knee. “I assure you, Amy Morrison would never go for a man like Richard. Not as long as—” She stopped mid-sentence. I wondered if her tongue was bleeding.
“Not as long as?”
“Hunh?” She played forgetful well, shaking her head as if the thought had slipped right out of her mind, and adroitly moved onto another subject. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. I also know him well, frailties and all.”
“Tell me about him.”
She shook her head, her short wash—and—go hair bouncing back into place. “Richard? His story’s pretty boring, actually. Raised by a critical father, you know the routine. Treated him like he was never good enough.”
A familiar story. It seemed to run in the law firm. I wondered if that was the link between Anthony and Richard—besides Erica. Had Anthony related to and taken pity on Richard because he too had a critical father? Too bad he didn’t have glasses for nearsightedness. Scott could have used some of that compassion.
“Am I reading you wrong, Erica, or do you not have a lot of tolerance for people’s stories?”
“Hey, I love Richard, but I wouldn’t mind if he got over it and stopped trying to prove to the world that he is good enough. Life goes on, you know. We all have our stories.”
“What was yours?”
She blew out her breath and threw back her head in an effort to feign a careless attitude. “Not a biggy. My father left when I was a kid. Forced me to learn how to live in the world—fast.”
She did have that scrapper attitude. Similar story to Amy’s, but they’d had the opposite reaction. She had emerged stronger for it. Amy hadn’t.
“I worked hard. Put myself through college. It’s history, and I’m doing great.”
“Are you in love with Anthony?”
She laughed. “No. Definitely not. I suppose I was once. Not anymore. He’s just good in bed, that’s all.” She knew what she wanted. I respected her for that, and for her honesty.
“And he’s a powerful man, and when you’re with him, you feel powerful,” I said.
“Something like that.”
“And it doesn’t bother Richard?”
“Not enough for him to give up his own free love trysts.”
“Did you know Amy Morrison was having an affair?”
Her tennis racquet fell off her knee. Just when I was sure she was going to confirm for me that she did indeed know this tidbit of information, she shook her head and bounced out of her chair. “There’s my tennis partner. Later.”
“Later,” I mumbled, but she was halfway to the stairs by then.
And I still hadn’t asked her why Jim Gimble hadn’t liked Amy Morrison. I took a deep breath and leaned back to relax. Why was I interrogating her anyway? I didn’t need to know about these things, these people. It didn’t matter. It was too late to matter.
* * *
“Nowhere fancy,” Meredith had said.
“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” I had said.
We were sitting at the counter of Sam’s Soup, Salad, and Sandwich Shop. I was dressed in my usual jeans and turtleneck. She was wearing a calf length oatmeal-colored thermal sweater dress, not exactly an enticing outfit, at least not on most of us. But with her pair of Cyd Charisse legs, anything looked good.
“Wanna come make some pots with me?” she asked.
“You have two wheels?”
“Three.”
I gobbled the last couple bites of my Caesar salad, slapped a ten dollar bill on the counter, and jumped down from my stool. “Let’s do it.”
I had been to Meredith and Hugh’s house for enough social events that I should have noticed the studio in the garden. And I would have—had I known it was a pottery studio. We walked straight through the kitchen, tossing purses and sweaters on the bar stools, and out the back door to Meredith’s haven.
“Incredible.” I strolled around the room, admiring the three wheels, miscellaneous tools, and the kiln. “If you detect envy in my voice, you’re right on.”
“Where do you work?”
“Garage.”
“Well, you’re welcome to use my studio anytime. I never lock it. You can just go through the side gate if I’m not home.”
“You’re serious?”
Meredith laughed. “Absolutely. I love this artist stuff—but the solitary gets old.”
So true. I walked over to a cabinet built into the wall. “Is your work in here?”
She shrugged and I opened the door.
“Whoa!” Pots, dishes, pitchers and vases filled the shelves. “Your work is fantastic. Do you sell it?”
She shrugged again.
“Modesty does not become you.”
She laughed. “I’ve sold quite a bit to a shop over on Bainbridge Island and another one up in Kirkland.” She handed me an apron and motioned toward the wheels. “Come on, take your pick.”
I chose the electric Shrimpo. It looked just like the one I had been thinking about getting. It took me all of three minutes to get used to it. For the next couple hours we shaped, spun, and kneaded, talking and laughing as we went. The best relaxation I could have found.
She told me stories of the mischief her twins had got into over the years, tricking teachers into thinking one was the other, and even trading places on dates. I told her about the time Holly and Matthew had played hide and go seek in the Heathrow airport and it took us two hours and a missed
flight to find them.
“They’re running around in diapers driving you crazy one minute.”
“And driving you crazy, going off to college the next,” I finished for her.
She sighed. “Exactly. Want some tea?”
We took off our aprons, washed the wet clay from our hands and walked across the lawn to the kitchen. Meredith brewed a pot of ginger mint tea, using the mint from her garden. We curled up on the living room couch to drink it.
“What will you do once Holly leaves home?” she asked.
“The same thing I’ve been doing, I suppose. Maybe more of it. I’m leading three groups right now, but I think I’d like to do more private counseling.”
“And your P.I. work?”
I laughed. “I just help out my father when he’s desperate.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
Did I enjoy it? I hadn’t thought about it, really. Strange for someone who tried so hard to live a conscious life. “Actually, I do, most of the time. But Joe isn’t thrilled about it, especially when it involves people we know.” I thought about the last quarrel we’d had on the subject, when I had asked him about Meredith’s husband.
“How do you feel about that?”
I set my cup on a ceramic coaster and tucked my legs underneath me. “I’m looking at it differently, I think. I’m trying to redeem a friend.”
“Amy.”
“Yes. How about you, Meredith? What will you do after the boys go off on their own?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Leave Hugh, no doubt.”
I was glad I wasn’t holding my tea cup at that moment. “Are you serious?”
She shrugged. “I think about it all the time. Don’t know if I’m brave enough to do it. I’m rather fond of my security. But eighteen years. That’s a long time to be with one person.” She turned to stare out the window, talking as if to herself. “I’ve tried so hard—just like the way I was raised.”
“What were your parents like?”
“Oh, you know, the traditional family. Mom at home cooking, and my father— Put it this way, he thinks women are put on the planet to look pretty. So, of course that’s what I’ve tried to do. But after a while—” She looked back at me. “It gets empty. There has to be more.”
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