P is for Peril (20 page)

“Maybe I'll surprise you. Where's your family?”

“My parents died in a car accident when I was five years old. I was raised by my mother's sister, my aunt Gin. She's dead now, too.”

“No siblings?”

I shook my head.

“What about the husbands? Who were they?”

“The first was a cop . . . I met him when I was a rookie . . .”

“You were a cop?”

“For two years.”

“And the second?”

“He was a musician. Very talented. Not so good at being faithful, but he was nice in other ways. He cooked and played piano.”

“Skills I admire. And where is he now?”

“I haven't any idea. You said your parents were gone?”

“It's weird being an adult orphan, though not as bad as you'd think. What'd your father do for a living?”

“Mail carrier. My folks were married fifteen years before I came along.”

“So you only had five years together as a family.”

“I guess that's right. I hadn't thought of it that way.”

“Poor babe.”

“Poor everyone. Such is life,” I said.

The waiter returned with our Chardonnay and we watched him politely as he went through the ritual of extracting the cork, presenting a sample of wine, and then pouring two glasses. We hadn't even looked at the menus so we were accorded a few minutes to decide what we wanted. I ended up ordering the roast chicken and Tommy ordered the pasta puttanesca. We shared a salad up front. Once the entrées arrived, Tommy said, “Tell me about the boyfriend. What's the deal on him?”

I lowered my fork, feeling defensive on Dietz's behalf. “Why should I talk to you about him?”

“Don't be so prickly. I'd like to know what's going on here. Between us.”

“Nothing's going on. We're having dinner.”

“I think there's more to it than that.”

“Really. As in what?”

“I have no idea. That's why I'm asking you.”

“What are we doing here, defining our relationship? I've known you an hour.”

His smile was slow. He seemed unaffected by my churlishness, which I couldn't seem to control. “Actually, I think it's closer to two hours than one. I saw you at the rental property twice before and now this.” He finished the wine in his glass and poured himself more, adding wine to my glass first. His eyes were really the most extraordinary shade of green.

I said, “Well, I haven't known you long enough. Besides, you're too young.”

He lifted his brows and I found myself blushing.

I said, “How'd you decide to move to Santa Teresa?”

“You're changing the subject.”

“I don't like to be pushed,” I said.

“Let's talk about sex. Tell me what you like in bed in case it ever comes up.”

I laughed. “Let's talk about grade school. I hated mine. How'd you feel about yours?”

“Good. It was fun. I was captain of the Safety Council two years in a row. I went to four different colleges, but didn't graduate. I may try it again some day. I'd like to finish my degree.”

“I did two semesters of junior college and didn't like it at all. I took Spanish in adult education, but I've forgotten everything except
‘ola'
and
‘buenos dios. '
”

“You cook?”

“No, but I'm a tidy little thing.”

“Me, too. My brother's a pig. You'd never guess it by looking. He dresses okay, but his car's a mess.”

“I carry cans of motor oil in my backseat.”

“Part of your work,” he said, forgivingly.

We chattered on in this fashion and I found myself liking his face. Also, I was not exactly unaware of his body, lean and muscular. I wondered where Dietz was tonight. Not anywhere in range, so what difference did it make? Few men appeal to me, not so much because I'm picky about
them.
I'm protective of myself, which means I disqualify all but the most—what . . . ? I couldn't think what it was that allowed some men to get through my defenses. Chemistry, I guess. I focused on cutting my chicken, trying a sample of mashed potatoes, which rank right up there with peanut butter, in my opinion.

Tommy touched my hand. “Where'd you disappear to?”

I looked up to find him staring at me. I moved my fingers away from his. “Is this a date?”

“Yes.”

“Because I don't date.”

“I can tell.”

“I'm serious,” I said. “I'm not good at this boy-girl stuff.”

“You must be. You were married twice and now you have this other boyfriend on the string.”

“I've had guys in between. That doesn't mean I handle it well.”

“You do fine. I like you. You don't have to be a jerk. Lighten up.”

Humbled, I said, “Okay.”

When we left the restaurant at nine o'clock, the streets were still glistening with the rain, which had passed. I saw his Porsche parked across the street. The children's playground was dark and the boats in the marina beyond were bobbing dots of light. I waited while he unlocked the car and let me in. Once he fired up the engine, he said, “Something I want to show you. It's early yet. Okay?”

He pulled away from the curb and did a U-turn on Cabana Boulevard. We drove west, passing the yacht harbor on our left and Santa Teresa City College on our right. Up the hill on Sea Shore. Left at the next big intersection. Without being told, I knew we were on our way to Horton Ravine. He smiled over at me. “I want to show you the house.”

“What about Richard? Won't he object?”

“He drove down to Bell Garden to play poker tonight.”

“What if he loses and comes home?”

“He won't come back until morning whatever happens.”

We drove through the stone pillars that marked the rear entrance to Horton Ravine. The road was wide and dark. Many properties on either side were unfenced and had the look of rural countryside: pastures and stables, house lights twinkling through the trees. The route he took was circuitous, and I suspected his intention was to demonstrate the power and handling of the Porsche. At length, he turned right and up a short driveway to a half-moon motorcourt. I caught a sweeping glimpse of the house: stucco walls, massive lines, red-tile roof. All the arches and balconies were washed with dramatic exterior lights. He reached for the remote garage-door opener, pressed a button, and then swung into the open bay of a four-car garage. The cavernous space was pristine; new white drywall that smelled of the plaster overcoating. Three spaces were empty. I imagined Richard driving a sports car as new and as flashy as Tommy's. I opened the car door on my side and let myself out while Tommy got out and fished for his house key. There were no shelves, no tools, and no junk piled up; no lawn chairs, no cardboard boxes marked XMAS ETC. He let us into the utility area off the kitchen. The indicator on the alarm panel by the door was dark. There was a half bath and maid's quarters to the left, a laundry room on the right. There were stacks of junk mail on the kitchen counters, catalogs and flyers. In a separate pile there were instruction manuals for the answering machine, the microwave oven, and the Cuisinart, which had clearly never been used. The floors were done in dull red Mexican pavers, sealed and polished to a high gloss. Tommy tossed his keys on the glossy white-tile counter. “So what do you think?”

“No alarm system? That seems odd in a house this size.”

“Spoken like a cop. There's actually one installed, but it isn't hooked up. When we first moved in Richard set it off so often, the company started charging us fifty bucks a pop and the cops refused to show. We figured, what's the point?”

“Let's hope the burglars haven't heard.”

“We're insured. Come on and I'll give you the ten-cent tour.”

He walked me through the house, pausing to fill me in on their decorating plans. On the first level, wide-plank oak floors stretched through the living room, dining room, family room, paneled den, and two guest rooms. The upstairs was fully carpeted in cream-colored wool; two master suites, a workout room, and enough closet space for ten. The place had the feel of a model home in a brand-new subdivision, minus all the furniture and foo-foo. Many rooms were empty, and those that had furniture seemed empty, nonetheless. I realized Tommy traveled light, like me—no kids, no pets, and no houseplants. In the family room, there was a fully stocked wet bar, too much black leather, and a big-screen television for sporting events. I didn't see any art or books, but maybe those were still packed away.

In the bedrooms, it was clear they'd purchased entire suites of furniture off the showroom floor. All the pieces matched; light wood in Tommy's room—the style, “Moderne.” In Richard's bedroom, the headboard, chest of drawers, armoire, and two bed tables were heavy and dark, the design faintly Spanish with wrought-iron pulls. Everything was spotlessly clean, which probably meant a crew of three coming in once a week.

We made the complete circuit and ended up back in the kitchen. Both of us were conscious of the passage of time. Despite his earlier nonchalance, he seemed as aware as I was that Richard might roll in at any moment. He wasn't due for hours, but I could feel his presence like a ghost in every room. Tommy had made no further comment about his brother's chilly attitude and I didn't want to ask. For all I knew, the tension between them had nothing to do with me.

Finally, in a show of bravado, Tommy said, “Would you like a drink?”

“I think not, but thanks. I have work to do. I appreciate the tour. This is really great.”

“It needs work yet, but we like it. You'll have to see it by day. The landscaping's beautiful.” He checked his watch. “I better get you home.”

I picked up my shoulder bag and followed him, waiting in the car while he locked the house again. In the confines of the Porsche, I was conscious of the charge in the air between us. We chatted on the drive, but it was make-work in the face of my attraction to him. He found a parking space near Rosie's, half a block from my place. He parallel parked and then came around the car again to let me out. He offered me his hand in support and I extracted myself with as much grace as I could manage. Sports cars should come equipped with quick-ejection seats.

The crowd noise from Rosie's was muffled, but I was aware of the contrast between the raucous din in there and the quiet where we were. Residual rain dripped from the nearby trees and water gurgled along the gutters like a urban brook. We stood there for a moment, neither of us sure how to say good-night. He reached over idly and adjusted the metal clasp on the front of my slicker. “Don't want you wet. Can I walk you home?”

“I'm just down there. You can almost see the place from here.”

He smiled. “I know. I got the address from your application and checked it out earlier. Looks nice.”

“You're nosy.”

“Where you're concerned,” he said.

He smiled again and I found myself glancing away. We both said “Well” at the same time and laughed. I walked backward a few steps, watching while he opened the door and folded himself under the steering wheel. He slammed the car door and moments later the engine rumbled to life. The headlights flicked on and he took off with a roar. I turned, proceeding to the corner while the sound of his car faded at the end of the block. I confess my underwear felt warm and ever so faintly damp.

Tuesday morning dawned in a haze of damp and fog. I went through my usual morning routine, including a jog so vigorous it left me rosy-cheeked and sweating. After breakfast, I spent some time working at home, finishing revisions on my report for Fiona. Maybe all these neatly typed pages would pass for progress in her eyes. This was one of the few times in my life when I could see that I might fail, and I was scared. I anticipated her return with the same enthusiasm I'd felt any time I had to have a shot as a kid.

I left my apartment at 9:35. With the temporary break in the storm, large bands of blue sky had appeared between the clouds. The grass had turned emerald green and the leaves on all the trees were looking glossy and fresh. My appointment with Dow Purcell's best friend, Jacob Trigg, was scheduled for 10:00. I'd studied a city map, pinpointing his street address in the heart of Horton Ravine. I drove east along Cabana Boulevard and ascended the hill as it swept up from the beach. I turned left on Promontory Drive and followed the road along the bluffs that paralleled the beach. I turned left again and drove through the back entrance to Horton Ravine. Tommy crossed my mind and I smiled in a goofy glow I found embarrassing.

A mile down the road, I saw the street I was looking for. I turned right through a warren of winding lanes and drove up the hill. Water rushed in a torrent along the berm and what looked like entire gravel driveways had washed out into the road. A tree with shallow roots had toppled backward, pulling up a half-moon of soil. Despite the numerous houses in the area, Mother Nature was busy reclaiming her own.

I peered to my right, checking mailboxes as I crept along. I finally spotted the house number Jacob Trigg had given me. Enormous black wrought-iron gates stood open and I drove up a long curving lane between low stone walls. At the top of the slow rise, the parcel became flat and I could see gently undulating acreage sweeping out in all directions. The two-story house was Italianate in feel, elegant and plain with a symmetrical window placement and a small porch in front with a circular balustrade.

I parked and got out. All the ground-floor windows were disconcertingly dark. There was no doorbell and no one answered my repeated knocks. I circled the house, checking for lights or other signs of the inhabitants. The air was still except for the occasional water dripping from the eaves. Had Trigg stood me up? I took a moment to check my bearings. Formal gardens stretched out on either side of house, but there was not a gardener in sight. Probably too wet to do much work.