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Authors: Lora Roberts

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BOOK: Murder in a Nice Neighborhood
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We sat in the kitchen, Moira making a centerpiece again, and talked the latest development over. Bridget offered to take my class at the Senior Center to spare me having to fool with it, but I wanted the distraction. That class didn’t need to meet twice a week, since the ladies didn’t usually do that much work. But they enjoyed any opportunity to get together and gossip under the heading of working on their writing.

“Well,” said Bridget, gathering up her baby and her things, “just be careful, Liz. If whoever is murdering these people doesn’t know where you’ve living right now, so much the better.”

That sounded like sense to me. I felt like a stray dog that’s so far eluded the dogcatcher and the gas chamber. Paranoia is rampant on the streets anyway, but there usually isn’t such a good reason for it.

I could hear Claudia snoring from the foot of the stairs. When I checked on her, she was deep into the kind of sleep you get when you’ve taken medication, her mouth wide open, her body looking utterly relaxed. She would be out for hours yet.

Leaving the bus behind the garage, I drove her car. The afternoon wasn’t as nice as the morning had been. There was a cold wind, strengthening every minute, and the sky was clouding over.

Vivien’s house was on the way, so I swung by to see if I could give her a lift. She doesn’t like trying to get in and out of my bus, but I figured Claudia’s car wouldn’t pose much of a problem. She was already heading down the sidewalk, leaning heavily on her footed cane.

She climbed into the car, sighing with relief. Vivien believes in keeping active, but it can be painful for someone so crippled with arthritis. “Is this a new car, Liz? It’s very nice.” Vivien hadn’t bought a car in the past twenty-five years; though she no longer drove, she still had her 1966 Ford Fairlane in her garage. It was probably worth some money.

“A friend’s car I’m borrowing." I let it go at that. No point in alarming Vivien with the tribulations of the last two days.

Carlotta came out while Vivien was tucking her skirt under her. I shut the door and waved at Carlotta, who stared short-sightedly back. It took her a moment to
recognize me without my bus, I guess. Finally she waved, too, heading for her own car.

“There’s Carlotta,” I said unnecessarily as I started up the Honda.

“I see her.” Vivien bit off the words.

“You two at outs?” I glanced sideways at her, pausing at the stop sign.

Vivien sighed. “Not really. This stupid thing is all her fault, anyway. It’s none of her business whether I sell my house or not, but she’s acting like I’m single-handedly keeping her from moving into that retirement place.” She snorted. “Let her sell her house any old time. It doesn’t have to be to Ted Ramsey. I’m not about to sacrifice my home so she can live it up in one of those places.”

“That sounds reasonable.” I drove around the corner, past a couple of guys survey.

Vivien craned her neck, making little tsking noises. “Dear me, so soon?”

“What’s soon?” There was a gaggle of children crossing the street, shepherded by two harried young women. I waited at the stop sign while they took their time getting to the other side. “Are they tearing something down back there?”

Vivien was still looking over her shoulder. “They probably will, I guess. That’s Eunice’s house, you know. Not a week since she died, and already the surveyors are there. I always liked her little house, but people don’t seem to want little old houses anymore. They tear them down without thinking twice.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her worn patent-leather handbag. “Eunice was such a nice person. She always said there’d be no one to mourn when she passed on, her having no children. I’ve thought of that so often since her death. I’ve no children living either.”

“Well, you’re mourning her,” I pointed out.

“Of course.” She sniffed into her hanky. “No one ever had a nicer back-fence neighbor. Our backyards intersect, you know. And Carlotta’s house is like the missing puzzle piece. I bet Ted Ramsey called those surveyors out to Eunice’s. He’s probably got a—what do you call it?—an option on her place.” She shook her head. “He’s such a nice boy. But he just doesn’t understand how I feel about my house.”

I murmured an assent, zipping into a parking place that miraculously opened up in front of the Senior Center. I could see Delores Mitchell in my rearview mirror, her BMW reflecting the weak light with a well-polished glitter. She didn’t look too pleased at losing out on the space; in fact, it wasn’t difficult to read her lips on the subject, even in the mirror.

By the time I helped Vivien out of the car, Delores had found a place to park. She came briskly up the sidewalk, a symphony in teal and silver-gray. “Liz,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you in a different car. Is your van in the shop? How can you get along without it?” She smiled at Vivien.

“I always think of Liz as being like a turtle, carrying her house with her. So adventurous.”

A line from a Janis Joplin song flashed into my head. Janis had sung about being a turtle, hiding inside a hard shell, but ended with a defiant pledge to take good care of herself, knowing the world as she did. She hadn’t really managed it, though. I hoped I could do a better job.

Delores was all graciousness as she patted Vivien’s shoulder. “So nice to see you, Mrs. Greely. When are the painters coming?”

Vivien beamed. “Soon, Delores. It’s like a dream come true, to have that money on hand.” Her eyes clouded over. “Did you know they’re already surveying at Eunice’s house? Do you think it’s that nice Ted Ramsey’s idea?”

“Maybe they’re just getting the property lines straight,” Delores said, her forehead wrinkling. “There’ll be a probate sale, I suppose. Who knows who’ll buy that darling house? Maybe someone who wants to fix it up.”

Vivien didn’t look convinced. She changed the subject. “Your briefcase looks so heavy, Delores. I worry about you carrying it around all the time.”

“It’s actually my portable computer.” Delores flourished the neat black case. “I wanted to show my group some spreadsheets today.” She glanced at me, including me in the conversation. "That’s what you need, Liz. A portable computer to use in your van.”

And plug into my private power plant, I thought (but didn’t say). “My typewriter works fine for a low-tech person like me,” I said instead.

“Yes, indeed,” Vivien chimed in. “Typing is a dying art now, I suppose, with everyone keyboarding. Liz can type so well she could submit her rough drafts as final copy.”

"That’s quite an accomplishment.” Delores glanced at her watch. I thought perhaps she was being ironical, but she probably didn’t have enough sense of humor for irony. “I’ll be late for my class if I don’t get going.”

She sprinted past us up the stairs with a cheery good-bye. Vivien stared after her admiringly. “She always looks so pretty, doesn’t she, Liz? And no husband! I wonder when she’ll settle down.”

It was a topic that held no interest for me, so I changed the subject to writing as we went slowly through the lobby in Delores’s wake. The horrors of the morning began to recede, and I was glad I hadn’t let Bridget fill in for me. The company of six elderly, opinionated ladies was not exactly soothing, but it provided an excellent distraction from murder.

 

Chapter 18

 

I went to my garden after the class ended. It’s my usual routine, and I couldn’t stop it just because I suddenly had access to supermarkets. The garden had been my main source of food for the past couple of years.

The peppers were drooping. I gave them and the tomatoes a good drink, and picked a few to take back to Claudia’s. I had lettuce, too, and some late beans. Normally I would have been figuring out what I could cook with my little harvest. Instead I was trying not to think about Alonso’s face, slack-jawed and bluish, the stubble on his flaccid skin, the unpleasant smell that no amount of disinfectant could disguise, the extremely dead look of him.

I didn’t want to be dead, too. I didn’t want to occupy the next drawer in the morgue.

While I pulled weeds and mulched and cultivated and planted peas, the same futile thoughts chased themselves around in my head. Whoever was doing this killing had it in for street people. Though I didn’t consider myself exactly a street person, I was well aware that I might be perceived that way. Ergo, there was danger for anyone living on the streets. And, though it might not be rational, I felt there was extra danger for me, that the killer was pointing at me.

It was almost a relief to think about Tony, to try and place him in the scene. Was he at the bottom of it all? I wouldn’t put any kind of vicious craziness past him, but I had to admit that the Tony I’d tried to kill eight years ago was more likely to go one-on-one with his plans for me. I couldn’t see him working through the agency of these other murders. I could only see him coming straight for me, using his own two hands.

A cold gust of wind carried away the empty little bag that had held sugar snap peas for planting. Shivering, I moved the hose over to the artichokes and began to collect my equipment. The sounds of cars driving by on Embarcadero, people coming and going from the library and community center, were muted by the wall of trees and hedges that enclosed the community gardens. The vast silence of growing things pushed out man-made noises. When several gardeners are present, the place hums with conversation and activity. On this chilly late October afternoon, there was no one around but me.

I told myself it was ridiculous to think anything could happen in daylight, in shouting distance of the library. But all the same I hurried while repacking my garden basket.

When the shadow fell across the planting bed, I wouldn’t look up. I wanted to think I was imagining it, that it was a product of too much angst, too much nerviness. But I could feel eyes watching me, the vibrations of someone nearby. None of my fellow gardeners would stand there without saying anything—there would be comments about the size of my peppers, at the least.

My fingers tightened around the trowel. I turned. Paul Drake stood behind me.

“Damn it!” I jumped to my feet. “You’re always sneaking up on me. Why didn’t you say something? I might have duked you before I checked you out.”

“You’re frightened." He sounded surprised. “Sorry, Liz. I thought you heard me coming.” He looked around, interested. “I’ve never been here before. Do you have to pay?”

The tension leaked out of me till I felt like an air mattress at three A.M.
“It’s a token amount.” I picked up my basket. “Were you looking for me or just trying to find something to do?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m keeping an eye on you, Liz. Everyone seems to agree that it’s a good idea.”

“You mean, because I may be killing people?” I shook my head. A couple of sleep-deprived nights were starting to catch up with me. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to knock anyone off in the next couple of hours. You can have dinner in peace, maybe even take in a movie.”

He didn’t smile. “That’s like joking about terrorists in an airport”

“Sorry.” I pushed past him. “My sense of humor has been impaired.”

“Mine, too.” He put one hand on my arm when I would have walked away. “What have you got, anyway?” I stared at him blankly, but he wasn’t even looking at me. “Lettuce, scallions, beans, tomatoes—looks good.”

“Everything tastes better when you grow it yourself.” I shrugged. “I always think so, anyway. Ton—I’ve been told it’s just my imagination.”

“Your ex-husband told you that?” His expression didn’t change, but something came and went in his eyes. He fell into step behind me down the narrow path to the gate. “Have you always gardened, then?”

“Sort of.” I pushed the gate open and waited for him so I could latch it shut—it keeps the neighboring dogs out. He latched it himself, so naturally that I wondered if he’d been lying about never having been there before. “My mother always had a vegetable garden. I took it up after leaving school—helps on the food bills.”

“I bet.” He eyed my produce hungrily. “That stuff would run you quite a tab at Whole Foods.”

“Somehow I picture you hanging out at the bakery, not the produce.”

He managed to look affronted. “Someone’s been gossiping,” he grumbled, stopping beside Claudia’s car. “Was it Bruno?”

“Detective Morales? I hardly know him.” I unlocked the trunk and put my basket there, next to the portfolio where I kept the notebook for the writing workshop. It bothered me to have my stuff sitting out in the car, exposed to public view. I was too used to carrying everything around with me, neatly put away. It gave me a dislocated feeling to walk out to a parking lot and not see my bus, my home, waiting for me.

“So, I’ve been hinting for a dinner invitation.” Drake leaned against Claudia’s car as if he had all evening. “You’re not picking up on it.”

“Such subtlety,” I murmured, unlocking the driver’s side. “I’m fixing dinner for Claudia, Drake.”

That gave him pause for a minute. “She doesn’t like me.” His voice was almost plaintive.

“She doesn’t think much of you,” I agreed.

“But she wouldn’t grudge me a good dinner, I’m sure.” He smiled at me ingratiatingly.

I hesitated. “You can’t expect me to invite you to dinner. It’s not my house.”

"That’s okay.” He patted me on the shoulder. “I’m inviting myself. Police business—keeping an eye on a material witness.”

“But—”

“I’ll do the dishes,” he said, with the air of one making a great concession.

I didn’t want to like the guy, but it was hard not to. “Okay. You’re on.” I slid into the car and rolled the window down. “Don’t blame me if you end up with your self-esteem in tatters.”

“Oh, I won’t blame you—for that.” He walked away to his battered Saab.

All the way back to Claudia’s, while I drove with the exemplary road manners that are induced by having the police close behind, I wondered just what he would find to blame me for.

 

Chapter 19

 

Claudia
was awake. I could hear her thrashing around upstairs, and I paused just to put down the basket of veggies before I raced up to her. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to pull a caftan over her head. Her eyes stared out at me from the tangle of fabric, dilated and groggy-looking.

BOOK: Murder in a Nice Neighborhood
9.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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