Meadowlark (13 page)

Later, as I lay in bed drifting off to sleep, it occurred to me to
wonder if Bianca's behavior had the same irritant effect on other
relationships she intersected with.

I drove in to the bookstore early and Bonnie went with me.
She was full of the European trip. That was both threatening and
restful--threatening for obvious reasons, restful because it made a
change from Bianca's problems. Bonnie and I shelved books. Bianca
called around ten and said she was on the way in. Dale had agreed to
give Trish free access to the apartment.

I was paranoid enough to call Dale myself, no easy feat. I was
just hanging up from my brief conversation with him when Bianca
parked her van in front of the store. I watched her get out and go
around to the passenger side as I tried to figure out how to deal with
Hugo's not-widow.

Bonnie said, "Gee, she's pregnant."

She was. Bianca knocked. I opened the door, and Hugo's
ex-wife entered. She was a pretty, faded woman Bianca's age--Hugo's
age. She wore no makeup and her eyes were pink-rimmed. She had
pulled her shoulder-length hair back on the nape of her neck. Her
face looked defenseless. And she was very, very pregnant.

Bianca introduced her as Trish Groth.

She held out her hand. "You're Lark. Hugo liked you a
lot."

He did? I mumbled my condolences and introduced Bonnie,
who seemed to be taking mental notes for her next novel. I offered
Trish a cup of tea, which she declined, and we went upstairs. Bonnie
stayed below shelving books.

I unlocked the door. It was clear that the police had come
and gone. Black smudges of fingerprint powder smeared the kitchen
cabinets, and the bedding on the futon was bunched and crumpled.
Somebody had tossed the wilted daffodils. Bianca made straight for
the house plants.

"They need water!" She sounded shocked.

Trish was panting from the climb. She stood in the entry in
the classic posture of a pregnant woman, belly thrust forward, one
hand on her arched back.

"Shall I get you a chair?" I asked.

She smiled a little. "It's harder to get out of a chair than to
stay on my feet. Thanks, though. This is nice." She drifted to the
window and looked out. "He said he had a great view of the marina."
She stared out at the distant water, face sad.

Bianca bustled back from the kitchen with a small watering
can in bright enamel. She revived the failing vegetation and went
back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "His papers are in the
back, in the bedroom. Did you want to go through them?"

Trish turned. "I suppose I should. I haven't notified his
sister. I wonder if the cops did."

"Is she next of kin?"

Trish nodded. "Yes, but she disapproved of Hugo. She's very
conventional. Disapproved of me, too." A smile touched her mouth.
"If she could only see me now."

Bianca dried her hands. "I'll show you the desk. There's a
clothes closet, too."

The two women went off and I decided I might as well wipe
the smears off the kitchen cabinets. I found a sponge and a bottle of
spray cleanser (Guaranteed Non-Toxic!) and started squirting and
wiping. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was probably a
disaster.

I wondered where Hugo had kept his stash of pot. The
refrigerator? From the smears on the surface I gathered the police
had looked there, too. I wiped the door clean and peered into the
freezer compartment. A pint of Ben and Jerry's Tin Roof ice cream
and two trays of ice cubes. No baggy. I saw nothing suspicious in the
hydrator, either.

I rinsed the sponge and cleaned the cupboard doors. There
was no sign of illicit substances on the shelves. A covered glass dish
caught my eye, and I lifted it down to the counter. It was a handsome
piece of crystal, Venice green, and expensively plain. I lifted the lid.
Three pieces of Flower's taffy lay on the bottom of the dish. I
wondered if Dale had noticed the candy--probably not if he had
searched the apartment before going through Hugo's personal
effects. I set the dish on the small table and made a mental note to
call it to Dale's attention.

It didn't take me long to clean the rest of the smears. I found
a feather duster, gave the living room surfaces a once over, and
straightened Hugo's bedding. The place had been tidy when I saw it
last.

I was plumping the pillows when Bianca and Trish came
back down the hall, Trish stuffing papers into her purse. They came
within sight of the dining table. Trish stopped.

"What is it?" Bianca asked.

Trish burst into tears.

Between us, Bianca and I managed to seat her at the table. I
had left my handbag in the store, but Bianca came up with a wad of
clean tissues. Bianca patted, and I murmured, and we stared at each
other. It couldn't be good for anyone to cry that hard.

Finally Trish seemed to pull herself together, though she
continued to shiver as if she were cold.

I found a tea kettle and put it on. Hugo had left a box of herb
teabags in the cupboard. I brewed three cups. I scarcely knew Bianca
and didn't know Trish, so I was feeling distinctly out of place.
Perhaps Trish sensed my discomfort.

When I brought her her cup she thanked me. "I'm sorry to
let you in for that. It was the candy dish."

I stared at her blotched face and then at the green glass of
the dish.

"Organic c-candy..." She cried a little more and wiped her
eyes. "Hugo had an awful sweet tooth. We used to joke about it. He
was crazy about Flower's taffy."

I lifted the lid. "Only three left."

She took them out. "Then let's eat them. For Hugo."

I hate taffy. I chewed mine--it was some kind of mint--as
long as I could stand it and then gulped it.

Trish gave a watery giggle. "I can't stand the stuff. It feels as
if it's pulling my fillings out."

Bianca swallowed. "Mine was peanut butter. Kind of
nice."

Trish sighed--a long uneven sound. "I gave him the dish
when I got the job with the county library. He never kept anything in
it but Flower's taffy. Oh God, I wish he wasn't d-dead." She cried
some more, but she was no longer helpless with grief. She blew her
nose and shoved the damp tissue in her bag. "I'm going to take the
dish home with me."

I said, "I have a box it would fit in. Shall I wrap it for
you?"

"That would be awfully nice."

I hesitated. "And there's the Zen book. You ought to take that
with you, too. He was reading it when ...it was the last book he read, I
think." I went to the armchair and closed the Zen master. "It's
wonderful if you like gardens."

Trish slewed around, sniffing. "I like to look at them, but
Bianca will tell you I have a brown thumb. They never let me work in
the garden at the commune."

I brought her the huge book. "You loved Hugo, didn't
you?"

She nodded, swallowing. "You're wondering why we
divorced, right? I wanted a healthy baby. Hugo's babies...died." She
closed her eyes, then opened them and gave me a very direct look.
"He had major exposure to Agent Orange. I lost three deformed
fetuses. When they told me the fourth was deformed, I had an
abortion. Hugo was raised Catholic." She shook her head. "So was I,
for that matter, but he just couldn't deal with the idea. So I divorced
him."

Bianca said, "Trish..."

She was getting upset again. "I wanted a baby, a nice
ordinary kid, so I divorced Hugo. He told me he'd always think of me
as his wife. Not in a threatening way, you know--it was just the truth.
I thought I might remarry, but I never found anyone I liked half as
much as I liked Hugo." She bit her lip, which was trembling.

"But the baby..."

"Artificial insemination." She gave a short laugh. "Hugo
hated that. He said it was like cattle, but it's giving me a nice healthy
little girl. I don't know the father and don't want to. I think of her as
Hugo's daughter."

I was starting to cry.

Trish said, "Can we go? I want to get out of here. I want to go
home."

I jerked upright in my office chair. "My God, we ate the
evidence!"

Bonnie handed me a tissue, and I blew my nose. We were in
the back room. Trish and Bianca were long gone. I had been telling
Bonnie Trish's story, a three-hanky tale if there ever was one.

"Evidence?" Bonnie said cautiously.

I stood, jiggling the computer desk. "Dale found salt water
taffy in Hugo's pockets. I just discovered more of it upstairs in the
green candy dish."

"The one you wrapped up like a birthday present?"

I had shrouded the candy dish in foam wrap, set it in a small
box, and protected it with Styrofoam pellets. Trish could have
dropped it from an airplane.

I fumbled in the desk drawer and found the key to the
apartment. "I'm going upstairs. Back in a minute."

Bonnie gave a resigned nod. She knew she'd get the whole
story eventually.

I had tossed the candy wrappers into the wastebasket by
Hugo's reading chair. I retrieved them and sat in the chair. Time to
stop emoting. I supposed I ought to call Dale, though the candy was
probably not crucial in and of itself. It just confirmed Hugo's little
secret.

The dish had been nearly empty, though. If Hugo thought he
was going to need a taffy fix he would have headed for the supplier.
Did the shop sell its stuff in Kayport?

I wanted a phone. Hugo had kept his in the bedroom/office. I
stood up to go back there then changed my mind. I stuffed the bits of
paper into my jeans pocket and clattered downstairs instead.

I entered the bookshop from the back entrance. Bonnie was
out in the store dusting shelves. I could hear her humming "April in
Paris." I grabbed my jacket and purse, and her jacket and purse, and
went in pursuit. I found her dusting off World War One.

"Come on, Bonnie. We're going to Seaside."

"Seaside? Whatever for?" She gave a biography of Marshal
Petain an extra fillip with the feather duster.

She came with me under protest. Before we left, she made
me call the cops. I tried calling Lisa, Dale, and Jay without result. I left
messages all over the place. What more could I do?

Seaside is a honky-tonk beach town of the kind people from
the city used to take their kids to in the l920s when an excursion
train ran from Portland to the coast. The drive from Kayport took
about an hour. I used the time to fill Bonnie in, not just about the
taffy but about everything, including Bianca's refusal to cancel the
workshop.

Bonnie thought I should just quit. I explained about Bianca's
ability to radiate guilt.

"What can she do to you?"

"Sue?" I was joking. Then I remembered the high-priced
lawyer. Bianca and I had an oral contract. I wished I knew more
about Washington law.

Fact. The main drag of Seaside is called Broadway. It is one
lane wide and runs due west from Highway 101 to the ocean with
unmetered parking on both sides of the street. On that blustery day
most of the parking spots were empty. I drove down the street very
slowly trying to find the Flower's Candies sign.

Broadway ended in a tiny turnaround rimmed with concrete
sidewalks. A bronze statue of Lewis and Clark, shrunk to three
quarter size, stood in the center. The explorers gazed at the Pacific
beyond a sign that informed us we had reached the end of the Lewis
and Clark trail. Daffodils encircled the statue. The sandy beach lay a
good ten feet below the level of an old-style esplanade. The beach
curved south toward a forested headland like something out of
Robinson Jeffers. For once it was not raining, but the ocean was
dreadnought gray flecked with whitecaps.

I negotiated the tight curve of the turnaround and looped
back for another pass at the street. Bonnie suggested we park and
walk. The likeliest territory for taffy shops was only seven blocks
long. I parked by an empty arcade that was blasting out rap music,
and we got out.

We found Flower's Famous Saltwater Taffy tucked into an
alleyway between a kite shop and a charming little bookstore.
Bonnie pulled me away from the bookstore, which, in any case, was
closed, and we entered the shop.

There was an immediate reek of warm chocolate and
refined sugar. I blinked and looked around. All the wood surfaces
were enameled white and yellow, and the famous taffy in its neat
paper twists overflowed faux-country barrels. Miniature silver
scoops dangled from plastic cords.

I couldn't see anybody, but reassuring noises emanated
from a back room. I approached the glass display counter and saw a
bell. A sign said "Ring for Assistance," so I did.

"Pralines," Bonnie purred. In addition to every conceivable
flavor of taffy, the glass cases held an opulent variety of fudges,
nougats, and, indeed, pralines. The smell was making me
queasy.

"Can I help you?" A big woman, who wore a white baker's
apron over jeans and a striped tee shirt, gave us a wide professional
smile. I could see she found customers an annoying interruption. I
knew the feeling. It wasn't exactly the high season, and she probably
hadn't yet geared up to meet the public.

I said, "Do you sell your taffy through other candy
stores?"

She tucked a wisp of hair behind one ear. "Nope. Just here.
We're thinking of starting a mail order line next fall, if you're
interested."

I explained hastily that I wasn't a wholesale candy buyer.
Then I launched into a muddled account of Hugo's death.

Rather to my surprise the woman didn't toss us out on our
ears. She seemed intrigued that her confection had been taken in
evidence at a murder site.

"What did you say his name was?"

"Hugo Groth."

"I guess it wasn't on the news last night."

"Probably not." I did my best to describe Hugo. When I
mentioned the pony tail and the boils that marred his complexion,
her face brightened.

"Gosh, yes. A week ago Sunday, like you said. When he came
in I remember thinking he was going to buy fudge. People with skin
problems usually do. I was wondering if I ought to steer him to the
healthy stuff." She flushed a little. "I know all this candy isn't real
good for you. Did you see the sugar-free taffy?"