Booby Trap (2 page)

“How’s Lil?” Greg called
out from the bathroom.

I had just arrived home and was spending the required five to ten minutes greeting Wainwright, Greg’s exuberant golden retriever, and Seamus, my crotchety, one-eyed, ragged-eared cat. Even before Greg and I kiss hello, Wainwright has to be petted, scratched behind his ears, and told what a good boy he is, and Seamus has to receive the kitty equivalent. It isn’t this way when guests arrive, just with us. We’re mommy and daddy, after all, and as all parents know, the kids come first.

Parental duties out of the way, I headed down the hall toward the master suite and bathroom. Greg and I have been married nearly five months. After the wedding, I moved into his customized home in Seal Beach and rented out my townhouse in Newport Beach. I have a longer commute to work now, but with Greg in a wheelchair, there was no way we could have even considered combining our little family into my two-story digs. But even though I gave up my townhouse, I kept my name. Greg didn’t mind, though I think his parents were disappointed. But I’ve been Odelia Patience Grey a very long time, and it didn’t seem right or necessary to change that now.

In the bathroom, I found Greg freshly showered and shaving. Greg wears a very becoming Van Dyke–style beard and was maneuvering the blade around the lathered portion of his face with deft moves. I planted a kiss on the top of his freshly shampooed, wet head before pulling my sweater over my own head.

“Why are you changing?” He stopped shaving and glanced my way. “You look nice.”

I held up the blue sweater to display the stains down the front. “Curse of the big boobs strikes again. Fortunately, it’s washable.” I reached under the sink, pulled out a bottle of Spray ’n Wash, and began squirting the sauce drippings like they were bad guys and I was the SWAT team.

Greg grinned. “I, for one, don’t consider your big boobs a curse.”

To prove his point, he reached out and pulled me to him. Before I could protest or pull away, he mashed his face, lather and all, into my cleavage and made sloppy kissing noises. I must say, one of the good news/bad news things about being short and having a hubby in a wheelchair is that his face is always at your chest level.

I giggled and playfully slapped at the back of his head. Not only was I enjoying his attention, I was happy to get his mind off of my lunch with Lil. I knew I would have to discuss it with him sometime soon, but I wanted to pick the time, like maybe tomorrow, over breakfast, while his nose is buried in the Sunday paper. Not tonight, after he’s worked all day at his shop, Ocean Breeze Graphics, and before we were to meet Zee and Seth.

I knew Greg wasn’t going to be happy with what I had to say and would only enlist Seth’s legal opinion on the matter. And although Seth Washington is a crackerjack attorney, he is also a crackerjack pain in my big fat behind whenever he thinks I’m sticking my nose into something I shouldn’t. He and Greg would be hounding me all night about it. Zee, on the other hand, was always a wild card. Sometimes she took my side, sometimes she didn’t. All I wanted from our evening together was a tasty, preferably non-drippy meal, good company, and a fun movie.

The stain remover might have taken care of the marinara sauce, but I was still wishing I had skipped lunch. I wanted to rewind the day back to before I’d ordered the messy sub, and definitely back to before hearing Lil’s words
I think my son is the Blond Bomber.
Just hearing those words made me feel involved, no matter what my decision.

“We’re doing Chinese tonight, sweetheart.” Greg returned to his shaving. “That okay with you?”

“Sure,” I mumbled, still lost in my thoughts about the Blond Bomber.

Should I talk to Dev Frye about it? Did I have a legal obligation to go to the police? Could I live with myself if another woman was killed and the murderer turns out to be Brian Eddy? These were questions I did not want to discuss tonight over Mongolian beef and Kung Pao chicken.

Who knows? Maybe my fortune cookie tonight will say something helpful, like
Relax, he didn’t do it.

Then again, it might also say
He who hesitates is lost.

You are a decisive individual
was the sage advice offered up by my fortune cookie Saturday night. It should have read
You are a procrastinating nincompoop.

We were spending a couple of hours at a small, grassy park located next to the Seal Beach pier and overlooking the beach. Dogs weren’t allowed at the park, but every now and then the local police would turn a blind eye when it came to Greg and Wainwright, especially if it wasn’t the busy tourist season. I was staked out under a small tree in a folding beach chair, reading the latest Chuck Zito mystery novel, while Greg played Frisbee with Wainwright. It was a gorgeous April day, slightly warm, with a gentle breeze coming off the ocean. Lots of folks were around enjoying a relaxing Sunday, including two young boys who came here regularly. Greg and Wainwright were well known at the beach, and now so was I. Greg and the boys were throwing the round disk back and forth while Wainwright ran between them, trying to nab it or scoop up a wild throw. Sometimes he succeeded, then he would change the throwing game into a game of catch-me-if-you-can. There was nothing Wainwright liked more than to play Frisbee on the beach. If kids were involved, all the better. I think he’d even give up an occasional meal to do it, if he had to.

I hadn’t said anything to Greg yet about my conversation with Lillian Ramsey. There were several opportunities over breakfast, including one moment when Greg asked if I was okay. He’d said I seemed preoccupied. That had been the perfect moment, and I had let it slide by, sloughing off his question as if slicked with softened butter.

“How’s the book?” Greg asked, rolling up to where I sat. He was hot but full of life and energy. His blue eyes studied me with concern.

“Very good.”

“Yeah? Seems it would be much better if you’d turn the pages. You’ve been staring into space for the past ten minutes.”

“Have I?”

I looked past Greg and watched Wainwright rolling around with the two boys. The big yellow dog looked pooped but happy. I put down the book and rummaged around in the large thermal bag sitting next to me. Pulling out a cold soda, I handed it to Greg. He took it silently, his eyes never leaving my face. I tried to ignore him as I pulled out a jumbo Cool Whip container filled with water for the dog.

“Wainwright,” I called, “come here, boy.” I snapped the lid off the plastic container and placed it down on the ground. The dog bounded over and lapped up the water with gusto.

Greg started to say something, but Silas, one of the boys, came up to us. He handed Greg the Frisbee. “We gotta go. Thanks for letting us play with Wainwright. He’s a cool dog.”

“Anytime, Silas.” Greg gave the boy a wink. “We enjoy it as much as you do.”

Silas was eleven years old with shaggy black hair, intelligent brown eyes, and skin kissed by the sun. The boy with him was his younger brother. He sported a buzz cut and equally tanned skin. His name was Billy. Both boys had their tee shirts off.

As the boys scampered off, I got up and started packing up my book and chair, still not meeting Greg’s eyes. “It’s really getting hot out here. Mind if we go home?”

“Not at all, sweetheart, I was thinking the same thing myself. I brought some work home from the shop that I need to attack this afternoon.”

Greg downed the soda in two huge gulps. He took his empty can and the one I had drained earlier and rolled over to a homeless man who sat on a bench near our van. He handed him the cans. The homeless man was very old and was called Pops by everyone who lived in the area. Greg handed him the cans and a five-dollar bill.

“Thanks for watching my van, Pops,” Greg said to him. “Great job.”

It was a ritual that happened every time we drove the few blocks to the beach instead of walking. Not that the van needed watching—it was the middle of the day, and it was parked in a handicapped space right in front of the park, but Greg and Pops had an understanding. Pops believed in working for his money. So the entire time we were at the beach, Pops never left the bench next to our vehicle. That was his job—that and collecting cans and bottles. Sometimes we would have brunch at a small restaurant across the street before enjoying the park. On those days, Greg would order an omelet with extra crispy hash browns and sliced tomatoes to accompany the five-dollar bill. He told Pops the meal was a well-earned bonus.

How could I not love this man?

Once at home, Wainwright slurped down more water before plopping down on the cool tile floor for a nap. Seamus joined him. Cats love comfort, and Seamus thought there was nothing more comfortable than using a golden retriever as a pillow.

After cleaning up, Greg went into our home office and dug into his work. I went out to our covered patio and plunked myself down on a chaise. For a few minutes, I thought about what I was going to do with the chicken breasts I’d defrosted for dinner, then I tried once again to concentrate on my book. But all I could think about was Lil and her request.

It wasn’t too long before Greg was at the open patio door. “Ice cream or Thin Mints?” he asked me with a smile.

“What?”

“Is this a Cherry Garcia problem or a Thin Mint problem you’re stewing over?”

I laughed in spite of my worry over Lil. Greg not only loved me, he knew me. Whenever faced with a problem I can’t quite resolve, I drown myself in specific comfort foods.

I’m told that most people gain weight when they marry. In the short time I’ve been married to Greg, I’ve lost nearly fifteen pounds. I must be happy because there has been a lot less emotional eating in the past five months.

“It’s a bucket-o-puddin’ kind of problem,” I told him with a dead-serious face.

Instantly, Greg dropped his smile, and his face clouded over. “You sure?”

I nodded. Bucket-o-puddin’ referred to a large container of pre-made chocolate pudding and was code for a very serious problem.

Greg disappeared and returned with a container of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream and two spoons. As he stripped the seal off of the container, I joined him at our redwood picnic table.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re out of pudding.”

As I reached for a spoon, he stopped me. “Before you start, you have to promise to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“I do.”

“
I do
was back in November. Here I’m looking for an
I will
.”

I smiled slightly. “I will.”

He popped open the container and handed me a spoon. “Would you do the honors of breaking ground?”

“I will.” I dug into the smooth virgin ice cream and extracted a large spoonful. Again, how could I not love this man?

By the time the pint was almost empty, I had told him what Lil suspected and what she was asking me to do. Like a slow-moving storm, Greg’s face clouded with each word, but he let me talk, not interrupting until I was finished. I did note, however, that he was digging into the ice cream with more urgency as the topic darkened and my possible involvement deepened. After I put down my spoon, Greg pulled the container to him and polished it off in silence. I went into the house and came back out with two large glasses of water with lemon slices.

“Did Lil tell you exactly why she thinks Brian is the Blond Bomber?”

“No, and I didn’t want her to. Not until I’m sure I can and will help.” I took a drink. “The less I know, the better.”

“Wow” was all he said before taking his own big drink of water.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” I took another drink. “I had planned to this morning, but I knew you would be upset, and I didn’t want to ruin your day.”

For several minutes, Greg remained as still as death. He looked at me, his eyes telling me nothing about what was going on inside him. I didn’t think it was a good sign.

“Jesus, Odelia.” When he spoke, his voice was strong but not angry. “It’s barely been six months since the last time you buddied up with danger. Couldn’t you have at least waited until we passed our first anniversary?”

He sighed deeply. “When I decided I couldn’t live without you, I realized that I would have to live with this penchant of yours to stumble into unsavory situations. I had just hoped that once we married and you moved to Seal Beach, it would at least slow down, not accelerate.”