Sweet Dreams, Irene (22 page)

Gannet whimpered.

“We understand one another?”

“Yes,” Gannet croaked.

“Then go on up that ladder.” Jack moved back a step and grabbed Gannet by the collar, then forced him ahead, up the ladder.

“Can you make it up here?” Jack called to me, his voice gentle and coaxing.

“Yes,” I answered, finding my own voice shaky all the same. I took the wrench out of my sling, and putting the safety on the gun, tucked it where the wrench had been. I worked my way up the ladder.

“You said you couldn’t make it up the steps!” Gannet whined when he saw me.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack said. The cold voice. He turned to me. “You’ve still got the gun?” The gentle voice.

I nodded, pulling it out. Jack reached for it, took the safety off, and handed it back to me.

“If he moves one inch,” Jack said calmly, “shoot him.”

I nodded again.

He took out the flare gun and fired it. The flare boomed, then glowed to life, lighting up sea and sky, a solitary firework arcing above us. Even as the light of it faded, Jack prepared a second flare.

We heard a motor approaching, all of us knowing it was probably Stevens. Jack set the flare gun aside, stood up, stretched, and picked up the knife again, smiling reassuringly at me. I wasn’t especially comforted. He walked over to Gannet, yanked him hard to his feet, and held the knife to Gannet’s throat, just as he had below. Gannet started whimpering again.

“When Stevens gets closer, point the gun at him, Irene,” Jack said easily.

Unaware that his boss was now a hostage, Stevens pulled alongside and shouted, “What the hell is wrong? Everyone on the damned coast probably saw that flare.” I tried to keep my aim steady and level.

“Cut your engines,” Jack shouted.

Stevens finally took in the situation. Still, he hesitated.

“For godsakes, do it!” Gannet screeched.

The engines were cut.

“Good,” Jack said, as if praising a small child. “Now slowly take your gun from its holster and throw it overboard. Do it very carefully.”

He reluctantly did as Jack told him.

“Fine. I’ll give you three choices, Mr. Stevens. Choice number one: watch me slice Gannet’s gullet from stem to stern, immediately after which, Miss Kelly will shoot you. Choice number two: I push Gannet into the water, we allow you to watch him drown, and then Miss Kelly shoots you. Choice number three: you use your radio to make a distress call for the
Pandora,
and Miss Kelly doesn’t shoot you.”

Not surprisingly, Stevens chose number three. But even before he had finished raising the mike, we heard a Coast Guard cutter rapidly approaching. They turned on a high-powered beam, bathing the deck of the
Pandora
in bright light. I’m sure we made quite a sight. As they drew nearer, I saw a worried guy in a suit looking down over the rail at us.

Even worried, Frank Harriman was a welcomed sight.

T
HE END TABLE
wouldn’t do. Like almost every other surface in Beatrice Harriman’s household, it was cluttered with knickknacks and mementos. Photographs. Doilies. Sea shells. Ceramic frogs. Nature abhors a vacuum; so does Frank’s mother. I couldn’t find a place with enough free space to hold the fine bone china cup and saucer in my left hand.

Frank was sitting next to me on his mother’s white, very soft sofa, listening to her animated telling of news of his old Bakersfield friends. He was drinking his coffee. Bea Harriman was drinking hers. I was watching mine grow cold.

Unable to use my right hand, I couldn’t lift the cup off the saucer. I thought about trying to set the saucer on my lap, but thanks to the softness of the sofa, my lap was at about a forty-five-degree angle. I couldn’t even stand up.

I could have interrupted Bea Harriman to ask for help, I suppose. That would have been the smart thing to do. But I had the distinct feeling that Bea Harriman didn’t like me much. Frank had warned me that his mother had been disappointed when he broke up with Cecilia, a girlfriend from Bakersfield; he said it would take her some time to get used to the idea of someone new.

Someone new? Frank had broken up with Cecilia five years ago. I couldn’t credit all of Bea Harriman’s coolness toward me to something that had happened that long ago.

All the same, there was no use in complaining over every little thing, I told myself. It was Thanksgiving, and the list of things to be thankful for was a long one. I concentrated on that list as I looked over the photographs.

I decided that I was being too sensitive about Frank’s mom, probably in part because I was still worn out from Tuesday’s rescue at sea. It had been a long night.

The Coast Guard had been very efficient. Within moments, they had boarded the
Pandora,
taken Gannet and Stevens into custody, and treated Jack’s wound. Although we had a brief moment to reassure one another when Frank first came on board, things got hectic after that.

Jack shrugged off any attempt I made to express gratitude, saying that he knew he had scared me but that it wouldn’t do to have Gannet think he wasn’t serious. He asked me what had become of the envelope from Paul, and went to look for it soon after his wound was bandaged.

The Coast Guard went to work on getting the
Pandora
and the powerboat back to the marina, and soon took all of us aboard the cutter. I thought Frank and I would have a chance to talk then, but as soon as we sat down, Jack walked over and quietly handed Frank the envelope from Paul. It was still sealed. Frank opened it carefully and found not only a bloodstained knife, but a signed statement which described Gannet’s role in detail. As Jack and I read over Frank’s shoulders, it was clear that Gannet had initiated the entire plan to murder Mrs. Fremont.

As we read the confession, I glanced at Jack now and then, anxious about his reaction. There was nothing personally addressed to Jack beyond the words on the outside of the envelope; the confession itself was both brutally explicit and absolutely unsentimental. No remorse, no excuses. Simply a means to protect Paul from a double-cross by Gannet.

As we finished reading, Jack walked away from us, to stand leaning against a rail. Frank watched him for a moment, then went over to him. For the remainder of our time on the cutter, they spoke to one another in low voices. Without hearing what they were saying, I could still tell that Jack seemed more at ease as a result of the conversation. All Frank would say about it later was, “Jack just needs some time.”

Slow remedy, time.

When we finally got home that evening, we were both talked out. We had been met at the dock by members of the press (which included Mark Baker) and the police (which included Pete and Lieutenant Carlson); answering their questions had drained the last of our energy.

From listening to Frank, Pete, and Carlson, I learned that the police had already discovered the real function of the cable-TV van not long after Jack and I had left to go sailing. Frank had thought over the list of things I had said Gannet knew about us. While he was sure Gannet must have also had a connection to someone from the department or the D.A.’s office, Frank decided that even a friend in Robbery-Homicide couldn’t have told Gannet so much.

Pete, who can make a badger look like a creature that gives up too easily, talked the department expert on bugging devices into dropping everything he was working on, and checking out Frank’s house. The man suspected the cable-TV van the minute he laid eyes on it. Its occupant wasn’t able to drive off before Pete showed him his detective’s shield and asked to see cable company identification in exchange. No I.D. Lots of listening devices.

Most of the other members of the department weren’t too happy with Mr. Gannet at that point, including Carlson and Bredloe. Frank realized that our plans to go sailing had probably been reported to Gannet. When we were late getting back, Bredloe didn’t hesitate to ask the Coast Guard if they would initiate a search for us. The cutter had just cleared the breakwater when they saw the flare.

It was almost six in the morning before we got to sleep on Wednesday, which ended up being something of a lost day. Bright and early—very early—Thanksgiving morning, we got ready for the three-hour drive to Bakersfield.

Frank had helped me into the Volvo and put our overnight bag in the trunk. When he packed the overnight bag, I almost backed out of the whole deal.

“We’re staying overnight?”

He looked at me and said, “Sure, why not?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to stay there overnight.”

“Look, you’re going to have a hard time coping with the car ride out there and the day’s activities. If we try to drive back tonight, you’ll be tired and sore as hell.”

It made sense, of course.

“We’re staying at Cassie’s?” I said hopefully.

He shook his head. “All they could offer us is a couch. We’ll stay at my mom’s.”

“She’s expecting this?”

“Yes, I told her we would be staying overnight.”

“What about Cody?”

“Jack is going to feed him.”

I couldn’t think up any other objections right at that moment. I was trying to let the whole idea sink in. Somewhere on the 405 Freeway, it sank all right.

“What if I have a nightmare?”

“I’ll be there.”

“What? Your mom is going to put us up in the same room?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ve told her we’re living together.”

“I’ll bet that went over big.”

“Irene, we’re both in our late thirties. We’re not a couple of college kids trying to sneak into each other’s dorm rooms. If she hassles us, we’ll get a hotel room.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Frank. Age might not have anything to do with it. I don’t want your mom to think I’m corrupting you.”

That brought out a big enough laugh to make us ride along those little lane-dividing bumps for a minute.

I was enjoying the photos, and had stopped thinking about the coffee. There was the usual plethora of grandchildren’s images one might find in any proud grandmother’s home. There were a few of Frank and Cassie. And on the closest end of the mantel, there was a wedding photo of Frank’s parents.

She was beautiful. She was fine looking now, but what a knockout she was at—how old? She looked to be in her twenties. And next to her was the spitting image of Frank Harriman. Or rather, the man Frank was the spitting image of. I studied it a little more. No, there were subtle differences. His father was a little broader in build. His eyebrows were different, and maybe, slightly, his chin. Hair color a little lighter than Frank’s? Hard to tell from a black-and-white portrait.

“Irene! Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.” Frank was looking at me, awash with guilt and taking the cup and saucer from me.

His mother drew in a sharp breath. “No need to use the Lord’s name in vain, Franklin.”

Franklin? Franklin ignored her and started to hand the cup back to me. “No, it’s cold. I’ll get you a fresh cup.” He got up and strode off into the kitchen, leaving me with his mother before I could protest.

“I’m sorry, Irene. It was thoughtless of me.”

I mouthed a gracious response while wondering if I was being overly sensitive again, this time about something I thought I heard in her tone. Lack of sincerity? Couldn’t be. Could it?

Frank returned with the coffee, bringing a cup without the saucer.

They soon went back to Bakersfield prattle and I went back to studying photos while enjoying the coffee. I found my eyes drawn again and again to a handsome photo of Frank and his dad. Both men were in uniform, the father’s arm around the son, his pride in Frank fairly bursting from the photo.

“About twelve years ago?” Frank was saying to me.

“Pardon?”

“We met here about twelve years ago?”

“Yes. About then. Just after college.”

“How could you ever leave Bakersfield?” his mother asked me.

“Las Piernas is my hometown, and I guess I’ve grown attached to it.”

“Frank used to feel that way about Bakersfield.”

“Something smells great,” he said, changing the subject. “When are Mike and Cassie due to arrive?”

“Are you hungry? I’ll fix you something.”

He was watching me polish off the last of my coffee, and took the cup from me so that my hand would be free. He made room for it on an end table by shoving half a dozen gewgaws aside with a nonchalance that said he’d had practice at it.

“No, Mom. I’m not hungry. I just wondered when they would be here.”

“Oh, about noon. Listen, would you be a dear and pick up a few things at the store for me?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I made a list.” She went into the kitchen, and we held hands again. We were getting to be like a couple of teenagers, sneaking affection when Mom wasn’t looking. She was in there for a while, and I realized she was on the phone with someone.

“Are you okay?” Frank asked.

“You already asked me that.”

“Are you still okay?”

“Fine.”

“Sorry to be so boring with all the talk of people you don’t know. I’ll be sure to bring up other topics of conversation when we get back from the store.”

“I’m enjoying the photographs, actually.”

He looked over at them. It was apparent that he had seen them so many times that they were now just part of the furnishings. He smiled.

“That’s one of my favorites.” He pointed to the one of him and his dad.

“Mine too. You look a lot like your dad.”

“I wish you could have met him.”

His mom came back in with the list, and we forgot to let go of our hands.

“Ready to go?” he said to me.

His mother protested with surprising vehemence. “Oh, Frank, don’t be ridiculous! Don’t drag poor Irene all over town with you.”

He must have felt me clench his hand.

“Why not? If Bakersfield is such a great place, I ought to show her around.”

“She’s lived here before, you said. And it can’t be easy for her to get around in all of those contraptions. No, leave her here and let us get acquainted. Go on, shoo. I need you to get back here before Cassie comes over.”

He looked at the list. “You sure you need all of this stuff? With what you’ve got in the kitchen now—”

“Never you mind, Franklin. Now scoot.”

He eyed her suspiciously. I knew that look. He thought she was up to something. He gives me that same look when I’m up to something. But she didn’t waver in returning a look of her own that said there would be no further discussion on the issue.

He looked at me and shrugged. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course she’ll be all right!”

Frank kept looking at me.

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

And so it was that I was left planted in a couch while Frank went off to run errands. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Harriman excused herself, got up, and busied herself in the kitchen for a few minutes.

She came back out and seemed nervous. She kept looking at the clock. I decided to try to get a conversation going.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“What? Oh, let’s see. It will be forty-two years in December.”

“It’s a lovely home. You have quite a collection of—” What to mention first? “—of frogs.”

She laughed, and started telling me about some of them, where they came from, who had given them to her. We were both smiling when the doorbell rang. She suddenly looked very flustered, then went to answer the door.

“Why, Evelyn! What a surprise!”

“It is?” I heard a woman’s voice say. There was a murmur, then after a moment the voice said, “Oh. Oh. Yes.” Then the voice was loud, almost as if the speaker wanted to reach the audience in the back of a theater. “Yes, I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I’d stop by.”

More murmuring, and then Frank’s mom escorted a truly exotic creature into the living room. She was heavyset and had blue hair. Her eye makeup was applied in such a way as to make her look constantly startled. Her cheeks were rouged in two bright spots. She appeared to be in her sixties. Her earrings were dangling papier-mâché bananas. She came in smiling nervously, clutching her bag as if I might rob her. But she took in my injuries and exclaimed, “Oh, you poor dear!” and shot Frank’s mom a dirty look.

“This is Mrs. Parker,” Bea Harriman said. “She’s a good friend. She just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“You don’t say,” I replied warily. Something was up, all right, but Mrs. Parker looked like a poor choice for a conspirator. She seemed totally at sea. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Parker. I’m Irene Kelly. I’m a friend of Frank’s.”

“You are? Oh, you might know my daughter then. Cecilia?”

My turn to shoot the dirty look, but Mrs. Harriman wisely avoided my eyes. Mrs. Parker was really lost now, so I said, “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Frank and Cecilia were so much in love. I tell you, he was crazy about that girl. Just doted on her. I’m sure Frank has talked about her to you. He was out and out silly over her.”

I smiled, admittedly one of the phoniest smiles of my life, and said, “As a matter of fact, he has told me about Cecilia.”