An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (14 page)

Hell.

“The police have given us permission to open the bookstore again,” Natalie announced, in case I'd missed those customers wandering zombielike through the aisles and hovering like vultures over the bargain-book table.

“Excellent.” She opened her mouth again. I could see what was coming. “I have to make a couple of quick calls, and then you can fill me in.”

I beat a hasty retreat. In vain. She followed me into the office. “Adrien.”

Phone in hand, I sighed. “You'd better close the door.”

She pushed it shut and came over to the desk.

“Warren's band split up.”

“Good news for music lovers.”

She let that go. “And Warren is looking for a job again.”

“No.”

She looked wounded. “You haven't even heard what I'm going to say.”

“You're going to ask me to hire Warren, and the answer is no.”

“
Why
?”

“Nat, we've been through this.”

“You don't like him.”

I said cravenly, “I don't think he's a good match for the bookstore.”

“You mean you don't like him.”

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

65

That was exactly what I meant, but as I stared into her angry, glittery eyes, my nerve nearly failed again. I drew a deep breath. “No, I don't like Warren. And I especially don't like him for you.”

“Why
especially
not for me?”

I hadn't noticed how deep the water was. I did a few backstrokes. “Because…because you're my sister.”

“Oh.” She relented. It was only for an instant. “But you're not being very fair to me. We needed help when it was both of us. Now I'm here all by myself. It's too much.”

There was no answer to that, because she was absolutely right. “Look, I'll call the agency. I promise I'll get someone here. And until then, I'll take care of the—”

“I knew it. I
knew
this was going to happen when I drove you home Monday evening.”

“Huh? What did you know?”

“That you would try to go back to work. But you pleaded—”

“I didn't
plead
.”

“And you promised that you would rest and follow every single one of the doctor's orders.”

“I
am
resting. I
am
following orders. I'm talking about handling some of the phone calls and paperwork, that's all.”

To my astonishment, she said quite sternly, “No, Adrien. There's no gray area here. Your doctor said it would be six weeks before you could return to work. He didn't say three—”

“Hey, technically I'm in the middle of the f—”

“He didn't say four weeks or that it would be okay if you worked part-time or if you worked in your office or if you simply did paperwork. You're supposed to be resting and recovering.”

“Jesus, I
am
resting and recovering. How much resting and recovering can one person do in a day? It's wearing me out. I have to have something to keep my mind occupied.” I felt close to panic at the suggestion that I wouldn't be allowed to work. At all? For six
weeks?
That was crazy. What the hell was I supposed to do with myself?

“Read a book, Adrien. We've got a store full of them. I bet I could find you a title you'd enjoy.”

“Very funny. It's not like I work in a shoe store. I own this place. I can't ignore it for months.”

I could hear the agitation in my voice, and so could Natalie, because she said soothingly,

“That's what family's for.”

Oh,
that's
what family was for. I thought they were just there to monopolize my holidays and critique my love life.

She continued, unmoved. “You're going to have to be patient and have trust, because under
no
circumstances are you coming back to work. If you won't hire Warren, I'll have to manage on my own till one of the agencies finds us someone, but you are
not
working until your doctor gives you permission.”

I opened my mouth, and she threatened, “I swear I'll call Lisa.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Make. My. Day.” She went out and closed the door. Pointedly.

66

Josh Lanyon

I shook off my incredulity and dialed Jake's cell phone. He picked up on the second ring.

“Listen,” I said. “I apologize for the crack about needing money.”

“Hey, it's true. I do need the money.” There was nothing to read in his tone. Business as usual.

“If you…if you're short of cash, I'd be happy to—”

“Thanks. It's not necessary.”

I stumbled over the words. Got them out anyway. “In fact, maybe I can help you buy out Kate's share of the house. Advance you whatever you need.”

The silence that followed lasted so long, I thought maybe he was out of range. In every sense.

“Why?” he asked tersely, at last.

“Because…because you shouldn't have to lose the house. Because we're friends. Because you'd do it for me.”

“That's all true, and I appreciate the offer, especially because I know you're overextended yourself, but no.”

“Why not?”

He said painstakingly, as though explaining the ABC's of the law to a rookie, “Because the best thing for me now will be to get out of this town and start over someplace new.”

I had no answer to that. He was right. Even I could see that. Jake needed a fresh start, a new beginning somewhere, without all the history and emotional baggage. But the idea of his leaving filled me with sadness. Totally selfish. I knew that. Totally illogical.

I said mechanically, “If you change your mind…”

“Sure,” he said. And then, “I'll be in touch.”

He clicked off.

Having slept surprisingly well in the car, I felt more alert and energetic than I typically did in the early evening. Maybe I
was
getting better. I wanted to believe that, even if it seemed like too much to hope for.

I did a tentative search of the Internet and discovered that Dan Hale was a very popular name—nearly as popular as Jay Stevens. However, a combined search for Hale and the Tides yielded better results in the way of a number of vintage photos of a lean, dangerous-looking young man with a wolfish smile, an ever-present cigarette, and a black calla lily in the buttonhole of his white dinner jacket.

There wasn't much information on Hale. He'd been born in Los Angeles, had served in the merchant marine during the Korean War, had opened the Tides after his stint, and had run it successfully for five years. He was reputed to have mob ties.

There was nothing about his personal life or background. No contact information. He had been linked romantically to a number of starlets and Los Angeles socialites. There were plenty of photographs where he appeared as one of the glamorous subjects, although he was rarely the primary focus.

I read more about the Tides. In those days the stretch between Point Dume and Malibu had been a wilderness, yet a lot of people had fond memories of driving out to the coast for dining An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

67

and dancing at Hale's place. I read those accounts carefully, but there wasn't much to glean other than historical perspective. A few folks mentioned Hale and his supposed mob connections. It didn't sound like anyone had actually witnessed evidence of mob influence, though apparently the possibility had added a little spice to the entertainment. Occasionally there were references to the house band, though no one specified Jay Stevens or the Moonglows by name. Mostly it sounded like Hale had run a tight ship.

Argyle had said Hale was still alive and his last-known address was in Santa Barbara. I decided to give information a call. I learned that there were two Daniel Hales in Santa Barbara.

The first Dan Hale was not at home. I was pretty sure I had the wrong one.

“Yo! Danny's answering machine is broken. This is his refrigerator. Please speak very slowly, and I'll stick your message to myself with the pineapple magnets.”

I was tempted to ask to speak to the stove. I restrained myself.

The second Dan Hale didn't answer. At all. Who didn't have an answering machine in this day and age?

Natalie poked her head into the office to say good night. She eyed me suspiciously.

I said, “This is recreational computer use. Please don't tell my mom.”

Unwillingly, she started to laugh. “You're a nut, you know that.”

“That's what all the guys in the white dinner jackets tell me.”

The bookstore was very quiet after she left. I read up more on the swing-music scene and ordered a couple of CDs online.

The phone rang next to me, and I jumped. I picked up before the answering machine could, and Guy said, “
Why
am I not surprised?”

“Because you're wise in the way of the world? How many guesses do I get?”

“Aren't you supposed to be resting and relaxing?”

“I am.”

“Downstairs in your office?”

“Did you merely call to berate me, or did you have a higher purpose?”

“Could there be a higher purpose? In fact, I was thinking of dropping by tonight if you're not too busy pretending to rest and relax?”

Frankly, I was delighted at the idea and said so.

“How does barbecue chicken sound?”

“Probably very quiet. I'm just guessing.”

“You're in rare form.”

I admitted, “I'm bored and lonely.”

“I'm on my way.”

* * * * *

“Aye, aye. Hang about.”

I signed out of the laptop, locked my office, and went over to open the side door.

68

Josh Lanyon

Guy was medium height, lean, with long, loose silvery hair, an imperious face, and knowing, bright green eyes. Tonight he smelled irresistibly of barbecue chicken.

“You didn't waste any time changing the locks.”

“What's that?” I realized what he meant and said, as I leaned forward to kiss him, “That wasn't on your behalf. Don't be a dope.”

He asked about the break-in as we marched upstairs, and I filled him in on the developments as well as my trip to Ojai with Jake.

Guy heard me out. “Riordan seems to be playing a starring role in your latest adventures.”

“Yeah, well he's the only cop I know.”

“Ex-cop.” There was a certain pithy satisfaction in Guy's voice.

“Yes.”

He couldn't resist observing. “You know Paul Chan.”

“True. But no way would Chan—”

“Humor you?”

I shrugged.

“And has it occurred to you to wonder why Riordan continues to humor you?”

“Yes. Except this time I dragged him into it, and I'm paying him to humor me.”

“Yes,” Guy said drily. “I find that fascinating.”

We dished out the food in the kitchen and sat down at the table. Tomkins stole into the room, and Guy nearly choked on his potato wedge.

“Where did the cat come from?” he questioned hoarsely.

I'd completely forgotten Guy's allergies.

I got up, cornered Tomkins, and threw him—to his astonishment—into the bedroom, closing the door after.

“Sorry,” I said, coming back to the table. “He just sort of happened.”

“Yes.” Guy sighed. “Well, I'd say that doesn't bode well for the rest of the evening.”

Our gazes caught, and I smiled sheepishly.

I was relieved that I'd put off dinner with Mel one more night. It was comfortable and relaxed with Guy in a way it wasn't with Mel, let alone Jake. We talked about the summer courses he was teaching. He asked me how the work was going on
A Deed of Dreadful Note
, and I detailed Jason's latest adventures.

Interestingly, Guy had always found my writing as unrealistic as Jake, although his reasons were totally different. Guy deplored my
pulp sensibilities
. Jake deplored my lack of realistic police procedure.

Guy told me he was thinking of writing another book himself, this time based on his part in the Blade Sable murder case.

“Speaking of Blade Sable,” I said, “How
is
Harry Potter?”

“Peter is…adjusting. He's back in school, and he's doing quite well. I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive him.”

“I've got this funny resentful streak about people who try to kill me.”

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

69

Guy sighed, long-suffering. “He didn't. You know he didn't.”

“I don't know that. If it makes you feel better, I don't wish him any harm. I hope he is rehabilitated. I hope he does…whatever it is you hope he's going to do for you.” I lifted my lashes, grinned lazily.

Guy was gazing at me with such an intent expression, I stopped smiling, puzzled.

“Something wrong?”

His smile was twisted. “I think it's finally sank in on me that it really is over between us, isn't it?”

“I… Yeah. I suppose it is.” I managed to bite back the one about always being friends. Not because it wasn't true—it was—but I knew he didn't want to hear it. Didn't need to hear it.

He nodded, looked away. His shoulders sagged. He glanced back at me. “Tell me it's not that asshole Riordan.”

“It isn't anything to do with Jake.”

“He won't ever change, Adrien. It doesn't matter the promises he makes; it doesn't matter even that he might
want
to change.”

The correct response was to repeat the truth: that it had nothing to do with Jake. I heard myself argue, “He already
has
changed, Guy.”

He was shaking his head stubbornly. “He was forced into coming out. Circumstances forced it. If your life hadn't been on the line, he'd still be safely in the closet and married.”

I didn't have a response, because I feared that
was
the truth. Not that I wasn't grateful that Jake had chosen to sacrifice the lie of heterosexuality in order to spare my life, but there really had never been a question of that. Okay, maybe for a few seconds there had been a question in my mind. Looking back…realistically, there shouldn't have been. He was simply too good a cop—too good a man—to have let me be murdered.