A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (13 page)

I took care of both and shuffled into the kitchen to make instant cocoa. The apartment was gloomy, like the day would be one of those gray, steam-bath kinds Washington excelled in. While the cocoa heated, and before I turned on any lights, I peeked through the balcony door. The street was empty. Most of the previously parked cars were gone. The cement where they’d been was no longer dry. My car looked undamaged—no flat tires or bashed windshields, at least.

The cat appeared and asked to be let out.
Poor thing
. He’d be gone for days at a time, and when I resigned myself to being catless, he reappeared, leaner but seemingly none the worse for his absence. Maybe I should do the responsible thing, adopt him, buy a license and have him neutered. I rubbed his head and opened the door.

The cocoa was hot. I filled a mug, savoring the warmth and the sugar kick. Outside, dawn showed a reluctant face and the street was empty of people. Birds crowded the feeder and hopped among the drooping flowers. Rain didn’t bother them. The tops of the park trees stood in tapestry textured shades of old and new green foliage and the rusty-red of madrona trees. Unless the weather got very sunny very fast, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be needed at the fair. I climbed back in bed to finish the cocoa and think.
I’ll go by where Dave is doing psychic readings tonight and try to flush out the vicar based on the rebirth clue.
I’d also draft a letter requesting knowledge of the vicar that I could personalize and send to churches. If that failed I’d have to consider cruising every church parking lot in the area trying to find the gray car I’d seen at the passion play.

I wished I had access to police files to see what information they had.

I could also get my own nine hundred line and see if he makes contact.
The thought popped into my head and created two immediate reactions:  excitement and repulsion.
You might hear some creepy stuff, girl.
Well,
I
can’t play in pitch without something sticking. Ugh. I hate to think what will stick to me if I get a bunch of phone calls.

I put the empty mug on the nightstand and slid farther down under the blankets. What if I ran some sort of ad that said something cryptic implying I knew what Isca had known? Let’s see, something like, “Just when you thought it was safe…but I only went away for a little while. I’m back and I still know all your secrets.” Too rough, and how would the vicar even know I meant him? Unless…What if I ran her same ad? I could call Parker and offer to go over to Isca’s house and start boxing up stuff—get rid of the perishables, take the canned goods to a food bank. If the police were done at the house, of course. While I was there, I could look around for a check stub or phone bill or whatever might give me information. If I found her 900 number, I could go to the newspaper morgue and find her ad in the personals. All I’d have to do is have the same number ring at my house.

Wow. What a great idea. Pretty dang devious too.
I didn’t like the idea of being alone in Isca’s house, though. Just down the hall from the kitchen was the bedroom, the murder scene, with the fingerprint dust and whatever else was still there. Plus the flies. Some of them would surely still be around.

Should I ask Andy to go with me? Arrange to meet him but get there early and snoop around before he arrived? Then I wouldn’t be alone for too long. Also, I could observe his behavior for evidence of guilt. I liked the sound of that, “evidence of guilt,” though I wasn’t completely sure what that might be. Oh well, it seemed a workable idea. At least it was an idea. Better than nothing. However, I also didn’t want to be alone in Isca’s house at night with Andy, especially not after the broken dowel incident.

To banish the memory I hopped out of bed to see if the cat wanted back in. He did. I gave him a little food, made some more cocoa and hustled back to snuggle under the covers with an old copy of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’
Cross Creek
. Eventually, the cat followed, curling up at my side.
It’s amazing how much a cat grooms itself
. The book dropped onto my chest and I fell asleep.

The phone rang while I dressed. I ran barefoot to grab the receiver. Sure enough, due to the change in weather and forecasts for the next twenty-four hours, management was going to handle my booth. No sooner had I hung up than my boss called and asked if I could come in and work on some transfer documents for the accounts of a stockbroker who was coming over from another firm. Even as I said sure, I started mentally spending the overtime pay.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to call around for information on getting a nine hundred phone line. I thought it would be one quick call.
I should be so lucky.
I spent several minutes thumbing through the directory, looking for something obvious like, “For Information on a 900 Phone Line of Your Own, Call.” When that didn’t work, I decided to call the phone company. Their recorded voice gave a plethora of options—buttons to push for home service, business service, repair service, special needs service.
What about a button to push for real people service
? I pushed billing, a good guess when money was involved. Sure enough, a live person answered.

“I’m interested in acquiring a nine hundred phone line.”

“This is a local carrier. You need to call a long distance carrier.”

“Like who?”
Whom?

“I can’t make recommendations.”

I’ll never forgive our government for the breakup of the phone company.
I’d have to wait until my lunch break to try again.
It used to be so easy
.
A sweet, motherly voice at the other end of the line was there to help in any situation.

I changed clothes, drove to work and spent the morning going over statements and getting transfer documents ready for signature. Since I woke up so early, by noon I felt like I’d already put in a full day. I found an empty conference room and started again to try and get information on a 900 number. After a few more calls, I was given an eight hundred number to call for nine hundred information. By then, I’d forgotten which carrier I’d been referred to. Nevertheless, I dialed the number. A voice gave three options:  “Press one and the pound sign for general information. Press two and the pound sign for information by mail. Press three and the pound sign for further options.”

I pressed one and the pound sign.

“To begin or augment a business with a nine hundred phone line, you should have a reserve of twenty thousand dollars to last for three months, until the service begins to pay.”

I’ll bet Isca had twenty thousand dollars.
I listened to explanations about charges by the call or by the minute and then listened to ideas about an advertising campaign to make the service known. There was also something about credit at Dun and Bradstreet, but I didn’t remember what.

When the tape ran out, I called again and pressed zero. I got a live person who said I’d pressed the wrong button and that she would transfer me. The transfer disconnected.

More than a little peeved, I called a third time and pressed three. I was advised to leave my name and address, spelling everything, and speak distinctly. I spoke and spelled audibly. That done, I called Francisco. His schedule as a fitness trainer varied, and I never knew when he would be home. I caught him on his way out the door.

“Hey, it’s Mercedes. How are you?”

“Hi, girlfriend? What’s up?”

“Where’s Dave doing psychic readings tonight?”

“At Bean’s.”

“You going?”

“I’m thinking about it. Want to come?”

“Yeah. I’m going to take Dave’s advice and ask around about the vicar.”

“Walk or ride?”

“Walk.”

I hung up feeling better. The voice messages hadn’t defeated me and I had something of a plan. Things looked up.

* * *

Promptly at seven thirty I opened my front door to let Francisco in. At seven thirty-five, after an unanticipated hunt for my umbrella, I opened the door again and walked smack into Andy.

“Hi.” He looked past me, at Francisco.

“This is my friend, Francisco.”

The men shook hands, and Andy said, “I called you last night.”

“I know, but when I got the message, it was too late to call back.” I ignored the fact I could have called him during the day. Instead, I looked at his attire:  jeans, black sneakers and a dark leather jacket. “We’re going to walk to Bean’s. Want to come? Dave suggested something that I want to try.”

Andy didn’t hesitate about walking, just said okay and fell into step. The three of us jockeyed for positions on the sidewalk all the way to Bean’s.

The rain stopped. It was cool enough for a jacket and the air was fresh and smelled like newly-turned soil. Perfect walking weather. Francisco and I were regular walkers and Andy was no slouch, either, when it came to striding out. During our thirty minute trek to the coffee bar, we discussed Isca’s comments left on my answering machine the weekend she died. Francisco filled Andy in on the rebirthing session he and Dave attended. I told Andy I was going to ask around and see if anyone knew the vicar and then, until we reached Bean’s, we tossed around the idea that “born again” might mean a rebirth session.

To Bean Or Not To Bean was a coffee shop/bookstore in downtown Tacoma in an old, flatiron building that divided two streets and housed a variety of businesses in the past. In a downtown that was about as exciting as a
Lawrence Welk
rerun, Bean’s caught on. It had an espresso bar and offered both new and used books and a variety of nightly activities. One evening a week, psychics did readings.

Francisco opened the door and the heady odors of books and lattes greeted us. A flight of stairs, so unique a camera crew once flew in from Hollywood just to film it for a movie, divided the first floor into a coffee bar on one side and a reading room on the other. Poetry readings, open mike nights and occasional one-act plays held at Bean’s attracted fair-sized crowds. The second floor had a small, private room with windows overlooking the first floor and street.

“Ever been here before?” Francisco looked for an empty table.

“Not on psychic night but sometimes for the open mi
c nights. I like amateur stand-up comedy. Look, there’s a table.” Andy indicated a table across the room.

I liked stand-up comedy too. How had I missed seeing Andy?

“Are all these people psychic?” Andy looked at the crowded room.

“Only three. The others are here for advice.” We squeezed through the tables and Francisco pulled a chair out for me.

“It doesn’t look like everyone is doing the same thing.”

“They’re not. Do you know which one is Dave? He’s over there, with the woman in the sweats. He’s mainly an astrologer. That book he has is an
Ephemeris
. It tells the position of planets at any given time going back years. You have to know the time and place of your birth to get a really accurate reading.”

“Not like horoscopes in the paper, huh?” Andy grinned.

“Not hardly.” Francisco laughed.

A waitress came around and we ordered. Remembering my promise to God, I skipped the mocha and had a low-fat, skinny decaf with a dash of hazelnut flavoring.

“At one time in Europe, people got arrested for casting the chart of the reigning monarch,” Francisco continued. “Not these days, though. It’s predicted Prince Charles will never be king.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “What a bummer, after waiting so long.”

“We had a psychic at the—where I grew up—what is everyone else doing?” asked Andy.

“The man at the table behind Dave is doing I Ching. That’s ancient Chinese. It’s a way of interpreting signs given to you using old coins. There’s another fellow who isn’t here tonight who reads stones. Stones have properties and meanings which can be discovered by tossing them like dice then choosing the ones that grab you, so to speak.”

I half listened to Francisco and watched Andy’s face, remembering my time with the runes after Jack was killed. I turned one over and paid a psychic to tell me it was time to end the commitment causing havoc with my life. I did, to a certain extent, but I’d been uncomfortable about anything involving the psychic world ever since.

The rational left side of my brain said it was all nonsense. “These hints, comments or speculations are so vague they fit everyone.”

“Yes,” said the Cornish, Celtic and therefore very superstitious right side of my brain, “Why this particular rune at this particular time?” After that I never read a horoscope.

Andy’s face was animated. He smiled and nodded, apparently interested in what Francisco said. Francisco, too, appeared comfortable. Good. I liked my friends to like each other. We waited to talk to Dave. Was Andy indeed a friend?
Yes, but only as long as plenty of people are around.

Chapter 12

We sipped our beverages and peopled watched. Voices rose and fell, depending on the noise of the latte machine; people read newspapers, rustling the pages; someone played a few notes on the piano until a waitress said it was off limits on psychic nights. When Dave left his table and joined us, he seemed comfortable and relaxed. Maybe after life in the uncertain and chaotic gay community he’d found peace in the unchanging aspects of the planets.