A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (22 page)

“Three months?”

“Kids?”

“One. A boy, Jimmy. Jim, I mean.”

Feelings came and went on his face. He seemed to be considering and discarding things to talk about.

Looking for things that aren’t too personal?

“I’m lucky. He’s a good kid. Majors in animal husbandry at Washington State. Wants to be a large animal vet. He joined us in the game.” Kyle laughed. “One thing about Jimmy. He can give as good as he gets.”

“You know, that’s something that has always puzzled me. Why do parents always blame themselves if their kids turn out bad but always claim they’re lucky when they turn out right? If he’s a good kid then I think you and Jill should at least take some credit.”

Kyle looked pleased. “Thanks. That’s nice to hear. What kind of painting do you do?”

“Pastels and watercolors. I used to do a lot of oils, but I found myself getting bogged down in minute, detailed work with a little three-bristle brush on a giant canvas. Pastels don’t lend themselves to fine, detailed work. They like big bold subjects.”

“What do you do with your paintings when you’re done?”

“Give them away, mostly, Daughters of the American Revolution, Pierce County Aids Society auction and places like that.”

“So, you don’t care about people, don’t give, huh?”

I could have been self-deprecating, but this was an issue I’d thought about before. Something I’d come to terms with about myself.

“In the eyes of society, charity doesn’t count unless you’re vocal and visible.”

“In the eyes of the media, you mean?”

“Hasn’t it turned into the same thing?”

“God, I hope not. Not for adults who have a brain, at least.”

Suddenly, we were relaxed. We seemed to have skirted difficult waters and found a safe shoal. As I got up to refill Kyle’s wineglass, his eyes dropped to the opened buttons on my dress. Our eyes met for a minute and I blushed.

Because he was driving, Kyle only sipped a little of the second glass. I carried the tray back to the kitchen and got the throw Dave had picked out. Soft rain fell as Kyle held the door open to a rather beat-up old car. Bucket seats with a gearshift between. Well that eliminated the problem of how close I should sit. I couldn’t remember bucket seats from when I was dating. The joke had always been that the girl was helping the driver drive the car.

“Do you ever think about bucket seats?” I snapped the seat belt.

Kyle gave a short laugh. “Can’t say I have. Why?”

“I think they were developed by someone who was nervous about how close the driver and passenger should sit on a first date. I think maybe a female engineer came up with the idea to save embarrassment. Sort of a sensitive insight into making dates less stressful.”

Kyle looked at me in disbelief.

I laughed. “Think about it. Anyway, the idea works for me.”

He laughed again as we pulled away from the curb. “I can’t even casually put my arm across your seat. The headrest’s in the way. I guess I’ll have to make my move later.” At the next red light he put in a Lou Rawls tape.

That’s setting the scene. Later, my pututie.

Since I was getting out of my comfort zone, I listened to the music and kept small talk to a minimum.

The family I worked for at the fair didn’t put themselves out when it came to choosing a restaurant. It had no deck built over Commencement Bay where we could stroll elegantly, lean casually against a railing, look at the phosphorous dancing water and gaze into the depths of each other’s eyes. There was a short awning and a door.

Turning away from the cloakroom, Kyle ran into a fellow cop and his date and we decided to share a table. Two short order cooks and their wives, and a young couple who sat at the far end of the table joined us. I knew the cooks and we all introduced ourselves.

The dining room had large round tables that sat ten. It also had a microphone at the front near a stage and buffet area. Still, the family didn’t have to do anything except pay us, so the dinner was a nice gesture.

The conversation took off immediately, thanks, mainly, to the upcoming baseball season and instant male bonding. Ray, Kyle’s buddy, touched on their rival gang game and everyone seemed interested. Life on the streets, especially your own streets, usually caught people’s attention. Both men were ready to share their experiences.

There was also a little good-natured ribbing about having received uncalled for traffic tickets, but conversation remained light. Then, in a moment of quiet, the unknown young woman sitting across from me spoke up. “A friend of mine was murdered last week, in her apartment. It was awful.”

Both the officers stiffened perceptively, ready, no doubt, to dodge those “what are the police doing about it?” accusations so prevalent when crime is personal. Instead, the woman added, “It was like that murder several weeks ago. You know, the one where the woman was found with a phone cord tied around her neck.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. In all my supposing and suspicioning, I’d never given any thought to the possibility of a second murder. If they were connected, it made Isca’s murder a less personal act, definitely not the retaliation of a creepy minister. Were there other deaths I’d not heard about? Could Isca have been the target of a serial killer? The serial killer idea didn’t seem likely, though. I knew they weren’t common. Unfortunately, just good copy when it came to the news. If the young woman went to the bathroom, I’d join her and ask a few questions. I stopped musing to listen to Kyle and Ray parry the question.

“Well,” Kyle nodded toward Ray. “Neither of us works homicide. I work neighborhood patrol and Ray, here, works Bunco. We know about the murders, of course, but we’re not part of the teams working on them.”

“Could they have been gang related?” A woman sitting to my left looked anxious.

“Not the Haines murder. It had all the markings of being ritualistic. Your friend’s, though,” Kyle looked at the young woman, “maybe. However, gang murders generally happen in fights or drive-bys. Murder in a private residence generally occurs when a burglar has been surprised by the resident or is perpetrated by a person known to the victim. Someone who has fairly easy access to the place.”

“That’s right.” Ray looked at the rest of us. “Also, neither murder was a knifing. Gangs use knives in street fights and guns for drive-bys.”

Before anyone could ask more questions, a member of the fair family took the microphone and went through the usual “testing, testing” and tapping the speaker with his finger. He introduced everyone who had ownership in the family concern of restaurants, cracked a few bad jokes and handed out silly awards for things such as Corn Dog Daddy of the Day. Mercifully, he kept it short and after thanking us all declared the buffet open. Like lemmings to the sea, the crowd made for the food. Kyle and I chose to wait until the lines thinned.

“I suppose that kind of stuff is an occupational hazard.”

“It goes with the job. Most of us don’t mind.” He leaned back and this time was able to put his arm across the back of my chair. His fingertips rubbed my shoulder softly.

“What about your job?”

I chose to make the wrong assumption. “No one ever asks about onion rings or curly fries.”

He cuffed me gently. “The other job.”

“Well, everyone wants stock advice. You know, an inside tip. I’m a notoriously bad picker, though, so I stick to bonds. Besides, it’s not unusual for folks to ignore the professionals and do what a friend recommends. So aggravating.”

We chatted inconsequently until the others returned to the table, carrying plates of food.

“Shall we?” The line was down to a few. Kyle slid my chair back and took my hand. Waiting proved to be a good strategy. When we returned, the others were talking about the upcoming Daffodil festival.

I turned my attention to my food and attempted conversation with Ray’s date, Dana. After we tried and discarded a few topics of conversation, mainly books, history and old movies, all initiated by me, I gave up and let her tell me horror stories of other people’s kids in daycare where she had a four year old. Kyle and I finished eating as the others left the table and returned with cake. The young woman excused herself to go to the restroom. I grabbed my purse. “Mind if I join you?” While she used the facilities, I brushed my teeth and fiddled with a tube of lipstick until she came out. “I’m sure sorry about your friend.”

“Yeah.” She turned the water on and pumped out some soap.

“Isca, the woman you mentioned who was murdered in her home, was a friend of mine, so I know how you feel.”

She turned off the water and pulled some paper towels out of the dispenser.

“Look, can I ask you a couple questions?” Before she could respond, I plunged ahead. “Did your friend ever mention someone called the vicar?”

“No. Why?”

“I think he might have had something to do with Isca’s death, and I’m trying to find him.”

“Shouldn’t the police be doing that?” She tossed the used paper towels in a wastepaper basket, crossed her arms and leaned against the sink.

“They have another suspect but I don’t think he did it.”

“What does your cop buddy say?”

“Cops never tell you anything.”

“Well, I can’t help you.” She started for the door.

“Wait. Can you at least tell me about your friend’s death?”

“Sure. Her name was Sue, and it was in all the papers.”

“I’ve been working two jobs. I’m a bit behind on my reading.”

Something in my words apparently struck a chord. “Sue was shot while she was sleeping. The police found an open window and figure the guy got in that way. Her TV and all her jewelry were taken. They’re checking the pawnshops.”

“And she didn’t hang around churches or places where she might meet a preacher?”

“Sue was a teacher and her husband’s in the army, so no.”

I blew a sigh through pooched lips and thanked her. We returned silently to the table.

Kyle and I skipped dessert. When we left the restaurant, it was raining with serious intent. He took my hand and we dashed to the car. He helped me in and I leaned over and unlocked his door.

“Do you like Willie Nelson?”

“Love him.” In truth I liked most music in small doses but what the heck.

Kyle put a tape in and started the engine. We drove back to my apartment listening to rain and the plaintive sounds of country angst.

After the food, music and strain of being on my best behavior, I was tired. I had used up all my social skills for the day. At my door, standing in the poorly lit hallway, I thanked Kyle for going with me.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to thank you. Has dating changed that much over the years?”

“I was glad you could come and I had a nice time. There’s no reason for me not to thank you.”
The uncomfortable part of a first date. Yuck
. My palms were sweaty.

As it turned out, Kyle wasn’t out of practice in the skill of taking a girl home. He put his hands on my arms and pulled me to him. His kiss was long enough to be a quality experience. Afterward, he didn’t let me go but rather ran his hands up and down my arms. “I had a good time too and I’d like to see you again.”

“Any time.”

I disentangled myself and the romance of our parting was spoiled by having the door locks to contend with. I thought it better to find the right keys among the eight or ten on my key ring and to unlock the door myself. Once it opened, I looked at Kyle sheepishly.

“Probably Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant could have handled this key thing with style and humor.”

“Don’t you ever go to new movies? You might like some of them.”

Before I could answer, he kissed me again and pushed me gently into the apartment.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

He waited until I’d shut the door and set the locks.

I know because I looked through the peephole.

Chapter 20

Inside my apartment, I enjoyed about thirty seconds of feeling like Meg Ryan. Then it occurred to me Kyle had given no indication of wanting to come in for a—finger quotes here—nightcap. I hadn’t had to protect my virtue.
Well, crap.
I snapped on lights and went to see if the cat was on the balcony. He was, huddled under a piece of outdoor furniture. I opened the door, and he came in, grumbling with indignation. He let me give his marmalade coat a rubdown, but the contents of his kibble dish were more important. I filled it, gave him some soft food and poured milk in a third bowl. He was purring and eating when I went to take a shower.

“What ungodly hour are Andy and I leaving for Chimacum tomorrow?” I sat on the bed and set the alarm. “Oh, yeah. Ugh!” Outside, the wind blew the rain sideways. Somewhere, a garbage can lid tapped percussion on the pavement as it rolled down the alley. I remembered the scene in
Forever Amber
when, during the great plague, men roamed London’s streets, rang bells and called, “Bring out your dead.” The people had, piling the bodies on carts and leaving the city so empty, grass grew in the streets. When a small branch blew by the window and scraped the pane. I jumped.
This is why people worry about my single lifestyle. I’ve gotta get into the twentieth century.

The cat was so quiet I went to check on him. In the kitchen I remembered I was supposed to take coffee the next day. The cat licked his fur while I measured water and grounds, and rinsed out a steel thermos. I got out two cups, put cookies in a baggie, washed a couple apples and turned out the lights.

No matter the danger, I had a hard time sleeping without fresh air. Besides the glass door, my bedroom had a small old-fashioned window where one frame of glass slid up over another. After a moment’s thought, I put a bud vase on the edge. If anyone started fiddling with the casement, the vase would fall and wake me.

In bed, between smooth cool sheets, I plumped the pillows and snuggled under the covers. The cat left the kitchen and jumped up next to me. He knew the routine; I read and he licked. It was late, though; too late to read very long considering how early I had to get up. One minute I was wide awake, listening to the cat. The next minute, the alarm next to my ear went off.

I yawned and stretched and went to the kitchen to plug in the coffeepot. After that, I made the bed, rousing the cat, which was stretched out luxuriously.
Enjoy the bed while you can, dude
.

When I opened the door to Andy’s knock, it was obvious before he spoke, influenza still held him in its determined grip. His face was flushed; his eyes were glassy. He made no attempt to breathe through his nose. I felt fever heat radiate from his body.

“Couldn’t this wait ‘til next weekend?” I opened the balcony door and ousted the protesting cat. “Sorry, sport, but I don’t have a litter box.”

“No. I want Dominic back here and in school with his friends. Besides, he called and he’s ready to come home. He misses them and is homesick.”

While I filled the thermos and put it in a sack with the other stuff, he bent over in a heavy bronchial cough. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“It sounds like you’re in the last stages of TB.”

I always sound like this with the flu.”

“Didn’t you get a shot?”

“Can’t remember if I did or not.”

Under the pretense of needing a drink of water, I swallowed a vitamin C tablet. I locked the door behind us, and Andy took my arm as we walked down the stairs. I really wished he hadn’t. I knew for certain I hadn’t had a flu shot.

Kyle’s kiss had given me a happiness hangover, but then I’d always liked kissing. Andy was equally accomplished.
Maybe I’m just a love junky
.
“This is the man whose socks you will pick up for the next fifty years or so,” my mother said of Jack after he proposed. She hadn’t approved of our marrying so young. Well, I had picked up socks, found missing tools and responded to the urgent need for a bath towel or toilet paper. I missed that. I wondered if Andy was the kind of man who liked his feet rubbed. I couldn’t see anyone rubbing Kyle’s feet. I couldn’t even picture him with the flu.

But boy can he kiss
.

“I’ll drive first.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Andy unlocked the car and took the passenger seat. “Let’s take the long way up and the short way back.”

“Why?”

“The scenery’s nice.”

Ah well, he’s the sickie.

I drove down Ninth Street and merged onto the city center freeway entrance. The rain began to let up, and a reluctant dawn crept into the sky behind Mt. Rainier’s foothills. Andy tipped his seat back and was asleep before I reached the Narrows Bridge.

So much for his enjoying the scenery.

The bridge traffic was lighter than during the week when Tacoma people headed for work at the Bremerton shipyards and Bremerton people headed for work in downtown Tacoma or at Boeing Field. Plans for a second bridge were going ahead but, in the meantime, the road’s slick surface didn’t slow anyone down. What few cars I passed sent out hydroplane-like fishtails of water. I changed to the inside lane and held to the speed limit. On the right were exits to Gig Harbor, a pretty little town on a small inlet, named for a six-oared boat. The explorer Charles Wilkes discovered the small harbor, and for years it had been a fishing village. Sadly, the people who re-discovered Gig Harbor were yuppie elites.
The first condo goes up and yuppie blight follows
.
I’m doing that cynical thing again.

We passed a failed Outlet Mall, a community theater and a driving range. Traffic was steady and I was glad to reach Purdy. There, I cut over to the Burley-Olalla Road and into farming country. Beside me Andy wheezed away, sleeping the opened-mouth sleep of a plugged nose.

I forgot about him in the pleasure of rural scenery:  quite a few horses, not so many cows, a big wetland and a small, man-made pond and a cutoff to Minter Creek hatchery. When my cousins visited from Australia, they were fascinated by the Christmas tree farms we now passed. Eventually, the convoluted scenic route ended on Lake Flora Road. Just before I reached the Bremerton-Belfair Highway, a doe crossed in front of us. Traffic was light and we made good time getting to Belfair.

“My gosh.” I drove under an old railroad overpass. “Will you look at that.”

“What?” Andy woke, straightened and blew his nose.

“A traffic light. Belfair has a traffic light. When did that happen?”

“After Safeway built there, people were having trouble getting in and out of the parking lot.”

“Belfair already had an Albertson’s or something. I don’t know why Safeway thought they had to move in.”

“Excessive consumerism.”

“Exactly. And now a stoplight. Where will it end?

“With a McDonald’s. Didn’t someone once say, ‘Progress is our most important product’?”

“Humph!”

“Boy, you really are a luddite. Coffee?” Andy held the thermos between his knees to open it and put the cups on the open door of the glove compartment.

“Half a cup I guess. I don’t like it without milk”

I stopped when the offending streetlight turned red. Andy handed me a cup and sipped his own. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s okay. You can’t help being sick.”

“Did you go anyway?”

“Yes.” I paused. If this were high school, telling Andy I’d gone with Kyle Hamilton would be tantamount to breaking up. Funny how that kind of old guilt hung on. No one in books, modern or the old
Anne of Green Gables
types, ever dated two different men at the same time. They didn’t even double-date on TV—or in the movies. I took a deep breath. “I took Kyle Hamilton. You know, the cop who responded when my apartment was broken into.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

“Yes, I did. He’s a nice guy.” He was, too. “I’m sorry you had to miss it, though.”

Am I? Well, it sounds good.

The light changed and we continued on headed for Hood Canal’s south shore. Andy unwrapped a cough drop and popped it in his mouth. “I’m sorry it wasn’t me too.”

Road construction and half an hour’s drive brought us to Twanoh State Park and we got out to stretch. The fresh briny air was a welcome relief. I was getting tired. A man in a kayak went by but otherwise, it was too early in the season for there to be people on the water. I spoke to a couple who were returning to the parking lot from the beach. A white poodle led the way.

“Have you driven far?”

“Yes, from Port Townsend.”

“We’re on our way to Seattle to see our new granddaughter. Look.” The lady, who wore a sweatshirt with hummingbirds on it, pulled a picture of a red-faced newborn from her wallet.

Oh dear. All new babies look alike.
”What a sweetheart.”

“Yes, isn’t she? Ashley Faye they call her. Isn’t that pretty?” She put the picture back in her purse.

“It is.” This, at least, was the truth.

“How was the weather up north?” Andy asked.

“Better up there than down here, that’s for sure. How far are you going?”

“Chimacum.”

“Well, you’ll be in the rain shadow. Should be no problem there, but there is some road construction.”

I petted the poodle, accepted a wet good-bye kiss and we got in the car. I would have liked for Andy to take over the driving, but he was falling asleep again. Well, somewhere around Leland, when we picked up traffic from the Hood Canal Bridge, he’d have to.

For the next hour or so I drove by waterfront homes and through small towns. We inched carefully past a semi that had lost a load, were forced to a crawl at the Dosewallips Bridge and passed an Airstream caravan determined to stick together. Dabob Bay came up on the right, just before Leland, where I turned in at a restaurant parking lot with enough cars to indicate the food was good. I was finding it hard to stay awake, was hungry and needed what the Brits euphemistically called a comfort stop.