A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (16 page)

The women’s shelter where I planned to donate Isca’s clothing was located in what had been a private home in the nineteenth century. It sat on a hill high above downtown; its stained-glass windows overlooked a section of Commencement Bay called the Thea Foss Waterway. Fitting since Thea Foss came here from Norway to find a new life and ended up starting the hugely successful Foss Tugboat industry.

I parked in front of a vacant lot across the street from the gray and white clapboard building. Earlier I’d called Joslyn McKay, the director and an old acquaintance. It was nearly ten when I parked across the street, but she stood in the doorway watching for me. Together, we carried the bags of clothes into the building.

“Any children’s clothes?”

“Not this time. I cleaned out Isca’s room but not Dominic’s. Anyway, it’s up to his dad when to get rid of Dominic’s outgrown stuff.”

“Too bad. We can use them.”

I hefted a box out of the backseat and she took another. We carried them to the foyer and returned for others until my car was empty. She locked the front door, and we started carrying them to her office.

“I’ll ask around, but everyone I know with kids sells their stuff at consignment stores or garage sales.”

“Humph.” Joslyn scowled as she rounded a corner and butt-pushed her office door open.

“Times are tough for working moms too, you know. I work with several and hear their stories. You can feed a family of four with what we have to pay to park downtown every month.”

Joslyn ignored me. “Any blankets?”

“No. Just clothes. Nice ones, though.”

“Oh well, the kids have their teddy bears.” She blew her bangs off her forehead.

“I always thought cops giving out teddy bears was a pretty dumb idea.” Her ingratitude was irritating me.

“You wouldn’t if you saw the kids. Teddy bears and tears. Two things they can call their own. You’re a hardhearted bastard, Mercedes”

“I am not.” The words hurt. “It’s just I shop the sales and go to the Goodwill. I work hard for my money and I don’t see why policemen have to be social workers too. They’ve got enough to do with crime. Give, give, give. Like I’m supposed to feel guilty because I have a job.”

“You were raised in a decent home. A lot of these kids weren’t or aren’t because their parents weren’t.”

“Then put them in orphanages.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Well, sometimes, so do I.” Her anger abated. “Especially when I hear horror stories about foster homes.”

I pulled a chair away from the bags and sat down. Joslyn’s head nearly disappeared as she rummaged through one bag after another. “Underwear. Great. We can use that. Some of this stuff I can wash and have ready tomorrow.”

“The things are already clean. I just took them out of her dresser.”

“It’s the law.” She straightened up. “Have you heard anything about who might have killed Isca?”

“No. I talked to Parker, her brother, but he either knew nothing or was keeping quiet. The police never tell me anything.” I didn’t tell her about my letters to churches searching for the vicar. “Anyway, I don’t know any policemen, so who would I ask?”

Joslyn filled two mugs with coffee so dark it must have been brewed hours earlier.

I added plenty of powdered creamer.

She leaned against her desk and we sipped in silence for a moment. “I see so much ugliness here sometimes it’s like, ‘ho hum, another violence.’ Until it’s a friend. Then it hits home.”

“I know. The media dulls our senses.” I put my mug on her desk’s scarred top and stood. “I better go. Glad you can use the stuff.”

Joslyn walked me to the door and hugged me. I’m not a touchy-feely person, but I hugged her back.
All this hugging stuff seems so insincere
. It didn’t take the place of an act of kindness. However an act of kindness took a lot more effort and wasn’t always visible. Was I a cynical, hardhearted bastard? I looked at Joslyn’s tired face and thought how late it was and how long her hours were. Maybe the hug was something she needed.

The streets were quiet. I made a U-turn and headed for a twenty-four-hour dry cleaners to drop off the cashmere sweaters. Next door to it, at a mom-and-pop grocery store, I bought some cat food. Both businesses seemed to always be open. I admired the hard work of the Koreans who ran them. Hello in Korean sounded like awn-yo-ha-say-oh. When I said it, the clerk beamed.
Such a little thing to make a person happy
. At home, ten minutes later, I found a parking place in front of my building. Good. It had been a long day.

After three trips from the car to my apartment, I had the rest of Isca’s stuff upstairs, piled on the coffee table and floor. The phone’s message light blinked and Porch Cat slept curled up on the balcony. I let him in.

I rewound the tape, opened the glass door for the cat and got his dish. We went to the kitchen while the answering machine began clicking off the calls. At first, with the cat winding around my ankles, I didn’t pay much attention. It did seem, though, like an awful lot of disconnects. Even on a good day, with heavy solicitation on names from my part of the phone book, I rarely had more than three. I put the cat dish down, rewound the tape and listened again. Seven? Seven disconnects? Odd—and vaguely creepy. My folks were still on vacation. Andy or Dave might have called, but they’d have left at least one message. So would my bosses—the one from the fair and the one from the office. If someone was planning a break-in, surely they’d have figured out around call number four or so no one was home.

I checked the locks on all my windows. Something had knocked over a flowerpot on the fire escape landing outside the bedroom.

“Dratted squirrels.” Because of the park, they were prolific, and this had happened before. The fire escape was accessed from my bedroom by a glass door. I’d had it installed to give the room more light. I opened it and went out to put the dirt and flowers back in the pot. After a soaking, they looked pretty good, and I consoled myself with the realization it was early days yet. They had plenty of time and the promise of summer weather in which to recover. I locked the door and pulled the shade.

In the living room, with the news on and the cat beside me purring, I settled down with a couple boxes of Isca’s stuff and started to sort it. It didn’t take long to organize the jewelry and photo albums. The bills and papers were a different story. The hodgepodge of receipts and records weren’t like the organized woman I knew.

“Perhaps she itemizes her taxes.” I set aside a manila envelope from the Pierce County Department of Vital Statistics and paper clipped together gasoline credit slips. After an hour I hadn’t found anything relating to her 900 phone line and my hands had that slick feeling from handling paper. When the phone rang, startling both the cat and me, I hesitated for a moment and then picked it up without saying anything. Two could play this game.

“Mercedes?” Andy said. “I hope it’s not too late to call.”

“Andy.” I was so relieved I forgot I’d been going to avoid him. “No. I’m still up. What’s up?”

“I called about the Psychic Showcase tomorrow. Remember? Are we still on?”

“Oh, sure. As it turns out, attendance at the spring fair has been so low when I finished my shift, management suggested I turn in my apron and call it quits.”

“Jeez, that’s a little harsh.”

I laughed. “I didn’t mean it that way. Attendance is down. They really don’t need me. I can still go to the dinner if I want.”

“Dinner?”

Oops.
I hadn’t meant to mention that. “The owners always put on a buffet for the employees at the close of the run. Anyway, about the Psychic Showcase, I haven’t forgotten. What time do you want to leave?”

“I can pick you up at ten.”

“That’s fine. I need to RSVP for the buffet, by the way. Would you like to go? It’s the next Saturday at seven.”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

We hung up and I put Isca’s papers in a box, using the Vital Statistics envelope to hold the smaller pieces down. Since my apartment was on the second floor, the only window shade I regularly closed was in the bedroom. I stepped out on the balcony as I did most every night before bed. The air smelled clean and in the park a killdeer flew across the ground scouting for bugs, its high-pitched, squeaky-wheel trill clearly audible. I pulled some unhealthy leaves off a plant and as I did, a light came from deep in the park. The beam traveled around the balcony before pinning me against the glass door.

The light was the brightest I’d ever experienced. Just as on the drive down from Buckley, the beam blinded me. Frightened, I dropped to my knees and looked through the railing. I caught a brief glimpse of tree trunks before the piercing ray also dropped and shone through my balcony’s railings. From my knees, I went to my stomach. I inched my way back inside and shut and locked the door. Immediately the light went off. Yikes. Now I didn’t know where the flasher was. Still hidden in the protection of the shrubbery or crossing the street?

With a shaky hand I dialed 911. The impersonal voice at the other end was polite, but someone in the park flashing a light in a woman’s windows was pretty low on the priority list. I didn’t care. She promised to report it to the patrol car in the area and advised me to lock the doors and stay inside.

I took the cat and a large kitchen knife—again—and barricaded myself in the bedroom. With the lamp off, I knelt and peeked through the curtain. The vacant lot next door was dark. Half leafed-out trees and overgrown shrubs swayed in a light wind, creating animated shadows. From where I crouched I could see a bit of the park and the street. The outdoor lights fell on empty pavement. It didn’t matter. In the right setting, a person didn’t have to hide in the dark. He just became part of it.

Scary thought. A few lights were on in the apartment building on the other side of the vacant lot, but they barely penetrated the lot. Like mine, the building was brick. Like mine, people had plants on fire escapes that ran from the ground to the roof. One sunny day I’d done a watercolor of the old wrought iron and bright plants that contrasted against the bricks. At the time I’d only seen the beauty of aged patina. Now I couldn’t see anything except creeping shadows.

I undressed in the dark and turned on a tiny reading light. The butcher knife sat next to the pepper spray on the nightstand. I wondered if I could actually use a knife on a person. The cat had apparently been tomcatting around all day because he was content to curl up and sleep. I read for a while. Then the book fell onto my chest, and I turned off the light.

The ringing phone woke me from a sound sleep. I decided to let the answering machine get it. The phone rang and rang in the frightening way they did at night until my voice came on. Then the caller hung up and dialed again. I moved the chair away from the bedroom door and crept across the living room in the dark. When I picked up the receiver and said hello, someone breathed. No one spoke. No one hung up. For a moment, my unknown caller and I listened to each other. I finally slammed down the phone. A few minutes later the same intense light that had frightened me earlier flashed on. This time the beams roamed my ceiling and bounced off mirrors, half lighting the room. Had the flasher moved out of the park’s protecting foliage and come closer to my building? Once again, I got down on my knees. Shivering, I dialed 911.

“We’ve had a patrol car in your area.”

“Please, I’m frightened. Someone is stalking me.”

“By stalking do you mean you’ve been followed or harassed like this before?”

“No.” My teeth chattered. I forgot about being chased home. “But besides the light, someone has been calling and hanging up.”

Maybe I sounded lame. Her tone of voice never changed. After promising to inform the appropriate authorities, she hung up. I went back to bed and tried to calm down. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I was making a little headway when suddenly, pebbles began bouncing off my window and the cat sat up. I sat up too. At that moment, the floodlight hit my bedroom window. The cat paced restlessly on the bed, flicking his tail in agitation. The light went out and a minute later the phone began to ring again. I hurled myself out of the bedroom and snatched the receiver.

“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.” Before I hung up, someone chuckled. I pressed the button, cut the caller off and called 911 again. As soon as the lines connected, I started babbling. “Listen. Someone is after me. He’s calling and flashing lights in my windows and throwing little rocks and this has been going on all night. I want someone out here!”

“We’ve had the area checked out.”

“I don’t care! I’m scared and if someone doesn’t get over here, I’ll shoot the first person who appears outside my window.”

Mentioning a gun brought the desired response. Ten minutes later someone knocked on my door. “Tacoma Police.”

I looked through the peephole. A figure in blue stood outside. “Hold up your badge, please.” I left the door chain on while I gave it a careful examination. It looked official and I had a nodding acquaintance with the officer, having seen him in the neighborhood. His name was Hamilton. but I stood well back after I let him in and had my pepper spray, just in case.

I turned on some lights and sat on the couch and wished I wasn’t wearing a terrycloth bathrobe. He sat on the edge of a chair and listened while I told him what had been going on. He wrote things down in a little notebook and probably couldn’t care less what I wore.