An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (22 page)

Somehow I knew even before she spoke. “I'm so very sorry to inform you that Mr. Hale passed away during the night.”

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Josh Lanyon

“What happened?”

“Old age.” She smiled sympathetically. “He was nearly ninety, you know.”

“He seemed…” I stopped. Frankly, Hale
had
seemed pretty infirm.

“I know,” she commiserated. “It's always such a shock.” Clearly it was rarely a shock around Sea View Manor; this was the politic thing to say.

“Thanks,” Jake told her.

We turned away.

A thought occurred to me, and I turned back to the desk. “Did Hale have any family left?”

The receptionist pursed her mouth. “I don't know that he did. He was a widower, and I don't believe they had any children.”

“Who paid for his care?”

“Oh. Well, I really couldn't say.”

“Could we talk to whoever is in charge?”

She hesitated and punched a button on her phone and requested the presence of Mr.

Vaughn.

Mr. Vaughn, in another Brooks Brothers ensemble, appeared gracious and apologetic. He praised us for brightening Mr. Hale's final day. We asked about Hale's immediate family, and he got the same cagey look the receptionist had.

I said, “Yesterday you asked if we were family, which seems to indicate Hale
had
family, even if they didn't visit often.”

“I really couldn't say.”

“Who could?” Jake asked.

Mr. Vaughn looked disconcerted.

“Who's in charge here?” Jake pushed less politely.

Dr. Sawyer.

Mr. Vaughn retreated, and Dr. Sawyer, trim and dark, entered the fray. Sawyer came prepared, having already heard what we were after. He was apologetic but firm.

“I'm afraid that's confidential information, gentlemen.”

I remarked mildly, “Is it that much of a deep, dark secret?”

“No, of course it isn't,” Dr. Sawyer said with a hint of irritation. “However, the family values their privacy.”

“So Dan did have family left?”

Dr. Sawyer looked chagrined. He recovered at once. “I'm afraid I've revealed as much as I'm prepared to. If you'll excuse me, I've patients to attend.”

He strode off, his white coat flapping.

“Now what was that about?” Jake's gaze met mine.

“Hale lost everything after the Tides went under. I guess it's possible he managed to recover financially, but he never opened another club. He doesn't turn up on the Internet as the owner of any other successful business endeavor.”

“So?”

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“This place must be fairly expensive. It's Santa Barbara, for one thing. Everything's expensive. So, assuming Hale wasn't paying for all this, who was?”

I could see the gleam of approval in Jake's eyes. “Very good.” He gave me a “hold that thought” and went back to the reception desk.

When he rejoined me a few seconds later, he was smiling.

“What?”

“Memorial service on Thursday. I have a hunch it'll be very interesting to see who turns up to say good-bye to Dan Hale.”

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Josh Lanyon

Chapter Eleven

The drive back from Santa Barbara was unremarkable—except for my inadvertently pissing off Jake.

We were passing through Carpinteria when I got up the nerve to say, “You know, once the renovation on the other side of the building is done, I'm planning to rent out the top level to writers or students looking for a quiet space to work or study. If you wanted to set up shop, you'd be more than welcome. Rent free.”

I was staring out the side window when I made this offer. He didn't respond for so long that I turned to look at him and saw his face was ruddy with emotion. I looked closer and saw that the emotion was anger.

His hands were white knuckled on the steering wheel.

I wasn't sure where I had gone wrong, but I clearly had. As I started to question, he cut me off, his voice unnaturally even, which only served to emphasize how mad he was.

“Christ. You really are your mother's son.”

My mouth opened. No words came out.

“You better hurry up and figure out what the hell it is you want, Adrien.”

“Sorry?”

He risked a quick look from the highway, and his tawny eyes were bright with anger. “I've never known you to play games, so I'm going to assume you truly are confused and not deliberately jerking me around.”

“
Jerking you around
?” I practically stuttered.

“Let's start with climbing in bed with me last night. Or the fact that you've hired me to look into this bullshit case.”

I echoed disbelievingly, “Bullshit case?”

“You say it's over between us, okay. That's not what I want, but I can accept that there's too much water under the bridge. You're probably right. You know more about this kind of thing than I do, and you sure as hell should know more about what it is you want. So it's over. I'd like to stay friends with you. I think you want that too. For that to happen you need to respect the boundaries.”

My heart was racketing around my chest like a ricochet gone wild. It took a couple of hyperventilating breaths before I managed to say, “Speaking of mixed signals, what was this morning's blowjob supposed to be? Taps?”

I could see the muscle moving in his jaw.

“I wanted to do that for you,” he said in that too-level voice. “I wanted to do that for myself. I wanted one last time with you.”

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My throat closed off, and I turned to stare back out the window at the sand and water flying by in sunlit flashes of anguished blue and gold.

Finally I got control of my voice. “You're right. I didn't think.” I swallowed. “I guess… I don't want you to go.”

It took a lot to admit that. I could have saved my breath. He shot back, “I don't think you know what you want. Which…fair enough. You've had your share of trauma for the year.

Just…don't push me anymore.”

I snapped, “You got it.”

The rest of the drive was made in silence. There was plenty to say, but what was the point?

I'd made my mind up, right? I was finally, for once in my life, doing the sensible thing.

When we finally reached Cloak and Dagger, I scrambled out of the car.

“Can you let me know how it goes with Newman?”

I got a curt “of course.”

The Honda was starting to roll forward, so I managed to push the door shut without slamming it, and away he went. Places to go and people to do.

I walked into the bookstore; the bells on the door jingled cheerfully. A tall, bony, sallow woman in her late forties looked up and delivered the kind of glower that old-style librarians and German nuns used to great effect.

“Uh, I'm Adrien.” I barely managed not to apologize for it. “I own this place.”

“Ms. Pepper.” She didn't smile. I think maybe the scowl lessened a fraction.

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Pepper.” She had a grip like a stevedore.

I walked past the customers cowering in the aisles and hunted Natalie down in my office.

“Hi,” she whispered. We were evidently on speaking terms again. After a day of Ms.

Pepper, even I was probably a welcome relief.

“Who is that?” I whispered back.

“Naomi Pepper.”

“I know. Where did she come from?”

“The agency sent her.”

“She's scaring the customers.”

“She scares me.”

“We have to get rid of her. What were they thinking? She's like…she's like having a gorgon for a Walmart greeter.”

Natalie made frantic shushing motions, although if we were any quieter, we'd have been communicating by telepathy.

“We
can't
.”

“Why can't we?”

“I guess she was the only qualified person willing to work here.”

Two tiny murder investigations and everyone treated us like plague house.

I opened my mouth and then closed it. I wasn't in position to insist. “Does Elphaba know anything about books?”

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Josh Lanyon

“Does it matter?”

She had a point.

I went to the doorway and peered out. “Why are all the lights on in there? It looks like a prison yard after an attempted escape.”

“Ms. Pepper felt it was too dark.”

I thought it over. “I'll be upstairs,” I informed her sotto voce.

“Coward.”

“I have a note from my doctor.”

“
Oh
. Do
not
let Mr. Tomkins out of your rooms. Ms. Pepper doesn't like cats.”

I nodded my dismayed understanding.

As I slunk up the stairs, I noticed the music was not on, which added to the general study-hall atmosphere. Did Ms. Pepper also not like music?

Upstairs, I greeted Tomkins—who expressed himself at length on what he thought of such tomcat behavior as staying out all night—changed the clothes I'd been wearing for two days, forced down another of those ghastly protein-shake things—and tried to think of what to do with the rest of my day.

I really didn't see what more I could learn on my own. The case was simply too cold, and I had read all I wanted on jazz, swing, and early Malibu.

I wondered how Jake's meeting was going with Harry Newman.

I wondered what the hell had been up with Jake on the drive back from Santa Barbara.

I wondered why I couldn't stop thinking about Jake.

I got out the manuscript for
A Deed of Dreadful Note
and worked on it for a bit. My agent and editor were going to be delighted at how early this thing would be arriving on their desks. I'd never turned in anything this fast. Then again, I'd never had this much time on my hands before.

Unfortunately, that was what it felt like. Too much time on my hands.

Lauren dropped by late afternoon to invite me for a swim at the house in Porter Ranch.

“What was that?” she asked of Ms. Pepper when we got outside.

“That's Ms. Pepper. She's the new bookstore assistant.”

“She told me to lower my voice when I asked for you.”

“I hope you lowered your voice.”

“I did.”

* * * * *

At five I could hear the familiar sounds of Natalie's closing up shop. I thought it was quite a commentary that the shop seemed noisier after it closed for the day than it had during business hours with Ms. Pepper manning the front desk.

Finally, at six, the phone rang. I jumped to get it, trying not to acknowledge that I hoped it was Jake. It wasn't. It was Guy.

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It seemed he had decided to forgive me. He chatted about how his week was going, and I gave him a vastly edited version of my own week.

“Are you sure you're not overdoing things?” he asked tentatively.

I squelched the instant flare of resentment. It was a reasonable question—and he hadn't even heard half of what I'd been up to.

I still felt queasy when I remembered how easily I'd forgotten my meds. Thank God for Jake.

I blinked at the mental echo of that thought.

“I'm pacing myself.”

“Right. Well, you've got a second chance. You don't want anything to jeopardize that.”

I was beginning to be very tired of people telling me how lucky I was. “I know. I'm conscious of that. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to. Scout's honor.”

We talked a bit longer, but as glad as I was that we were back on good terms, I found myself strangely stumped for dialogue.

When I finally hung up, there was only a short time to prepare for Partners in Crime, the writer's group I hosted at the bookstore every Tuesday evening. The fact that I could contemplate having the group meet was proof of how much progress I'd made. Even the week before the mere idea of critique had exhausted me.

Jean and Ted Finch showed up early to set up the chairs and table and set out the snack foods. The Finches were married writing partners, but they looked unsettlingly like brother and sister, which reminded me of Jinx and Jay Stevens. Except Jinx and Jay had really been brother and sister.

Hadn't they?

Now there was an angle I hadn't considered before.

“How are you feeling, you poor baby?” Jean asked, to my embarrassment, giving me a big hug.

“Good,” I assured her. “Better all the time.”

“You look good. Much better than any of us expected. You got a little sun, I see.”

Ted looked up from moving chairs into a wide circle. “Have you solved the mystery of the skeleton in the wall yet?”

“I haven't. And he was in the floor. Not that it makes a difference.”

Ted and Jean looked at each other and twinkled.

I added, “And if Avery Oxford finds a body in the wall of his newspaper office, I'm suing you both.” We all laughed merrily. “Seriously.”

Avery Oxford was the protagonist of their appalling first novel,
Murder, He Mimed
. He was a thirtysomething, sharp-tongued, self-satisfied twit who bore a strong physical resemblance to me, right down to his slender build, silky black hair, and bright blue eyes. He even had a tough cop friend named Jack O'Reilly. Alarmingly, Jean and Ted recently claimed to have found representation for the book. I tried to comfort myself that whoever had agreed to such a thing was probably even now in rehab and that I had nothing to worry about.

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Josh Lanyon

The rest of the group started to file in, and I was assured several times how surprisingly healthy I looked. I took it as a compliment, although I had to wonder at what I'd looked like before.

Paul Chan, once Jake's partner in homicide, was the last to show up. He was a paunchy, middle-aged detective, and that night he was chewing stick after stick of Juicy Fruit gum, leading me to believe he was once more trying to quit smoking. From the point of his arrival, the discussion veered away from writing and publishing back to the skeleton in the floor.