Spider Web (31 page)

Lin had already set up and was starting the wheel when I walked into the small back room.

“If you need anything, just ask one of the other co-op members,” I told her. Though it was slow, there were a couple of other artists working. “Or ask the docent in charge.”

“Thank you so much for arranging this,” she said, rubbing her wide forehead with the back of one hand. Pale lavender stained the thin skin under her eyes. Though it had only been a few days since we’d spent the day together, something about her seemed different, an air of desperation or fatigue. “I’m stressed and need time with the clay.”

“No problem,” I replied, feeling like the biggest phony on earth.

I lingered for a moment, trying to figure out a way to ask about her hotel, when I saw her large leather handbag sitting on the floor.

“Would you like to keep your purse in my office?” I asked. “It might get dirty out here. I’m on my way to run some errands. I can stick it in there on my way out.”

“I suppose,” she said, staring at her lump of clay, already in that artistic fugue I’d become familiar with working with artists. “But it’s already pretty dirty.”

“No use making it worse,” I said, keeping my voice light. I picked the bag up and slung it over my shoulder. “It’ll be in the right bottom drawer. My office door will be closed, but feel free to go right in.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, starting the wheel.

Once I was in my office, I closed the door, almost crowing like a rooster at my cleverness. I dug through her purse, past her wallet, some prescription medicine bottles, a couple of energy bars, tissue and a brush. I finally found the paper key packet stuck in an inside pocket. A cartoon character of a pelican who appeared to have chicken pox was printed on the packet along with the address—55 Ocean Bluff Way.
Room 312.
And there were two plastic room keys. So even if she looked through her purse while I was gone, there was a good possibility she wouldn’t immediately realize one of her keys was missing.

From the folk art museum, it was a twenty-minute drive to Morro Bay.

I figured that gave me an hour, tops, to search her motel room. That left forty minutes to drive back to the folk art museum and replace the key before Lin’s time was up. Since there wasn’t anyone else scheduled on the wheel, there was a good chance she’d work past her time so she could finish her project.

Sitting in my truck, I checked my Thomas map book. The Spotted Pelican hotel was on the corner of Main and Ocean Bluff Way, overlooking the Embarcadero and Morro Rock. I found it easily, tipped off by a five-foot metal sculpture of a pelican in front of the black and white fifties-era motel. The three-story building appeared to have recently been renovated. Neatly trimmed trees dotted the parking lots and bright red and yellow flowers in barrel-size terra-cotta pots book-ended the office’s double glass doors. Five or six cars parked in front had open doors and people rearranging possessions, obviously checking out.

I parked my truck around the corner, out of sight of the office, and walked around the building looking for a door that would allow me entrance to the hotel’s inside hallways without meandering through the lobby trying to pretend I belonged there. I was in luck. An outside staircase led up to the second and third floors. I walked up, opened the security door with my stolen key, keeping my head high, willing myself to look like I was just dashing back to my room for a forgotten item.

My acting job, for whatever it was worth, was unnecessary, because I didn’t meet one person before I reached her room on the third floor. I passed by a couple of open doors, blocked by heavy metal room maintenance carts loaded with clean towels, tiny soaps and shampoos and packets of coffee. But the maids were busy cleaning the rooms and didn’t even give me a second glance. I slipped the key into room 312, took a deep breath because at this very moment I knew I was breaking the law, and opened the door.

Her room had already been cleaned. That was a lucky break. I’d attempt to put everything back exactly where I found it, but if I didn’t, it was believable that the maid might have moved something, so Lin wouldn’t suspect her room had been searched. I surveyed the room. The walls were painted a pale aqua and the room was decorated with black-framed copies of Audubon’s detailed bird illustrations. A white and navy striped comforter covered the king-size bed. One overstuffed chair and ottoman were upholstered in the same fabric. The curtains and carpet were solid navy. The maid had opened the drapes halfway, allowing natural light to filter through the white sheers.

I looked at my watch. Forty-five minutes left. Be methodical. There’s no time to waste.

I started with the bathroom. Her few cosmetics and skin care products were placed neatly in the corner of the counter—toothbrush, toothpaste and dental floss; Neutrogena night cream; Aveeno day cream SPF 15; Burt’s Bees lip gloss; that ubiquitous green and pink tube of black Maybelline mascara; Cover Girl liquid makeup and matching face powder; a travel-size jar of Vaseline; a travel-size container marked “hand lotion.” I opened the container and brought it to my nose, inhaled the familiar cherry-almond scent of the original Jergens. The same lotion Dove and Aunt Garnet used. The same hand lotion many of the women in the Coffin Star Quilt Guild used. The scent always seemed to be part of anything I did with the older women I loved and admired. I’d always imagined that when I reached a “certain” age, the age of wisdom is how I thought of it, I’d stop using my favorite hand-cream-of-the-month and permanently graduate to Jergens.

On the floor sat her overnight bag, that old-fashioned square kind that reminded me of movie stars in the 1950s like Marilyn Monroe or Doris Day. The glossy leather case was gray with black stitching, worn at the corners from use. I poked through its spare contents. It didn’t reveal much more than the products on the counter—an expensive, wood-handled boar’s bristle hairbrush, three more packets of tissue like the one she’d given me after my cocoa spill, two pairs of thin wool socks and a manicure set in a green leather pouch. There was also generic aspirin, calcium tablets, fish oil capsules, Tylenol PM and a small, unmarked prescription bottle filled with red and white pills. I opened the bottle, shook one out. No markings that I could see. The shower revealed only a pink disposable razor and an unwrapped hotel soap bar.

I went back into the room and checked her nightstand. On the surface was a travel clock, a pair of eyeglasses in a maroon case, a small jade animal that looked like a bull with curvy horns, and a shiny blue dish that looked like a young child made it. A pair of silver hoop earrings and a handful of seashells filled the dish. I picked up the dish and looked at the bottom. A small thumbprint was pressed into the baked clay. I walked around the bed to the other nightstand that held only a hardback book:
Losing It—An Easy and Practical Guide to Facing Your Past and Moving Forward
.

The author, a psychologist from Portland, Oregon, had visited Blind Harry’s Bookstore a few months ago as part of his book-signing tour. His book was recently featured in
USA Today
. He’d talked about moving forward from every type of loss a human could experience—divorce, death, health, family, income, job, friendship. His simple steps to deal with those losses seemed to hit a nerve with the seventy or so people who came to the signing. Elvia had sold out of his books.

I turned the book over. The price tag was from a store in Oklahoma City. Oklahoma City? That seemed odd since she claimed and her license plate verified that she was from Washington. A bookmark held her place on page 197, approximately halfway through the book. The chapter had to do with the pros and cons of seeking out people in your past to whom you never said good-bye and making peace with them.

I set the book back on the nightstand, my stomach churning. What had I expected? It was becoming clear that Lin Snider was someone from Gabe’s past—
another someone.
Was I doomed to repeat this scenario until we died or until it finally broke us up?

I shook my head, forcing myself to ignore the self-pity welling up inside me. I had a job to do and not much more time to accomplish it. I opened the nightstand drawer. Nothing but a black Gideon Bible and a Morro Bay telephone book. Next, I checked the dresser drawers in the cabinet that held the television. It held a neatly folded flowered nightgown, a pair of soft pink socks and a black cashmere scarf. A plastic sack from a local grocery store held what appeared to be her dirty clothes. The second and third drawers contained only extra pillows and blankets.

That left only her suitcase. I stared down at the closed suitcase. It was made of bland black fabric and was just a little too big to be a carry-on. I unzipped it and opened the lid, carefully feeling through her clothes, trying not to disturb anything. A woodsy scent floated up from her clothes reminding me a little of the patchouli that was popular with teenagers when I was a little girl.

In the bottom of the suitcase, I found a plastic CD cover—Elvis Presley’s Greatest Hits.

Ha, I thought. It
was
you out at the ranch.

Well, maybe. Only a gazillion people had Elvis CDs.

I looked through each inside pocket finding only cotton underwear, beige bras and another pair of black socks. Then, just as I was about to give up and conclude that my illegal search had been in vain, I hit the jackpot.

CHAPTER 14

W
ELL, A PENNY JACKPOT. BUT, AT LEAST IT APPEARED TO BE SOMETHING personal. Something that connected her with someone.

It was a photograph. A three-by-five photograph of a Hispanic girl who could be anywhere from her late teens to late twenties. It was hard to tell because she had the almond-shaped eyes and smooth, almost ageless facial features of a person with Down syndrome.

The smiling young woman stood in front of a large bottlebrush bush covered with bright red flowers. She wore loose jeans rolled to her calves, a yellow blouse with ruffles down the front and pink high-top Converse tennis shoes. Dark glossy hair cut in a chin-length bob with thick, slightly uneven bangs framed her soft face. Her mischievous grin made me guess she might have trimmed them herself. She looked like at any minute she would burst out in laughter and run out of camera range.

In the distant background was a hospital, one I recognized from many years of watching the soap opera
General Hospital
with Dove. A lot of people didn’t know that the hospital pictured in the opening credits that was supposed to be in fictional Port Charles, New York, was actually a photo of Los Angeles County–USC Medical Center.

I turned the photograph over. On the back was written—Tessa at place of birth—1997.

I stared more closely at the photograph. Who was this girl? Lin told me she didn’t have any children. Was this a niece or a friend’s daughter?

It hit me like the first jolt of an earthquake. I sat down hard on the bed, clutching the photograph.

The girl was Hispanic. There was no doubt about that. Who knows how many women Gabe been intimate with before we married. It was something I didn’t like to think about. But Gabe had lived in Los Angeles for many years.

My head started to feel light. I leaned forward, resting it on my knees.

Was that the reason Lin had been asking questions about me and how I felt about children? Was she trying to find out how I’d react if she presented Gabe with a daughter?

Lord, help me, I thought, my head still on my knees. This is big. I’m not sure I can do this.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but a knock on the door jerked me out of my frozen state.

“Housekeeping,” a female voice called.

I called through the door. “Yes?”

“The room, it is okay?”

I peered through the peephole. A middle-aged Hispanic woman held a clipboard. “Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.”

I watched her check off the room and walk away.

My watch told me I’d been sitting on the bed holding Tessa’s photograph for longer than I thought. It was almost one thirty. I should have left a half hour ago. I dug through my purse, propped the photo on the nightstand next to the travel clock and took a quick photo of it.

I put Tessa’s photograph back inside of the suitcase, surveyed the room one last time and left. Halfway down the hallway, I walked by one other person, an older woman wearing binoculars around her neck.

“A good day for ducks,” she said cheerfully. Her wet sandals squished when she walked.

I smiled without answering. Outside, a light rain had begun. I started my truck and pulled onto Main Street, not realizing how nervous I was until I came to the first stop sign. I started trembling so violently that I had to pull over to a side street. As I listened to the rainstorm grow stronger, it struck me that this moment was one I’d always remember. I’d always remember that this was the day I’d first seen the photo of a girl who might possibly be Gabe’s daughter. I stared out of my truck’s blurry windshield feeling like my and Gabe’s life together seemed perched over a precipice ready to fall into a deep, unfathomable canyon.