City of Secrets (30 page)

Rick yawned. “I'm awfully goddamn tired, Miranda. You'd better fill me in.”

She told him about Gracie, showed him the form. He made some noises, pinched his nose. Shook his head.

“You think it's Aalder?”

“I don't know. Gracie said he couldn't ‘get up here' until six. Makes it sound like he's in the City, or someplace south.”

Rick grunted, rubbed the cigarette out on the arm of the chair. “She's not exactly a reliable source.”

“Did you ask the blonde about Annie or Pandora?”

“Yeah. Mary said she couldn't remember, people come and go all the time. I did find out that a head attendant named Cora usually works weekdays and the big one you talked to takes weekends. She said there's no doctor affiliated with Nance's—just a couple of local kids they pay to mud people down and water them off, plus the two women. Place started up about fifteen years ago with an old claw-foot tub and a bucket of mud. I tried to hint around about services that weren't on the books, but the only service she was interested in was in my pants.”

Miranda chuckled. “Sorry to send you to the Wolf, Little Red Riding Hood.”

He pushed himself up out of the chair. “I've still gotta walk back to the Mount View. What's on for tomorrow?”

“Not much until six. I'll be watched, definitely by Gracie and maybe by your blonde. I'll sit in the sun, try a mud bath, go for a swim. There's a tennis court on the other side of the pool.”

“What about me? I didn't bring a bathing suit.”

“Find out what you can about Dr. Aalder's. Find out if there even is a Dr. Aalder. Poke around town. And call Meyer, tell him what's going on.”

He stared down at her, blue eyes into brown. “What is going on, Miranda?”

She was silent for a moment. Then turned back to the nightstand drawer and opened it. Took out the .38 and its shoulder holster.

Rick said: “That's John's gun.”

She held it out to him. “Be careful with it.”

He took it in both hands for a few seconds. “I'll have to adjust the holster to fit me.”

“I know.”

He met her eyes again. “You've got your .22?”

“My Browning.”

He nodded, satisfied. “So they're taking you someplace at six o'clock.”

“That was the impression. We should meet for meals—breakfast at nine thirty at the drugstore, let's say. Stake out a place where you can watch this cabin and follow me when the time comes.”

He clenched the Spanish pistol in one hand and with the other one reached out a finger to touch Miranda's cheek. She flinched.

“I'll be OK, Rick.”

Widemouthed grin, upside down. Hurt behind the eyes.

“You always are, Miranda. See you tomorrow.”

She laid a hand on his arm, stood on her toes to brush her lips against his.

“Thank you, Rick.”

He held up two fingers and placed them against her lips. This time she didn't move.

Rick squeezed out of the small, overly warm cabin and into the cold high-valley air of Calistoga. Miranda held the door open and watched him through the gap, walking straight-backed down the gravel path, milky light of a million stars raining silver on his battered fedora.

 

Twenty-six

The alarm clock woke her early, seven thirty. Miranda groaned, rolled over on her left side until a dull pain made her sit up in bed.

Shit.

Tennis, swimming, mud baths. She'd forgotten about her left arm.

Clambered out of bed, slight shiver. Air filtering in from under the door was cold, fresh, sweet smell of wet wild grass mixed with the tang of volcanic earth.

Miranda winced as she ripped off the bandage. Climbed in the small bathtub, stooping slightly so she could fit under the corroded showerhead. Ran an eye along the tile for any peepholes, then washed quickly, toweled off, and changed her undergarments.

Arm was green, blue, and purple, with some yellow on the outside edges. Still stiff and sore to the touch. She dowsed it with some iodine she'd packed in her cosmetic case, rewrapping the wound with gauze and first-aid tape.

The mirror above the sink was sprinkled with white paint from the last time they ran a coat over the room. She angled for a better look at her skin. Circles under her eyes. Fit the job.

Picked out the tennis clothes from the suitcase and the rubber-soled shoes that matched. More vain than active, exactly what she wanted.

Looked at the arm again. Maybe say she tripped and fell, scraping it in an accident, but tell it like she's hiding something, probably a fight with her boyfriend.

Miranda smiled wryly. Rick wouldn't like the backstory, but it would fit, just in case anybody caught a glimpse of him with Johnny's gun.

She repacked everything. Folded the onionskin and stuck it in her purse. Took a deep breath and smoothed down the tennis shorts. She'd lost weight in the last few months.

Squared her shoulders. Stepped into the bright early morning sunshine of Calistoga.

*   *   *

Gracie was nowhere to be seen; neither was Rick's blonde. A few hardy souls were trying the mud baths inside the main building—gasps and squelching sounds, earth hitting fat, accompanied by the sour, acrid smell of peat and minerals, wafting through the propped-open double doors.

It was 9:05 and she was early for Rick, so Miranda walked through Nance's complex, passing another large white building with lockers and small, therapeutic pools. Headed across an old farm road leading to a vineyard, then over the abandoned railroad tracks, behind the former depot.

She could glimpse Dr. Aalder's from Nance's, just southwest on Gerard and Washington.

Miranda approached it from the opposite angle, coming upon a long row of connected cabins, along with a double column of freestanding units surrounding a Roman-style plunging pool. The bath building was more grandiose than Nance's, but there were chips in the stone mosaic work and green paint peeling on the backs of the cottages.

Opened her purse and popped two Life Savers in her mouth, barely tasting the cherry and pineapple. A couple of teenagers were wheeling old people around in chairs, and women with fat white legs lay prone in the morning sunshine under big straw hats. Seemed innocuous enough, but then there was the blonde and the drunk from last night and the notations next to Pandora's and Annie's names.

She strolled up to the office, smiling at the women and old people, at a middle-aged man in swim shorts who shadowed his eyes for a closer look.

A small bell tinkled when she walked in, the counter cleaner but otherwise almost identical to Nance's. Same gamut of brochures, with the addition of an advertised tour of the Beringer winery.

The door on the right opened, and a heavyset man about fifty-five walked in, gray hair in a grizzled ring around a shiny bald spot. He wore a dirty smock with
DR. AALDER'S
embroidered on the upper right corner and looked her up and down, mouth stretched wide in a toothy smile.

“May I help you, Miss? We don't offer tennis, but there's the Napa Valley Country Club, for golf … you look like the type of lady who could get in, if you don't mind my saying so.”

His teeth pulled back even farther, showing white pink gums in a ferocious leer. The pudgy hands on the counter were black under the fingernails, spots of mud still clinging to the tufts of hair on the back.

She threw him a smile. Said sweetly, “Even with a last name of Korbe?”

She pronounced it as though it were Russian. The man's smile faltered, turned into a grimace.

“Well, now, that I wouldn't know.”

He held up two fingers to his lips and whistled. A skinny high school kid with a freshly shaved neck slammed through the door, skidded to a stop. Looked around from the bald man to Miranda.

The older one gestured with his head toward Miranda.

“You help the lady, Walter. See what she wants.”

He looked her up and down again, rubbed his nose, and slid past the counter through the same door.

The kid looked back and forth between them, mouth open. Then back to Miranda. Cleared his throat.

“What did you want here, Miss?”

She shrugged. “How much is a room?”

He licked his lips, still watching the right door. It was open a crack.

“We're, uh, we're full up, Miss. High season, you know? Sorry, but try Nance's or Pacheteau's.”

Miranda said slowly: “I see. Thanks for your help.”

The kid laughed nervously, relieved she didn't question the row of keys on the pegs behind him.

“You, uh, you hurt yourself, Miss?” He pointed to her arm.

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Accident. As a matter of fact, I'd love to see Dr. Aalder about it. He in?”

His eyebrows shot up to meet the short brown hair, and he shook his head.

“There ain't no Dr. Aal—”

A loud cough came from behind the doorway, and the teenager flushed red. Glanced at Miranda, then eyes to the floor, voice low.

“Sorry, Miss. Dr. Aalder ain't here. Best try one of the doctors in town.” He looked up at her, his eyes confused and almost pleading. “Anything else you want?”

She stared at him. Said: “Thanks, sonny. Got everything I came in for.”

Wrenched the glass doorknob and stepped down the three cement steps, feeling the sun on her back.

And two pairs of eyes.

*   *   *

Miranda ordered one egg, sunny-side up, bacon, and rye toast. Waiter at the counter was a thirtyish man with a small mouth and lank brown hair, not the cherubic soda jerk she'd noticed the night before. He wiped the glassware with a faded cotton cloth over and over again, eyes flickering up and down the linoleum counter. She kept her voice low.

“Let's meet again at one. Italian restaurant, corner of Washington.”

Rick nodded, legs pressed close to hers. The tennis outfit was drawing more attention than she liked, and Miranda felt exposed sitting on the small stool, her feet touching the chromium bar below. Rick reached for the Tabasco sauce, liberally dousing his scrambled eggs and sausage.

“I called Meyer. You want me to phone that cop you talked to?”

She drained the coffee cup, pushed it toward the front of the counter for a refill, and nodded. “Inspector Fisher. Find out what you can about Dr. Aalder's, and get a list of all the doctors in Calistoga.”

The counter waiter poured fresh coffee, glancing up at Miranda a little too long. She waited until he walked to the other end to ring up a man in overalls and muddy work boots.

Held the thick china cup in both hands, staring at the glass case filled with apple, peach, and rhubarb pies.

“There's something wrong here.”

He shrugged. “There's something wrong with every small town, Miranda. And every big city.”

A truck driver dropped a nickel in the juke, punching “Loch Lomond,” Martha Tilton swinging with bagpipes and Benny Goodman,
By yon bonnie banks, and by yon bonnie braes, where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond …

*   *   *

They parted outside the drugstore, Miranda heading straight back to Nance's, Rick toward the office of the
Weekly Calistogian,
counting on brotherly love among the fourth estate.

She clutched a brown paper bag with a new Big Chief tablet inside, trying to ignore the stares and occasional low whistles from the farmworkers and truck drivers that filled the town with morning hustle.

Walked into the motel office. Blond Mary was back on duty, bored and reading the same
Photoplay
. She looked up when the doorbell jangled, raised her eyebrows at Miranda's arm.

“Mornin'. You hurt yourself?”

Miranda summoned up a flush. “While ago. It, uh … it was a car accident.”

“Huh.” The blonde just stood and stared, birthmark smeared and in a different place. She gestured to the clothes. “You lookin' to play tennis? Thought Gracie was gonna do you up with a mud bath.”

“Later. Have you got any rackets?”

Mary wiped an eye, nodded. “Ask Leroy. He'll get 'em out of the lockers for you, out by the pool.”

Miranda said: “Thanks. Gracie around?”

The blonde smirked. “Gracie's always around. Cora's back today, but Gracie said she was gonna take care of you personal. She likes you. Ain't you lucky?”

Miranda looked into the girl's eyes until the blonde faltered and fell back in the chair, holding up the
Photoplay
and reading the ads in the back of the magazine for how to revive fading sex hormones. According to Rick, she didn't need any help.

The court next to the swimming pool was empty, net frayed and sagging with a hole in the center. Miranda looked around. Old lady and the browbeaten niece, more middle-aged women, and one young couple in the pool, trying to pretend it was Miami or Havana.

Not a whole hell of a lot to do in Calistoga. No tennis, no golf, just sit around and watch the fucking mud dry.

A weedy young man in a work suit dotted with wet clay walked out of the mud bath building.

“Excuse me—are you Leroy?”

He stammered, looking down at her legs. “Y-yeah, Miss. W-what can I h-help you with?”

“How about a tennis racket? You play?”

He shook his head, aghast. “We ain't allowed to play with the customers, Miss.”

She murmured. “At least not tennis.”

He looked confused. “Excuse me, Miss?”

Smiled, double bright. “Nothing, Leroy. I'd like a ball and two rackets, please.”

*   *   *

She lit a cigarette while Leroy searched through lockers for the rackets. The young couple climbed out of the swimming pool and toweled off, throwing glances in her direction. She walked over, gave them a vacation smile.

“Either of you up for a game of tennis—provided our attendant can find the equipment?”

Her question was punctuated by a cacophony from the locker room. They all laughed, easy way of young people on holiday. Woman was around twenty-three, slim, and pretty, hair almost jet-black. Boyfriend—no ring on her left hand—ex-collegiate type, Berkeley or Stanford, maybe thirty. Both pasty and white, like they didn't get outside much.