Final Grave (26 page)

She held the revolver to her eye and checked the site, then spun the cylinder. “That’s unusual.”

“Yeah, a ten-shot cylinder, and here’s the ammo.”

She was used to a 9mm Sig Sauer with a 16-shot magazine, something more manageable that fit her hand. Still, gratitude overwhelmed her. “I’ve felt naked without my piece. I didn’t expect to be working when I got here. Thank you.”

“You didn’t get it from me.”

“Of course not,” she said as she stowed it in her backpack on the kitchen counter. On her return to the living room, she brought the Wheat Thins. She eased down on the sofa, taking care not to disturb Stella. A photo of Mendiola and another man in ski gear caught her eye. “Looks like Bogus Basin.”

“Yeah. Bet you skied when you lived here.”

Everyone she knew had. She nodded. “My friend Becky and I were jocks, even did some snow-boarding. I wanted to be another Picabo Street.”

“That gal is some athlete. You’ve gotta miss skiing.”

She shrugged. “I kayak now.” She pointed to the photo. “Who’s your friend?”

“That’s Scott. We played football in high school. We were close.” He held his fingers together. “It’s different now. He’s getting married. Joined the country club and plays golf at Crane Creek with his in-laws. Vacations at Pebble Beach, Augusta, even St. Andrews.” Mendiola took a swallow of beer. “My ex wanted that life but it’s not me. So here I am, best man at a country-club wedding but not a member of the club. Know what I mean?”

He paused. “Change of topic. You’re comfortable here aren’t you?”

“At your house?” Meri Ann glanced at her sock feet. She’d kicked off her shoes. “I guess I am.”

“So let me fix us something to eat. We’ll talk case and go over our suspects, all of them. I’m not in the mood to fight dinner crowds, but it’s your call.”

Maybe it was the beer or his hospitable manner, but it made sense to stay put. “I suppose, if you’re up to cooking.”

“I’ve got a couple of steaks.”

“Sorry, but I can’t face red meat tonight. In fact I seldom eat it.”

“Afraid of mad cow or an animal sympathizer?”

“A little of both, but mostly for health. I injured my knee in an adventure race. It took a year to mend and my physical therapist introduced me to organics and a healthier way of eating.”

“But your knee’s okay now.”

“Good as new. But sometimes I can tell when it’s going to rain—that is if I’m watching the weather channel.”

He chuckled. “Good one. So how about eggs and potatoes?”

“Sounds great.”

She followed him into the kitchen. They weren’t alone. Geronimo hunkered on the top of the refrigerator, like a lion stalking prey. She smiled at him, then glanced back at Mendiola. “So what can I do?”

He offered her a bag of potatoes and a massive cleaver. “It slices a mean spud,” he said. My decor might be state of the art but my utensils are stone-age.” He set a crusty non-stick skillet on his JennAire range.

She examined the twelve-inch blade of the knife. “Looks like a prop from
Nightmare
on
Elm
Street
.” She held it poised like a dagger. “I’m ba-ack.”

Geronimo flew onto her shoulder, using her as a springboard to the counter.

Meri Ann screamed and dropped the cleaver. The blade fell like a spear, pierced her sock and stuck in the wooden floor. The knife’s handle quivered on impact

“Oh, my God!” Pain shot through her left foot, her big toe, and she froze in momentary shock.

“Shit.” Mendiola grabbed the clever. He tore off her sock and exposed a bloody but intact toe. The knife had grazed the outer flesh and missed the bone.

She wiggled her toes. Everything moved, and she thanked God for small mercies. “I can’t believe what just happened.”

“Could have been worse,” he said. “You’d better sit down.” He helped her into the great room as if she were an invalid.

Already the pain had subsided and she felt like a sissy. “Please, don’t over-react.”

But he had already gone back to the kitchen and she heard the sound of an ice dispenser. He returned with a bowl of it and rolled up her pant leg. “I’m really sorry about this. Guess you know why I call him Geronimo.”

“He’s an Apache attack cat?” she said without affection.

“A jumper. World War Two paratroopers yelled “Geronimo!” before they leaped.” He plunged her foot into the water.

“Yeouch, that’s freezing. All I need is a band-aid, believe me. This is kid stuff.” She removed her foot. He shoved it back in.

The warmth and tenderness in his big broad hands gave her a sensual rush, which amazed her—This was Mendiola who annoyed her at best and at worst made her furious. He was cradling her ankle and drying her foot with a paper towel.

Afterward he examined his handiwork. “Not too bad, a little Bacitracin and you’re on your way.”

He left her sitting and headed for the kitchen. He called back, “Stay put and keep your foot elevated. I’ll do dinner but I don’t take complaints.”

Ten minutes of sizzling sounds and she couldn’t stand it any longer. Her head drifted toward the kitchen and the scent of potatoes and fried onions, a smell she remembered from childhood. It flooded her with memories of her mom at the stove.

Meri Ann wrapped a piece of the paper towel around her toe and put on her sock. She joined him in the kitchen. “What can I do?”

“Stir the spuds, if you’re up to it.”

“You kidding? I’m ready for the Boston Marathon.” She took the spatula and stirred. Her toe gently throbbed, a small annoyance considering the catastrophe it might have been.

When the potatoes were done, he grilled the steak. Then he finished up with scrambled eggs while she set the table. They worked shoulder-to-shoulder with a familial intimacy, their differences a world away. If only they worked half as well on the case.

His dining room table sat at the kitchen end of the great room. “
Jan,
edan
eta
on
egin
. Euskara for eat, drink, and enjoy.”

Hungry as she was, she felt awkward until she started to eat. Once the first forkful entered her mouth, she couldn’t stop. In minutes, nothing remained on her plate.

“I feel human again.”

He nodded, mouth full, his lips shining from the well-marbled steak.

When they had both finished, he carried the plates to the kitchen and brought back two beers. He said, “I’m softening you up, so you won’t sue me for bodily injury.”

“Trust me, I’m not about to do anything that would take your mind off this case.”

Mendiola pushed his chair back from the table and nodded toward the living room. “Let’s talk in there.”

She settled at the end of the sofa beside Stella. “The view is best from here and it’s the most comfortable piece of furniture I have. The club chair’s a bitch with its slanted back.” He sat beside her.

“Backtrack to the TV appearance,” he said, “and answer me this: does Graber have a television?”

“Yes. I saw it the morning I was there.”

Mendiola shook his head in disbelief. “I’m surprised he has one when he doesn’t have a telephone.”

“Yes, the old coot is a conundrum. The owner of Chez Jay’s hair salon knew Graber as a kid and says his personality has changed drastically since they were friends. He may know more than he told me the first day we spoke.”

Mendiola nodded. “Okay, we’ll talk to him first thing in the morning. On the way over here, I made arrangements for a car to watch Graber’s house, but I had to pull the tail off Wheatley.” He shook his head. “I don’t like that, but Graber’s so far out of town that it ties up a person and vehicle.”

“Every department’s got budget restraints.”

She lifted her foot and rested it on the edge of his chair. “I’m about worn out from the ups and downs of this case.”

Mendiola picked at his beer label. “This thing about the tape recording got to you.”

Again, terrible feelings of loss welled up at the mention of it and it took several seconds to answer. “It’s worse than the crime scenes, worse than anything. It’s as if Mom died again. I mean, I’ve always said she was dead, but… but when I heard her voice a part of me hoped. Even the anger came back. I was ready to lash out at her for leaving me while wanting her to hold me all at the same time.”

Her throat constricted and her eyes misted over. She turned away from him, set her beer down and pulled herself together. “I can handle everything but not knowing what happened to her.”

“False hope’s a bastard. My brother went missing in action.”

He’d told her about his brother but not that he’d gone missing.

“It destroyed my parents,” he said. “Dad died still thinking he’d come home. If I got a call today like the one you got, I’d want to believe it. So I do get what you’re going through, which makes my screw-up on the investigation even worse.”

She was seeing him in a new light, and her fury over his omission had begun to fade—not because she forgave him, exactly, but because holding on to it meant more bickering. “I’m over that now.”

His arm slipped his arm around her in a comforting gesture. It was nice of him but the familiarity bothered her; and she didn’t want to encourage it. It had been almost a year since a man had put his arms around her, long enough to make her vulnerable to her own physical needs. She gently but firmly pushed him away. “I’d better go.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that.”

He’d probably felt sorry for her, which troubled her as much as if he’d found her attractive and wanted to bed her. She gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’m sure you didn’t.” She glanced at her backpack on the counter. “I’m tired, honestly.”

“So am I,” he said. “I’ve had a crappy week too—not as bad as yours, but pretty bad. I’d really appreciate the company. Come on, stay awhile. I’ve got an excellent bottle of brandy. Of course, if you have to get back to your friend’s I’ll understand.”

Earlier, she had asked him to have dinner with her because she needed company, and he’d willingly come to her aide. It seemed easy enough to repay his kindness. Anyway, it was only 9:40, and she wasn’t eager to return to River House. “Sure, I’ll take a little.”

He returned with two large snifters which were way too full. He handed her one and sat beside her on the cozy sofa. They propped their feet on the seat of the club chair—which did make a great footstool. They didn’t talk, just stared out at the skyline. She sipped the truly excellent brandy. It warmed her, relaxing her until she felt like mush. Suddenly, there was no case, no killer stripping bones and setting up macabre crime scenes, no Wheatley and accusing wife, no Harold Graber outside in the dark and no peering stalker. There was only the warmth of the brandy and Mendiola sitting beside her and the mesmerizing lights of Boise. The day’s exhaustion caught up with her and she fell asleep.

The phone rang.

It might have been an emperor’s gong the way it reverberated through her. Startled, she wrested herself from the crook of Mendiola’s arm, where she’d been asleep for God knows how long. In the process, the snifter of brandy she must have rested on her lap spilled all over her pants.

Mendiola was beside her, rubbing his eyes and looking very sleepy. “Relax, the machine will get it.”

She wasn’t worried about the phone, but about the hour. It was 3:00 in the morning. “How did this happen,” she muttered as she got to her feet, dobbing at the soggy front of her pants.

In the kitchen, she found paper towels and began to dry herself. The insistent phone kept ringing.

Then the answering machine picked up, a belligerent male voice came on. “I hope to hell this is the right number, Meri Ann. Call me. It’s freaking important.”

“Oh, no,” she said, caught in a wave of nausea. “That’s my husband.”

Chapter Thirty-two
 

M
eri Ann stood in front of the sofa where Mendiola was still stretched out. Stella was on his lap. “That was my ex husband,” she said, weakly. “Well, soon to be ex. Maybe he’s calling about the message he heard on my phone. Other than that, I can’t imagine what he wants or how he got your number, unless Becky gave it to him.”

“Be my guest, call him back.”

“I’ll call from Becky’s. I’ve got to get going; it’s awfully late and I promised to be back by eleven. She’ll be furious with me.”

He ran his fingers through his thick hair and smiled coercively. “You can always stay here and avoid her wrath.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you could if you wanted to. I’m a very hospitable guy.” He lifted the cat from his lap, set her aside and got up from the sofa. He stretched, moving his head in a series of circles. “Not bad sleeping with a visiting detective but it nearly broke my neck.”

She rolled her eyes and started for the kitchen to retrieve her backpack.

He followed her, sniffing at the air. “Whoa. You stink of booze. If I were you, I’d rinse out those pants and stick them in the dryer and while you’re at it you might want to pull a comb through your hair. Seriously, take a look in the mirror.” He proceeded to pour himself a glass of water. As he drank, he pointed her in the direction of his bedroom. “The bathroom’s in there.”

She found the master bath and turned on its glaring lights. Her hair stuck out on one side and was as flat as Kansas on the other. She had bags under her eyes plus a deep red crease on her right cheek. She looked as if she’d just climbed out of bed after a marathon sex orgy. As he’d so kindly pointed out, she also stunk of brandy which had smelled much better in the snifter than it did on Meg’s corduroy pants. On the back of the door she found a terry cloth robe. She put it on, took off her pants and rinsed the crotch where the brandy had spilled onto them.

She padded barefoot out to find Mendiola but didn’t have to go but ten feet. He had crawled into his bed and had the covers pulled over his head. She found the dryer herself, stuck in her pants and turned it on. What difference would thirty minutes make. Becky must be asleep by now anyway.

Meri Ann picked up the portable phone and dialed Ron.

He answered on the first ring. His hello sounded slurred.