A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) (13 page)

“No, thanks.”

“He’s so funny, you know? He knows some French, and he isn’t afraid to talk. Not like Mademoiselle Blanche.”

“No, I guess the two of them are very different.” I tried to hide my annoyance at Alexander’s easy conquest.

After breakfast I went out in search of him, intending to have an exploratory chat. Handy to my purpose, he was by the shed tinkering with the Yamaha. When I approached he wiped his hands on the Bingo’s bandanna. I said, indicating the cycle, “Are you having trouble?”

“Not really. Just fine-tuning.” He’d changed his T-shirt. This one had sleeves. Otherwise his outfit, including the watch, was the same as yesterday’s.

I hovered near. “Did you bring the cycle with you from the States?”

He tucked the bandanna in his back pocket. “Nope. Bought it in Avignon. Used.”

“You bought it just for this trip?”

“Sure. I’ll sell it when I leave.” He turned his attention from it to me. “Want to go for a ride?”

“Oh, no. I’m not much of a one for motorcycles.”

He ignited his certified charm. “Come on. Be a sport. I need to test it out.”

If we were pals, bikers together, I might learn more about what he was up to. “All right, then.”

He straddled the bike. “Get on.”

I climbed gingerly on the seat behind him as he kicked the engine into life. “Hang on. Don’t be shy,” he yelled over the noise, and as we wheeled around, out of sheer terror I clamped my arms around his rib cage. We roared out of the gate at what felt like seventy miles per hour, kicked up gravel as we skidded on to the road, and hurtled up the hill so fast I thought we’d be airborne by the time we reached the summit.

“Slow down!” I yelled, my words lost in the racket of the engine. I molded myself to his back, pressed my head between his shoulder blades, and screwed my eyes shut.

I hadn’t been lying when I said I wasn’t much of a one for motorcycles. I was afraid this maniac would kill us both. I opened my eyes to see that we were gaining, fast, on a tractor put-putting along, driven by a sunburned farmer. Right before impact we veered sharply and cruised around him, and moments later he had receded to a bucolic bump in the road.

Wind whipped my hair. Neither of us was wearing a helmet. When I’d seen the motorcyclist, he’d had on a black one, with a smoked face screen. If I lived, I’d find out if Alexander owned such a thing. In the meantime, I bowed my head and did what I always do on bumpy airplane flights: I vowed that if I got out alive I’d never do anything so stupid again.

Eventually he slowed, and we jounced off the road and pulled up in long grass under a tree. For a second or two, I couldn’t make my arms let go of him. He cut the motor and said, “I want to talk to you.”

Suddenly, everything was dead quiet. I scrambled off the bike. If he tried anything I’d run like hell. “What is it?”

He put down the kickstand and sat easily on the seat, one knee bent in front of him. Frightened as I was, I had to admire his strategy. He’d intimidated me, removed me from any support, gotten me in his power, and he’d done it with my willing cooperation. “I don’t like this book you and Vivi are doing,” he said.

I was working on getting my breath back. “Why not?”

“It’s not good for her. She knows it. I’ll bet you know it, too.”

What was this officious punk getting at? “I hate to sound heartless, but isn’t the book Vivien’s business? It wasn’t my idea.”

“No.” He rubbed at one of many scratches on the side of his boot. “But if you pulled out she’d have to let it go.”

“Not necessarily. She could find another writer.”

“She wouldn’t, though. She wouldn’t have the heart.”

Beyond the tree I was standing under was a vineyard, long straight rows of young grapevines. In the vineyard, I was delighted to see, was a man, walking from plant to plant, doing something to each one in turn. A fly buzzed around my face, and I brushed at it impatiently. “Maybe you should talk to her,” I said.

“I have. She’ll never quit.”

“Well, then—”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.” His eyes were hooded. He looked sexy and dangerous, and I was sure he knew it.

I expelled a frustrated breath. “Look. I was hired to do a job. I’ve been paid—”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t quit.”

“I’ve already spent the money. If I quit, I have to pay it back.”

“So tell me how much. I’ll make it up to you.”

I was silent, taking this in. The first time I’d ever been offered a bribe, and it was by a ne’er-do-well former barker in a San Francisco sex show. How much did he think I charged to write a book— two dollars and ninety-eight cents? “You don’t have that kind of money,” I said at last.

“I can get it.”

I shook my head with a dazed chuckle, still not believing the turn the conversation had taken. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious.”

“But why? Maybe you’re right and the book isn’t such a hot idea—”

“It’s a terrible idea. If Vivi were thinking straight, she’d never do it.”

I looked at the man in the vineyard. He was wearing bright blue work clothes, his sleeves rolled up. He was close enough now so I could see that he was carrying some implement with a long chrome nozzle, and was giving each plant a squirt with it. “I can’t let you buy me off. It wouldn’t be right,” I said, turning back to Alexander.

He shifted his body as if searching for a more comfortable position. “You don’t have to decide right now. Think about it.”

“The answer is no.”

He didn’t even look disappointed. “Let me tell you what I believe,” he said calmly. “The book will not be written. I strongly believe that.”

“We’ll see.”

“Right. We’ll see.” He arranged himself on the seat of the motorcycle and motioned with his head for me to get on behind him.

The trip back was more sedate. When we pulled into the yard the car was there, and Ross and Vivien were walking toward the house, back from their meeting with Constable Reynaud. They told us Constable Reynaud had concluded the evidence didn’t warrant an investigation of Pedro’s death. The case was closed.

RAPPROCHEMENT

“Cremated? Why cremated?” I asked.

“Because it was cheapest, and none too cheap at that,” Vivien snapped. “Am I supposed to buy him a cemetery plot? Or have him stuffed and keep him as a souvenir?” She dropped on the sofa in an attitude of collapse.

Cremation might well be cheapest. It was also the surest way to destroy evidence of foul play, if any existed. “Having him stuffed is an interesting idea,” Ross said.

She gave him a poisonous glance. “Spare me your macabre humor,
please.”

“It was your macabre humor, Vivi,” Alexander put in. “You mentioned stuffing him in the first place.”

She didn’t answer. “Pedro had no family at all?” I asked.

“None that he ever admitted to,” said Vivien.

“Or friends?”

The set of her mouth told me she was sick of my questions. “He may have had buddies he drank with, or saw at the track, but I don’t know their names.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Nothing. It seems sad that he was so alone,” I said.

“Leave it to Georgia Lee to raise the tone of the conversation,” Ross said caustically.

I bit my lip. Ross’s vexation at seeing me ride up with Alexander had been obvious, at least to me.

Alexander began to massage Vivien’s temples. “What are you going to do with the ashes?” he asked.

“I have no idea. I guess we could scatter them somewhere.” Under his ministrations she sounded calmer.

Once the ashes were scattered, and the clothes given to charity, there would be little evidence that Pedro Ruiz ever existed at all.

“Thank God it’s over,” said Vivien, her voice remote, as Alexander’s fingers moved round and round, round and round near the corners of her closed eyes, the motion dislodging strands of her swept-back hair.

Ross, watching them, looked disgusted. He turned and left the room, and I followed him upstairs. Although he must have heard my footsteps, he didn’t turn and look at me or speak. He strode to his room, went in, and closed the door with a thump.

Well. I went to my own room, feeling vexed in my turn. I wasn’t going to apologize for my motorcycle ride with Alexander. I was free to ride motorcycles with whomever I damn pleased. Since Ross considered Alexander his enemy, I was sorry he thought I’d joined the opposite camp, but if he wouldn’t give me an opening to talk about it he’d have to stew. I had more than enough on my mind figuring out what Alexander was up to.

I closed my door and took out my envelope of ever-more-dog-eared clippings. I had studied these articles from
New York
and
People
and
Patrician Homes
as if they were holy scripture. This time, however, I was looking for something I had paid no attention to thus far— references to Alexander McBride.

They were few and far between. In all the clips I found only one photo, a high school yearbook shot some enterprising person at
New York
had unearthed. In it, Alexander looked like a gawky kid, but with his sly grin already in place. When he was mentioned in the stories at all, it was in a virtually parenthetical aside, stating that Vivien’s son had been in California at the time of the Carey Howard murder. As an alibi, it sounded more than acceptable.

Why, then, was Alexander so threatened by Vivien’s book? As much as I believed he was fond— even over-fond— of Vivien, I didn’t think his primary motive was her mental health. “It’s not good for her” wasn’t good enough for me.

The rafters began to tremble to the love laments of Bernart de Ventadorn. I welcomed the noise, as I took it to mean Blanche was feeling better. I hoped she was back at work on
The Book of Betrayal.

The music was so loud I almost didn’t hear Ross’s knock. He came in looking chastened. He had changed from the sport coat and tie he’d worn for the visit to Constable Reynaud, and now wore his familiar running shorts. Without preamble, he said, “I was rude to you. I’m sorry.”

Why was I overjoyed? “It’s all right.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you ride up with that jerk. I felt like I’d lost my last friend.”

“Well— you haven’t.”

He sat on the foot of my bed. “Where did you go with him, anyway?”

“Out for a mad spin. You don’t have to wonder if I’ll ever do it again. He drives like a lunatic.” I considered, then went on, “He doesn’t want Vivien to do the book.”

Ross raised his eyebrows. “That’s the first time he and I ever agreed on anything.”

“He’s really against it. Says it isn’t good for Vivien.” The bribe offer, I decided, had to remain secret.

“I’m surprised he could stop thinking about himself long enough to realize that.”

“I’m not sure he
has
stopped thinking about himself.”

He looked at me speculatively. “Which means—”

“I don’t know.” I slid the clips back in their envelope. “Could he have a reason of his own to want the project stopped?”

He shrugged. “I guess he could. I have no idea what it would be.”

He reclined on his elbow, watching me arrange the materials on my table— the clipping file on top of the yellow pads, interview tapes stacked neatly in their plastic boxes next to the tape recorder, typewriter in the exact center with a stack of typing paper to one side, pencils lined up like yellow logs. The pencils were all sharp. “Work has ground to a halt, anyway,” I said.

The troubadour warbled the tribulations of love. Ross said, “It did something to me when I saw you hanging on to him like that. I felt it in my gut.”

“It was only a motorcycle ride, Ross.”

He shook his head. “I know it was innocent. I have no right to feel anything anyway. I felt it before I could think.”

I took a deep breath. “Let me tell you something. I won’t be a pawn in whatever game you’re playing with— or against— Vivien. I deserve better than that.”

He winced. “Yes, you do.”

“I wish I could help you,” I said. “I wish I could— save you.”

“And I wish I had more to offer.” His voice was all but drowned in the music.

I wanted him to go. Men, no more nor less than my fair share, have languished for me now and then, and it engenders soft-headedness in me. If he didn’t take off, I was likely to be over there cradling his head on my shoulder, telling him in soft whispers how he would certainly get over my rejection, given six months or a year. And then—

He sat up. “I’m sorry. I feel like an ass.”

“No—”

“Yes.” He got up and crossed the room to rest his hands on my shoulders. My face tilted toward his in a posture not exactly indicating rebuff. He kissed me, as I was pained to realize I’d anticipated, and even hoped. Then he went away, and I was left alone.

PICNIC

I didn’t have long to brood about my star-crossed flirtation, because in less than ten minutes there was another knock on my door. Since the music had ceased shortly before, this one was clearly audible.

It was Blanche. Dressed in jeans, sandals, and a loose beige cotton sweater, she was carrying her
Book of Betrayal
notebook hugged to her bosom, the way we used to carry books in junior high school to conceal our budding breasts. After greeting me with a diffident, “Hi,” she seemed at a loss.

I rushed to take up the slack. I didn’t want her to regret seeking me out. “Blanche! I was about to come see you. How are you?”

She answered, “OK,” to my barrage of cordiality. I had the feeling she had come for a reason, but at this rate it would take her hours to divulge it.

“How’s your writing going?” I continued with manic enthusiasm.

“All right.” She looked down at the notebook and riffled the pages with her thumb.

I stopped talking to give her a chance to get a word in. When she didn’t take it, I said, “What can I do for you?”

“Oh— nothing.”

We were getting nowhere. I said, “Listen. Want to go for a walk? We could take a picnic lunch.”

She looked uncertain. I urged, “Come on. It’s a pretty day. Don’t you want to get out?”

“I guess so.” A halfhearted assent, but an assent.