The Anteater of Death (20 page)

“Yes. I do.”

Henry reminded me of Abayo, the zoo’s aging lion. Content to lie in the sun all day, Abayo was healthy enough to sire cubs but not agile enough to evade the occasional slaps from Elsa, his mate.

“Did Grayson say anything else of interest while he was here?” I asked. “Maybe he mentioned someone being angry with him.”

Pilar raised her sharp nose in disdain. “Are you kidding? Everyone in the pro-Trust camp was furious with him. The lazybones were afraid they might have to get out there and work for their money.”

I snuck a look at lazybones Henry, who’d never held a job, wondering if her barb had gone over his head. Except for a slight narrowing of his eyes, his face didn’t change. I wondered if he missed his easy-going first wife. “What about Jeanette? Did she say anything?”

Pilar turned away from the Renaissance Revival clock she’d been fingering and shook her head. “She didn’t come with him. Suffering from another of her week-long migraines, I guess.”

Henry spoke up again. “I doubt that because I saw them together the next day at that little restaurant down the street. Grayson…”

His wife interrupted. “I’ve told you time and again that her headaches are psychosomatic! She fakes them to get attention.”

Having experienced a few migraines myself during the waning days of my marriage, I was certain Jeanette’s suffering was the real thing, but Pilar was obviously one of those women who enjoyed perfect health and had nothing but contempt for others who didn’t. Not the most comfortable woman for a man to be married to as he marched up the ramp from middle to old age.

She interrupted my musings. “Teddy, how’s your own portfolio?”

“Excuse me?”

Abandoning her pacing, she sat down next to me on the sofa. “Your portfolio. There are some interesting opportunities out there I’d like to talk to you about.”

Henry stifled a laugh. He knew all about the vanished Bentley millions, not to mention my father’s embezzlements and the Feds’ subsequent grab-all. But his wife, her eyes fixed so firmly on the prize that she missed the alarm in mine, proceeded to rattle off a long list of stocks that she guaranteed would double in value within six months. All it took, she said, would be backbone on my part.

“I don’t have much backbone,” I told her.

This time Henry didn’t bother to stifle his laugh. “Ease up on her, Pilar. She’s flat broke.”

She snapped, “But you said…”

“I said she was one of the San Sebastian Bentleys and you interrupted me before I could tell you that they lost their money during the Crash.”

“Crash?”

“The Depression, dear. That little financial mess in the Thirties? What with one thing and another, the Bentleys never recovered.”

“Oh.” She looked at her watch. “My! I didn’t realize it was so late. Henry and I are getting ready for a theater matinee, aren’t we?” She rose from the sofa so quickly it groaned.

I stood up, too. “It’s been nice visiting with you, Pilar.”

She bared her teeth. “We must get together for lunch.”

I bared back. “I’ll call.”

“You do that.” After making certain I was right behind her, she headed for the door.

Behind her, Henry’s smile looked strained.

When I reached the Nissan, I checked my cell to see if the zoo had left me any messages; it hadn’t. But I counted seven other messages—five from Caro, two from Joe. With a sigh, I climbed into the truck. Without consciously planning it, I found myself driving south on Castro Street and into the old Noe Valley neighborhood where I’d once lived with Michael. It wasn’t actually out of my way, I argued with my more common-sense self, because once through Noe, I could pick up Mission, take that down to the 280, and then transition onto 101 south. Almost a straight shot.

The minute I turned onto Church Street, where my husband and I had leased our own small Victorian, I saw the folly of my ways. The periwinkle blue-and-cream house was still there but now two sandy-haired children played in front, watched over by a woman dressed as a nanny. I’d wanted children but Michael wasn’t enthusiastic. At first his excuse was that he wanted to pay off his school loans, later that he needed time to settle in at Hoffman, Williams, and Williams. After that, he said we should start saving for our own house, and stressed that children were a financial drain we couldn’t yet afford. Still later…

There was no later. By the time I emerged from denial, it was too late.

As I passed the house, the door opened, revealing a blond man and woman who resembled the children. The man held a golden retriever on a leash. Both children ran toward him, clamoring for the rights to walk the dog. When the older child won, the woman gave the other the consolation prize of a hug. Together the small group set off in the direction of Mission Dolores Park.

I wondered if the woman realized how lucky she was.

***

Back in Gunn Landing the early evening sky was still clear, but a fog bank crept steadily toward the harbor. Checking my cell again, I found two more calls from my mother. The drive past my old house in San Francisco had left me feeling bereft, so as soon as I parked my pickup I headed toward the
Tequila Sunrise
, hoping a chat with Roarke would chase away my loneliness. Halfway there I caught sight of Maxwell Jarvis, that enemy of all liveaboarders, lolling on the deck of his gas-guzzling eighty-four-foot West Bay Sonship. After giving me a smirk, he reached over and slapped the thigh of the sexy-looking redhead lolling with him. They were both half-naked (Jarvis’ big stomach spilled over his black Speedo) and totally drunk.

When I reached the
Tequila Sunrise
, I found Roarke and Frieda standing on the dock debating whether to eat dinner at the castle, the yacht club, or slum it at Fred’s Fish Market. He wanted roast pork in mango sauce, the yacht club’s Sunday Special, but she, looking more rosily beautiful than ever, held out for Fred’s famous oyster stew, which was served in a small loaf of hollowed-out sourdough. She got her way but tossed Roarke a bone by inviting me along as their guest. The source of her good humor revealed itself while we strolled to the restaurant.

With a rare display of friendliness, she hooked her arm around mine. “You’re the first harbor buddy we’re telling, Teddy. I’m pregnant.”

For a brief moment I felt a pang, but it was immediately dulled by my happiness for her. “How wonderful! When’s the baby due?”

“
He
is due in December,” Roarke said, drawing her to him. “We didn’t want to tell anyone until we were sure. She’s miscarried twice, both times during the first six weeks, but her ob-gyn says she’s past her danger stage now.”

I hadn’t known about their attempts to have a baby, putting their childless state down to their lifestyle. Now her insecurity made sense. Or did it?

A shadow dimmed the joy on his face. “This means we’ll have to sell the
Tequila Sunrise
. I know that some people raise their children on boats, but I’d worry every minute once he started walking. Schooling would be a problem, too. At the very least, we’d have to home-school if we sailed any distance at all, and I can’t see Frieda playing schoolmarm.”

“I’m willing to give it a try,” she said, surprising me. “I do have a degree, you know.”

As she spoke, the wispy front of the fog bank reached us, making her shiver. Roarke whipped off his sweater and draped it across her shoulders. “I’ll run back for your jacket.”

She shook her head. “It’s only a few steps to the restaurant.”

He ignored her protest. “In this case, Mama doesn’t know best.” With that, he turned and ran back to the boat, disappearing quickly into the hatch. Within seconds he reappeared clutching a jacket in each hand, one for her, one for me. My jacket was warm enough but Frieda’s could have warded off an Arctic winter.

Picking up the conversation where he left off, he said, “I’m not having Frieda slave away on the boat all day, teaching the kid to read and write. He’s going to attend school like a normal person. And we’ll buy a house, although God knows how much we’ll have to pay, with prices being what they are these days. I don’t think anything in Old Town’s going for less than three-point-five mill, which means we’ll have to sell the boat to help make the down payment.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Or we could keep the
Sunrise
and move back into the castle.”

He shuddered. “And have dinner every night with Great-aunt Aster Edwina? No thanks!”

“If you can stand it, I can.” She was serious now. “Maybe raising the baby in the same house as your extended family isn’t such a bad idea. Europeans have done it for centuries. But, really, the
Sunrise
could…”

A sixty-foot Bayliner, returning to its slip from an ocean charter, gave a blast on its horn, causing the seagulls and cormorants to rise into the fog bank like a noisy cloud.

By the time the main body of the fog arrived, we’d reached Fred’s. Located inside an old cannery, one half of the building was a busy fish market, the other half a bare-bones restaurant that served up everything the ocean had to offer—poached, fried, baked, broiled or sushi-style. The food’s excellence wasn’t the only thing that packed the restaurant. Sunday night was blues night—free music, free second beer—and a goodly portion of the harbor liveaboarders were already ensconced at the long tables. Delta Force, the local blues band, was in the process of setting up.

Some of the liveaboarders glared at Roarke, who, as one of the harbor’s well-heeled Northies, they viewed as an ally of the much-loathed Maxwell Jarvis. Oblivious to their ire, he grabbed a table uncomfortably near them.

“You can be as selfish as you want when you don’t have children,” he said, resuming the conversation. “Now it’s time to grow up.”

“Don’t be too quick to make a Draconian decision,” I counseled, over the
ta-wang
of Delta Force’s guitarist as he tuned his Dobro. “I know how you both love the
Sunrise
.”

Frieda reached across the paper-covered table and took my hand in a sisterly gesture. “That’s what I’ve been telling him, but he’s determined to do what’s best for me and the baby whether I like it or not. Maybe you can talk sense into him.”

Me, talk sense into anyone? Me, with my problematical love life, my hardly-more-than- minimum-wage job, my falling-apart boat? But when I remembered Lucy and the rest of my animal friends, I decided I hadn’t done so badly after all.

Discretion overrode valor. “Sorry, I have no advice to give other than to get a good real estate agent.” Too bad Grayson was dead. He’d have them fixed up in no time.

Whatever Roarke was about to reply was interrupted by Walt McAdams, who called out, “Better mind your table manners, Southies! I spy two high-class Northies among us.” His table mates, other liveaboarders whose boats were on the dreaded Dolphin Island voyage list, muttered angrily at his words.

Then Walt turned his attention to me. “Hey, Teddy! Whose side you on, anyway? You’re a Southie. Come on over here with your real friends.” He’d slopped beer all over his blue San Sebastian Fire Department tee shirt.

Before I could open my mouth, Roarke shouted, “Leave her out of this! For your information, I fought hard against those new ordinance codes, so take your complaints to Maxwell, not me.”

The drunk fireman stood up as if he were about to stagger over to our table, but his table mates pushed him back into his seat. He couldn’t resist throwing another insult. “You Northies are all birds of a feather, spoiled rich snobs flocking together.”

Roarke shook his head. “I’ve played golf with Maxwell a couple of times, that’s all.”

Walt didn’t buy it. “A golf buddy with the very guy who put the harbor master up to the Dolphin Island thing. Hell, you know most of our boats will never make it.”

Trying once more to deflect his beery anger, Roarke said, “You have more sympathizers than you realize. Most of us, myself included, believe that the liveaboard community gives the harbor its flavor. It’s good for extra security, too. But yeah, Maxwell and maybe a few others would like to see you gone. As for their names, all you need to know is that he’s the only one who filed a complaint.”

The angry mutterings grew louder.

Walt stood up again. “More golf buddies, right? Why keep their names secret? You afraid we peasants will march on them with lit torches and pitchforks?” As if to illustrate, he held his fork high.

The others tried to shove him down again, but he resisted, making a few stabbing motions toward Roarke with the fork.

“Settle down!” I snapped. “A brawl’s the last thing we need.”

He pointed the fork at me. “Judas!” Then, knocking over his beer, he stormed out the door, leaving his friends to clean up his mess.

The waiter, who had been hovering nervously nearby, began to take our orders; but by then I’d lost my appetite. Ignoring Roarke’s and Frieda’s pleas for me to stay, I tendered my apologies and headed for the door. Behind me, Delta Force launched into their first set.

Outside, the cool fog came as a relief from the hot tempers inside the restaurant. And as much as I enjoyed blues, I welcomed the cushioned silence. Walking along the pier back toward the
Merilee
, I could barely make out the
shush-shush
of the incoming tide lapping against the pylons, the soft peeps of shore birds. Entranced by these gifts of twilight, I opened my mouth and breathed in the fog’s salty wetness, glorying in the dampness against my cheeks. How could Roarke and Frieda turn their backs on this?

Footsteps intruded on my reverie. I turned.

“Walt?”

No answer.

The footsteps grew nearer. Had Walt changed his mind and decided to return to the restaurant?

“Come on, Walt, let’s make up. We’ve always been friends.”

Still no answer. I decided it probably wasn’t him after all, but someone who needed to keep his presence a secret.

My father?

I had just started to smile when a sunburst lit up the night.

Then a darkness deeper than fog embraced me.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN