Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (6 page)

“I hope you haven’t been messing with that table,” Mrs. Walburg scolded as she entered the room.

I turned and held my hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t think of it. Could you tell me who does the landscaping?” I asked, and looked back toward the yard.

“Why would you care?”

I pivoted to meet her gaze. “I’m looking for someone to take care of my place.”

She looked me over and frowned. Okay, so I wasn’t wearing a suit and tie — just jeans, a black turtleneck, track shoes, and a denim jacket. Steve Jobs had mega millions and always seemed to wear the same outfit and nobody claimed he couldn’t afford a gardener.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Mrs. Walburg sharply.

I didn’t argue, and without a word headed for the entrance.

“Thank you for all your help,” Sam said sincerely.

Mrs. Walburg walked us to the door, opened it, and let us out. The door slammed behind us. She hadn’t said good-bye.

Sam pulled up his collar as we started walking back down the drive toward our cars. “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Let’s go sit in your car for a minute.”

The rain pelted us and we picked up speed. Once inside the car, I reached into my pocket for the chalk. The second my hand clasped it, I got a jolt of something.

“What’ve you got?” I showed Sam the paper-wrapped piece of blue billiards chalk. “Hey, where’d you find that?”

“In one of the table pockets.”

“Are you getting anything from it?”

I closed my eyes, folded my fingers around the chalk, and was assaulted with a myriad of sensations.

“Well — well?” Sam badgered me.

“Shut up and let me concentrate.”

Whoever had last held the chalk had been upset — about money. A hazy image of a pool cue slamming into the cue ball, and all the other balls scattering across the table flashed through my mind. There was no way to tell if it was Morrow, his son, or anyone else who might have been in the house, but whoever it was had taken out his — and it was definitely a male — frustrations via the pool table and accoutrements.

I opened my eyes and shook my head. “Money.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked eagerly.

“But I don’t know who it was, or what they were thinking.”

“Is there a chance you might get more? You know, think about it a while. Maybe things could get clearer.”

“There is that chance,” I admitted.

He nodded. “Okay.”

I pocketed the chalk once more. “What’s up next?”

“I’m going to do some more research. I don’t want you doing the same. That might taint whatever it is you get from other more tangible sources.”

I shrugged. “Suits me.”

“Then again, if you get more vibes, you might want to take some notes — no matter how odd or demented they seem. At this point, we don’t know what could be relevant.”

It seemed a reasonable request.

“I need to get going. Like Mrs. Walburg, I’ve got duties to perform.”

“All the cleaning in the world isn’t going to get rid of that woman’s anger. And by the way, did you get anything off of her?”

“Just that she’s afraid she’s going to lose her home. You can’t blame her for being pissed about that.”

Again, he shook his head. “She’s living in the basement of a goddamn mansion. That’s not so bad.”

“It is if you have nowhere else to go.” I thought about it for a moment longer. “She loved the bastard. She never gave up hope that he would one day turn to her, but it was never going to happen.”

“He saw her as an employee, nothing else?” Sam guessed.

“Exactly. “

“Poor lady.” He shook his head as though in commiseration. “I’ll call you tomorrow — or maybe Thursday.”

“I’ll be around,” I said, and got out of his car. I hadn’t been lying when I said I had duties to perform. The laundry basket in the bottom of my closet was overflowing. As I climbed into my own car and started the engine, I wondered if it would be better to toss everything into a garbage bag and head for the nearest Laundromat, rather than head over to Richard’s to wash my stuff. If the pantry door to the kitchen was closed, I might not have to run into anyone. I could toss in a load and get out of there in a minute or so, then come back to throw them in the dryer half an hour later.

With my plans made, I backed out of the drive and headed for home. The pocket that held the chalk seemed warm, and I hoped that later it would give up more of its secrets.

Brenda’s car hadn’t returned by the time I got home. I grabbed my dirty clothes and went directly to the dungeon that housed their laundry room. I kept my own supplies in a cabinet by the side of the washer, dumped in my clothes and the liquid detergent, and hit the power button. The cycle ran a full twenty-three minutes, so I headed back to my apartment over the garage, dodging the raindrops.

Once back home, I set the timer on my microwave and then settled on my couch. I retrieved the chalk cube I’d set on the coffee table and rubbed it between my fingers. Before I had time to absorb anything, my cat Herschel jumped on my lap, head-butting my chin — a ritual I endured, yet enjoyed, at least a dozen times a day.

While Herschel purred his brains out, I pressed the chalk to my forehead and again the hazy images of Morrow’s pool table surfaced — game in progress. I ground my teeth, willing the image to solidify, but instead an odd image of dull gray pebbles being tossed on a beige carpeted floor came to mind.

That hadn’t made a damn bit of sense.

The microwave timer pinged and I set Herschel down on the floor and headed for the door, stuffing the chalk into my pocket.

Brenda’s car was still AWOL, so I hurried down to the basement and stashed my wet light-colored clothes in the dryer and hit the start button. I put my darks in the washer and got that load going, too. Settling my weight against the washer, I withdrew the chalk from my pocket, once again pressing it against my forehead.

Again, the image of greasy dark pebbles were imprinted upon my mind. What the heck? I shook my head and tried again.

Sam had said Morrow’s money could have been converted to other things, such as stamps, and sure enough I saw rows and rows of carefully preserved vintage stamps. Stamps with old airplanes. Stamps with silhouettes of heads of state. Stamps with flowers, faces, and everything in between. But where were they?

I kind of got lost in the crazy array of images, for the next thing I knew the dryer buzzed, bringing me back to the here and now. I shook myself and opened the dryer door. I folded my clothes on autopilot, still thinking about stamps and wondering how much I could learn about their value online when the washer finished its cycle, and I transferred those clothes to the dryer.

Again, I leaned against the washer and contemplated the images that worn out piece of chalk had already conveyed. Of course, all this psychic mental exercise started my head pounding. It was just too bad that physical pain seemed to be part of the process.

I was staring at the chalk, turning it over and over, inspecting its every imperfection when I suddenly realized Brenda stood before me, waving her hand before my eyes.

“Hey, pay attention to me,” she ordered none too kindly.

I shook myself. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.”

“You seem to be lost in more ways than one these past few days,” she said tartly, her expression fierce. “You haven’t made an appearance in almost two days.”

I shrugged and shoved the chalk back into my pocket. “I’ve had a lot on my mind — and a lot on my plate.”

Her penetrating glare seemed to cut right through me.

The buzzer went off on the dryer, and I opened the door, pulling out the chocolate brown towels and washcloths, piling them onto the top of the washing machine.

“I understand you have a problem with my houseguests.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“You haven’t been at all friendly to Da-Marr.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that statement, and continued to fold my laundry.

“You never told me about the people who mugged you,” Brenda said.

My gaze remained on the bath towel I folded. I didn’t want to be having this conversation.

“Were they black?”

I didn’t say anything. My silence was answer enough for her.

I could feel her anger building.

“I’m sorry, Jeffy, this black face just doesn’t rub off. And I can’t take responsibility for what other people of my race do, just the way you can’t for those white boys who steal their parents’ guns and blow people away in schools, movie theaters, and coffee joints.”

“I didn’t ask you to take responsibility.”

“And you can’t blame Da-Marr for what happened to you.”

I folded the last washcloth, gathered up everything, turned, and walked away.

“Don’t ignore me — and don’t stalk off in a huff.”

But I did leave without another word. I didn’t understand exactly what it was I felt, but I knew I couldn’t discuss it with her.

I trudged up the stairs, emotion swelling within me once again. It was fear — and even worse — the growing fear of having to face that fear.

I hadn’t yet arrived at a place where I was ready to deal with it. And after my experience with Dr. Krista Marsh, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to explore what I felt with any kind of so-called qualified health professional. And I’d never get past the guilt I felt for the pain I’d caused Grace Vanderstein at Krista’s manipulation.

The rain was just a drizzle as I crossed the driveway for my apartment. Brenda’s car was still among the missing, and Richard’s was gone, too. Had Brenda loaned her car to Evelyn? Aw, who cared?

I trudged up the stairs to my apartment and let myself in. Herschel was waiting for me behind the door and gave a yowl. “No treats right now, buddy.” Instead, I dumped the laundry basket on the breakfast bar and headed to the bathroom. I grabbed a dose of my migraine meds and downed it with some water, and then stood for a long time before the medicine cabinet’s mirror studying the haunted expression on my face, wondering what I should do next. I didn’t have to work that night, but I didn’t want to be alone, either. And I certainly wasn’t prepared to spend another evening with Evelyn and Da-Marr, even to placate Brenda.

The truth was, I loved Brenda. In fact, I felt more for her than a brother-in-law should. Why couldn’t she understand what that beating at the hands of a couple of young thugs had cost me? Okay, typical macho things like maybe my manhood. Eighteen months later, I still had these stinking, often crippling headaches, and probably always would. That limited my ability to work, to support myself. I was dependent on Richard and his generosity, and I hated it.

No, she couldn’t understand all that those punks had taken from me. And I could never begin to tell her, either.

I wandered into the living room and stood there for a few minutes, soaking in the silence. When I had one of my skull-pounding headaches, silence was a welcome respite, but right then I felt antsy. I knew better than to seek out my psychic mentor, Sophie Levin, until the wee hours; she simply was not available until then. That left me only one person I knew I could trust, and even that was tenuous.

I sat down on the couch and once again, Herschel was there, but it wasn’t his comfort I needed. I reached for the telephone that sat on the end table.

I dialed the number and waited to see if voice mail would pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Maggs.”

“Oh. It’s you.” She didn’t sound angry. She didn’t sound happy, either. She sounded … indifferent?

Okay, so we hadn’t been on the best of terms since the spring. Not that we’d fought, either. What we hadn’t done was talk much about her infidelity. I hadn’t wanted to confront her about it — just in case she decided to dump me for good, but not discussing it kept us from going back to the way things had been before her sister had instigated our breakup.

Wasn’t it ironic? She and Brenda both had a bossy older sister, and both of them seemed content to let them rip their lives to pieces. Irene had done that last spring; Evelyn was doing it now. Were Maggie and Brenda in contact with one another, comparing notes?

“Are you busy tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” Maggie asked, sounding resigned. Well, at least she hadn’t told me to fuck off.

“I dunno. How about a pizza? I could really use some company, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with.”

“Really?” Was that hope in her voice.

“Yeah, really.”

“I’d like that. Why don’t you come over around seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

Neither of us said good-bye. I hung up the phone and sank deeper into the back of the couch. Herschel settled onto the couch beside me in perfect contentment; I wished I could tune into that emotion with such ease.

I hadn’t been lying to Brenda. I did have more on my mind than Da-Marr and Evelyn, and even Sam and his quest to find Morrow’s hidden millions. I hadn’t called an allergist. I suppose I’d have to get a referral. It might take weeks — months — before I could even get an appointment. And then there was that whole near-death thing that kept hovering at the back of my mind.

I could have died.

The way things were going, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Stop it.

I’d had that thought far too often back in May — not my doing — and abruptly got up from the couch, startling Herschel. I stepped over to the window overlooking the driveway. The rain had started once again, pelting the glass.

Brenda’s car rolled up the driveway and pulled up behind my car, effectively blocking me in. Da-Marr got out, his expression smug. I took a step back, not wanting him to see me, but it was already too late. He glared at me for a long moment before he turned and sauntered for the house.

That kid gave me a very bad feeling, and it had nothing to do with psychic insight.

The better part of Richard’s day had been spent on the telephone dealing with insurance agents who shunted him from one department to the next. But when he’d set the receiver down for the last time, it had been after a conversation with the claims adjustor who’d just finished assessing the damage to the still-unchristened Betsy-Ruth. He liked the name. He was really going to enjoy that boat, or at least if Brenda finally came to like the boat he’d be better able to enjoy it.

He’d planned to pour a celebratory Scotch in the solitude of his study — that is until Brenda dragged him into the kitchen while Evelyn prepared dinner. While Brenda hadn’t said so, he could tell Evelyn’s presence had completely unnerved her. But there was something else going on with her, and he knew they weren’t likely to discuss it in front of their houseguests.

Richard poured himself a drink and settled at the table next to Brenda while Evelyn yammered on about the difficulties in raising the funds for a new roof for her church. Richard had a feeling Brenda would be writing a generous check to that institution before the end of the visit. Why couldn’t the woman just ask for a donation? Why did she feel she had to guilt them into contributing? Feeling stubborn, Richard ignored the not-so-subtle hints.

He reached for his glass and drained it before he got up from the table to retrieve more ice from the freezer. He tried to ignore Evelyn’s disapproving glare.

“Do you
really
feel you need that?” she asked.

Richard managed a smile. “Yes. Today I do.”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine. A big one,” Brenda muttered from her seat at the table where she’d been sitting on her hands, no doubt to keep from clenching them. “It’s been eight long months since I tasted the grape.”

“We’ll have champagne when the baby’s born,” Richard said.

“You will not,” Evelyn said, her fierce glare now pinned on Brenda. “Not if you’re going to breast feed that child.”

Richard poured himself another Scotch, slopping it onto the counter. He waited for the rebuke.

“Perhaps you’ve already had enough,” Evelyn said, and swooped in with a piece of paper towel.

“I can get it,” Richard said, fighting to keep his tone neutral, but Evelyn ignored him. He retreated back to the safety of the table.

Outside, Brenda’s car pulled up and he watched as Da-Marr got out, turning to look up at Jeff’s apartment. It occurred to him that the kid had been gone an awful long time just to get a spark plug, but he wasn’t about to interrogate him.

The outside door banged shut and Da-Marr trudged into the kitchen.

“Hang up that coat, young man,” Evelyn ordered, and Da-Marr dutifully turned around and shucked his jacket before he returned to the kitchen. Evelyn checked on the pot roast simmering on the stove. “Wash up for dinner. It’ll be ready in five minutes.

Without saying a word, Da-Marr headed for the bathroom.

Richard threw a glance at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even six. They normally didn’t eat dinner until at least seven, but since Evelyn’s arrival they’d been on an eight, twelve and six o’clock meal rotation. Didn’t the woman understand the concept of spontaneity?

Da-Marr returned and, without a word from Evelyn, went to the cupboards to collect dishes, and then set the table. She had him well trained.

“You were gone an awfully long time, Da-Marr,” Evelyn said with an edge to her voice.

Da-Marr gave her a wide grin. “I went exploring, Aunt Evelyn. I got the new spark plug for the lawnmower, but then I drove around just to see what I could find. Sorry, Cousin Brenda, but the gas tank needs to be filled.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brenda said, sounding weary.

“If it don’t rain tomorrow — ”

“Doesn’t rain,” Evelyn automatically corrected him.

“ — I’ll cut the grass,” Da-Marr finished. He turned to his aunt. “Can I help you with anything, Aunt Evelyn?”

“No, dear. You sit right now. Brenda, do you have an electric knife?”

“It’s in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”

Da-Marr took what was usually Jeff’s seat. “Hey, Richard, when can we go out on that boat again?” he asked, sounding keen for a new adventure.

“Depending on the weather, tomorrow or the day after.”

“Does the weather really matter when you’re driving it from inside the cabin?” Da-Marr asked.

Richard shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it does. The river could be terribly choppy,” Brenda said, annoyed.

“Why do you want to drive that boat anyway?” Evelyn asked, plugging in the electric knife.

Da-Marr shrugged. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna get the chance to do it once we’re back home.”

Richard had to bite his tongue not to ask just when that happy day would be.