Sunset Bridge (24 page)

Or she could simply sell Happiness Key before she had to begin making astronomically expensive repairs, and settle into a child-friendly neighborhood in a child-friendly house. She could sock away enough for college expenses and work part time.

And what would her renters do? Where would they go?

By that point it was late enough that she decided to check on Alice again. She knew it probably wasn’t necessary, since Alice had obviously felt well enough to drive somewhere. But she hated to break her promise to Olivia.

This time Alice’s car was parked beside her house, so Tracy knocked, fully expecting the older woman to answer. No lights came on, and no footsteps were heard. Maybe Alice was in the back of the house, or maybe she had already gone to sleep and didn’t hear the door. Tracy knocked harder; then, when her knuckles rebelled, she gave up.

Alice had to be fine. She’d driven somewhere and driven back. She was probably taking a shower, or maybe she had the television too loud—although Tracy probably would have heard that through the door. She debated what to do next. She had no reason to worry, except that Olivia herself had been worried. Worried enough to ask Tracy to check on Alice, and
Tracy had agreed, which meant she didn’t feel comfortable just walking away.

“Alice?” she called loudly, banging on the door one more time with her fist.

No answer. Great.

She backed away. She could just go home and assume Alice’s reason for not answering the door was a perfectly acceptable one. But she was reminded of another night when Alice
had
needed help, a night many months ago, when Olivia’s father was still living there. Had she not intervened…

“Well, that bites.” She couldn’t just go home. Now she really was worried. Maybe, without knowing it, Olivia had seen signs of impending health problems. Maybe all the activity at the rec center hadn’t been as good for Alice as Tracy had thought.

“Right. Like I’m going in there alone.” From too much experience, she knew emergencies at Happiness Key were best shared with friends. She started down the road to Wanda’s house.

Wanda answered the door wearing satin pajamas, Day-Glo orange with purple piping.

“I guess you didn’t go out to dinner after all,” Tracy said.

“Kenny brought home chicken and all the fixins. Why, you hungry? I think there’s a drumstick left.”

“I just knocked at Alice’s. Her car’s there, but she’s not answering.”

“Thought you did that a while ago.”

Tracy explained as Wanda nodded.

“Think we need to check it out?” Wanda asked.

“I know we do. But I hate to do it alone. This could really suck.”

“Well, I’d loan you Kenny, only he went off for a walk on the beach. We can wait, or you can take me.”

“Door number two. Are you going to get dressed?”

“I am dressed.”

“And you don’t care if anybody sees you like that?”

“Not a thing showing that shouldn’t be.”

“If Ken can sleep with you, I can manage to walk down the street. Let’s get it over with.”

Wanda turned on the porch light and slid into flip-flops. The two women started down the road.

“Maybe you’ll knock and she’ll answer right away. Could have been in the bathroom, or asleep.”

Tracy hoped it was true, but when they got there and she knocked again, there was no response. The lights were off, and she tried to remember if they’d been off before. She wished she’d paid more attention.

“You think she might be over at Janya’s? Only place she’d walk besides our houses. She doesn’t know Maggie that well.”

Tracy pulled out her cell phone and hit speed dial. She spoke to Janya, then hung up. “Not there.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go get my keys and let myself in. You with me?”

“Stay here. She leaves a spare under one of those garden gnomes in the flowerbed. In case somebody drops off Olivia, and she’s not home.”

The day was beginning to catch up with Tracy. She wanted this over. She and baby X were ready for a good night’s sleep.

“Let’s do it.”

Wanda lifted gnomes and retrieved the key from under the third, her pajamas pulsing with radioactive energy in a shaft of
moonlight. She returned and handed it to Tracy. “You’re the landlady. I’m the witness. You have no evil intent and enough evidence to check out the place.”

“Thank you, Miss Law and Order. Let’s get this over with.”

Tracy inserted the key in the doorknob. The door had a dead bolt, too, which wasn’t locked. The door swung open.

The women tiptoed inside. “Alice?” Tracy called. “Are you home? Are you all right?”

Wanda switched on the lamp beside the door. The living room smelled like lilac air freshener, and it was neat as well as empty of living beings, with the exception of Alice’s flourishing aquarium, which glowed with a soft amber light in one corner.

“Alice?” Tracy walked through the living room and into the hallway. She pushed open the door that led to Olivia’s bedroom, but she wasn’t surprised to see that Alice wasn’t there. Then she got to Alice’s bedroom and stopped. The door was closed. Although she hadn’t noticed it before, now she thought she heard the air conditioner humming, which could explain why Alice hadn’t heard her call. She debated returning the way she had come, locking the door and going home. The house looked fine. Perfectly normal. Alice wasn’t lying unconscious, or worse, on the living room, kitchen or hallway floor. Olivia’s room was empty, too.

But if they left, she would spend the whole night worrying.

“Let’s get this over with,” Wanda said. She knocked on Alice’s bedroom door; then, without waiting more than a few seconds, she pushed it open.

Tracy’s eyes took a few moments to adjust. In those mo
ments she was sorry she’d invited Wanda along, since without her, she might have retreated.

Then she saw movement. Someone sat up in Alice’s bed. Then someone else did, too.

“What are you doing here?” a familiar masculine voice cut through the darkness. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

Tracy turned to Wanda, who already had her by the shoulder. “Leaving,” Tracy screeched as Wanda pulled her back into the hallway. “We were just checking on Ali—” She screeched again as Wanda jerked harder.

In a moment they were in the living room, and in another they were outside, slamming the door behind them.

“Lordy,” Wanda said, flip-flops clacking madly against the oyster-shell road. “Lordy, Lordy, who’d a thought? She will…
never
forgive us.”

They were in front of Wanda’s before they stopped. Tracy was wheezing from the pace Wanda had set. “I’ve lost everything.” She drew another wheezy breath. “Gone. All gone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you know who that man was?”

“You didn’t get a good look at him, did you? Tell me you didn’t look that hard. Because he didn’t have a stitch of cloth—”

Tracy held up her hand. “Too much information!”

“Then how do you know?” Wanda demanded.

“Because I’d recognize that voice anywhere. That was Roger Goldsworthy. Mr. Moustache. The shuffle in our shuffle board
and
the rec center board. Remember him, the guy I insulted in that park way back in the days when you thought I was lower than a snake’s belly? The guy who made my life miserable my first summer at the rec center? Roger knows
everybody in town. And I have now screwed with him one too many times to recover.”

Wanda’s eyes were large. The two women stood together huffing and puffing. Finally Wanda spoke. “If they fire you, you’ll get unemployment. That’s a good thing.”

Tracy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But she was sure whichever she did, she no longer had the problem of where to put the baby in her little cottage. Without an income, the expenses here would quickly become impossible. She doubted she would still own this land and the cottages sitting on it by the time her baby made its debut in May.

T
racy spent the hours from dawn until she left for work inventing reasons not to make an appearance at the rec center that morning. Earthquakes might have served in California, but they were a no go in Florida. The tropical depressions that Blake had found interesting two weeks before had died away, and even though there was another on the horizon, now that it was nearing the end of November, nobody was taking it seriously. She had grudgingly ruled out an invasion of killer bees. She couldn’t use the pregnancy, of course, and she didn’t want to claim illness, because if all her New Age friends in California were right, that was bad karma and liable to backfire.

In the end she went into work early, determined to plead her case to Gladys, who might understand why Tracy, out of concern for a neighbor, had sabotaged the privacy of a board member. Between bees and earthquakes, she’d come up with a hint of good news. Marsh was now on the board, too, and it was possible Gladys would at least be torn between loyalty to
Roger and the father of Tracy’s baby. Gladys might appear to outsiders to be nothing more than the receptionist and wife of the rec center’s director, but everyone on the inside knew she was the power behind the throne.

Unfortunately, she was also absent.

Tracy arrived to find a stranger behind the desk, a pretty brunette who looked bewildered to be sitting there. “Gladys has a cold and doesn’t want to give it to anybody,” the woman said after Tracy introduced herself. “I’m a temp.”

Tracy figured she’d better try Woody, who was actually her boss, but when she asked, the woman shook her head. “Mr. Woodley’s going to be late. Maybe around lunchtime? And short of that, I don’t know a thing about this job except that you’re probably in charge for a while.”

Downstairs, Tracy stared blankly at the day’s schedule. Without either of the Woodleys at the center, she would probably be particularly busy this morning. Maybe she could prove how indispensible she was, so that when Woody finally came in, the temp would sing her praises so loudly that Roger Goldworthy’s voice would be drowned out.

“Tracy?”

She looked up to find Alice, of all people, standing in her doorway in a pretty rose-colored dress. Tracy jumped to her feet, slamming a knee against the desk drawer. Holding it with both hands, she said words even her negligent parents would have reprimanded her for.

Alice took the long path across the room, obviously concerned. “I…I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, it’s not your fault. I didn’t close the drawer, that’s all. I was looking at my schedule, and I wasn’t paying attention. I…I—” Tracy stopped babbling. “Omigosh, I am so sorry! About last night.”

Alice smiled. Her eyes twinkled, and her cheeks were pink. “Not me.”

Tracy came around the desk. “We shouldn’t have been there, but we thought something had happened to you.”

Alice waved that away. “You were being good neighbors. We just…didn’t hear you.”

“I really, really didn’t know you had, um, company, Alice. Olivia…I just wanted to be sure everything was fine, and when you didn’t answer…”

“You…don’t have to explain.” Alice put her hand over Tracy’s on the desk. “I understand. I remember the last time you checked…on me.”

Tracy hugged her friend. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“I’m not.”

Tracy hugged her harder. “Oh, wow.”

“We’ve been spending a lot of…time together.” Alice’s smile was warm when Tracy stepped away. “I never expected to find another man. Not after my Fred died. Roger feels…” She shrugged. This time it wasn’t a pause to pull together words. This time it was clearly a search for the perfect one, which never arrived.

“Life is very short,” she went on after a moment. “You won’t learn that, not for a while. We…we want to be together while we can.”

“Of course you do.” Tracy grabbed her hand. “You don’t have to explain. I’m so glad for you and Roger, Alice. He and I haven’t always had an easy time of it—you know that from the stories I’ve told—but I like him a lot. I respect him.”

“He won’t…retaliate.” Alice’s smile broadened.

Relieved, Tracy led her to the couch, and they sat. “You know, if you’d told us about this, I never would have gone
into your house. I would have figured you probably had company.”

Alice settled herself against the cushions. “I…” She shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

“You mean love’s still complicated at your age? I thought, well, that just doesn’t seem fair. When does it get better? You’re supposed to be my role model.”

Alice laughed a little. “It’s not complicated for us. When you’re our age?” She paused and looked straight into Tracy’s eyes. “You know better. No time to wait and…wonder.”

Tracy thought that was a little pointed, as if Alice was making a comment about her own relationship with Marsh.

“But sometimes—” Alice stopped.

“So how is it complicated?”

“Olivia.”

“Why? Doesn’t she like Roger?”

“She’s only met him…” Alice appeared to be counting. “Three times. Two at the center. One shopping. No, you see…Roger and I? We want to move in together. Maybe even marry, but my cottage is too small for all of us. And Roger lives…at Shell Horizon.”

Tracy considered that. Shell Horizon was a senior retirement community with differing levels of care, one of the nicest in the area. She knew a number of the seniors who used the center were residents. Shell Horizon had a bus that brought them and picked them back up at regular intervals. She hadn’t realized Roger was a resident because he still drove his car to the center, but he was a retired geologist and probably had a sizable pension. Shell Horizon offered a host of activities, along with pools and restaurants. They even had a shuffleboard team, although not a very good one, which was probably why Roger preferred the rec center’s.

She realized now what the problem was. “Olivia wouldn’t fit in, would she?”

“Not until she’s fifty-five.”

“Oh, it’s a fifty-five-and-older community. Of course. So she can’t be there.”

“Grandchildren…are welcome. Weekends and summer vacations mostly. There’s even a clubhouse for when they visit. But they can’t live there. “

“I guess I never thought about that.”

“We could buy a house, but we don’t want that…responsibility.”

Tracy could certainly see why. Both Roger and Alice were at a point in their lives when they should be enjoying sunsets together, strolling on the beach, beating the pants off other seniors at any number of games. They shouldn’t be tied up fixing faucets, or hiring lawn services and exterminators.

“A condo?” she asked. “A nice complex somewhere that doesn’t have age restrictions?”

“So many…are for singles or young families. Parties. Loud music. Not right for an…impressionable young girl.”

Tracy could see that, too. And it sounded as if Alice and probably Roger had looked around to see what was out there.

“I would miss my friends,” Alice said. “At Happiness Key.”

“We’d be nearby. We’d see you all the time. One phone call away.” But Tracy tried to imagine Olivia living a distance from the rest of them with her grandmother and Roger. Alice struggled to make life as normal for her granddaughter as she could. She accommodated Olivia’s schedule, her music and television preferences. She worked hard to make sure Olivia was able to take part in any activity she wanted and to have
friends over whenever she could. But no matter how nice Roger was to Olivia, or how accepting of having a preteen in his home, the girl would still be living with two people in their sunset years, with different needs and preferences from her own. Alice was not a young grandmother, and Roger might be even older.

Alice gave the tiniest sigh. “We have to keep things as they are. But we can…find time together.”

Tracy heard the wistful note in her friend’s voice. Alice’s life hadn’t been easy since her husband’s death. And now she bore the full burden of a tween rapidly turning into a teenager. The other women at Happiness Key tried hard to make things easier, but at the end of the day, Olivia was Alice’s responsibility.

She deserved a more leisurely life, one without so many household chores. At Shell Horizon she would probably have at least some meals provided, and maintenance on the apartment, too. Everything she really needed would be a short distance away, and as she got older, she would have people right there to care for her medical needs.

Best of all, she would have Roger, who was obviously a man with superior taste.

“Before you know it, Olivia will be off to college,” Tracy said, but even as she did, she was adding up the years, and the sum was sobering. Alice and Roger really shouldn’t wait that long. Not if they wanted to have any meaningful time together. Six or seven years was not a small thing at their end of the timeline.

“I don’t want…Olivia to grow up too fast. She’s my heart,” Alice said.

“And you’re the best grandmother in the whole world.
If I’d had a grandmother like you, I might have been this fabulous a lot earlier.”

Both women laughed, but Tracy knew that under it, there was a discordant note of sadness.

Maggie and Janya’s plan was simple. Once they were inside the Duttas’ apartment, Janya would pack up the children’s toys and clothing to take back home, and Maggie would look for anything that might add some insight into the couple’s deaths. Janya also intended to pack up photographs and mementos that the children might like when they were older. If their family in India didn’t want any reminders of their parents, Janya would keep those boxes herself and contact the children later, if she could find them. There was no guarantee the agency would tell her where they had gone.

Unfortunately, even simple plans could easily become complicated. After a quiet morning canoe trip through a nearby mangrove wilderness with only her GPS as guide, Maggie arrived at the apartment to find Janya and a stranger getting out of an unfamiliar car in the parking lot. Janya’s expression was inscrutable, and Maggie was sorry she hadn’t stayed on the water.

“Maggie, this is Miss Crede. She’s the children’s social worker.”

Miss Crede had a rectangular head and body, a blond Dutch-boy bob and sensible shoes. She looked to be in her late forties and ready to take on the aging process with enthusiasm. She also looked to be in a hurry.

Maggie shook her hand and made all the polite responses.

“As you know, it’s against our rules to let you have the run of the place alone,” Miss Crede said, glancing at a leather-
banded watch above a sturdy wrist. “We have to protect the deceaseds’ possessions.”

“What will happen to everything?” Maggie asked. “Was there a will?”

“No, and no family in this country. The court’s in the process of appointing a personal representative, and he or she will probably sell what they can, and the money will go to the children’s estate.”

“I think there will not be much money,” Janya said. “They had so little. But I hope you will keep Kanira’s jewelry for her daughter and not allow it to be sold. It will have meaning to her. And Harit’s books for Vijay.”

“I will certainly make a note of that.”

Miss Crede led the way, giving Janya and Maggie a chance to exchange glances. Maggie hoped her friend would be able to keep the social worker occupied while Maggie dug a little deeper.

Miss Crede—who, if she had a first name, was not willing to share—unlocked the door and ushered them inside. Just as she crossed the threshold, her cell phone rang and she stepped outside again. Maggie wished the call had happened later, when she’d had time to figure out what she most wanted to see without the social worker watching her.

Luck was with her anyway. Miss Crede came back in, snapping her phone closed just a few feet from the door. “I’m going to need to leave, I’m afraid. It’s an emergency I’ve been dealing with all week, and it’s just come to a head. Would you like to reschedule?”

Maggie stepped forward so she and Miss Crede were eye to eye. “There’s nothing here for you to worry about if you leave us alone, is there? Like Janya said, this family had very little. We’ll put everything for the children in boxes, and you
can go through them and have them sent to her house if you like. For the record, I used to be a cop until I moved here. You can call my department in Miami right now and ask for a reference.”

Miss Crede was a woman required to make snap decisions. “I guess staying without me will be okay. Can you wait until I get back? Then I’ll do a once-over of the boxes and you can take them with you. It’s a matter of policy.”

Maggie figured that social workers, like cops, had seen the worst of the worst and weren’t the most trusting of professionals. “Boy, do I understand policy,” she said, pasting on the same friendly smile she had used when she tried to coax information from witnesses.

“I’ll be gone—” Miss Crede glanced at her watch “—an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. Do you have a cell-phone number, in case I’m going to be later?”

Janya jotted hers on a slip of paper and handed it to the social worker.

“Got to go.” Miss Crede dropped the number into her sensible purse. “I’ll see you then.” She paused, then put her hand on Janya’s arm. “If it were me, I’d choose a little jewelry and a few books for the children now. I don’t think anybody could possibly care.” She nodded; then she disappeared out the door.

“An hour,” Maggie said, when she was sure Miss Crede was gone. “Let’s get to it.”

“What will you look for?” Janya asked.

“Everything, expecting nothing. Keep your eye out for anything unusual while you pack. Papers, items that seem out of place, anything that gives new insight into the parents or the family relationships. And if you notice anything that’s
missing…? Something you would expect to find? Make a note of that, too.”

“The police have been through the apartment.”

“They were looking for reasons to pin the deaths on Harit. We’re looking for reasons not to.”

Janya nodded gravely, but Maggie could tell she doubted anything useful would still be left in the apartment. Since Maggie felt the same way, she could hardly tell her to buck up.

Janya went into the bedroom the children had shared and began making piles. Maggie started in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, examining contents, pulling out the drawers and looking beneath them. She didn’t expect to find anything hidden, although that wasn’t out of the question. She was more interested in items in plain sight that might have meaning. Calendars. Notes by the telephone. Phone numbers. Although she was doubtful the police would have left anything important, the murders had not taken place here. This had never been a crime scene, so according to her father, it hadn’t been treated to the same thorough going-over that the murder scene itself had received.