The Bohemian Connection (19 page)

I stayed by the door, ready to move fast. “Are you saying you’re not the Bohemian Connection?”

“Right.”

“You haven’t brought a couple here for a rendezvous?”

“Right again.”

“Then what are you doing breaking into an empty house on the first weekend of Bohemian Week?”

Alison pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down with a thump. Her wild blond hair bounced, and absently she pushed a clump behind her ear. But she looked even more tired than she had today on the beach. She sighed. “Can’t you guess why I’m here?”

I’d guessed enough. “Tell me.”

“You were right to think this is a place for a rendezvous. It’s perfect. I just came across it a month ago. And…” She looked away. It was the closest I’d seen Alison to looking embarrassed. “Craig and I—”

“Oh my god. You mean Michelle was right in her suspicions? You mean you and Craig were having an affair here?”

“It’s not as tawdry as you make it sound,” she said. “He couldn’t come to my room in the rooming house, not without all of Henderson knowing. We could hardly use his house. He does have some standards. We couldn’t go to a motel, not around here. Michelle knew too many people, and Craig was too easily recognized. There was nothing else, except the back of the truck, and that gets pretty hard after a while, to say nothing of lacking romance.”

“So this is why you bought the bottle of wine at the bar Thursday night?”

She picked up one of the sheets and began fingering the edge. “Yes. We brought it up here. It was so nice, peaceful. I didn’t realize it would be the last time.”

“How come?”

“How come!” she snapped. “Craig felt guilty enough seeing another woman. He shouldn’t have. Michelle was at him all the time. She didn’t like the way he ran the shop; he didn’t make enough money; he wasn’t home enough; she had to do everything for the kids. She was the one who wanted the kids to begin with. I don’t mean that Craig doesn’t love his kids; he does, a lot. He’s a real good father. But they’re like anchors pulling him down. And Michelle used them every chance she got. He felt guilty all the time.”

She looked directly at me, lifting her head. “When we first started going to bed, Craig was like a different man. He had something good to look forward to, not just one day of dahlias after another. You saw him in the shop; even his attitude toward customers was different.”

I tried to think back to before Alison came, but I couldn’t remember how Craig had behaved then.

“We really had to be careful. Henderson is such a small town. If word ever got out, it would have been disastrous for the business. And, of course, everyone would have blamed me.”

She dropped the sheet and leaned forward in her chair. I could tell that it was a relief for her to have someone to tell this to. I might not be the one she would have chosen for a listener, but since I knew anyway…

“It doesn’t matter to the good folks of Henderson that Michelle was a bitch most of the time, that she squandered the money Craig worked day and night to make. She didn’t sleep with other men, she just sashayed around in her designer jeans and handknit sweaters. She just teased. But that was okay here in Henderson. It was okay that Craig was miserable. It was not okay that being with me made him happy, and made me happy too. No. You know what people would say?”

“What?”

“That I stole him, like he was one of Michelle’s sweaters. I stole him away from her.”

“Why didn’t he divorce her?”

Alison sighed. I could see that this was not a new subject for her. “The children. They’re Catholic. Michelle would have raised hell in court. She’d have called him immoral, a bad influence on the children. He’d have gotten to see them once every other weekend at best. He couldn’t live with that. He really cares a lot about those kids.” She sat back with a thud. “And he also didn’t want to leave them to be brought up by her.”

There were questions I could have asked, but Alison had told me all about their relationship which could reflect on Michelle’s murder and the Bohemian Connection. There was still one dangling end, however. “What about those two guys we met on the beach today? What possessed you to accept their offer?”

Alison gave her head a sharp shake, flinging her hair back. It caught momentarily behind her ears then fell loose. “You mean, didn’t I know they assumed we were hookers? Of course I did. I was just pissed off about Craig and his willingness to sweep me aside while he panders to his guilt. I wanted to get at him, but I could hardly do that, not the day after his wife died. But then these guys came along. I knew what they were after and I thought, why not?”

I said nothing.

“I didn’t go to bed with them, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just drank their liquor. It appealed to me to make use of them. I told them I’d meet them at their motel tonight. That appealed to me, too. I suppose they’re still waiting.” For the first time, she smiled. “Stay out of motels tonight, Vejay. I told them I’d bring you along—for an extra hundred.”

Now I was making enemies of people I didn’t even know.

“Do you want a glass of wine? There’s still half a bottle left.” She pulled open the refrigerator door, extricated the bottle, and got two glasses out of the cabinet. With the refrigerator on it was no wonder there was noticeable electric usage here.

I said, “You’re more careless than the Bohemian Connection. Didn’t Ross teach you the method?”

She brought the wineglasses back to the table. “Actually he did. It was one of the things he bragged about. And Craig and I did bring our own sheets and pillows. I don’t think the old lady will ever guess anyone’s been in her bed.”

“Ross was still the Connection when he lived with you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“How did he handle that while he was living in San Francisco? I thought the Connection needed to be here and on call.”

“Most of the time it wasn’t necessary for him to be here. It’s only a big thing around Bohemian Week. Ross was here then. He’d been here the year before. He popped back occasionally for a day. And he could always be reached through his father. His father resented his having moved away. He never really acknowledged that Ross was living in the city, not working for the realty company, but he did know where he was.”

“So clients called Ross in the city?”

“No. The local suppliers left messages with Ross’s father telling Ross to get in touch with them. The outside people didn’t know Ross wasn’t living in Henderson. They had the phone number they’d always used; they called, Ross wasn’t in; they left messages; Ross called back. For them nothing had changed.”

“But Ross wasn’t here for the entirety of Bohemian Week that year, was he?”

“No. I told you that.”

“He never planned to be, did he?”

“Maybe not. He told me he was just coming for the weekend.”

I could feel my excitement rising. “So Ross wasn’t going to work as the Bohemian Connection that year, was he?”

“I guess not. He didn’t mention it, and I wasn’t thinking about it, so I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t he have some records, papers, addresses, directions? He couldn’t have kept everything in his head.”

“I told you, Vejay, what he had in my house was just clothes and a couple of magazines—nothing was written in them. He had less than a bagful of stuff and none of it was worth anything. Believe me. I was pretty mad at him. If he’d had anything worth money I would have sold it.”

“Didn’t he mention any records?”

She sipped the wine. “You’re right—he did. He said once that it was a pain keeping track of some of his suppliers. They kept moving around. And it’s not like they were listed in the Yellow Pages. So he needed to keep a record of how they could be contacted—where they were, or through whom they could be reached.”

“Were there other records?”

She lifted the wineglass again, thinking—or pretending to think. She seemed to want company regardless of the subject that company discussed. “I think he mentioned other notes or records but I can’t remember specifically. It was a long time ago.”

I took a breath and said, “It was eight years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Could be.”

“Michelle wanted to go to the Bohemian Ball but she wasn’t quite eighteen. She’d be twenty-five now. That’s eight years.”

She nodded.

“Ross never left you except for the Sunday afternoon when he went to see his family, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did he talk about the Bohemian Connection with anyone when you were together?”

“No. I never heard him mention it to anyone but me the whole time I knew him. He had some sense.”

Gravel crunched outside.

“The driveway! The sheriff?” She jumped up. “The shop truck’s out there!” She grabbed the sheets, bottle, and her glass, and ran for the door.

Flicking off the light, I followed.

By the time I shut the door, Alison had run around the far side of the house and disappeared. I raced back into the cemetery. In the darkness, I stumbled over a low gravestone and sprawled onto the leaf-strewn path. Pushing myself up, I raced toward my blanket and supplies, grabbed them, and ran for the parking area.

Headlights flashed on me. I turned toward Maria Keneally’s driveway. I couldn’t make out the vehicle for the glare of the lights, but I could see that it was cutting across the pine needles of the yard toward the cemetery path—toward me.

I ran for my truck and jumped in. The headlights were coming from the graveyard now, thirty yards behind me. The vehicle was picking up speed. I started my engine and spun the truck toward the road. The truck bounced as I gunned it over the potholed road, through the old cement pillars, and onto Cemetery Road. The lights were closer behind me, reflecting glaringly in my eyes.

I stepped on the gas, taking the sharp curves on Cemetery Road much too fast, barely missing barreling into the hillside, then, in reaction, swerving too wide the other way. The passenger-side wheels skidded over the edge of the road. The truck leaned over a steep drop to the river. I jerked the wheel back just in time for the tires to grab the pavement.

The headlights were closer now. I turned right onto Zeus Lane, barreling down the incline. North Bank Road was ahead. On it, cars moved cautiously. A Volkswagen crossed the intersection. I stepped on the gas, yanked the wheel right, and cut in behind it, barely missing the fender of a Cadillac. Its horn blew.

Once in traffic I looked in the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of Zeus Lane. But the vehicle that had tailed me was not visible. There were no headlights and no flashing lights.

With a sigh, I decided it was not the sheriff following me.

But my relief was short-lived. If it wasn’t the sheriff, there was only one other possibility.

I
DIDN’T TAKE TIME
to consider my pursuer’s plans, and I was not about to give him a chance to demonstrate. Spending the night at home was out. For a single woman with no luggage, checking into a motel this weekend would be a big mistake. It was Vida’s house or nothing.

I didn’t expect her to be pleased to see me. But I hadn’t counted on waking her up either. Eyes half shut, she opened the door, pointed me to one of the boys’ empty rooms, and stumbled back to bed.

Vida may have needed sleep, but clearly not as much as I did. When I woke it was to the smell of linguisa frying. Slipping into my jeans and T-shirt, I hurried to the kitchen.

There was no dining room in Vida’s house, but the big paneled kitchen made up for that. With leaves in it, the table would accommodate ten. Now there were only four chairs around it. And there was ample space to work at the counters or walk to the refrigerator. It was a kitchen for a family of cooks.

Sun flowed in through the windows and the glass door. The fog had burned off early and the day would be hot. Vida was already dressed for it in jeans and a yellow gingham halter.

“Should I ask what brings you here?” she said, turning from the stove. From her tone it was clear that she hadn’t forgotten our last conversation, and her exasperation with me.

“Someone was following me. I almost drove off Cemetery Road.”

Another person might have said, “So you decided to lead them to my house?” but Vida just looked worried for me. “Oh, Vejay,” she said, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I lost them in town, but I thought going home was tempting fate.”

“You did the right thing. Here, let me get you some coffee. It’s brewed.” She moved from stove to counter to fridge, seemingly intent on the job of coffee pouring. When she handed me my cup, she said, “You think this is connected to Michelle’s death, don’t you?”

I nodded, then took a cup of coffee. It was strong and hot. It made me realize anew how hot it was in the house. The sun was clear; there was no suggestion of cloud or remnant of morning fog. I glanced at my watch. “Ten o’clock! I didn’t realize it was that late. What time is Congressman Tisson speaking?”

Vida gave a tight shrug, her back to me. She didn’t want to talk to him; she didn’t want me to. But that couldn’t be helped. I hurried into her living room to find the paper. It took me a couple of minutes to come up with the article and discover that the ceremonies started downtown at eleven.

“Vida,” I said, back in the kitchen, “I have to see him. I have to tell him about Michelle’s larvae. Michelle would have wanted that.”

“Michelle’s dead.” She was still facing the stove, but her shoulders were hunched in anger.

“I’m on the right track, Vida. If I weren’t I wouldn’t have been followed last night. Whoever followed me wasn’t kidding; he wasn’t lagging behind, keeping an eye on me; he was forcing me to go down that hill at sixty miles an hour.”

“Maybe you ought to be glad you’re not injured…or dead.”

“I am. Michelle wasn’t so fortunate.”

Vida looked stunned. Then with the concentration she had given the coffee pouring, she spooned mushrooms and black olives into the eggs. Her shoulders remained hunched tight around her neck.

“Vida, let me tell you what I discovered last night before you say you’ll be satisfied to let things lie.”

With exaggerated care, she stirred the egg mixture and scooped it onto plates. Then she added the linguisa.