A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (25 page)

“I’m sure Melody would be glad to put you up.” Umma Grace watched the boy take off for the house.

“No.” The word came out more forcibly than I intended. “I have to go to work tomorrow.”

“You can’t run away you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t run away. Most everyone who comes here thinks this place is a Godsend, at least for a little while, but what the cards said you’d experience has followed you. I felt them when I shook your hand. Your destiny is like your shadow. Sometimes it trails behind you. Sometimes it stretches ahead of you. Sometimes it’s right on top of you. The only thing you know for sure is it never stays in the same place for long. Right now, yours is on top of you and stretches into the future. However, the shadow is shortening. Pretty soon it will be a trailing shadow memory.”

I shuddered. So Andy didn’t mind butchering animals and wasn’t afraid of blood. Wow. The whole unnatural situation was weird. I wanted to leap in the car, floor the gas pedal and drive hell-bent for bright lights and music.

Chapter 22

Monday morning I stared at my computer with Orphan Annie eyes. The market was down nearly ninety points, but I couldn’t work up any concern.

“More sellers than buyers? Profit taking? Precther the corrector?” I asked Mr. Johnston.

“Earnings reports.” Mr. Johnston took the week before his annual fishing trip seriously. “Pull these nineteen eighty-nine tax reporting statements, will you? Mrs. Chin is being audited for an original issue discount report we made.”

“Do you want a Remic statement?”

“I don’t think she has issues with Real Estate Investment Mortgages, but you might as well. I have a conference call with her CPA at noon.”

I tried to look perky and alert when I went to do his bidding. Forget “My kingdom for a horse.” All I wanted was an open window and some fresh air. I pulled the boxes of microfilm and fed a reel into the reader.
Did anyone look at attention deficit disorder among children in conjunction with closed windows and air-conditioning? I should do it.
I pushed the print button and page after page slowly emerged.
I should make a proposal on my hypothesis and get a big government grant.

After each statement finished printing, I stapled the pages together and thought about how upset the air conditioner manufacturers would be. Their sales would plummet. Their stock prices would drop. Then they’d get a bunch of high-priced lawyers like F. Lee Bailey and sue me for something or other. No, I wouldn’t risk it. I’d have to carry my brilliance to my grave.

When I got Mr. Johnston settled with a steel carafe of coffee and half a dozen files, I settled down to catch up on paperwork requiring a lot of desk space and little mental effort. It looked good to my boss and needed to be done, and I could think about other things at the same time. Memories of the weekend competed with posting stock purchases and sales on clients’ ledgers.

By the time Dominic, Umma Grace and I returned from the barn and Dominic had stowed his gear in the car, Andy was awake and seemed much better. Either his pills had kicked in or Umma Grace’s herbal tea had really done the trick. Though he still looked tired, the flush and much of the nasal breathing were gone and his hearing aid was back in place. He and I stood near the car with Melody, Barrett, Umma Grace and Max. Dominic was showing the inquisitive llama the contents of the trunk.

“He really is the cutest thing. What a great life you’ve created for yourselves.” I looked at Barrett.

“It pays the bills, and it is the kind of thing we always wanted.” Melody looked at Andy, but he ignored the comment.

Well “paying the bills” is one way to describe it
. However, there had been real sincerity in her voice and I couldn’t let my cynicism win.

“Melody, thanks a lot. I really appreciate your taking Dominic.” Andy hugged his mother briefly. “Dominic, say good-bye to your grandparents and thank them.”

“Thanks you, guys. Take care of Max for me.” Dominic gave them each a quick hug and the llama a longer one, and Andy turned toward Barrett.

“Thanks for everything, Dad.”

Barrett held Andy in a long, firm embrace. “Anytime, Son. You know that. I don’t see enough of you. Will you be okay?”

“All I can do is wait and see what the police come up with.” Andy ran his hand across his hair.

“Call me, even if there’s no news. Call me. It’ll keep the bogeymen out of my brain.”

While they talked, clouds played hide-and-seek with the sun and shadows and light constantly exchanged places. I was glad when Andy turned to open the passenger door for me just as Umma Grace came out of the house.

“This is for you, Mercedes.” She put a slim leather cord around my neck. “It isn’t what I would have chosen if I’d been home, but it’s the best I have with me.”

I fingered a blue stone flecked with green encased in a leather sling. The stone reached just below the neckline of my shirt and nestled between my breasts.

“How pretty. Thank you. What is it?” I admired the color.

“It’s an azurite.” Umma Grace looked at it for a moment. “I would have preferred a stronger stone, but it’s the best I can do right now. The closer the stone is to your heart, the better it will help you consolidate your inner strength.”

Crap!
Why does she have to turn everything into something weird?

I felt curiously gypped. To my parents’ despair, I liked eccentrics better than the so-called normal people. All the new politically correct stuff was a total pain. The PC people I knew jogged, watched their diets and talked about things such as pulse rates and fat content. Dave and Francisco, on the other hand, talked about art and music and what went on behind the scenes of the Broadway performances that came to town, where a number of their friends worked. Isca had talked about her days doing cartoon voices and the people she’d met, both in California and on her 900 phone line. Under other circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed talking to Umma Grace and learning more about her beliefs and knowledge. However, after the tarot card reading and all the warnings, I’d changed my mind.

“It’s lovely and very thoughtful of you.”

“Leave this one on. When I get home, I’ll find something stronger and mail it. When you get the stone, put it in the sling and put the azurite somewhere in your living room. Here.” She fished in a pocket. “Here’s my card. Call me.”

“Can we talk about regular things?”

“Later.”

Happily, Andy gestured me toward the passenger door. “We’d better get going. Dominic is steaming the windows.”

“It was nice meeting you all.” I got in and missed Andy’s last minute conversation with Umma Grace. Fortunately, they kept it brief. He started the engine, gravel scooted out from under the tires and we drove away.

Perversely, I was unable to sleep while Andy drove, so I rested my eyes and responded to Dominic’s chatter. After an hour, I took the wheel, skipped the scenic route and pulled onto the first freeway entrance. The trip home was a repeat of the trip up, except there were two people sleeping, and the freeway was a lot faster. Nevertheless, at times I drove barefoot. Freezing feet, and the action involved in rubbing one over the other to ward off frostbite, helped me stay awake. Andy left me at my door with a little peck on the cheek and the rest of the day was a blur. Monday I was brain dead.

* * *

My apartment had never felt as welcoming as it did when I got home from work Monday afternoon. I walked in the door, out of my shoes and gave a contended sigh. This was my home, my cave, a womb. Its umbilical cords of books, friends and windows on the park nourished me.
Wait, is that a country western song?
Jose chattered and the phone rang. Probably just as well.

“
Bueno
.” I’d picked that up in Mexico. The word occasionally discouraged telemarketers.

“Excuse me?” The speaker paused. “This is Muriel Cruise from Hathaway House.” She paused again. “Assisted living for senior citizens? I believe you left me a message, after the death of Isca Haines, saying you were interested in working with some of our residents?”

“Oh, gosh, yes. I did leave that message. I forgot all about it”

“I was away at a conference, but I wanted to call and see if the offer is still good.”

“I’m still interested, but, um, I need to tell you I can’t do any needlework.”

“That doesn’t matter. Our group is feeling anchorless without Isca. They’ll teach you to knit and crochet, or to tat, if you want to. The most important thing is that someone from outside our community shows an interest and comes in. It gives meaning to their work.”

“Well, I can do that and bring cookies if they like.” I shrugged out of my coat and looked out on the balcony for the cat. He was waiting and I opened the door. “When would you like me to come? I get off work around three. I could come any weekday late afternoon or early evening.”

“Isca came Thursdays after dinner. Usually they meet from six until seven thirty or so in one of our parlors.”

“That will be fine. I can come this Thursday if you like.”

“Perfect. The ladies will be so relieved. As I said, they’ve felt quite adrift. So sad about Isca. It’s particularly difficult for the elderly when the young pass away before them.”

“And the cookies?”

She laughed. “They’ll love them. Though Mrs. Riems is diabetic. You’ll need to watch her. If you come to my office a little before six, I’ll walk you to the parlor and make introductions.”

We hung up and I followed the cat, who had been winding his way around my ankles, into the kitchen. The French doors were still opened, and rain dripping off the eaves beat a persistent rat-a-tat-tat. The loamy scent of newly turned soil filled the air. I took a deep breath. Time for more spring plants. Marigolds and petunias in the sun and begonias and impatiens under the eaves. Best of all, nothing weird had happened lately. Then the cat yowled for food and I topped off his kibble and spooned out some soft food. Perhaps it was time to license and neuter my ersatz pet. I thought about how full my life had become since Isca’s death and sighed.
Isca, dear friend, I miss you terribly. I’d a zillion times rather have you back than all these other people.
The phone rang and I let it go. The caller hung up before the answering machine kicked in. It was good to be alone, if you can call having a parrot and cat living along.

* * *

Things stayed quiet until Thursday. The local psychic shops kept erratic hours, but I visited two. One of the proprietors told me Dr. Janoff had gone to Oregon and wouldn’t be back for several months. I thanked her and bought a scented candle. I also bought a map, circled the locations of the Catholic and Episcopal churches and planned which ones to visit first. I had plenty of time to bake cookies and pick up where I’d left off on the painting I’d started. At work, Missy started to reveal a sense of humor. Neither Andy nor Kyle called. I only saw Dave and Francisco a couple of times in passing.

Thursday evening I carried a tin of soft, raisin oatmeal cookies—my grandmother’s tried-and-true recipe—up a brick walk toward Hathaway House’s main entry.

The retirement home was faux-Tudor with plenty of windows overlooking ground-level gardens, raised flower boxes and paved paths. Birdhouses and feeders hung from fruit trees. A small fountain in a circular rose garden bubbled merrily. Later I found out Muriel Cruise owned the facility and had named it for Shakespeare’s wife, Anne Hathaway.

I pushed the front door opened and the mixed odors of medicine and floral arrangements extended a welcome. A Brunch Coat Brigade of women in wheelchairs or using walkers looked up curiously. The sarcastic thought shamed me; however, the few men I saw were fully dressed. They seemed more alive. The one alternative to old age was certainly a more unattractive prospect.

A smiling young man directed me to Muriel Cruise’s office, where the door stood open and music filled the room. Mrs. Cruise was lifting a padded tea cozy off a pot and pouring tea when I knocked.

“Hello. Come in.” She set the pot down and came around the desk to shake hands. “You must be Mercedes.”

“Edith Piaf?” I gestured toward her tape player.

“Yes. Have you heard her? Most young people haven’t.”

“I saw an ad for the movie
Bull Durham
and I think she’s part of the sound track.”

Mrs. Cruise looked startled. I wasn’t surprised. Baseball and Piaf were an odd combination.

“Please sit down.” She indicated a chintz-covered chair. “Tea?”

“No thank you.” I liked the smell of a nice Earl Gray but not the taste, and I’d had my quota of tea at Andy’s parent’s home. On the way to Hathaway House I’d stopped at Target and bought two hanks of white yarn. I sat down and folded my hands over the package.

Mrs. Cruise squeezed lemon in her bone china cup, stirred the contents and took an approving sip. Whether or not she was British, she looked the part:  navy blue wool skirt with matching sweater set, a single strand of pearls and a sensible haircut. She smiled and put the cup down.