The McCone Files (43 page)

Half an hour later a Ford Bronco passed me and pulled into the John's driveway. Howard got out carrying a bouquet of pink carnations. He let himself into the yard, stopping to pick up a stuffed bear that Marnie had missed. He held the bear at arm's length, gave it a jaunty grin, and tucked it under his arm, his step was light as he moved toward the door. Before he got it open his wife appeared, now dressed in a gauzy caftan, and enveloped him in a welcoming embrace.

I'd reached the end of the tale. Leaving Marnie and Howard to their surviving dreams and illusions, I drove back to All Souls for the last time.

The big Victorian was mostly dark and totally silent. Only the porch light and another far back in the kitchen shone. It was about eight o'clock; none of the remaining partners lived in the building, and they rarely spent more time there than was necessary. The new corporation they'd formed had the property up for sale and would move downtown as soon as a buyer was found.

Moving on, all of us.

I was about to haul the cartons I'd left in the foyer down to the van when I heard a sound in the kitchen—the familiar creak of the refrigerator door. Curiosity aroused, I went back there, walking softly. The room was dim, the light coming from a single bulb in the sconce over the sink. A figure turned from the fridge, glass of wine in hand. Hank.

He started nearly dropping the glass. “Jesus, Shar!”

“Sorry, I'm not up to talking to any of the new guard tonight, so I tiptoed. Why aren't you down at the pier helping everybody shove the new furniture around?”

“I was, but nobody could make up their mind where it should go, and I foresaw a long and unpleasant relationship with a chiropractor.”

“So you came
here?
”

He shrugged. “Why not? You want some wine?”

“Sure. For old times' sake.”

Hank went to the fridge and poured the last of the so-so jug variety that had been an All Souls staple. He handed it to me and motioned for me to sit at the table by the window. As we took our places I realized that they were identical to those we'd occupied the first afternoon I'd come here.

I said, “You still haven't told me why you're here.”

“You haven't told me why
you're
here.”

“I meant to be gone hours ago, but wait till you hear my news!” I explained about closing the Morrison file.

He shook his head. “You
do
believe in typing up loose ends. So what about those two—do you think they're happy?”

I hesitated. “What's happy? It's all relative. The guy still brings her flowers. She still dresses up for him. Maybe that was enough too.”

“Maybe.” He took a long pull at his wine, took a longer look around the kitchen. His expression grew melancholy. This room and this table had been a big part of Hank's life since leaving law school.

“Don't,” I said, “or you'll get me going.”

His eyes moved to the window, scanning the lights of downtown. After a moment they stopped and his lips curved into a smile. I knew he was looking at the section of waterfront where the law firm of Altman & Zahn had recently rented offices next to McCone Investigations on a renovated pier. We finished our wine in silence. Around us the big house creaked and groaned, as it did every evening when the day's warmth faded. I felt my eyes sting, blinked hard. Only an incurable romantic would find significance in tonight's particular creaks and groans. And I, of course, had not a romantic bone in my body.

So why had the last creak sounded like “goodbye?”

Hank drained his glass and stood. Carried both to the sink, where he rinsed them carefully and set them on the drain board. “In answer to your earlier question,” he said, “I'm here because I forgot something.”

“Oh? What?”

He came over and rapped his knuckles on the table where we'd eaten and drunk, played games and talked, celebrated and commiserated, fought and made up, and—now—let go. “This table and chairs're mine. Marin County Flea Market, the week after we founded All Souls. They're going along.”

“To our joint conference room?”

I nodded.

“Then give me a hand with them, will you?”

I stood, grinning, “Sure, but only if…”

“If what?”

It was a stupid sentimental decision—one I was sure to regret. “Only if you'll give me hand with that ratty armchair in my former office. I can't imagine I forgot it.”

We hope you've enjoyed this McCone mystery. Now check out the rest of Marcia Muller's SHARON MCCONE series – all available as ebooks and audiobooks from AudioGO!

Plus two short story collections: McCone and Friends, and The McCone Files.