Murder in the Marketplace (12 page)

I finished digging out Bermuda grass. The carrot seedlings raised their feathery plumes, uncrowded by weeds. The sun was hot on my shoulders; the scents of herbs and tomato foliage surrounded me. A few other people were working around me. The peaceful, humming quiet was composed of
wind in the tops of the plum trees that surround the garden, and traffic swishing by on Embarcadero Road and in the library parking lot. It was so quiet that I was surprised when I picked up a pile of weeds to carry to the Dumpster and saw Bridget in her garden plot, two over and three down.

Not that it surprises me to see Bridget. It was just that the air of peace hadn’t been shattered by the shrill noises of her numerous offspring.

She waved a dirty hand at me and set out another cucumber. She was late for that, of course, but Bridget’s garden is always a haphazard, last-minute thing that somehow manages to produce vegetables at an astonishing rate. Sleeping near her in a small Barcalounger-type seat was a baby—Moira, the fourth and last Montrose child.

“Hey, Liz. I thought you were working at that temp job.” Bridget firmed the dirt around the cucumber plant and stood up, stretching. She was nothing extraordinary to look at—a bit matronly as to figure, a couple of years older than me, with flyaway hair and warm brown eyes, as clear and dancing as dark amber. Her beauty is inside, for the most part, shining out through those eyes and her bright, infectious smile. She was my only friend in Palo Alto for a while, and a great help to me in getting my freelance career off the ground. Because of her, I got to teach a writing workshop at the Senior Center from September through May that paid enough to take care of my postage bill.

“I did temp yesterday morning and for a couple of hours today.” I clutched my weeds gloomily. “I’m off now because of the body.”

She laughed, then looked closer. “You’re not joking.”

‘‘Nope."

“Oh, no. Not again!” She turned a bushel basket over beside the baby chair and sat. Moira slept on, shaded by an awning thing on the chair. “What happened?”

I dropped my pile of weeds. “Maybe you can fill me in. Remember that guy at your party last night, the one who poured the beer on my arm? Ed Garfield.”

“Yeah. He’s the one Emery told about you, when he was complaining about the temp shortage last week.”

“What do you know about his company?”

“SoftWrite? That’s not just Ed, it’s both of them, Ed and Suzanne.” Bridget peeked beneath the sunshade to check the baby. “Suzanne is so quiet, she’s often overlooked. But Emery thinks she’s the brains behind that screen saver—their first product, you know.”

“Aren’t they competitors of Emery’s?”

Bridget squinted against the sun. “Not directly.” She put her hand over her forehead to look at me. I moved around so my shadow shaded her and she smiled gratefully. “Emery is doing custom applications, real-time analysis.”

“Is there some other kind of time?”

She laughed. “For the techies there is, evidently. Emery’s got his own niche. He’s not too worried about the other small companies. They tend to respect each other’s territories. But if the big guys sound like they’re getting into the same field, then he worries.” She wrinkled her forehead. “SoftWrite, now—their new product is something to do with personal assistants. A lot of big companies like Apple and Oracle are jumping into that. It’s risky—those big guys like to squash the little players.”

“A newspaper reporter asked about MicroMax today. Some rumor or other.”

“Really?” Bridget looked interested. “I’ll have to ask Emery about it. There’s more gossip in Silicon Valley than in the Valley of the Dolls.” Moira made a little noise in her sleep, and Bridget smoothed a lock of fine red hair away from the baby’s face. When she looked up, her smile faded. “Now what about this body?”

I told her about Jenifer, getting myself worked up again while I went through it. Suicide or murder—whatever it was, it was wasteful. Young people should be getting on  with the business of saving the world. It’s their main job. Knocking themselves off or being killed doesn’t do a thing for the universe.

“So SoftWrite has employees whose address is on your census sheet.” Bridget looked thoughtful. “What are the odds of that happening, I wonder?”

“Not as weird as it sounds, probably. I had several people on my register in different apartment buildings in that same neighborhood who worked for the same law firm at Palo Alto Square, a place where I also temped a few months ago. Of course, it’s a big law firm.”

“And the temp job really grew out of our connection with you.” Bridget brightened up a little. “The jungle drums thing. It’s really pretty powerful, isn’t it? Emery may need some help if you’re free.”

“It’s nice of Emery to think of me, but he can’t afford to make up jobs for me, and you know it.”

Bridget looked abashed. “I know. But he always does need help.”

“I’ll spend full time on the census. And Saturday I have Claudia’s garden work. Don’t worry about me.”

"That’s the ticket. Maybe you’ll get the whole register done this weekend and be through with it.” Bridget's nice face was worried. “I don’t like you going around to houses where homicidal lunatics might be living. You need some quiet temp jobs where you have time to edit your manuscripts.”

“First I have to write some.” I thought of my pile of projects. “And with Amy around, that’s going to be difficult.”

“Amy? Oh, yes, your niece. Poor Liz. It never rains but it pours.” Bridget tossed her trowel into the rickety bucket that held a rusty collection of garden tools. Moira stirred in her chair. “Just be sorry for me. School’s out next week.”

No wonder it had been so quiet. Second-grade Corky, kindergartner Sam, and preschooler Mick were safely incarcerated in their various learning situations. After only twenty-four hours of surrogate motherhood, I had a new appreciation for what Bridget went through. “Boy, that is a shattering thought. Will they go to camp?”

“Maybe a couple of the recreation programs, but we’re having a financial crisis right now, so they’ll mostly be home.” Bridget clutched her flyaway hair. “I’ll be up to my ears in children!”

“Okay, you have it the worst.” I grinned at her. “Amy’s going to get a job as a stockbroker or investment banker or something, so I’ll probably never see her.”

“You’ll have fun with her. It sounds like you enjoy her, actually.” Bridget picked up the chair with Moira in it and tucked it under one arm. She reached for the bucket of tools, but I took it and led the way to the parking lot. Bridget’s old Suburban was parked beside my VW bus. She went through the ritual of putting Moira’s chair thing in and strapping it to the car several different ways. Moira still hadn’t opened her eyes. She was a cute baby, nine months old, with plump, rosy cheeks and a halo of curly red hair like her father’s.

Bridget finished securing Moira. “I wish I’d met Amy last night.” She shut the car door carefully and took the bucket of tools from me. “Maybe you should bring her over for dessert tonight. Claudia’s thinking of looking in again. Your niece might have fun.” She thought, then she shook her head. “Boy, that makes me feel old—realizing that my friends and I would be boring to a teenager.”

“I’ll come, anyway,” I said. “Amy can do as she likes.”

I felt a little qualm when I said this. Amy was probably counting on my inattention so she could go off and act like a teenaged jackass.

“Around eight,” Bridget said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I'm going to try to have the kids in bed by then.”

I watched her drive away and then went back to carry my weeds to the Dumpster. My gardening equipment is not much better than Bridget’s, though I clean it carefully to make it last. I loaded up the bus with the tender lettuces, basil tips, the last of my potatoes, some beets, carrots, and scallions, and headed for home.

It was a little past noon. I figured Amy and Barker would be home, expecting me to produce lunch out of my hat. She was there, sitting on the front porch while Barker slept in a nearby patch of sunlight.

There was someone sitting with Amy. At first I thought it might be Eric or Randy. They were chatting comfortably as I drove up; I was glad she had sense enough not to let one of the boys into the house when she was there alone.

Then I recognized the man. It was Ed Garfield.

Chapter 12

Amy bounced off the step when I parked the bus. She was reddened by the sun, her hair sticking up all over her head in a wild, wind-styled disarray. “Aunt Liz!” She hung on the bus’s open door while I collected my produce.

“You locked the door! I couldn’t get in!” She lowered her voice, glancing mischievously over her shoulder. “Your friend couldn’t get in either. He’s pretty eager to talk to you."

Ed stood by the porch steps, glancing at his watch. “He’s hunky.” Amy whispered while we approached. I nodded stiffly to Ed and unlocked the door. Amy swooped down on Barker and danced inside, carrying him. Ed hung  back.

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” he said. His presence on my doorstep didn’t exactly rank with the mysteries of the universe, but I was curious.

“I have to put my vegetables away,” I said. “Do you want a glass of water or anything?”

He followed me into the kitchen. Amy was already there, rooting through the refrigerator. “We don’t have any food,” she announced.

“We haven’t gone shopping.” I poured the veggies out of my garden basket into the sink, and scrubbed the beets and carrots and potatoes.

Amy got herself a glass of ice water and offered one to Ed. “Aunt Liz doesn’t do sodas and things,” she said, gulping thirstily. “She’s, like, into healthy stuff.” She snatched a radish and crunched into it. “This is good.” She sounded surprised.

I scrubbed and trimmed the rest of the radishes and put them in a little bowl, with some salt in another little bowl.

“See,” Amy told Ed, who perched uncomfortably on a kitchen chair, “this is lunch, for my aunt.”

Ed made a strangled sound, and I gave Amy a look that evidently she recognized.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said hastily. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Garfield.” She flounced out of the room.

I was hungry, but damned if I was going to offer to feed Ed. There wasn’t much to eat, anyway, as Amy had noticed—it would be a choice between couscous and scrambled egg. One egg. I added some tiny carrots to the dish of radishes and joined him at the table with my own glass of water.

“I guess you really needed the work.” He looked at the kitchen, his shifting weight making the elderly chair creak. “I’m sorry you decided to leave.”

Pity is worse than suspicion. “Nobody does temp work except for money,” I pointed out, crunching another radish.

“Suzanne said you were doing census stuff, too—is that how you—found Jenifer?”

“I was there, yes.”

Ed shook his head. “I had no idea—look, Liz. Ms. Sullivan.” He leaned forward, gazing at me earnestly. “Let’s let bygones be bygones. Clarice is going to be gone the rest of the day. We still need someone to answer the phone. I hate for callers to get just the voice mail, especially with our new release coming up.” He passed a hand over his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “How about your coming in just for today and tomorrow? That finishes the week, and Monday our receptionist should be well again. You were doing a great job. In fact, I think we could throw in a little bonus, since the phones are so heavy.”

It made me feel strange to be offered extra money, as if I was a commodity, easily purchased. And yet, the person answering phones does work just as stressful as the person making decisions. More, because the phone answerer is often treated like nothing by the people who use her services. So I deserved more money, of course; most of my pink-collar sisters do. I just didn’t care for the context in which it was offered.

“Why did you come over? Why didn’t you just call?” I knew he hadn’t wanted to scope out my degree of poverty. Bosses never think about that stuff until it looks them in the eye.

“I did, but I kept getting someone’s answering machine.” He picked up a radish, turning it in his fingers as if it came from the alien Vegetable Planet. “And—well, there were things I wanted to ask you face-to-face. About Jenifer.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Clarice wasn’t able to be coherent at all after you left. I want to know—how Jenifer looked, and all. You see, I had a special feeling for her.” He looked up with the ghost of a smile on his face. “Despite what Jason said today, I’m not that old.” The smile faded. “I can’t help but wonder—can’t help but blame myself.”

He fell silent. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The water hissed and banged in the pipes. Through the half-glass door that led to the little back porch, I could hear the ancient water heater light up with a whoosh.

Ed spoke again. “Was she—did she look—peaceful?”

I still didn’t know what to say. Was I supposed to tell people about the scene of the death? If I didn’t tell, would Clarice? “She looked very peaceful,” I hedged. “No trauma."

He turned away, but not before I saw the glint of moisture in his eyes. “Stupid,” he muttered. “It’s just been one hell of a day, that’s all.”

I cleared my throat. “It would be uncomfortable to work at SoftWrite after what Clarice said this morning.”

Ed touched my arm briefly. “Listen, she wasn’t making any sense at all. We’re so busy right now, nobody has time to think. And the phones are going crazy.” His jaw was rigid, his hands tense. When I looked closely, I could see the strain in his face.

It was rather satisfying to be begged to come back to a job. That had never happened to me before. “Can’t you just get another temp?"

“We did manage to find one girl. She couldn’t hack the phones. She left after twenty minutes and said she wasn’t coming back.”

So this was the secret of my attractiveness. He added, “I wangled your home address out of Emery's secretary and came up to ask you back.” He looked at his watch again and stood up. “Whatever it takes. Double what you usually get from temp work. Look, I don’t have much time. I’m in the middle of important negotiations. I can’t put them on hold, I can’t even take time to realize that Jenifer—” His voice broke. He turned away.