Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (20 page)

“Rebecca, you don’t know anything about this man.”

“Rebecca, you’re only a week and a half out of a two-year relationship.”

“Excuse me, Rebecca, but you always get in trouble with vulnerable men. Do you really want to go back to playing mommy?”

Julio said, “What are you afraid of?” Words I first heard from fatso Butch Lieberman in the backseat of a Mustang.

I’d only heard them about a thousand times since—why on earth do men think you’re afraid of them when it ought to be obvious you merely find them repulsive?

But this time I was afraid. “I don’t know,” I said, answering the question honestly for the first time in my life. We sat on a rock and I told him about Rob, that being the best story I could come up with on short notice. But it wasn’t exactly the whole story.

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Julio, and I snuggled against him, feeling safe for the moment, delighted to stop the subject. “Lunch tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“And then we’ll buy you a car.”

Now, that made me really nervous. Talk about rushing into things—I’d been with the Volvo a lot longer than I’d been with Rob.

As soon as I got back to my lonely motel room, I began to have regrets. Was I crazy to choose a night alone in this overpriced dump over an impulsive cuddle with a man I was starting to like very much?

Like very much, hell. How prissy could I get? I wanted to rip his clothes off. I wanted to see his body in candlelight and kiss every inch of it.

But that wasn’t the half of it. I could have handled that.

I was starting to fall in love with him. I thought maybe that was what I was afraid of—what with Rob still calling, Marty flipping out at the mention of his name, a tiny little thing like two murders, and the fact that I’d barely known him thirty hours. Was that possible? Only thirty hours? I shuddered, realizing how strongly I felt about the man.

I tossed and turned and kicked at the covers, angry at myself, and angry at fairy tales that never mention love can make you angry.

Just when I thought I’d never get to sleep, the phone woke me up.

“So how’s the little mom? The kids were too much for you, were they? Marty said you’d turned tail.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Rob?”

“You were expecting Prince Charles?”

“It’s seven a.m.; do you care at all?”

“Oh, sorry. I can never get it straight about the time difference.”

“Listen, could you call back later?”

“Sure. But listen. Could you get me up-to-date on the case? I know this sounds weird, but I’m doing a story for the
Boston Globe
. There was another murder, huh? Did Marty do it?”

“I’ll call you back,” I said, slammed down the phone, and then took it off the hook again—I knew Rob; he’d call back.

Why hadn’t I ever noticed how inconsiderate he could be? Julio would never be like that.

The worry wart tapped me on the shoulder again: “Rebecca, dear? In a pig’s eye.”

However, he hadn’t been yet, so I fantasized about him while dropping back to sleep. It was a nice quiet revenge that didn’t hurt anybody.

Two hours later, after a croissant and coffee, I took a cab out to the airport, rented a car, and drove to Marty’s. Libby met me at the door with so many hugs and kisses it would have been worth the trip even if Marty had thrown me out.

But her mom was all smiles. “Rebecca. I was going to call you. I’m really sorry I got upset—I mean, I
was
upset—that’s why I yelled at you.”

“I wanted to talk things over with you.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

She gave me the cup with the whale’s tail and we sat at her kitchen table. She was wearing shorts and T-shirt.

“You aren’t going to work today?”

“I’m taking a couple of days off—until the board meets again. I think there’s a good chance they’ll reconsider their decision about Warren, and I thought I’d take it easy—spend some time with my kids—since I’ll be going back to a different job.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“I was always the first choice, I’m sure. But my being in jail was a problem.” She smiled as if it were the best thing that ever happened to her.

“I don’t think it was a problem—it let you manipulate your way into what you wanted.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I understand you’re seeing Jim Lambert.”

“What is this? Don called this morning and accused me of the same thing.”

“It’s a small town, Marty.”

She drew herself up, as if suddenly remembering to feel insulted. “What did you come here for?”

“I wanted to find out why you got so excited when I mentioned Julio’s name.”

“Rebecca, I wasn’t in the best of moods.”

“But what set you off about him? Are you seeing him, too?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I guess I may as well be honest—I’m interested in him myself.”

“You bitch!”

“Wait a minute. We’ve been that route. You don’t like the idea of my seeing Julio. Why?”

She frowned, confused. She said, “Good question,” back in cucumber mode. She thought a moment. “I guess I keep thinking he’ll come around.”

I hoped my inward sigh of relief wasn’t audible.

I thought I was beginning to see what made her tick emotionally. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Why not?”

“Were you in love with Don?”

She smiled and sipped coffee to cover her discomfort. “I guess not.”

“You know, I really thought you were upset that night in San Francisco. Just a little out of touch with your feelings.”

“I was upset!” As if to prove it, she showed me eyes brimming with tears. “I really miss him.”

I could bet she did—like she’d miss any cherished possession. I thought when she lost her cool was when things went out of control, a docile husband falling for someone else, a boss—a person in a position to do Marty some good—snapping up the same docile but neglected possession. Jail didn’t faze her because she could turn it to her advantage.

But there was one thing that theory didn’t cover. She had been anything but cool when we discovered Sadie’s body. Of course, it must have been a shock seeing her jacket and her letter opener in such grisly circumstances. Or had she been not at all shocked—merely acting a part, having framed herself to divert suspicion?

I realized with a start that I wouldn’t put it past her. She wasn’t my friend anymore—she was someone very different from the woman I’d thought she was—and the truth was, she pretty much disgusted me. But she was Libby and Keil’s mother, and if I was starting to fall for Julio, that was nothing compared to the way I’d lost my heart to Marty’s kids. I was going to have to maintain a semblance of friendliness with her.

So I stayed till I’d finished my coffee, and it was hard listening to her fresh laments about the way Don had wronged her. Somehow, knowing about Ricky, Jim, and all the gang, I wasn’t nearly as sympathetic anymore.

There was time before lunch to satisfy my curiosity on something. I looked up “pearls” in the phone book, found only one jeweler listed, and paid a call. The proprietor was a man named Sidney Silversmith, apparently returned to the trade of his ancestors. I told him I represented a San Franciscan interested in buying the Sheffield Pearl and asked if he knew anything about it.

He shook his head. “You’ll never get it now. It’ll be tied up in probate.”

I listened politely to the tale of Katy’s murder, agreed the quest was probably hopeless, but said I had to make a report. Did he know how much it was worth?

“I’ve never actually seen it. If it’s a South Seas pearl of gem quality, it could be worth several hundred thousand. Over a million, perhaps. But I’ve heard it’s a clam pearl.”

“I think it might be. How can you tell?”

“A clam pearl has wrinkles. And no luster. Worthless. A curiosity only.”

“Worthless?”

“Except to your client.” He was practically sneering. “Collectors will pay anything. A large blue abalone pearl is about to be auctioned next week—Sotheby’s estimates the value at more than three million dollars.” He turned up his palms in seeming amazement. “It’s rare. The smaller blue ones—even they’re worth fifteen, twenty thousand dollars. But the ones that aren’t blue—worth nothing. Even though they get as big as the end of your finger.”

“I didn’t know abalones made pearls.”

“Even conchs make pearls. Except they aren’t real pearls. They’re calcareous concretions, pink with a flame design. And freshwater pearls come from mussels—did you know that? But clam pearls have the distinction of being ugly.”

“And worthless?” I said again.

“That depends. The Sheffield Pearl is famous—and it’s supposed to be as big as a golf ball. For all I know, there’s someone crazy enough to want it and someone else crazy enough to bid against him. Your client, maybe. If someone wants it, it’s valuable. That’s how people are.” He hunched his shoulders, apparently in disgust at human foibles.

* * *

Julio’s appetite for adult fare was still raging. For lunch we went to one of those Lazy Susan-style sushi bars, this one with a twist. Each sushi tray was a mechanical sea otter in luxurious repose, your California roll or maguro resting comfortably on its synthetic tummy. In case the patrons weren’t already splitting their sides, the owners had tied red bows around the necks of some of the otters and decorated others with leis of fresh flowers. It looked like a place expressly designed to convert ten-year-olds to the eating of raw fish, but Julio said Esperanza would pick up a hagfish before she’d venture into the joint.

“I’ve tried.” He sighed. “Believe me, I’ve tried. At least she’ll eat Mexican food, because she’s had it all her life. Amber won’t even eat that. And Marty’s so strict Libby doesn’t dare eat most things. Taking those three to dinner is like trying to find a cure for anorexia.”

“And you don’t cook, I suppose.”

“Of course I cook. Are you a sexist? You should have seen me at the beginning of the summer. I cooked fantastic things—lobster, moo shu pork, chile rellenos, crab cakes. I outdid myself. I was the dad from Dad Heaven—Robert Young and Bill Cosby in one incredibly frustrated package. How many times do you think
you'd
have to hear ‘Ewww. Gross,’ before you never picked up a pan again?”

“I might be tempted to pan-fry a ten-year-old.”

“Oh, I was. I made the mistake of complaining to Marty, but she took it the wrong way.”

“Had her own agenda, did she?”

“Invited Esperanza to sleep over, and me to cook with her, for both girls. She was going to show me how a woman—therefore an expert—did it.” He stopped there, but I thought he wanted to say more.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “She wanted you to sleep over, too.”

He said, “I don’t see why a man and a woman can’t just be friends. Do you?”

I couldn’t answer. I had a whole shrimp in my mouth. Quickly he said, “I didn’t mean you and me, of course.”

“It’s not the worst idea I ever heard.”

“We’ll see.” I could have sworn the comers of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, as if the battle was won and he knew it. “Shall we go buy you a car?”

I nearly choked on my tekka maki.

“You need a really beautiful car. Gorgeous woman like you. Professional woman. Something jazzy. Something people can see coming for miles away. Something that says, ‘I’m Rebecca Schwartz and I’m
zooming
at you.'”

Was he kidding? I didn’t even wear nail polish. “I don’t know if I’m the zooming type.”

* * *

“Something in a Mercedes?” He headed his silver compact toward a dealership.

My throat was closing. “Julio. I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” He opened the door, took my hand, and pulled me out, seeming not to notice the resistance I offered.

A salesman hustled up, a dapper black man in a gray suit, smoothing his jacket. “Beautiful day. Gorgeous day for a new Mercedes. Happy to meet you, sir. My name’s Parker Fraley.”

Julio made introductions.

“Know what they call me ’round here? Black Magic. You prob’ly think it’s ’cause I work a silver-tongue spell on folks, don’t let ’em out of here without a new Mercedes. It’s not that, though, not that at all. It’s ’cause I can make anybody smile, you know that?”

My stomach turned over. He was about to tell the one about the lawyers and the lab rats, I could feel it.

Julio said, “I thought maybe a 560 SL.”

“Little convertible. Perfect day for it. You know, you just got to be happy on a day like this—middle of August, almost back to school time. Tell you what—we’re having a back-to-school sale today. I’m gon’ give you a little ol’ 560 so cheap, you gon’ want two of ’em.”

He opened the door of a sleek red convertible. “You’re the one buyin’, aren’t you, Ms. Schwartz? Jus’ sit behind the wheel of this little baby and see if you ever want to get in another car again.”

“I can’t.”

Julio said, “What’s this, ‘I can’t’?”

“It’s against my—I just can’t, that’s all.”

Julio blushed. The incredibly handsome, self-assured Mr. Julio Soto turned the same color as the car. “Omigod. The Germans. Magic, I’m really sorry. Another day, okay?”

He hustled me back in his car before I figured out what was going on.

“Rebecca, I forgot. I never thought you might have a thing about German cars. I can’t believe how stupid I am.”

“Julio, stop. It’s nothing to do with being Jewish. I don’t know how to break it to you, but I’m a liberal.”

The fact that he was driving stopped him not for a moment—he turned and stared, as if at my marbles, even now rolling out the window and onto the road. “I don’t get it,” he said finally.

“I don’t want an ostentatious car.”

“You don’t want—what?” He stopped, sputtering, took a moment, and collected himself. Finally he said, “Rebecca, here is your problem. You are not from Southern California. As I may have mentioned, I grew up in Santa Barbara, a town half the size of Berkeley with Rolls-Royce
and
Jaguar dealerships. And if you didn’t grow up in Southern California, you know nothing about cars. Believe them, because it’s true. You’re not qualified to pick out a car because you don’t understand the true purpose of a car, which is not, repeat
not
, to get from one place to another. A car has one purpose and one purpose only.