by Sue Grafton
We trotted back to my car. I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of my parking spot before she had a chance to fasten her seatbelt. I clicked mine into place when we reached the next intersection. I headed down Fig to Chapel Street, where I turned right and drove the six blocks to Arroyo, which I knew had a freeway on-ramp. We were third in line to merge and the stream of cars had slowed to a stop. It’s pathetic to see a grown woman weep over traffic, so I was forced to control myself.
Celeste murmured, “Sorry. I should have wound up my meeting a bit quicker.”
If she was seeking absolution, I wasn’t going to give it to her.
Five minutes later, we eased into the northbound lane. The vehicles in the two lanes to my left had turn signals on, telegraphing an intention to ram right into other motorists if they didn’t make way. I saw drivers casting about desperately, trying to find recourse as the poacher came ever closer to sideswiping the car with the right-of-way. We were all going to be out of our cars exchanging insurance information if we didn’t play nice. I thought the traffic jam must be the result of an accident ahead, but there was no sign of a fire truck, an ambulance, or a patrol car with flashing lights.
Eventually, the car in front of us moved forward as the car in front of that car opened the gap by a car’s length. Suddenly the bottleneck yielded and we were on our way. I kept to the speed limit, not willing to risk a moving violation. One off-ramp went by. Two. Three. Two miles further on, I left the 101 and crossed back over the freeway at the top of the ramp. Smooth sailing at that point, which didn’t relieve my tension. I checked my watch. It was 4:35 and we had two miles to go. The distance didn’t bother me so much as thinking ahead to parking, locking the car, and the walk to the terminal, where she’d have to stand in line for her boarding pass and then pass through security. These were not always speedily accomplished.
By now, Celeste was as anxious as I was, which at least eliminated small talk as we focused on our progress. I took the off-ramp for Airport Boulevard. When I hit the straightaway, I did a quick search for a traffic cop and seeing none, I poured on the gas. I approached the entrance to short-term parking, snagged a ticket from the machine, and moved forward almost before the arm was fully up. She got out of the car as I was parking and she was already making her way to the terminal entrance when I caught up with her. The tight schedule had at least erased Ned from our consciousness.
We hurried through the front doors and she took her place at the United Airlines ticket counter. The wait was mercifully short, since every passenger with a grain of sense was checked in by now and waiting at the gate. The absence of luggage saved us forty-five seconds, though the desk agent did shoot Celeste a quick look, wondering if she was up to no good. I caught the fellow’s eye, circled a finger at my temple to denote craziness, pointed at her, and mouthed “This is my sister,” as if that made a difference. He slid her boarding pass across the counter and I walked her the fourteen feet to security. Once she was on the other side, she waved, indicating that she felt safe and I was free to go.
I took a minute to survey my surroundings on the off chance that Ned lay in wait and might hurdle over the X-ray machine and seize her by the throat. Again no sign of him, which generated a moment of hope on my part that he was already suffering the fever, difficulty breathing, low blood pressure, fast heart rate, and mental confusion of sepsis. I confess I didn’t wait for her plane to take off. I left the terminal and returned to my car. The traffic pattern at the airport is such that a departing vehicle is made to circle back, passing the terminal entrance a second time before accessing the exit lane.
It was because of this very quirk that I spied a taxi pulling up at the curb. Bayard Montgomery emerged from the backseat on the right and Ellis got out on the left. Bayard wore a black leather jacket and what looked like a black chauffeur’s cap with a shiny patent-leather brim. Ellis was in a white dress shirt with a red sweater across his shoulders, the empty sleeves folded together in front as though holding hands. The driver allowed his taxi to idle while he got out and walked around to the trunk to help remove luggage. He unloaded the large wheeled split duffel and the expandable four-wheeled packing case I’d seen in the foyer at Bayard’s house. After that, he removed the soft-sided carry-on, two medium hard-sided cases, a rolltop backpack, a leather travel tote, three matching pieces of soft-sided luggage in graduating sizes, a garment bag, and an overnight case. This did not look like a weekend in Palm Springs.
Bayard’s travel plans were none of my business and I was close to completing the roundabout and returning to Airport Boulevard when I felt myself squint. I checked the rearview mirror, watching the redcap load the pieces on his cart. I veered into short-term parking a second time and searched for a space. None. Not one. I went around twice, hoping to see taillights that indicated someone was pulling out, but there was no movement. I could be doing this for another twenty minutes while Bayard and Ellis were doing who-knows-what. I found a no-parking lane with diagonal stripes to announce the unsuitability of the space for my purposes. I parked and got out of my car, locking it behind me.
In the terminal, at the American Airlines ticket counter, I saw Bayard take possession of their two boarding passes. He had his soft-sided carry-on and he joined the security line while Ellis went into the gift shop. I watched him buy several fatty snacks, two magazines, and a travel neck roll filled with organic flax. I bent to study something in the window as he walked away with his purchases and headed for security. Bayard had already secured two seats in the waiting area. I glanced at the signage and realized the flight they intended to board was a commuter plane to Phoenix, Arizona. Bayard had mentioned Palm Springs and I could feel my head tilt like a puzzled pup’s at the change in plans.
I had no way to approach them in the area where they were seated since they’d already been through security screening. I was not a ticketed passenger and I wouldn’t be allowed past the first checkpoint. I got as close to them as I could and called Bayard’s name. Seven people turned around to look.
When he lifted his face, I gave him a cheery wave. I gestured for him to join me and he made a comment to Ellis. Thanks to my highly developed lip-reading skills, I saw him saying, “Shit. Go see what she wants.”
Ellis said, “Why me?”
Bayard said, “Never mind. I’ll do it.”
He got up, trying to match my smile with one of his own.
I said, “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here. I was just dropping off a friend.”
“Small world,” he said, offering no encouragement.
“Off on your weekend jaunt?”
“Yep.” He pantomimed a golf swing.
“I thought you said Palm Springs. This flight goes to Phoenix.”
“Last-minute switch,” he said. “Our flight was canceled, so we decided on Phoenix instead.”
“I’m sure the golf is every bit as good,” I said.
“And the hotel rates are better.”
“Everything works out for the best,” I said.
He replied, “Nice seeing you,” and returned to his seat. He sent me a faint smile when he was settled again, lest I think his departure was rude. I waved again and turned on my heel.
Now what was I to do?
As I passed the American Airlines ticket counter, I felt a mental nudge. On the scratchpad in Bayard’s library, I’d seen AA with a circle around it. My first association with AA was Alcoholics Anonymous, but American Airlines was probably closer to the truth. I slid a hand in my pocket, congratulating myself on my habit of wearing the same jeans four days in a row. I pulled out the note I’d made: 8760RAK. Maybe not a license plate. The American Airlines check-in line had picked up a host of travelers, so I moved to the United desk.
When the ticket agent looked up as though to check me in, I put my finger on the RAK. “Do you recognize this?”
He glanced down. “It’s an airport c
ode.”
“What airport?”
“Marrakech-Menara Airport. Morocco.”
I nearly laughed. “Really? You can fly from Santa Teresa all the way to Marrakech?”
As though to a simpleton, he said, “Uh, yes. That’s possible in this postmodern era of international travel. All you need is thirty-four hours’ flying time and three to four thousand dollars for the seat.”
“And 8760 is the flight number?”
“You’d have to check with American on that.”
“What’s the routing?”
“Ask them,” he said, not about to extend warm public relations to a rival company.
I walked back to the American Airlines counter and took my place in line. There were three people ahead of me, and as is true of lines in your local bank, these were all customers with “issues” that required long discussions with the ticket agent, frequent references to the computer, head shakes, and more discussion. I checked the departures monitor on the wall behind me and saw that the Phoenix flight was leaving in twenty-six minutes. This is just about the same amount allotted for early boarding, passengers with children, the feeble, and infirm. I leaned sideways and stared at the ticket agent and when he looked up, I pointed to my watch. He was singularly unimpressed with the urgency I hoped to convey. Two minutes later, that passenger left the desk and the next woman in line took his place. I heard the preboarding announcement for the Phoenix flight and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. The woman left and the ticket agent made quick work of the two passengers in front of me.
When I reached the head of the line, he moved a small metal sign to the middle of his station. Next window please.
“Oh no, no, no. Please. I just have a quick question . . .”
“Union rules,” he said primly.
“Fine. I honor that. I appreciate everything the union does for you. All I need to know is the routing from Santa Teresa to Marrakech.”
He blinked and began to rattle off the information. “Phoenix, Philadelphia, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, Philadelphia, Chicago, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, Detroit, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, London, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, London, Casablanca, Marrakech. Phoenix, Chicago, JFK, Madrid, Marrakech. Regardless of the route you choose, you’ll be flying into Madrid or Casablanca. I don’t know about the latter, but from Madrid, there’s only one flight to Marrakech and that’s 8760.”
“Thank you.”
I did a 180 turn, looking for a public phone. I saw one next to the door to the ladies’ room. It was currently in use. A woman in heels, wearing a chinchilla coat, was deep in conversation. I crossed to the phone and stood behind her, hoping she’d pick up on the hint. She was heavily perfumed, I noticed now that I was in range of her. She didn’t even look around at me. I stepped to one side and stared at her. She noticed me then and turned protectively, placing a hand over the mouthpiece so I couldn’t hear what she said. I checked my watch pointedly. I tapped my foot. I moved into her line of sight again and did the rolling-hand gesture that means hurry the fuck up. No dice.
I took out my wallet and removed two bills. I leaned close to her ear. “Lady, I will pay you twenty-five dollars to get off the phone right this minute.”
Startled, she looked at me and then at the twenty and the five I held in one hand. She snatched the bills and said to the party on the other end, “I’ll call you back.”
I said, “Oh, wait. Excuse me. Do you have a quarter?”
She sighed heavily, but found one in her coat pocket and placed it in my open palm.
And with that, she was gone.
I dialed Cheney’s number at the police department, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t pick up. Four rings later, he snatched up the handset, saying, “Phillips.”
“Thank god. I’m so happy to hear your voice.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you—”
I said, “Wait, wait. Me first—”
Cheney was so enamored of his news that he charged right on. “Remember, I mentioned the white powder Fritz picked up on his clothing? The ME identified it as quicklime, so we went out to the crime scene and took another look at the septic tank. Know what we found? Under the fill dirt and construction debris where Fritz was dumped, there was a second victim. Somebody had covered the body with about eight pounds of quicklime and probably half a dozen containers of drain cleaner. The common perception is that the two in combination will dissolve a body over a period of time, but the truth is just the opposite—”
I said, “Cheney! Enough.”
This went unheeded as he continued his forensics revelation. “Quicklime slaked with water will cause a small degree of superficial burning, but the heat from the chemical reaction will mummify the body. Slaked lime absorbs moisture from tissue and the surrounding soil, and prevents putrefaction. You’ll never guess who it is.”
Someone on the public-address system was saying, “Will the owner of a dark blue four-door Honda report to the short-term parking and claim your vehicle?”
I said, “It’s Austin Brown.”
Dead silence. “How did you know that?”
“Bayard Montgomery killed him because he threatened to call Bayard’s father and tell him that Bayard was gay. Tigg was wildly homophobic and would have cut him off without a cent.”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“Don’t worry about that. Bayard and his boyfriend, Ellis, are out here at the airport about to board a flight to Phoenix. Their final destination is Morocco, which I bet money has no extradition treaty with the US.”
Another brief silence. “You’re right.”
“Will the owner of a dark blue four-door Honda please return to short-term parking or your vehicle will be towed.”
I said, “Shit, my car’s being towed.”
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked over at the departure gate as the gate agent picked up her microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, American Airlines Flight 5981 to Phoenix, Arizona, is now ready for boarding. We’d like to invite passengers with small children, those with disabilities, or any others who might require additional time to proceed to gate four.”
I watched Bayard and Ellis rise from their seats and gather their belongings. Bayard picked up the black leather carry-on I’d seen in his guest room. Ellis crossed to a trash receptacle and tossed in some candy wrappers, then returned to his seat and picked up the plastic bag containing articles he’d purchased in the airport gift shop. He found his tote and hefted it. He patted his pocket for his boarding pass and then remembered it was in the outside pocket of his tote. He retrieved it and checked his seat number. Passengers were already forming an orderly line, with first-class ticket holders at the head. Bayard had saved Ellis a place about three passengers back and the two chatted while they waited.
“Cheney, they’re boarding. It’s American 5981 to Phoenix.”
“Got it. I’ll take care of it. Just stay where you are. I’m putting a call through to airport security.”
I dropped the handset in place and crossed to the gate. The gate agent invited first-class passengers to board. The first gentleman in line handed his boarding pass to the gate agent. She ran it through her machine, smiled at him, and handed it back. He moved through the gate and through the exterior door to the tarmac beyond.
I was standing there thinking, What if the security phone line is busy? How long is it going to take for Cheney to convey the urgency of the situation? I spotted the airport security officer who stood by the X-ray machine, chatting with another airline employee.
At the gate, the second gentleman reached the head of the line and handed over his boarding pass, which was screened and returned. Bayard and Ellis shuffled forward a couple of steps.
I took a quick look at the entrance. Naturally there was no sign of a police presence outside the terminal. Apparen
tly no messages were being conveyed to the hefty security officer, who’d now folded his arms while he settled in for a comfortable chat with his pal.
Bayard handed his boarding pass to the gate agent. Carry-on in hand, he moved through the gate and then waited for Ellis to clear the barrier.
I crossed to the officer and said, “Excuse me.”
He didn’t seem to hear me and didn’t interrupt his conversation.
“Excuse me, sir, but someone just stole my carry-on.”
Now that I had his attention, I pointed at Bayard. “See that fellow in the black leather jacket with the chauffeur’s cap? His companion’s in the red sweater. I put my carry-on down in the gift shop, and when I turned around it was gone.”
“You have a way to identify it?”
“Yes, sir. I do. The bag has a leather tag with my monogram. BAM. My name is Barbara Ann Mendelson. If you’ll check the contents, you’ll find my blue cashmere sweater along with a headset and my Sony Walkman.”
He looked at me and then looked back at the gate. “Which gentleman is this?”
“Right there, just going out on the tarmac. Black leather jacket and black chauffeur’s cap with a black patent-leather rim. The fellow with him has on a red sweater and he’s got a shopping bag from the gift shop.”
He said something into the radio affixed to his shoulder. He listened and then made his way into the waiting area, moving very quickly for a guy who carried that much weight. He made a statement to the gate agent, who stepped aside to let him pass. Even from inside the terminal, I could hear him say, “Sir. Can I have a word with you?”
Other passengers moving toward the plane divided to form a stream passing on either side of them.
At first, Bayard didn’t seem to realize he was being addressed. A man nearby touched his arm and pointed at the officer, who was already repeating his request. Bayard stopped. Ellis was ahead of him, approaching the exterior rolling stairs leading up to the aircraft, when he realized Bayard wasn’t close behind. He spotted the security officer, frowned, and returned to Bayard’s side. There was a three-way conversation, the officer making it clear there was a problem in the works. Bayard made a response, but didn’t persuade the officer of his need to board the plane. Ellis started to kick up a fuss but Bayard waved him down, probably thinking a show of cooperation would speed them along. The officer repeated his request and the three of them walked back to the boarding gate.