A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (20 page)

“Male or female?”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Black, Hispanic, Asian, Caucasian?”

“Probably.”

“I mean, which?”

“I know. I was just trying for some humor. Anyway, I couldn’t tell.”

“Well, is there anything you can tell me?”

“Whoever it was wore black, or at least dark clothes, a short jacket like an Eisenhower leather jacket, only there was a hood, was either tall or slender enough so as to appear tall and kept his hands in his pockets.”

“Then what?”

“I started walking and trying to listen for him, trying to keep track of where he was. At the corner I turned and he was still there. Usually there’s traffic, you know? Not that night. G Street was deserted too. I walked faster and faster and then I started to run and I could hear him running too.”

Next to me, Andy shook his head. “Jeez, Merc.”

Hamilton turned to him. “You didn’t know about this?”

“No. This is the first I’ve heard. Jeez, what kind of a damn fool goes walking around this neighborhood at night?”

“My kind of fool. I try to be careful and I almost always have my pepper spray, but I just can’t live in fear and stay cooped up.”

A muscle pulsed in Andy’s cheek. I couldn’t read his eyes. For that matter, I couldn’t read him most of the time.

Where were you that night?

“Did you report this?” Hamilton asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want someone ragging on me about irresponsible behavior.”
Hint. Hint
.

Neither of them had an answer to my feminine logic. Footsteps vibrated in the hall. A man with a large case appeared in the doorway and introduced himself as Lt. Jake Joyce. He and Hamilton had a brief conversation.

“Can I clean up the bird poop and Jose’s cage?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, for the moment.” Lt. Joyce opened his cas
e. “I’ll start there if you like.”

It was a truly humiliating experience to see my things examined by perfect strangers. Just because I loved my faded terrycloth robe with the torn pocket didn’t mean I wanted people to see it.

While he dusted away, I remembered that my mother had always put embarrassing pieces of laundry, such as panties or the dog’s towels, on the inside clothesline so the neighbors would only see sheets and towels hanging white and impersonal in the sun. I would have much preferred the men see my pretty Chinese-style, brocade robe, a gift from Dave, not my animal-print panties and pushup bras scattered and tramped on. When Andy put his arm around me, I shrunk away and let his arm drop.

Hamilton left to question the neighbors and I started following the forensics man around.

“Fingerprint powder reminds me of the equator.”

“How so?”

“I swam in the ocean near the equator once. After that I splashed around in the swimming pool to get rid of some of the sand. When I got back to my hotel room and took a shower, the bottom of the tub was covered with fine black grit. Just like fingerprint powder, dark, fine and clinging.”

“Interesting. I’ll remember that.” He picked up his brush. “I’m done in here if you want to start picking up your things”

I got a washcloth and Andy and I cleaned up Jose’s cage. The parrot sulked and I didn’t blame him. After that, I knelt in front of a bookcase. I loved books, particularly nineteenth century memoirs I’d learned to enjoy in college. Over the years I’d done extensive book searches to find and build my collection. As I picked up the translation of a Russian diary and saw the torn book jacket, tears sprang into my eyes. I hugged the book against my breast, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Gosh, don’t cry.” Andy hunkered down next to me. He put a tentative hand on my shoulder and then to my cheek. Using his thumb, he wiped away the fast flowing tears. A commotion at the door made us both jump. I swiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. Neither of us had heard Dave, who now stood in the doorway looking around.

“I’ve had a prowler.”

“No kidding. I just got home and first thing I know, a cop shows up at my place asking questions about my whereabouts today and if I’d seen anyone hanging around.”

“Were you home?”

“Yeah, until about six. Then I went to Pugnacious for dinner.” He walked in the room to stand by the piles of dislodged books.

“In this neighborhood everyone looks suspicious. I saw the mailman, the Federal Ex guy and a painter.”

Dave stopped when Officer Hamilton returned saying he was going to file a report and would be in touch. He nodded at the men and left. The crime scene man soon followed.

Dave looked at the pictures, books, clothes and towels scattered around. With papers from the bottom of Jose’s cage and the gritty mess finger print powder, my apartment resembled a Jackson Pollock painting. Then he looked at me, pathetically clutching my book. He put his arms around me as Andy had done. I put my face into his chest and cried eye makeup down his ecru-colored linen shirt.

“Buck up, sweetie. We’ll clean up and rearrange furniture and listen to
Talk to Me Tacoma
on the radio.”

When I continued to bawl, he rocked me a little and kissed the top of my head. “Come on, Merc. Don’t go all Krakatoa. It’s okay. You’re okay. Here.” He handed me a hanky. “Wipe your face and blow your nose.”

I did while still clutching the book.

Behind me Andy stirred and moved toward the door. He wore the same expression he’d had the night he snapped the dowel in half while we stood in his darkened workshop. His cover-up mask, I called it.

“I can see things are under control.” His voice was edged with freezer burn. “Dave.” He nodded briefly. “Mercedes. I’ll be in touch.”

Still wrapped in Dave’s firm embrace, I watched bleakly as he walked out the door.
I can rule Andy out as the burglar and that’s about the only good thing that happened all day.

Chapter 18

Dave and I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening and Sunday repairing what we could, coming up with a new furniture arrangement and getting my apartment back in order. I ironed and taped crumpled book jackets and torn pages. Fortunately, none of the books had broken spines. When we returned them to the shelves, I was embarrassed at my half-assed dusting skills. In the evening, we walked over to the Hob Nob for dinner. Everything was shipshape when I went back to work Monday. Fate, however, was ever ready to play a puckish little trick. In this case, her name was Missy.

It was almost a relief to return to work. Andy hadn’t called. After our dinner, Dave and Francisco went to a western party, leaving me with a pounding headache and a large measure of self-pity. I slept badly. I seasoned the whole being sorry-for-myself thing with PMS and it simmered quite nicely.

At least the office seemed normal, that is, a new version of normal. Missy typed with the pads of her fingers so as not to break her sculptured nails. She covered her full, pouty lips with bright tangerine lipstick and outlined them in a darker shade of orange. She wore a formfitting dress that ended above her knees and was unbuttoned low enough to show off a lacy camisole. The dress turned her well-rounded behind into an asset—no pun intended. To top it all off, she wore seamed nylons with stiletto heels. The men in the office looked slightly dazed and huddled in her vicinity like heat-seeking missiles. However, the worst thing about her was she made me feel old and that made me crabby.

I’ll bet the company gets a tax break for hiring her.

Stop that. It’s rude and judgmental
.

Missy talked in a breathy voice. By quick use of the phone’s hold button, she kept both of my lines and hers tied up all morning. Even if Andy had wanted to call, he probably couldn’t have gotten through.

At one Pacific Time, when the stock market closed, I headed for lunch with relief. The options market had another ten minutes to go, but I callously decided to let Missy fend for herself.
I’ve picked up enough of your slack for one day
. With a sigh, I changed to sneakers and left for a walk across the Murray Morgan Bridge.

The Murray Morgan, generally referred to as the 11th Street Bridge, crossed the Thea Foss Waterway and connected downtown with an enormous landfill that was an industrial area. It was attached to Tacoma like a hive on a tree. Some people thought the industrial buildings were unsightly. I thought they gave life to Tacoma, which is rooted in a tradition of labor, mostly railroad and lumber. I liked Tacoma. Its blue-collar legacy suited me. The town’s wealthy people, such as the Weyerhaeuser family, were low key and unobtrusive. Plus, the presence of Ft. Lewis, which butted against Tacoma, meant urban sprawl stopped there.

I walked briskly down the bridge’s wide sidewalk, breathing in the smell of tide flats, salt air and roasting coffee. Three times a week, our local coffee broker filled downtown with the scent of roasting beans.

Four or five marinas ringed Commencement Bay near Tacoma. In the water below the bridge, boats bobbed at their moorage like frisky children. Large finger piers jutted out from shore with walkways connected to them at right angles. There were usually facilities for eight to ten boats on each side of each pier. I stopped and leaned on the bridge railing to watch a small spotted dog run down one of the piers. He lifted a leg on a weathered wooden flower box full of blooming daffodils. Nearby, a gaily painted paddle-wheeler tugged at its ropes. There were a few permanent residences among the boats. Jackson, Johnston was on the bluff above the bay and all summer long, when I looked out of the office’s kitchen window, children played on the docks, fishing and carrying dripping jars of sea water.

I wished I could have just one hour in 1880 when steamers, sailing ships, tugs, barques and the occasional Chinese junk filled the harbor.

I started walking again and the more I thought about my life, the faster I walked. Missy made me feel about as attractive as sensible shoes and support stockings. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to call Andy or not, and I wondered why he had never gone to court to drop Pacifist and make Andy his legal first name. In many ways, the sixties had spawned a cruel hatch. Susan St. James named two of her children Sunshine and Harmony. Well that was Hollywood, and they were better names than River Phoenix and Moon Unit Zappa. Even in liberal Washington State, names such as Anne and Kevin predominated. I had three Kathys in my fifth grade class.

Skirting a lunchtime jogger, I played one of my favorite mental games. I called it Worst Case Scenario. Death being the worst scenario, everything else was a step up. First Scenario:  Andy and I returned to the chilly relationship we’d had before Isca’s death. Scenario Two:  we went back to seeing each other and had meaningful exchanges of thoughts, feelings and quality groping. Scenario Three:  I lost fifteen pounds and both Andy and Kyle Hamilton called, vying for my attentions. That one was laugh-out-loud funny
.

At the end of the bridge, I crossed the street and continued up the other side.
Maybe I should be nicer to Missy. If she is good for nothing else, she surely knows a lot of men, maybe even some who have gainful employment.

Stop it, Mercedes. You’re being judgmental again.

Shut up.

The week dragged on with no calls. By Thursday, I figured I was back to my solitary state. Even the cat disappeared. To make matters worse, spring forgot to tuck in a little bit of warm weather between seasonal rain showers. A sodden diaper of moisture, mist and other forms of precipitation hung over Tacoma. An unattractive metaphor if there ever was one.

Hard to believe that back before clear-cutting, western Washington had a lot more rain. A mature Douglas fir required five gallons of water a day, and the enormous old-growth timber that began at the coast and grew nonstop to Puget Sound pulled the rain in. Clouds dumped their soggy load on our side of the Cascade Mountains and then drifted high and light to the state’s dry, arid, eastern side. Over the years, though, the pattern of nine consecutive months of deluge had diminished. Just my luck to have them start at the time when my spirit drooped like stretched-out ankle socks.

At the office, I divided my mornings between explaining to Missy the need for her to put her personal calls on hold long enough to take messages from clients and trying to organize Mr. Jackson’s work schedule around his upcoming vacation. Mr. Jackson went to Montana every year to fly fish and bond with his buddies, many of whom were also clients. No baths, no broads, no Ban deodorant. He always returned full of dirty jokes and testosterone and wrote the whole thing off as a business consultation trip. Late Friday afternoon my phone rang.

“Mercedes?” I winced at the sound of sinuses stuffed to capacity at the other end.

“Andy?”

“Hi.”

“Jeez. You sound awful.”

“I’m getting over the flu.”

“How could you be sick when we were just at a total health fair?”

“Ha, ha.” He blew his nose and followed up with a sniff. “I don’t think I can go to the dinner. I’m really sorry.”

   
The after-the-Puyallup Fair dinner party. I’d been trying to decide if I wanted to go solo or skip the whole thing. Life at Scenario One. I was prepared.