Fool's Journey (9 page)

           
"That's how long my aunt has been coming here,"
he explained. "I drive her sometimes."

           
"So you think it might be a student?" she
asked.

           
"Could be anyone. Do you have any ideas?"

           
"Not really," she said slowly. "But there
are people who are more likely to connect that particular poem to me than my
students are. There's a whole publishing company, in fact—about twenty people.
It's a small house here in Seattle. Orca Books.
 
They'll be releasing my anthology quite soon," she explained.
"The title is
Porphyria's Revenge
.
It's a response to Browning."

           
Manny tapped the tips of his fingers together as he
thought. "So all we know is that whoever wrote that email knew those lines
were important to you.
 
Do you remember
anything about the email address?"

           
"I didn't recognize it," she said. "I
think it was just numbers."

           
"Hard for a layperson to trace, but it can be done
if we need to. For now, we know that whoever is doing this knows something
about how email works and how to disguise the address of origin. That should
narrow the field at least a little."

           
"It's so difficult to believe this is
happening." Deirdre hugged herself, trying to suppress a shudder.
"Who could hate me so much?"

           
Manny
studied her for a moment before replying. "It might not be hate, you know.
It could be a twisted kind of love. It's a very strange world out there."
He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Why don't you get dressed and I'll
go with you to the cop shop. I don't think they'll be very interested, but it's
a good thing to have this on record."

           
Deirdre felt her stomach lurch. She felt almost as if
he'd tricked her, leading her into a false sense of security.
"Thanks," she said slowly. "I think I'll wait till tomorrow,
though. I'm pretty tired."

           
"I know you don't want to go," he said softly.

           
Deirdre looked away.

           
"I don't know why," he continued, "but
Auntie Rosa said to tell you:
no harm
will come of this
."

           
She drew in her breath sharply. It was one of the wishes
she had made when Mrs. Ruiz read her tarot. She hadn't said it aloud. No one
could possibly have known.

           
She shook her head and whispered, "I'm not
going."

Manny gazed at Deirdre's
heart-shaped face, framed by the copper curls, several long tendrils curling
over her shoulder. She was looking down at her cup again. What was going on
with her? Secrets. Lots of secrets. He could feel them in the air between them.

           
Deirdre. Her name was as beautiful as she was. He
remembered when his aunt had first described her to him three years ago.
Màs bonita que la poesia. More beautiful
than poetry
.

           
 
She looked delicate, but something, perhaps
the set of her jaw, told him this was a misconception. He wondered for a moment
what she'd be like in bed. Sweet, but fierce, he imagined.

           
"You don't compromise do you?" he asked.

           
"No,” she said, looking up at him. "Ambiguity
belongs in poetry. Not life."

           
He frowned and nodded. "For tonight I'll take 'no'
for an answer, but I'm not leaving until I take a look around and make sure
everything's okay. I'll even look under the bed."

           
"I'm not sure even your aunt has the courage for
that," Deirdre said, attempting lightness she didn't feel. She glanced
toward the darkened windows and suppressed a shiver. "Do you want some
more coffee first?"

           
He shook his head. "Thanks. Not tonight. I've got to
meet a client in about an hour."

           
"Oh." She felt deflated, oddly reluctant to
face the rest of the evening by herself. "Big case?"

           
"Boring case. Excitement's mainly in the movies.
Come on," he said, standing up.

           
The partially opened box sat on the coffee table, an edge
of the wreath visible. Manny frowned as he caught sight of it. He picked up a
pencil and slid the lid back gingerly.

           
"You never know. We may want to dust for prints
later," he explained. "No sense in adding mine. Anyone touch it
besides you?"

           
Deirdre shook her head.

           
"Good. Just the one door?"

           
"There's one in my storage room that used to lead
down to the rest of the house. A back stairway, I guess, but it was nailed shut
when they turned this floor into an apartment."

           
"Does anyone live on that side?"

           
"I think it's used for storage." She shrugged.
"There are three other apartments in the house, but they're all on the
first and second floors, and they all enter through the main foyer."

           
"Where do you park?"

           
No use lying about this one, she decided. Her answer
would be unusual, but unlikely to raise too much suspicion.

"I
don't drive."

           
He looked at her a moment, then blinked and went on.
"You're sure there's only the one entrance to yours?" he asked.

 
          
"That's
all. The window in my bedroom is big and it opens onto a low roof, so I guess
it meets fire code. I'm sure I could get out that way if I ever needed
to."

           
Manny leaned against the wall for a moment with his arms
folded. "This is an interesting layout. What's back here?" he asked,
nodding in the other direction.

           
"Storage. My bedroom. This used to be the servants'
quarters. Sometimes I wonder what they were like, the people who once lived up
here. I wonder what they dreamed about, or if they dreamed at all after a long
day's work.
 
It couldn't have been an
easy life."

           
"It never is," he smiled at her, "but
usually a person can find ways to be happy, if they look."

           
"When I was a little girl," she said, "I
used to escape to the kitchen whenever I could. Our cook, Magdalena, would give
me a cup of milk and coffee with lots of sugar. I never thought what her life
was like. I just treasured the time I could spend with her, watching her knead
dough or assemble trays of canapés if my parents were entertaining. She used to
make a plate just for me, and she'd use little olive slices and slivers of
celery to make little faces on them, smiling faces. She'd say 'Smile, Miss
–'"

           
Deirdre stopped herself and let the silence fall between
them for a moment. "You'd better let me get the lights," she said,
leading the way. "They're hard to find."

           
He followed her through the cluttered storage rooms to
her bedroom. "There isn't much room for anyone to hide," he commented
as he looked around.

           
Her eyes followed his. She always played a little game
with herself when someone saw her home for the first time, looking through
their eyes at every picture and book for clues about her personality and past.
What did her surroundings tell him? What did he make of the clutter of books
and paper, the narrow twin bed? Deirdre was suddenly more aware of her senses.
She could smell her own cologne and his leather jacket. Street noises drifted
up.

           
"The window concerns me," Manny said after a
few silent moments.
 
He gave the frame a
slight push and the window swung easily open. "Doesn't this thing
lock?"

           
"It's been painted so often I can't ever get it to
shut all the way," Deirdre explained. "Do you think it's a
problem?"

           
"Come here and take a look."

           
Deirdre crossed over to him and together they leaned out
the window. "You said you could get out on the roof if there was ever a
problem. If you can get out that way, it's pretty easy for somebody to get in,
don't you think?"

           
"Don't tell me there's a crazed gymnast out
there."

           
"Maybe not," he laughed, "but there could
be a crazed tree climber. That oak there could carry a lot of weight. All
someone would have to do is drop from that branch."

           
"It must be at least ten feet, though," Deirdre
protested, "and another two stories to the ground."

           
"Well, maybe a crazed amateur gymnast. Or even some
kind of genius who knows how to go get a ladder."

           
She didn't find his sarcasm amusing, even though she knew
he was doing his best to put her at ease. "So, what should I do?"

           
Manny pulled out a pocketknife and began to scrape away
at the layers of paint. "We'll see how this works for now."

           
Deirdre folded her arms and sat down on the bed. "Is
this your special detective pocket knife?"

           
"James Bond model. I got it in my Wheaties this
morning." He continued scraping for a few moments. "There, I think I
got it." He swung the window in and pulled it shut. Then he turned the
catch.

           
"That should do it for now. What you save on heat
should make up for the damage deposit."

           
He folded the knife and returned it to his pocket, then
brushed his hands on the sides of his pants. Deirdre was sitting cross-legged
on her narrow bed, watching him. She wondered what would happen if he sat down
with her.

           
"How about you, Manny?" she asked. "Do you
read cards?"

           
He smiled. Three slow steps would take him to her.

           
"You crazy? I wouldn't touch them." He leaned
back against the window frame. "I just read palms."

XI.

           
Deirdre held out her hand in front of her, palm up, and
waited. An offering. Still leaning against the window frame, Manny shook his
head.

           
"Not enough time to do a good job," he said.
"Long night tonight. Back alley work. One of my clients has someone they
want me to follow. Sound sleazy enough?"

           
"Pretty sleazy," she admitted. Then she laughed
softly and shook her head. "I'll have to tell you about my job sometime.
Bet I can top you."

           
He returned her smile. "At last, the truth about the
Ivory Tower. That sounds promising. You going to campus tomorrow?"

           
"Probably not – I'm on a Monday, Wednesday, Friday
teaching schedule. I'm meeting a colleague for lunch near campus, but I haven't
decided whether I'll go into the office."

           
"How about we get some coffee in the morning?"
he asked. "I should probably get some more background information on you
anyway, just in case. Could be nothing more will happen, but it's best to be
prepared. Afterwards I can drive you wherever it is you're going."

           
Deirdre felt the panic rising in her once more. She
needed to put him off. Part of her craved the security he offered, but the rest
recoiled at the thought of the revelations he would inevitably seek.

           
"No, Manny," she said. "I appreciate the
offer, but it sounds as if you'll be working late tonight as it is. You've
already done too much, gone to too much trouble."

           
He shook his head and laughed, a low, rusty chuckle.
"You've got it wrong. You want to know what too much trouble is, Deirdre?
Too much trouble is explaining to my Aunt Rosa why I let you go running around
by yourself. She thinks a lot of you."

           
"But even she can't expect a detective to do
pro bono
work," Deirdre said
quickly. "I'm not an official client."

           
"Is that all that's worrying you? Well, let's see
now. What's this on the floor?" He bent down and picked something up.
"A whole quarter. Throwing your money around, eh? Look, I put it in my
pocket. Presto! You've got me on retainer."