P is for Peril (42 page)

“I don't want to talk. Now get out of my way.” I hunkered to pick up my keys. One bag had ripped. I began to toss items back into the other bag. Half the carton of eggs were broken and the bread was mashed flat where I'd grabbed it in haste. I had no idea how I'd get into the apartment, lugging the few items that were still intact. “Oh, forget it,” I said. I found my keys and crossed to my door, aware that Tommy had moved to intercept my path. He stretched out an arm, hand flat on the door, his body crowding against mine.

I turned my face to one side, trying to avoid contact. “Get away from me.” I thought about my gun.

“Not until you tell me what's going on.”

“If you don't get off me, I'm going to scream.”

“You won't scream,” he murmured.

“HENRY!”

“Shh!”

“HENRY!!”

Henry's back light went on. I saw his face appear in the door.

“HELP!”

“Bitch,” Tommy said.

Henry came out the back door with a baseball bat. Tommy glanced at him, turned, and walked away at a leisurely pace, showing his contempt, showing he wasn't intimidated. Henry came across the patio at a quick clip, bat raised, looking as angry as I've ever seen him. I could hear Tommy's heels clatter down the sidewalk, sound diminishing. “What was that about? Should I call the police?”

“Don't bother. By the time they get here, he'll be gone.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, but he scared the shit out of me.”

“I think you should file a police report. That way they'll have something on record in case he does this again.”

“I'll talk to Jonah on Monday.”

“Do more than talk. That guy's dangerous. You need to get a restraining order out against him.”

“For all the good it will do. Really, I'm fine. Would you help me get this stuff in?”

“Of course. Open the door and we'll get this picked up in no time.”

Sunday was full of hard rain and gloom. I spent the day in my sweats, stretched out on the couch under a quilt in my sock feet. I went through one paperback novel and picked up the next. I had another two for backup, so I was in good shape. At five o'clock, the phone rang. I listened to the message, waiting to hear who it was before I picked up. Fiona. I felt such relief I almost warmed to her. She said, “Sorry I didn't have a chance to speak to you after the service yesterday. Blanche had her baby late in the afternoon.”

“She did? Congratulations. What'd she have?”

“A little girl. Seven pounds, eight ounces. They named her Chloe. Blanche was actually in labor at Dow's memorial. She and Andrew skipped the reception at the country club and went straight to St. Terry's. There wasn't even time to get her into the delivery room. She gave birth on a gurney in the corridor.”

“Wow. That was close. How's she doing?”

“She's fine. The baby had to stay an extra day because of jaundice, but the doctor seems to think she's fine now. We'll bring her home this afternoon. I told Blanche I'd keep the children tomorrow so she can get some rest. I wish she'd have her tubes tied and put an end to this. She can't keep churning out infants. It's ridiculous.”

“Well, I'm sure you're relieved everything's okay.”

“Actually, I'm calling about something else. Last night when I went to the hospital to visit Blanche, I saw Crystal's white Volvo parked in the driveway of a house on Bay. You know that neighborhood. Parking's always at a premium. The hospital lot was full so I had to circle the block to find a space or I wouldn't have seen the car. Naturally, I was curious, so I went over again this morning and there it was. I'm assuming there's a way you can find out whose house it is.”

“Sure, I can do that. Why don't you give me the address?” I made a note as she recited it and then said, “What's your concern?”

“I think she's finally showing her true colors. You know the rumor about Crystal's affair with that trainer of hers, Clint Augustine. I put it out of my mind until I spotted her car and then I began to wonder. Whatever she's up to, I think it's worth pursuing, don't you?”

“Assuming it was her.”

“The license plate said ‘Crystal,' big as life.”

“How do you know she was driving? It could have been anyone.”

“I doubt that. Like who?”

“I don't know, Rand or Nica, one of the household help.”

“Melanie suggested that as well, though I don't know why either one of you would stoop to defending her. I called Detective Paglia and told him you'd be looking into it. As I said to him, this is exactly the sort of thing they should have been doing from day one.”

I was certain Detective Paglia appreciated her input.

After we hung up, I dialed the gym and Keith answered the phone. I could hear weights clanging in the background. The Sunday faithful. “Hi, Keith. Kinsey Millhone. When I was in there last week, I asked you about Clint Augustine. Do you happen to have an address and home phone number for him? I've been thinking a personal trainer might be fun for a change.”

“Let me see what I got. Hang on.” I could hear him open the desk drawer and then flip through the tattered three-hole binder I'd seen on other occasions. “I know I got it somewhere. Here we go.”

I jotted down the information, noting that the address he gave me was a match for the Glazer's house in Horton Ravine. “How recent is this? Someone told me he had a place near St. Terry's on Bay.”

“Don't think so. Least it's the first I've heard.”

“When did you last talk to him? He might have moved.”

“It's been months. Might have been February, March, back around then. He used to come in here regular, maybe eight, ten times a week, although he might have moved his clients to another gym. Let me know if he's out of business and I'll take his name off the books. I got other good trainers if he can't help.”

“Great. I appreciate that.”

I pulled the crisscross from my bookcase and leafed through the pages until I found Bay Street. I ran a finger down the house numbers until I came to the relevant address. I'd hoped Fiona was wrong, but the listed occupant was
J. Augustine,
though the phone number was different from the one Keith had given me. I dialed the number Keith had and got a disconnect; no surprise there. That must have been Clint's phone number while he was in the guest cottage on the Glazer property. Clearly, Keith's information was out of date. I returned the crisscross to my shelf. I couldn't believe Crystal had gone looking for Clint the very day of Dow's memorial service. I picked up the phone and dialed the house on Bay.

The man who answered had a phone manner that bordered on the rude. “Yes?” His voice was harsh and full of impatience.

“May I speak to Clint?”

“He can't come to the phone. Who's this?”

“Never mind. I'll try later.”

The house on Bay Street was an old Victorian, probably built in the late 1800s: two stories of white frame with a wide porch that stretched across the front. This was a neighborhood where many of the single-family dwellings had been converted to medical offices servicing the hospital half a block away. There was no sign of Crystal's Volvo in the drive. A white picket fence surrounded the yard, which was small and bare of grass, thickly planted with rosebushes, pruned now to clusters of thorny stems. I could imagine, in full bloom, the blossoms would smell as dense and sweet as a potpourri. The soil was darkly saturated from the rain, which was falling now in a soft haze.

I cruised past the house, did a turnaround at the corner, and came back. I parked across the street and settled in to wait. Visiting hours at St. Terry's wouldn't begin in earnest for an hour so the streets were close to deserted. Even protected by a gauzy curtain of rain, I felt conspicuous sitting in the car by myself. This wasn't a surveillance— more like a sortie in the battle between Dow's wives. I didn't want to think about Crystal, whose history with men had been a series of disasters. She'd gotten pregnant by one guy and apparently been left to raise the child on her own. She'd had one husband who abused her and another who looked oh-so respectable on the surface, but, in fact, drank too much and had a peculiar bent in bed. Clint was in his early forties, a good-looking guy, big and well built. He didn't seem that bright, but he had enormous patience with his clients, whose struggles with fitness were both diligent and short-lived. The last time I remembered seeing him was just after New Year's when a new batch of converts arrived at the gym, whipped into a frenzy of repentance after the holiday indulgences. His clientele was literally always heaviest around that time. Crystal had way too much class to dally with the likes of him. On the other hand, she was only one marriage away from life as a stripper, and as slick as she seemed, she probably wasn't a whole lot smarter than he. In love, as in other matters, people end up seeking their own level. I adjusted my rearview mirror, ever mindful of Tommy Hevener. Just because I didn't see him didn't mean he wasn't there. I could feel my bowels squeeze down every time I thought of him.

By 6:25 I decided Crystal wasn't going to show. I'd already started my car when a white Volvo turned the corner off Missile and headed in my direction. She was at the wheel.

I killed the engine and sat, watching as she slowed and pulled into the drive. I grabbed my umbrella and got out of my car as she was getting out of hers. This was one of those occasions where asking a direct question seemed the obvious route. I wasn't going to lurk in the bushes or peep over windowsills in search of the truth. “Crystal?”

She'd already let herself through the gate and she turned to look at me. She wore a rain-repellent parka, cowboy boots, tight jeans, a heavy white cableknit sweater. She clutched a neat stack of shirts against her body to protect them from the damp. Her makeup was light and her tousled blond hair was pulled into a knot. She stood with one hand on the latch and I could see her puzzlement.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Her response time was ever so faintly slow. “About what?”

“Clint. We happen to be members of the same fitness gym.”

“What do you want?”

I shook my head. “Someone saw your car here and thought you might show up again.”

She closed her eyes and then opened them again. “Fiona.”

I didn't cop to it outright, but I didn't see much reason to deny it, either. What was the point? She knew I'd been working for Fiona and who else, really, would be dogging her steps. “You should probably be aware she talked to Detective Paglia.”

“Fuck. She just can't leave anything alone. What's she going to do, monitor my actions for the rest of my life? Have me followed around so she can point a finger at me? What I do with my time is none of her damn business.”

“Hey, babe. It wasn't my idea. If you're pissed off, take it up with her.”

“Oh, right.” She paused while she struggled to get a grip on herself. When she spoke again, her tone was more resigned than angry. “Let's get out of the rain. It's ridiculous to stand here getting soaked.”

I followed her through the gate. We went up the front steps and took shelter on the porch. I lowered my umbrella, pausing to shake off the water.

“I guess there's no point pretending you didn't see me today.”

“I don't like it any more than you do.”

“You know, the entire time I was married to Dow, she did everything she could to make life miserable for me. How much more shit am I supposed to take?”

“She's not the only one who heard the rumor about Clint.”

“Who'd she get that from? Dana Glazer, no doubt. What an evil bitch she is.”

“People talk about these things. Sooner or later, it was bound to come out.”

“Oh, for pity's sake. You know what? There's no law that says I can't visit a friend, so why don't you go back and tell her to get fucked.” She gestured dismissively, annoyed with herself. “Skip that,” she said. “Why add fuel to the fire? Clint was my trainer. We did weights. End of sentence. There was never anything sexual between us. Ask him if you doubt me. I'll be happy to wait out here.”

“What would that prove? I'm sure he's too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell.”

“Don't you have any male friends? Does everything between a man and a woman have to be sexual?”

“I didn't say you were guilty of anything. I'm telling you how it looks. Tongues have been wagging. Fiona saw your car here yesterday and here you are again today.”

She stared at me briefly and then seemed to make a decision. “Why don't you come in and I'll introduce you properly.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why not? As long as you've come this far. By the way, I found Dow's passport when I was going through his clothes. It was still in the breast pocket of the overcoat he wore when we went to Europe last fall.”

“Well, that's one question down. Are those his?” I said, pointing to the shirts.

“Someone might as well get some use out of them.”

She unlocked the front door, using a key, I noticed, from her own key chain. She pushed open the door and stepped aside, allowing me to pass in front of her and into the house. I don't know why I should have felt embarrassed, but I did.

The front room was done up as an old-fashioned parlor with a camelback sofa, occasional tables, and assorted Queen Anne chairs. Every item of furniture sported a hand-crocheted doily designed as protection from dirt and grease stains. There was a grandfather clock and lots of knickknacks; milk glass, cranberry glass, Steuben glass, Lladro, framed photographs of family members long since deceased. Crystal scarcely gave the room a glance as she proceeded down the hallway and through the kitchen to a glassed-in porch. Clint was seated in a La-Z-Boy looking out toward the yard. She put the stack of shirts on a small wooden table next to him. Crystal gave him a brief kiss on the top of his head. “I brought you some shirts and I also brought a friend. You remember Kinsey? She's a member of your gym.”