Death at a Fixer-Upper (15 page)

“The principal made me double our facilities coverage after that,” she said.

“And now you run this place. Don't you miss teaching?”

She peered into a big stainless steel mixing bowl at a smooth round of golden dough, giving it a test poke with her finger. “I had a chance to take early retirement, and I took it,” she said. “Eight months to the day after the crème brûlée incident, as a matter of fact.”

“Just coincidence, I hope,” I said with a little laugh.

She didn't say anything, but punched down the dough with what seemed to be unnecessary vigor. She upended the bowl and deposited the mound of dough on the floured surface. Using her hands, she flattened it and shaped in into a rectangle.

“Now where did I put that butter?” she said to herself.

“Here,” I said, reaching over to point out a ramekin of melted butter with a pastry brush resting in it. Somehow my hand misjudged the distance and the cup tipped over. Liquid butter spread in a golden pool over the counter, much of it disappearing down the gap between the counter and the gas range. The brush slithered across the buttery stainless steel and landed on the floor.

“Jeez, I'm sorry,” I said. “What a mess. Let me help you clean up.” I bent down to pick up the brush at the same time as Mrs. Morehouse, and our heads clunked together with a hollow sound I'd heard only on Saturday morning cartoons. I staggered back a pace, clutching at the range for support. I didn't realize I was gripping the control knob for the front burner until flames shot up.
Whoosh.

Bernie stepped forward and turned off the burner. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “We'll see ourselves out.”

“You do that.” Mrs. M's face was the color of tomato bisque, something we'd made in her class, only mine hadn't turned out for some reason. She was wearing a tight little smile; it was the same smile she'd worn the day we made crème brûlée, pasted to her face long after the firefighters left. I gave her a little wave, and we hit the streets.

“Well, that was informative,” Bernie said as we drove back to Arlinda Corners.

“Oh? You learn something about the case?”

“Nope. But a lot about you. That poor woman's probably been in therapy since she retired.”

“Don't be ridiculous. She loved me. She always smiled when she saw me.” An image of Mrs. M's parting expression, her lips twisted into an arc as tense as one of those rubber band–powered propellers, sent a pang of uncertainty through me, but I shrugged it off. “Next stop?”

He glanced over at me. “What would you say to dinner?”

Yes!
is what I would have said, to dinner and whatever might have followed dinner, before the call from Stacy. Before I became a suspect in a murder investigation. Before I woke up to the fact I'd seen this play before and already knew how it ended. With a
clang
, I felt the wrought-iron gates closing around my heart.

“Maybe another time,” I said. “I should get some moving done.”

“Want some help?”

I shook my head. We'd pulled up behind the hardware store, and I grabbed my bag, ready to run. Bernie put a hand on my arm.

“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It's just—things are complicated.” I took a deep breath. “I saw Wayne again.” Easiest to start there. My ex was barely flesh and blood, just a collection of features that flashed across my periphery when I least expected it. Not like Stacy, my soon-to-be tenant, moving herself and her emotional baggage into my backyard.

Bernie removed his hand. “You talk to him?”

“No. But I saw him more than once. From a bench on the Plaza and again at the start of the race. Both times I lost him.” I noticed I'd glossed over the first time, when he'd appeared at my front door.

“I'm surprised you didn't mention this earlier.”

“I've been…distracted.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you concerned about your safety?”

“No, no. I'd just like to talk to him.”

“I'll put out a bulletin if you like.”

“I can handle it. I've pretty much moved on anyway.”

“Have you?”

“Pretty much.” I fell silent a moment, then forced myself to speak. “Listen, there's something else. I needed to rent out the spare unit at my new house in order to close the loan. I rented it to Stacy.”

His eyebrows climbed.

“I was in a bind. She needed a place.”

“She's moving back to Arlinda?”

The note of surprise—and something else—confirmed my darkest fears. I had no intention of standing by, a pathetic runner-up, while the two of them sorted out their Gordian knot of feelings for each other. Time to extricate myself from this triangle-to-be.

I squared my shoulders and looked him in the eye. “She's making a fresh start, she says. And she wanted me to let you know she's, um, available. That she has some regrets.” There. It was done.

“I see.”

“So I guess that makes a difference.”

“You think?”

“Don't you?”

“If you say so.” He looked into my face, his eyes dark pools. I broke the eye contact, feeling my determination waver a little. Dammit, wasn't this hard enough?

“But it's not like we can't be friends,” I ventured. “I—I really enjoy your company.” Get a grip, Sam, I thought. The man all but put you in a police lineup.

“Friends,” he said.

“Yeah.”

The radio squawked and Bernie picked up the receiver, listening to the dispatcher. Time to make a graceful exit. I had my hand on the door when Bernie stopped me with a look.

“Keep in touch,” he said.

So that was that. Over and out.

I swung out the passenger door and slammed it behind me. By the time I'd reached the back door and fumbled for my keys, Bernie was pulling away. As I mounted the stairs to my apartment, I heard the wail of the siren, heart-stopping at first, then fading away.

I threw myself into moving, loading all the boxes we'd packed up into the VW until my muscles ached. Harley watched, his tail twitching. When all the stacks were gone, I made myself a peanut-butter-and-mayonnaise sandwich, adding a slice of American cheese only slightly curled at the edges for a gourmet touch. I slipped it into a sandwich bag, grabbed my keys, and headed out.

Dusk was dropping deep shadows over Fickle Court, but the homely silhouette of our new place brightened my spirits. I retrieved the keys from the lockbox, then methodically emptied the bus, stacking everything in the living room. Probably I should have gotten permission from Derrick Webb, the listing agent, before moving stuff in. Probably I shouldn't be here at all. But I was driven by a reckless disregard for the rules.

I perched on a seat of cardboard boxes and ate my sandwich, feeling a little flicker of food-induced optimism. Who needed men anyway? Max and I were just fine, thank you.

Streetlights flickered on as I locked up and climbed into the VW. I backed into the street, then rolled out. On a whim, I turned right instead of left. No need to go home just yet. I was my own woman, out on the town.

I drove into Arlinda proper, doing a slow circuit of the Plaza, where the mating dance of
Homo sapiens
was on full display. Even on a Sunday evening, patrons spilled out of the bars, filled to the brim with high spirits and harboring exalted views of their own animal magnetism. Little scuffles broke out among the groups as the males established their pack position, sniffing and posturing around the females in a ritual as old as time. Was this what I wanted? I sighed and pressed down on the gas pedal.

A light rain began to fall as I reached Salmon Bay Boulevard and turned west toward Martin's Crossing, following the same route Max and the other racers had taken yesterday in their human-powered machines. God, that seemed a lifetime ago. Max was probably eating dinner—baked beans from a tin can—at his campsite on the Eider River. Was he warm enough? He probably hadn't taken any rain gear due to the rig's weight and stowage limitations. I had a spare poncho in a compartment above the rear wheel. I tried the windshield wipers. The blade on the passenger side swiped merrily at the rain, but the one on my side didn't budge. Great. Just great.

I was out in the open farmland now, with no habitation on either side of the road. The bay lay to my left. The tide was out, revealing long stretches of gleaming mudflats. Something dark and feathery flew past my windshield, not making a sound. Owl, probably. There was no traffic in sight.

Suddenly a blinding wash of light reflected off my rearview mirror. A car had materialized behind me. Unease jolted me to alertness. Driving a “classic” as I did, I was often at the front of a long line of impatient drivers. But this had a different feel.

I eased over toward the right shoulder to allow the car to pass. It stayed back about fifty feet, brights on, which was disconcerting. Where had it sprung from? My mind tried to dismiss the possibility it had been on my tail, running without headlights, for the last few minutes. But my gut said otherwise. And where there'd been occasional eastbound traffic, now there was none.

As if I'd flicked a switch, the bus was filled with light as the car behind it cut the distance between us in half. Then it was right on my bumper, nothing but blinding glare in my mirror. My heart pounded in my chest as I gauged my choices. Pull over and confront the driver? Hit the gas and thunder into Martin's Landing, where there wasn't so much as a gas station?

Before I could make up my mind, the vehicle surged forward, plowing into my bumper. My head whipped back and I yelped in fear. The steering wheel slipped between my fingers and the van bounced on the verge for a moment before I managed to pull back onto the roadway. I stomped on the gas pedal and the VW leaped ahead, tires almost leaving the pavement.

A yellow traffic sign flashed by, announcing an upcoming turn. I waited until the last possible moment, then dropped my speed and spun the wheel to the right, screeching around the corner onto Johnson Ranch Road. I sent up a shaky prayer I wouldn't be followed.

The headlights swung around and followed me, illuminating the barren landscape ahead. I made a low noise in my throat and punched the gas. Not so much as a farmhouse lay in my viewscape. The road was a single lane wide, fenced on either side to keep cattle off the road. Drainage ditches paralleled the road. If I got my wheels down in there, I was done for.

My pursuer seemed to be hanging back, allowing me some latitude. I didn't stop to ponder why, just gripped the wheel and tried to widen the gap between us. Rain slicked the pavement and blurred my view. I tried the wipers again, and this time the driver's side broke loose and humped across the windshield, leaving a smear of yellow pollen and pine needles behind.

A farmhouse loomed ahead on the left. It was dark, with no cars in the driveway, and I shot by. The terrain sloped up and peaked at a steel bridge that spanned the slough, a murky waterway connecting the bay and the flatlands, rising and falling with the tides. Beyond that was the turn that would take me back to town and safety.

Engine roaring, the vehicle on my tail came right up on my bumper, headlights filling my periphery. I shrieked and hit the gas, to no avail. The impact knocked me back against the seat, then forward over the wheel. I was being pushed, the steering wheel spinning uselessly between my fingers. The bus left the road and careened toward the slough. My head nearly hit the roof as the van bounced over a low concrete curb, sheared off a guardrail, skidded, and came to rest above the slough, front wheels over the concrete lip, canted downward so that I stared straight into the dark water twenty feet below. I'd bitten my lip, and the most important thing in the world seemed to be finding a tissue to stanch the blood that trickled down my chin. But I was frozen in place, too scared to feel around for my bag, fearful that any movement would send me plunging into the water.

My attacker revved his engine and pulled back, resting a moment before a final push. I didn't want to leave my car, but it seemed to be my only option. I gritted my teeth and reached for the door handle.

Lights came over the ridge to the south and a car hurtled toward our little frozen tableau. The newcomer screeched to a halt behind the first vehicle, which I could see now was a gray or silver pickup truck with tinted windows. For a moment, both vehicles idled, sizing each other up in a macabre parody of what I'd seen on the Plaza only twenty minutes earlier.

Abruptly the pickup roared to life, pulling past me and disappearing over the bridge. As it flashed by, something odd about the passenger door registered in my brain, horizontal lines that didn't match up. The rear plate was smeared with mud. The taillights faded from view.

Reaction set in and I began to shake all over. As though from a great distance, I heard a car door open and close. A few seconds later, someone tapped on my window. I opened my eyes. It was Wayne.

Without thinking, I shoved the door open, knocking him back. He slipped in the mud and went down. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I was on him. I had him by the hair, my knee on his chest. My fear had morphed into a towering rage. Hot blood pounded through my veins. I could have committed murder in that moment.

Wayne went limp, offering no resistance, and, just like that, my fury evaporated. I rolled off him and sat gasping like a landed fish. Slowly I came back into my own body. The smell of rank sludge and diesel exhaust assailed my nostrils.

He sat up. “What was that all about?”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Nice to see you, too.” He brushed some of the dirt from his trousers in disgust. “Jesus, my last clean pair of pants and look at them.”

“Skip the small talk. What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Where have you been for the last thirteen years? Why did you leave us?

He looked the same as I remembered: tall, lanky, big hands and feet. His hair was dark and curly, pulling back a little from his forehead but still thick on top. He'd cut it short on the sides, making his ears look larger than average. He smelled of wood smoke, sweat, and unwashed socks.

“Listen,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Maybe you won't believe me—in fact, I'm pretty sure you won't—but I'm here to make amends. Maybe I could start by getting your van back on the street.”

“I don't need your help.”

He ignored that. “You have road service? No worries. I got a tow rope here.”

He jogged back to his car, a blue Nissan. I watched, numb, as he started the engine and pulled up to the back of the VW. He hopped out and rooted around the trunk of the car until he came up with a length of stout nylon rope. Kneeling in the dirt, he looped one end around the van's rear axle, then rolled under the sedan and secured the other end to a metal hook.

“That a rental?” I said.

He shook his head. “I boosted it. Don't worry, I'll return it tonight. Wouldn't want your conscience to bother you.”

“Screw you.”

“Yeah. Stand back in case the rope breaks.” He slid behind the wheel of the Nissan and threw it in reverse. The rope went taut as he backed up with painstaking slowness. He set the brake, then jumped out and made sure the bus was in neutral, hand brake released. Then he was in the Nissan again, backing up at a snail's pace. For a moment, I thought the rope would let go. Then the bus began to shudder and move. The front wheels came up and over the concrete edge, finding solid ground. Wayne cut the engine.

“Set your hand brake,” he yelled.

I did as he said.

He untied the ropes. “You're good as new.”

I could hardly agree. In the wash of the sedan's headlights, I could see the rear bumper was crumpled and the engine compartment door was swinging from one hinge, almost folded in two. I yanked at it, and it came free in my hands. Crap. I opened the slider and tossed the mangled piece on the floor. Wayne retrieved the license plate and attached it to the bumper with some twists of wire.

“Sam,” he said. “Listen.”

The silence stretched past the point of comfort. He kicked at the ground.

“Shit,” he said. “You look great.”

“Aren't you sweet. Asshole.”

“I know. Sounds like a cliché, but let me explain.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Not here.” He scratched at the stubble along his jawline. “That guy might come back, for one. Or—or someone.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“No.” He met my gaze without flinching. That's how people lie to your face.

“You've been following me.
Stalking
me, to use the technical term.”

This time his eyes wandered. “I wanted to talk to you. I was trying to pick the right time. When you might be, you know, receptive.”

My temper started to climb again. “There'll never be a right time.”

“I know. I screwed up bad. Just give me a chance to tell you what happened.”

“What is it you're after?”

He looked at me.

“No way,” I said.

“He's my son.”

“Not from where I stand.”

“Please. Let's just talk. Then maybe you'll feel different.”

I wouldn't. Not ever. But Max had said he wanted to see his dad. I bit my lip. “Where and when?”

“Tomorrow. Somewhere private. You ever been out to the North Jetty?”

“Sure. I live here, in case you'd forgotten.”

“Yeah. There's old concrete bunkers all up and down the dunes out there. Park in the lot and look for the second bunker out from the Porta-Potty. I'll be waiting. Two o'clock okay?”

“Make it three. I'll be driving back from Bovington.”

“Three. Great. Make sure you're not followed.” He drew a deep, shaky breath, and I realized how nervous he'd been. About my response? Or something else?

“What was this all about?” he asked me, gesturing toward the bus.

“I don't know. Road rage, I suppose.”

“Some people shouldn't be behind the wheel.”

“This coming from Mr. Law and Order.”

More silence.

“Guess I'll see you tomorrow,” he said.

There was a word trapped in my throat. I tried to swallow it back, but it came out anyway.

“Thanks,” I said.