Agnes Hahn (18 page)

The lights flickered overhead. He felt his heart rate hit red line. He turned, ready to bolt.

The door from the kitchen creaked. Instead of a weapon, Agnes held a pair of Ziploc baggies. She extended her arm. “Here. We should bag these for the police.”

“What’s with the lights?” His voice cracked.

“Oh, that. The wiring in this place is really old. They do that every time the refrigerator cycles on.”

He looked up at the chandelier and blew out a breath. “You should get that fixed.”

“They’d have to rewire the whole place.”

He took the baggies and held one open while she pinched the letter at the extreme corner and slid it into the bag. No breast protection this time. They did the same with the envelope.

“Should we call the detective?” she said.

Jason didn’t feel like answering Bransome’s questions in front of her. “I’ll drop them by the police station on my way back to the motel.” He reached for the baggies.

“What about supper? I worked hard on it.”

Eating fell somewhere between a dentist appointment and an IRS audit at the moment, but in the time it took Agnes to fetch the baggies, her demeanor had sagged. She obviously had spent a lot of time on her appearance, and the smells that wafted from the kitchen rivaled those coming from her body in terms of raw, visceral draw. The mention of food leapfrogged that aroma past her perfume in his sensory hierarchy.

Her lower lip quivered.

He couldn’t hurt her right now. “Can I help?”

“No. Sit down. I have a cart.” Calm returned to her face. “I’ve already dished it up.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later, pushing a squeaky-wheeled serving cart. She slid a heaping plate in front of him and placed another, half-full, at her place setting.

The smells from his plate not only registered, they stimulated a twinge of hunger, but only a twinge. He watched her spoon gravy over the sliced beef roast and the mashed potatoes nestled in a half-potato skin. “The gravy smells great.”

“It has bacon in it. It was one of Gert’s favorites.”

“Agnes, you said, ‘why would they want to hurt me.’ Who did you mean by ‘they'?”

She took a large mouthful of meat and shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you know anyone besides Lilin who’s involved in this?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say, ‘they'?”

“I don’t know. I guess because the handwriting on this letter is so different. That’s not Lilin’s writing.” She barely paused. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

The meat offered little resistance to his knife, and as soon as the gravy hit his tongue he cut another piece. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about your family that you haven’t mentioned to me?”

“I only know what Gert told me.”

“You don’t know anything about Eddie Hahn?”

“No. I’d never heard of him before you mentioned him.”

“Why do you think Gert and Ella didn’t tell you about him?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s their brother, and your grandfather.” He paused, and decided to go no further. “Why wouldn’t they say something?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Does it?”

“Nothing makes sense to me, and now it’s all happening here.” Her eyes stared, like they were defocusing.

Jason had seen the look before, on his brother’s face, when the two of them had to ask for their baseball back from the reclusive neighbor, Mr. Sillar, and ‘fess up to breaking his window.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“The murders are getting close. Mendocino’s next.” She looked up at him. “Is she going to kill me? Is that what she wants? I’m her sister.” Tears filled her eyes, but they didn’t release.

“The police are always right outside. I don’t think she’d try anything with them there.”

“Yeah? They didn’t see her drop off the package.”

Jason jerked forward. “What package?”

“These clothes. And makeup.” Agnes folded her arms across her chest. “Lilin bought them and left them in a box on the back porch.”

Lilin? “How do you know it was Lilin?”

“There was a note.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“What did you do with the note? And the box?”

“I threw them away.”

“Why?” It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like her. “They were evidence.”

“They didn’t have anything to do with the murders.”

“Everything has to do with the murders now. What did the note say?”

“Nothing. Just, here are some clothes. I guess she doesn’t like the way I dress.”

He glanced around at the windows, then back at Agnes. “She’s seen you?” And she’s been here?

Agnes pushed back her chair and placed her dish on the cart. “You didn’t finish it.”

“You gave me enough for two men. Besides, I’m a little worried here. I’m worried about you.” Worried about me.

She paused, and he thought he saw the hint of a smile.

She reached for his plate, making no attempt to shield her cleavage. “I still want to find her. I need to talk to her.”

“But what if she really is after you?” And me.

“That’s why I need to talk to her.”

Agnes wheeled the cart back into the kitchen, and Jason pulled the baggie containing the letter in front of him. Whoever wrote it had a pretty bad case of the shakes. The way the pen left a small blob of ink when applied to the paper, and when removed at the ends of words, suggested a herky-jerky lack of coordination. He’d seen this kind of writing before—in his grandfather’s letters.

Agnes returned holding a tray with two cups of tea. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to make dessert.”

“You did enough with the supper. It was fantastic. Thank you. I haven’t had a meal like that in a long time.” Ever since his fiancée had stomped out of his life, into the arms of that deadbeat who called himself a writer. Jason wished he had a dollar for every resident of Sausalito who claimed to be halfway through the next best-selling novel.

He regarded the cup of tea on the tray and his mind wandered back. What if she really was Lilin? She wouldn’t know about the sugar. He scanned the path to the front door again and slid his chair back a few inches. He thought about the phone calls and the person who tried to break into his room.

Agnes pushed the cup and saucer across the table. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just freaked out about the letter.”

“Me, too.”

He studied her expression, but he couldn’t read it. Was it the makeup? He tried to steady his hand, but the cup chattered against the saucer when he raised it. It brought her eyes up to his. He slid forward a little so his back was away from the chair, ready to spring if he had to. The cup touched his lips and he turned slightly toward the front door. A small stream of hot liquid crossed his lips. It was sweet. He leaned back in the chair and exhaled.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep last night.” His face felt hot. From the tea? “I was up late working on a story.”

“Maybe you should get the letter over to the police station, and then get some rest.”

“Will you be all right?”

“If Lilin comes here, if she gets past the police, I’ll get what I’ve wanted. I’ll get to talk to her.”

“But what if she wants to hurt you?”

“She didn’t write that letter.”

He finished the tea and pulled the other baggie to him. “I guess I’d better go. As long as I know you’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.”

Strange. Her smile and soft eyes assured him.

She walked him to the front door and held it open, leaning into it. Her free arm crossed her chest, blocking the view.

“Thank you for a lovely supper.” He swept his right hand down in front of her. “And you look beautiful.”

She straightened and let go of the door. “Do you like the clothes?”

“Lilin has good taste, but she obviously doesn’t know you. I say keep the look, but go with something a little less revealing.” He drew a V with his forefingers from his neck to his chest. “I don’t think you’re very comfortable with the neckline, although it’s very chic.”

She dropped her arms to her sides and smiled, showing teeth.

He reached for her left hand and pulled it upward to his mouth. A soft kiss and it was released. “Thank you again. If you need anything, call me. And don’t worry about the time. Remember, someone will be in the car across the street.”

She maintained the smile.

At the street, he turned back. She still stood in the open doorway, staring at him. He gave a wave and walked to the cruiser. Officer Didier didn’t lower the window, so Jason rapped on it with his knuckles. It opened a crack.

“You may want to radio in to Detective Bransome. I’m heading over to the police station. Agnes got another letter. I have it right here.” He held up the two baggies.

Officer Didier was on the radio by the time Jason got to his Volvo.

Detective Bransome was waiting behind the door of the police station when Jason turned up the walkway. He didn’t look happy.

Bransome yanked the door open. “Why didn’t Agnes call us as soon as she got this letter?”

“I don’t know. I think you scare her.”

Bransome rolled his eyes. “Where is it? Did you touch it?”

Jason held the baggies at arm’s length. “Agnes is the only one who touched it, and she didn’t open it until I got there.”

“Why didn’t she call me, damn it?”

“You’ll have to ask her about that. I can’t answer for her.”

“Come on.” Bransome stomped down the hall and into the detective’s workroom. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and examined the letter as he walked.

When he reached his desk, he placed the baggies on a large blotter. “Looks like someone else wrote this. Any idea who it might be?”

Jason stopped a lunge-and-a-half away from the desk. He took a deep breath. Time to get it out. “Maybe Eddie Hahn.”

“Who the hell’s Eddie Hahn?”

Jason took a step backward. “He’s Agnes’s grandfather.”

“And why don’t I know about this?” Bransome’s face glowed red.

Jason’s fingers found the healing wound on his forehead. “I found out about him from Ella. It seems she and Gert kept a secret from Agnes—about the family. They don’t have any relatives in Illinois.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Like I said, I just found out about it myself.”

Bransome paced in Jason’s direction, slowly. “So what’s this Eddie Hahn’s story, and why did Agnes’s aunts hide him from her?”

Jason took another step back and bumped into a desk. He leaned against it and gripped its edge. He thought about revealing Eddie’s other role, but stopped. He didn’t want Bransome bothering Ella until he could get more out of her. She’d clam up if Bransome came in with his attitude.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve been able to get a little out of Ella each time I go, but nothing else about Eddie Hahn yet. I’m still earning her trust. I’m heading back to see her tonight.”

“They still let you in that place?”

“I thought you told them to let me visit.” Touché.

Bransome’s face reddened again. “And I’ll leave it that way as long as you tell me everything Ella says. The one time I talked to the old coot, I couldn’t get anything out of her except broken record pleasantries. You don’t think she’s involved in this, you know, that she’s faking it at the home?” Bransome smiled. “You’re a ripe one for being played.”

“Those places are depressing. People go in but they never come back out, except in coffins. Why would she put herself through all that as a deception?” He thought about the old man across the table and one possible answer materialized. To keep an eye on someone. To keep that someone from talking. Or to hide out. Or both.

The detective rubbed his head. “Nothing surprises me anymore, and my gut’s telling me something fishy is going on here.”

Jason walked a few steps closer to Bransome and tried to redirect his focus. “I want to talk about Agnes. Can you give her more protection? She’s really scared about this letter.”

“We already have someone outside her place, day and night. That’s all we can do. We’re stretched pretty thin.”

“There’s nothing else?”

Bransome lifted his head and grinned. “After the Fort Bragg murder, the phone tap finally went through.” A squint and he nodded. “We’ve been monitoring her calls.”

“Her cell phone or her home phone?”

“Her cell. According to PacBell records, her home phone was disconnected right after her great-aunt died.”

Jason tried to think of everything he had said to Agnes in their last phone conversation. Was it before the murder or after? He couldn’t think straight. Time to change the subject. “Just for the record, were there any prints at the Fort Bragg scene?”

Bransome took a step closer. “You think you’re entitled to that kind of information?”

“Come on. I’m working on Ella for you. I told you about Eddie.”

Bransome’s eyes shifted downward, then back up. “No prints.”

“DNA?”

“Not back yet, but I’ll put odds on it.” Bransome walked back to his desk, turned, and folded his arms across his chest. “By the way, the time of death. It was eleven. You lucked out this time.”