The widower’s two step tn-2

by Rick Riordan

  Miranda must've been operating on even less sleep than I was. She sat with her upper body listing back and forth, like she was correcting her balance on a ship. She'd stopped crying a long time ago but her eyes were teary.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I just couldn't believe about Elgin. He and his wife-she's a cousin to Ben French, my drummer. They came to some of my father's parties. Elgin seemed like a gentleman."

  "A gentleman," I said. "Like Tilden Sheckly."

  It came out harsher than I intended.

  Miranda leaned back until her shoulders touched the wall. She stared across the street at the dark turrets of the Koehler Mansion. "And if I hadn't been there?"

  "It's lucky for me you were. Frank and Elgin wanted to give me something to worry about besides Tilden Sheckly's business."

  She circled her arms around her knees. She'd taken off her boots in the VW and now her toes stuck out from beneath the folds of her denim skirt. She dug them in, over and over, like she was trying to gather up more of the hardwood porch.

  "Sheck was talking to me tonight," she said. "Before all that mess with Allison. He asked me about moving out to the mansion."

  "What?"

  She put her head back and closed her eyes. "He lives in this old hunting lodge out behind the Paintbrush-got about six million rooms in it. Sheck offered me a whole wing to myself and free time at the studio. Ain't nothing like Silo in Austin, but still.

  Sheck said I'd be closer to the action that way."

  "Uhhuh."

  She opened her eyes and kicked me lightly on the shin. "It's not what you think. It would be like an artist colony."

  She looked at me uncertainly, like she was hoping against hope that I'd agree. An artist colony, conveniently down the hall from Tilden's bedroom, I bet.

  Miranda hadn't moved her bare foot. It still rested against my leg. Maybe she was just too tired to notice.

  "Your father would disapprove," I speculated.

  But my mind wasn't really on what I was saying anymore. I was looking at Miranda, trying to remember the photograph of her I'd seen in Milo's office five days ago. I was trying to superimpose that image, to see if I could remember why I'd found it so hard to believe that Tilden Sheckly would want to own her.

  "Les would discourage me, too," she added. "If Les was around."

  I saw what she wanted me to say. I tried to sound as convincing as I could. "Les believed in your career, Miranda. He'd've been foolish not to. If he got himself in trouble with Sheck, it was his doing. Not yours."

  Miranda examined my face. She relaxed her shoulders a little. "I just get worried. I'll be glad when this business is decided one way or the other."

  "I can understand that. Don't do it."

  "Don't do what?"

  "Move into Sheckly's place. You should move out of your father's and get something of your own, Miranda. But not Sheckly's house."

  She looked at me differently then, not tired, not really asking me any question you could put into words. Her foot was still resting on my leg.

  I cleared my throat. "Been a long day. You play tomorrow night?"

  "At the Paintbrush. Every Saturday we open for the headliner."

  "Well-"

  I stood to go. Miranda offered me her hand.

  I pulled her up but she didn't let go of my hand. We walked to the door, where Miranda retrieved a spare key from behind the mailbox on the wall.

  When she opened the door of the agency the smells of freon and fresh flowers seeped out, leftovers from a hot day.

  She turned toward me and smiled. "Good night?"

  "Yeah." My voice came out ragged.

  I wanted to let go of Miranda's hand so she wouldn't realize mine was shaking a little.

  She didn't let me.

  She moistened her lips. "Maybe-it's sort of uncomfortable, being alone here tonight."

  Several different voices were hissing in my ears, Erainya Manos and Milo Chavez and Sam Barrera and a bunch of others-all talking about professional detachment and client loyalty and warning me not to start things I'd regret. Miranda kept smiling and the voices kept getting farther away. With the little reservation I could muster I tried to think of something to say, something polite and witty by way of declining. Instead I mumbled, "Maybe I could just-"

  "Maybe so," she agreed.

  Miranda's hand tightened on mine. She led me under the ristra doorway and inside.

  33

  It was only the fear of meeting Milo Chavez if he came to work in the morning that got me home to 90 Queen Anne Street before dawn. I caught about three hours of sleep before Kelly Arguello's phone call woke me up again.

  "Good God," she said. "What's that noise?"

  I rubbed the crud out of my eyes and tried to identify any unusual sounds other than the grinding inside my skull. Oh.

  "Just Robert Johnson," I told her.

  "Are you torturing him?"

  Robert Johnson kept making his overworked wench motor noise. I tried to wriggle my foot loose from his front claws. He rolled on his back so he could attack with all four. I rubbed his belly with my toes while he gave my ankle the meat hook treatment.

  "Sort of," I said. "I'm late with breakfast."

  "You must make a hell of a breakfast."

  I tried to get up from the futon. Mistake. I steadied myself on the ironing board, sat down again, and waited for the fuzzy black balloons to go away.

  I tried my best to make my brain work while Kelly started giving me the rundown on what she'd found so far about Les SaintPierre.

  Once again she surprised me. In the world of government paperwork you can't expect much out of forty eight hours, but somehow Kelly manages. She'd already gotten all of Les' driver's information from DMV-body reports on the Mercedes convertible and the Seville that he'd left behind, his driver's record, previous applications, Allison SaintPierre's record. Kelly had written for the incident report on a DUI Les had received last year in Houston. That would take another week at least.

  She had submitted a few tons of requests to the Social Security Administration and various state agencies, looking for any recent papers issued for any of the names from Julie Kearnes' personnel files. We'd been a little too liberal in the weeding process, narrowing down the scope to the six most likely candidates for a new Les Saint Pierre, but even with that many names, tracking paperwork was going to be a nightmare. Kelly planned on following up Monday morning.

  "How'd you squeeze DMV so quickly?" I asked.

  " No big deal. I told the guy at the desk I was working a grand jury subpoena for the State Attorney's Office. Like that time in San Francisco you told me about. You're right-it works like a charm."

  "I wasn't suggesting that as model behaviour, Kelly."

  "Hey, what? You want me to put the information back?"

  I hesitated. Tres Navarre, the moral example. "They bought the State Attorney line from you, huh?"

  "Sure."

  "Purple hair and all?"

  She sighed. "Jesus, Tres, it's not like I wore a nose stud or anything. I can dress business. I look good in a blazer."

  I didn't argue the point.

  Kelly went on to tell me about Les SaintPierre's parents' death certificates in Denton County, which had led her to a probate court settlement on their estate, which had in turn given her a list of real estate inherited by Les. He'd received the small family house in Denton and a vacation house on Medina Lake. Kelly had sent requests to Denton County and Avalon County for copies of the assessor's records on both properties.

  "Medina Lake," I repeated. "Avalon County."

  "That's what it says here. I'm sceptical about the place in Denton but I'm pretty sure he's still got the lake property."

  "Why?"

  "I went by Parks and Wildlife. Les has a freshwater sailboat registered."

  I whistled. "You're pushing for a bonus, now."

  A lot of paperchasers overlook Parks and Wildlife. I normally wouldn't have tried it myself so early in the proc
ess. Usually you start with the obvious and work your way toward the obscure. Fortunately in this case, Kelly worked differently. Her procedure was dictated more by where all the government offices in Austin fell on her bus line.

  "It isn't a big boat," she told me. "A twentyfive footer. He didn't need to get it registered but it looks like he did anyway."

  I thought about Les' bedroom, about the labelled shoe boxes that filled his closet, even his illegal drugs and his scams on women all neatly categorized and filed away. Maybe the bastard had been a little too organized.

  "Go on."

  "He bought the boat at Plum Cove, Medina Lake. I made some calls, got an address for the drydock space he's been renting."

  I found a pen wedged in the crack behind the ironing board/phone alcove and wrote down the information. "Good stuff."

  "Yeah. At least nobody else has asked about the boat."

  My pen froze above the paper. "What do you mean?"

  "When I was at DMV, the clerk recognized the name Les SaintPierre from a few weeks ago. It's an unusual name. He commented that Les must be in a lot of trouble."

  "Why's that?"

  "Seems I was the second person from the State Attorney that month looking through his records."

  34

  My mother was squatting in her neighbours’ back J? yard, painting faux wisteria vines on a pine fence. ^^ To get to her I had to step carefully in my dress shoes through a minefield of pie tins filled with various colours.

  She was wearing purple overalls and a fuchsia Night in Old San Antonio Tshirt, both speckled with acrylic. The air was warm and stagnate with fumes and Mother was sweating almost as much as the open Pecan Street Ale bottle on the steppingstone next to her.

  She greeted me without looking up. She swirled her brush to form a cluster of pale purple petals. There was a fingerprint the exact same colour on the side of her nose.

  "You know they sell plants now," I said. "You can just buy them in stores."

  Mother suppressed a giggle. I think that was my first indication maybe she'd been sitting in the heat and the paint fumes too long.

  "It's trompe l'oeil, Jackson." Then she lowered her voice. "The Endemens are paying me."

  I looked back at the Endemens' house. Mr. Endemen, a scruffy retired newspaperman, was sitting at his typewriter at the diningroom table. He was trying hard to look busy, but he kept sneaking sideways glances at us through the picture window. He was frowning, like the view hadn't improved since I'd arrived.

  "I won't tell," I promised.

  Mother finished her petals and looked up at me. She did a double take.

  "Well…" She raised her eyebrows. "I'm sorry, I thought you were my son."

  "Mother-"

  "No, you look wonderful dear. What happened to your chin?"

  "It's a bruise."

  She hesitated. She had noticed something else too- that pheromonal afterglow that only mothers and girlfriends can detect, that aura which told her I had been Up To Something the night before.

  Whatever conclusions she came to she kept to herself. She looked down at my ensemble while she stirred her brush through a pie tin. "I don't know if I'd've chosen the brown tie, but it's nice. I suppose conservative is best for an interview."

  "A woman in purple overalls is giving me fashion tips."

  She smiled. "I'm very proud of you. Would you like to take a medicine pouch for luck?"

  "Actually I was hoping to borrow the Audi."

  Mother tightened her lips.

  She reached past me for her beer bottle. I stepped back so she wouldn't get paint on my black slacks. After she took a sip of Pecan Street Ale she looked up and down the fence at her work so far.

  "Mr. Endemen wants grape vines along the top," she mused. "I think that's too much with the wisteria, don't you?"

  I thought about it. "You get paid per plant?"

  She sighed. "Artistic question. I shouldn't have asked you. I hope you want the Audi just to drive to UTSA?"

  I gave her my best innocent look. "No… I have some work to do afterward. It would be better if I didn't use my own car for it."

  "Some work," she repeated. "Dear, the last time you borrowed my car for some work

  …"

  "I know. I'll pay you back for any repairs."

  "That's not really the point, Jackson."

  "Can I trade cars with you or not, Mother?"

  She put down her paintbrush, then wiped her hands on a rag. She pulled her key chain out of her bib pocket with two fingers. "My hands are sticky."

  I took the key off the chain. "Thanks."

  Mother leaned in close to the fence and traced out a new curl in her vine. Mr. Endemen kept typing in the dining room, looking out the window from time to time to see if I'd gone away yet.

  "So," Mother said, "are you nervous?"

  I refocused on her. "About the interview?"

  She nodded.

  "No sweat," I said. "Sitting around with a bunch of professors won't be the worst thing that's happened to me this week."

  Mother smiled knowingly. "Don't worry. You'll do fine."

  She looked at my face again. For a minute I thought she might bring out a Kleenex, dab it on her tongue, and wipe my cheeks like she used to do when I was five. "I hope we'll see you tomorrow."

  "You having your traditional costume party?"

  I thought, after all these years, that I could keep the resentment out of my voice. I'm not sure I managed.

  She nodded. "It doesn't mean we can't make it a double celebration, Jackson."

  "I'll do my best."

  "You'll come," she insisted.

  When I left she was still deliberating whether or not to go with the grape vines.

  The neighbourhood private security guy cruised past the front yard as I was opening my mother's white Audi sedan. He saw my dress clothes and for the first time in two years he didn't slow down or look at me suspiciously.

  There was an Indian medicine pouch waiting for me on Mother's dashboard.

  35

  "I think that went just fine," David Mitchell told me. "Come in, come in."

  WJ His office was on the third floor of the Humanities amp;c Social Sciences Building, just down the hall from the interview room. On the office door was a Peanuts cartoon of Lucy in the psychiatrist's booth with the little DOCTOR is IN sign. Professor Mitchell, a man on the cutting edge of humour.

  His work space was messy but cozy, filled with crammed bookshelves and dented filing cabinets and dying potted plants. There was a Macintosh computer setup as big as a Hyundai against the back wall. A poster for the Houston Renaissance Festival above that. More Lucy and Linus cartoons were Scotchtaped around the room like hastily applied BandAids.

  Mitchell offered me a seat and a Diet Pepsi from his private stash. I accepted the seat.

  "Well," he said. "Now that we've grilled you, perhaps you have some questions of your own."

  He nodded his head encouragingly. He'd done that all the way through the formal interview while his three colleagues-two elderly Anglo men and one Latino- stared at me and frowned and asked me over and over again what exactly I'd been doing since my postgraduate work. When they'd shaken my hand at the end of the hour they'd all looked worried, like they should've worn surgical gloves. Maybe Mother was right. Maybe the brown tie had been a bad choice.

  I asked Mitchell some questions. Mitchell nodded his head a lot. He had silver hair and silver sideburns that were trimmed into the shape of fins from a 1950s automobile. His features were pinched and angular and his eyes were beady like a weasel's. A nice weasel. A good ole weasel.

  Mitchell gave me some background on the teaching position that had opened up in the department.

  Apparently old Dr. Haimer, who as far as anyone could remember had been teaching medieval literature since it was titled "Contemporary Authors," was finally retiring, midterm. Last week, in fact. His two teaching assistants had resigned in protest, leaving Haimer's classes in the hands of other T.
A. s and a few American Lit professors who probably thought Marie de France was some kind of bicycle race.

  "Medieval just isn't a very popular field," Mitchell told me. "Usually we'd have plenty of lecturers waiting to fill the position in an emergency, but-"

  "Why did Haimer leave?"

  Mitchell shook his head. "He opposed the establishment of more separate ethnic studies programs. Said it was fragmenting, that the curriculum should have one inclusive canon."

  "Oops."

  Mitchell looked grave. "He had good intentions. The fact is he said what was on a lot of our minds. But his vote was the only open dissent in the faculty senate. Word got out to the students. Boycotts started, protests on the Patillo, signs that read RACIST. Not the sort of public relations the provost wanted."

  "So why me? You don't need another white guy."

  Mitchell stared at me like I'd just made an inside joke. "Of course. The committee would prefer someone- 'of diverse gender and ethnicity,' I think is the going term."

  "But?"

  He shook his head, letting a little more distaste show. "I'll have to speak with Dr.

  Gutierrez about that in the committee meeting, I'm sure, but let's talk about qualifi cations, son. We need someone who knows the field, someone with a good background who can relate to the students. Someone young, a teacher more than a publisher. Technically it would only be for the rest of the year-a visiting assistant professor's position-until a more extensive hiring search can be conducted. But still, once you're in, once you make connections on the faculty-"

  He nodded more encouragement, letting me get the picture. I got it.

  We talked a little more about the interview process, about when I might come back to teach a demo class if the committee decided to go the next step. I wasn't holding my breath for that, but I said I could stay available. Mitchell nodded, content.

  He opened the folder I'd given him and ran down my credentials and training from Berkeley. He started shaking his head and smiling.

  "You're bilingual."

  "Spanish and English. Middle English. Some classical Spanish and Latin, enough AngloNorman to get the dirty jokes in the fabliaux."