Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (22 page)

“How about Sadie? She was new in town—would she know about it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not. How do I look?”

“Fine.” Ordinary. As usual. “Marty, on Friday night—the night Sadie died—you went out and came back after your date with Jim, right?”

“Right. I had to meet you.” She started to rummage through her closet and now pulled out a white blazer, which she shrugged into. “This?”

“It washes you out. You’re a summer, I think. How about something pastel?” I heard myself nattering on, realizing exactly how silly I sounded, and wished I had more fashion advice I could use to avoid getting on with it.

“Oh.” She rummaged again. “Maybe I can have it dyed.”

“Marty, as you were leaving, did you see Julio leaving, too?”

“Julio?” She held up a light blue jacket. “How about this?”

“Much better. Did you see Julio?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”

If he had left when Marty did, when he said he did, then that argued that he hadn’t been the one who had taken her letter opener and windbreaker. It didn’t prove anything, but it seemed to make sense that the murderer wouldn’t have drowned Sadie, then left the building for some reason, then come back to set up the frame. And as long as Marty had been there, so, probably, had her jacket and letter opener.

Oh, damn! It suddenly hit me that they could have been taken in advance, for a premeditated murder. I’d been imagining one of passion.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get Julio off the hook in my own mind. Here was the scenario that played on my mental movie screen on the foggy drive back to Monterey:

Sometime Friday, probably before six o’clock, Sadie talked to Julio about Esperanza, but contrary to his story, she did show him the pearl. He thought he recognized it and understood its worth. He stole it, either calling Katy first to verify its authenticity or calling her later to see if she’d pay a reward for its return. However, Sadie, having told no one else about the pearl, accused him of stealing it and he killed her. But Marty saw him leaving the roof, and Warren saw him in the parking lot. To cover himself, he invented the story he’d told me.

The call to Katy had me going—because Julio’s story certainly rang true in one respect. Everyone I’d talked to—except Marty—had loved Sadie. Sadie was universally thought to be a wonderful person and clearly adored by children. So she would have kept Esperanza’s secret. She would have told no one about the pearl—probably not even Julio, but he was the one person she
might
have told, in an effort to get Esperanza out of trouble.

There in the safety of Marty’s utterly uninspired bedroom, it sounded far-fetched. I thought maybe I’d worked myself into a lather about Julio’s guilt because I was really just nervous about dating him. But what was I, a teenager?

Certainly not, I told myself. I was an adult woman, temporarily too smitten to remember she shouldn’t date a murder suspect. It had taken a strange twist of the paranoia mechanism to avert a near-error. Good judgment had been restored. Fine.

“Time to go,” said Marty. “I don’t have time to drop you at your hotel, but I could take you to the aquarium. You’re near there, aren’t you? You could walk or get a taxi, I guess.”

“Thanks.”

I thought I would walk. It was a nice night and I’d stop for a bite along the way. I didn’t dare drive the rented car again. I might go to a movie if I happened to stroll past a theater. I needed to be out, so that if Julio called I wouldn’t know about it. My talk with Marty hadn’t cleared up anything.

I would have gone right away, but Libby wanted to look at the fish while her mom did her errand, and she wanted me for company. Frankly, I was delighted to be wanted.

“See you in a minute,” said Marty. “I’ve got to get something out of my office.”

There was apparently a party that night, and we’d arrived with the caterers. They were busily making a Mexican village out of the first floor of the aquarium, setting up cardboard arches, bringing in cacti, hauling around cases of Corona and Dos Equis. I wondered if mariachis were booked, and if so, how the fish would like the music. Probably they wouldn’t be fazed. Mine had to put up with my piano playing.

Innocent Libby, of course, had never seen the kelp tank as I’d seen it last. I wasn’t even sure she knew that was where her mom and I found Sadie. So I didn’t want to let on I thought it would be hard to look at it again, hard not to think of the shark caught in Sadie’s pantyhose, the yellow beaks darting ruthlessly toward their prey. But the flashbacks lasted only a moment. The swaying kelp, the insouciant fish swimming so confidently, the gorgeous invertebrates—the starfish, the anemones—worked their usual magic almost immediately. As always, I was mesmerized.

“Rebecca, look!” Libby was pointing to a sandy area where nothing had been planted.

I stared, having no idea what I was looking for. There were a million things worth looking at in that tank. What had caught her ten-year-old fancy?

“Look at what?”

“Look over there—way in the back of that little sandy patch.”

Did I see a sand dollar, almost buried? There sure wasn’t anything else, not even a lazy rockfish swimming through.

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

“Don’t you see anything?”

“What am I looking for?”

“The pearl! There it is!”

It was one of those things—whether the eye or the brain plays the trick, I’m not sure, but once I saw the pearl, I couldn’t see how I could have failed to see it before. It looked so natural, so much at home, as if it had rolled out of a cache of pirates’ treasure and settled there in the sand a century ago. I had taken it for a rock.

Now I saw that it looked a lot like a brain, and at the same time undeniably like a pearl the size of a Ping-Pong ball. I was reminded of Poe’s purloined letter ( as Ricky had said) —unless you knew exactly where to look and what you were looking for, you’d never see it lying right there in plain sight.

No one would have hidden it there except someone who could easily retrieve it later—someone who was a good diver and had access to the kelp tank. My stomach fluttered.

“What are we going to do, Rebecca? We can’t tell my mom. She’ll know Esperanza stole it.”

“I know. We won’t tell her. But it’s okay to tell the police now. They already know about it.”

She raised her head, searching my face with panicked eyes.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Esperanza’s not going to get in trouble.”

“She’s not?”

“She didn’t tell you about it?”

She shook her head. “She’s sleeping over tomorrow. We were going to talk then.”

“I’ll let her tell the details.”

Her face lit up with an idea. “You mean Julio knows about it now?”

I nodded.

“And he’s not mad at her?”

“Well, not real mad, anyhow.”

“He could get it out of there. Why don’t we just tell Julio?”

Her innocence was heart-wrenching. “Sweetheart, it’ll be all right. Believe me. But we really do have to call the police.”

Her face clouded and pinched up, as she tried to hold back tears of worry for her friend. I felt tears spring to my own eyes—there was something so moving about watching such a small organism trying to muddle its way through life. It was hard enough when you had a couple of degrees and a driver’s license.

“I’ll go right now, honey. You stay here and wait for your mom.”

I was about to head toward the phone at the reception desk—the same one Marty had used Friday night—when I heard Marty somewhere up above.

“Warren Nowell, I’ve got a few things to say to you!”

She was descending the stairs from the second floor, face contorted. Warren, the object of her anger, was walking toward Libby and me, having apparently just come from the restaurant or the bookstore.

Marty was waving her desk calendar and another slip of paper at him—the note about her date, I was sure.

“What was this doing in your desk?”

“Oh, hi, Marty,” said Warren, as if nothing were wrong. He was adapting beautifully to his new role as a leader of men and women. Beside his sangfroid, Marty’s anger looked childish. “Hi, Rebecca. Libby.” He ruffled Libby’s hair.

Marty had reached the rest of us by now. “What did you mean going through my desk?”

“I took some things out for safekeeping. I knew you’d be gone a few days. I was trying to help, that’s all.”

She looked at her watch. “You weren’t, damn you. God, I’m late, thanks to you—I had to search your desk as well as mine—and I still have to drop Libby off… .”

Time, time, time. It seemed all she ever thought about. I loved the way she’d simply dropped the idea that she’d “had to” search his desk, as if such trespasses were an everyday occurrence.

“Let me,” said Warren. “Is she going to Don’s? I’ll be happy to drop her. Can I drop you, too, Rebecca?”

Marty said. “I’ll almost forgive you if you’ll do that.”

He smiled. “Glad to. That is, if nobody minds waiting a minute, I’ve got to get something from my office.”

Right. He probably wanted to lock his desk.

Marty was all smiles, too. Why not? She’d won. She had her things back. “By the way,” she said, “how did your meeting go?”

“You knew about it, did you?”

“Of course, Warren. I knew I might have to search your desk. I picked a time when you’d be busy.”

And she would have sashayed off in semi-triumph if Libby hadn’t wailed, “Mo-o-m! My backpack’s in the car.”

All three of them scattered, leaving me with the fish and the caterers.

If I called the police now, they might make me wait for them. But if I called from the Pelican Inn, they’d come to me there. The pearl could wait another ten minutes.

Libby came back first, looking slightly forlorn.

Warren arrived a few minutes later, now with his briefcase. “Everybody ready? Let’s go.”

As we drove up to the motel, he glanced at his watch. “I’d better call Mary Ellen—the meeting took longer than I thought. Could I use your phone, Rebecca?”

The two of us got out and Libby stayed. Warren said, “Why don’t you come in? I might be a few minutes.”

Oh, great. Just what Libby and I needed—an impromptu party with a self-important, just-promoted hunk of passivity suddenly converted to Type A. He was probably going to make business calls with an audience.

He brought his briefcase in, no doubt containing a sheaf of messages he simply had to return before he could even take Libby home.

Libby said, “Can I go to the bathroom?” and headed toward it.

Warren picked up the phone before I could even see if my message light was flashing, but he didn’t dial, just checked it out; for what, I didn’t know.

He started to rummage in his briefcase. Oh, well, this was obviously going to take forever. I picked up a T-shirt and started to fold it.

“Turn around slowly,” said Warren. His voice sounded higher now, slightly excited, I thought, stretched to cover something unusual.

He was pointing a spear gun at me.

“This is what I went back for,” he said.

The toilet flushed.

He held out one hand. “Walk toward me.”

Feeling like a sleepwalker, I did. When I was close enough, he grabbed my arm, roughly, and held me in front of him, the spear gun close to my rib cage. Libby came out of the bathroom.

“It’s all right,” I said, hating myself for lying so egregiously.

Her eyes were blue Frisbees. “What’s happening?”

“Rebecca is going to tie you up,” said Warren.

“No!” Libby and I spoke together.

“Yes,” said Warren, his mouth turning up at the corners. He was smiling. “Sit on the bed, Libby.”

Silently she obeyed. He pulled me closer, then heaved me onto the bed and grabbed Libby’s arm, squeezing.

“Ouch!”

“Don’t touch her!”

“Rebecca.” He spoke with the air of a doctor addressing a mental patient. “Don’t be stupid. You do what I say or I’ll hurt her.”

I didn’t move; couldn’t. Could this be happening?

“You saw Katy, didn’t you?”

Was he confessing to killing her? I couldn’t ask him in front of Libby.

Yes, I’d seen Katy; and if Warren had killed her, that wasn’t all he’d done to her. I said, “What do you want me to tie her with?”

Libby gasped, betrayed.

“The curtain ties,” he said. “First close the curtains very tight. And that’s how you’re going to tie this young lady. Very tight. You’re going to pull the ties until the circulation stops at her wrists.”

Libby turned terrified, unbelieving eyes on me. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I got up to get the ties. When I came back, Warren let go of Libby’s arm and moved a few feet away, the spear gun aimed at Libby’s heart.

“Rebecca, look at me.”

Glad to. So long as I didn’t have to look at the ten-year-old who was shaking now, trembling like Esperanza freshly fished from the bay, falling apart before my seemingly heartless eyes. Looking at him as ordered, I put an arm around Libby, pulled her close to me. Instinctively she molded her body to mine like a toddler does, suddenly regressed to a small being used to using adult bodies for comfort. Holding her like that, feeling her panic, understanding that I was her only hope, I felt waves of nausea starting. I wanted to throw my body on top of hers in case the world exploded.

I put my hand to my mouth. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Do it then.”

I stared to heave, to go into the bathroom, but Warren said, “Here.”

I leaned toward the floor, heaving. Nothing came up, just waves and waves of painful heaves. Noisy ones. Libby must have thought I was dying. Finally the nausea stopped. But Warren kept going in and out of focus.

“You do exactly as I say, or I swear I will fire a spear into the left side of her skinny chest.”

Libby’s hand covered her heart. I said, “I believe you. I know what you’re capable of.”

He backhanded me, so hard my teeth clicked together. I hit Libby’s head with mine and heard her sharp intake of breath. We toppled together into a quivering pile.

Warren said, “You don’t know shit.”

When he had come close, I’d smelled something ugly. He was perspiring heavily, but this wasn’t a perspiration odor. Perhaps it was fear, the famous fear that animals are supposed to be able to smell, but I didn’t think so. I thought it was something that came out of Warren’s pores when he was excited, not a sexual odor, but something musky, and it dawned on me that he was enjoying himself.