Sweet Dreams, Irene (11 page)

T
HE ALARM
seemed to go off immediately. I felt like I was made of lead. Frank practically had to shove me out of bed and into the shower. He propped me up under the spray and eventually I seemed to be fully conscious, if not energetic.

We got dressed and drove to St. James Episcopal Church. I felt close to being right at home. After a night of reading about wicca rituals and chants, the rituals and chants inside St. James would be infinitely more familiar and comfortable. Not so hard for a lapsed Catholic to follow.

We had no sooner sat down near the back row than Pete Baird and Rachel Giocopazzi arrived and sat down next to us. I was surprised to see Rachel, as was Frank. She’s a homicide detective from Phoenix; she and Pete met on a case the previous summer and had been carrying on a long-distance relationship since then. They must have been racking up the frequent-flyer miles.

Pete leaned over to Frank and asked in a whisper if Episcopalians gave out holy cards at funerals. Frank shook his head “no.” As a lapsed Episcopalian, Frank would have to serve as the guide for the three of us. He was tense. He was doing his cop thing of observing everyone and everything in the room, and I noticed Pete and Rachel were doing it, too.

During her lifetime, Mrs. Fremont had been very generous to Las Piernas, not only with her money, but with her time as well. She had served on a number of community boards and organizations. Her work on behalf of young people had earned her many friends. The church was packed. In the front pew sat Paul Fremont and a man I didn’t recognize, but who had a rather striking appearance, even when seen from the limited view I had of him. He was about the same height as Paul, but he was wearing a black leather jacket with chains on the shoulders. His head was shaved and he wore an earring in one ear.

“Who is that next to Paul?” I whispered to Frank.

“Jack Fremont. Her son—Paul’s father.”

The service was short but moving. Unlike some others I had been to, this one was performed by a minister who actually knew the deceased. When he spoke her full name, Althea Fremont, I realized that even though I had heard her first name before, we had called her “Mrs. Fremont” for so long that it seemed like “Mrs.” was her first name. Althea. It was pretty and old-fashioned and I liked it.

The minister was able to make the congregation recall something of the spirit of Althea Fremont and why we were so fond of her. If a memorial service can be said to be upbeat, this one was.

I knew that Frank had been asked to be a pallbearer, but he had declined. I got the impression that he wanted to grieve as privately as possible, away from the eyes of the other mourners. By the end of the service, he was visibly upset, but trying to hold himself together. Pete offered to drive us over to the cemetery, and we accepted.

Outside, the sky was a dark gray, threatening rain. As we made our way in the long procession of cars, we took our minds off what we were doing by asking Rachel about Phoenix, her flight, her plans for this visit. She was taking three weeks of vacation, she said, returning near the end of the month. Pete was going to take some time off, too, but probably not until close to Thanksgiving.

Time off. It sounded great. Especially when I realized how long this day was bound to be.

Our attention was forced back to the funeral as we pulled up at the cemetery and made our way over to the graveside.

Frank, although dry-eyed and silent, held on to me and leaned against me from time to time, grieving for her in his own, quiet way. When the graveside service was over, Pete and Rachel moved off toward the car, Pete signaling me to take our time. Soon, only Jack and Paul Fremont were standing there with us. They walked over to us. Jack had an arm around his son’s shoulders. He extended his other hand to Frank. “You meant a lot to my mother,” he choked out. “She thought the world of you, Frank.”

It was odd to see grief on this man’s hardened face. A long white scar ran from the corner of his right eye to his jawline.

“She was so happy when you came back home, Jack,” Frank answered. “I’m glad you reconciled before…this happened.”

The gray mist was becoming a light sprinkle of rain. We turned away from the graveside and walked toward the cars. It was then I noticed the black limo parked at the curb. A tinted window rolled up and the car started and drove away as we approached.

“Do you know who that was?” I asked.

“No,” said Frank, but I could see that, like me, he had taken a good look at the license plate. Once Jack and Paul had walked off, I reached into my purse and jotted the number down twice. I tore the paper in half and handed a copy to Frank.

“Thanks. I’ll have to give this to Pete.”

Just as we got into the backseat of Pete’s car, it started to really rain. I felt that numbness that I feel after funerals settle over me. We rode in silence, though Pete kept looking at Frank in the rearview mirror. Frank held my hand tightly and looked out the car window with an unseeing gaze.

As we pulled up to the curb in front of the shelter, where the mourners were gathering, Frank turned to Pete and said, “I’ll be okay, Baird.”

“I know you will, Harriman, ‘cause you’ve got so many guardian angels.”

N
O, OTHER THAN TELLING ME
that Frank saved his hide, Pete hasn’t said a word about what happened at that warehouse.”

Rachel and I sat on a sofa at the shelter, comparing notes.

“When are you going to move out here?”

“Who said I will? It wasn’t so easy to make detective in Phoenix, and I’m not ready to come here and be a meter maid just to warm my bones next to Pete.”

“A meter maid. Sure.”

“Well, I’d be back in uniform. No doubt about it. Look what happened to Frank. Even though he had made detective in Bakersfield, he had to go back to being in uniform here. Every department is like that. Frank managed to make detective here in record time, but that’s rare—I can’t depend on the same thing happening for me.”

Frank walked up to us just then. “You’d get there just as quickly, Rachel.”

“No, Boy Wonder, I don’t think so,” she said glumly.

Frank leaned down toward my ear and whispered, “Excuse us for a moment, ancient one—police business.”

I rolled my eyes, but let him drag Rachel off toward Pete, because Sarah had just plopped down next to me. She sighed with all the weight of the world on her.

“Everybody worth a crap is gone from here now.”

“It’s stopped raining; let’s go outside and talk,” I said. “We can sit under the patio roof—in case it starts up again.”

“Okay, I could use a cigarette anyway.”

We made our way out to the backyard, and away from the crowd inside. She lit a cigarette and took three or four drags off it.

“Why are you living here, Sarah?”

“‘Cause my old man thinks that if he slaps me around hard enough, I’ll listen to him. But he hasn’t said anything worthwhile since my mom died. He fell into a bottle five years ago and hasn’t crawled out since. I just got tired of it, that’s all. What’s
your
sad story?”

“Someone left a heart and a lot of blood all over my front porch last night.”

Her eyes widened. “No shit?”

“No shit. I need your help, Sarah. But first—this is important—you’ve got to find somewhere else to stay. Is there anywhere else you can go?”

“Oh, I get it. You read the journal. Listen, Sammy is paranoid. Comes from reading all that hoodoo jive she’s into.”

“Please think about it.”

She took a few more drags off the cigarette, watching me through half-closed eyes. “Man, I guess if I was you, I’d be pretty freaked out, too. I got an aunt in San Diego. My mom’s sister. Maybe I’ll give her a call. What kind of help you need?”

“For starters—the initials.”

“Wasn’t that just too dumb? I mean, like we’re not going to figure it out. Gee, ‘my roommate, SL’—who would ever guess that stood for Sarah Landry? Big secret code. That Sammy sure can be a dumb shit.”

“I don’t know the cast of characters like you do. To me, it is a code.”

She gave me a look that said I ranked right up there with Sammy in her estimation, and ground out her cigarette. She reached in her jacket and pulled out another one. I waited while she lit up and got it going.

“Well, let’s see. RM is Jacob Henderson and JC is Julie Montgomery. God knows why she decided to give them phony initials. It’s still obvious who she’s talking about. RA is Raney Adams and DM is Devon Morris.”

“Heckle and Jeckle,” I said.

“Who the hell are Heckle and Jeckle?”

“Old cartoon characters—before your time. Couple of crows with a bad attitude.”

“Oh. Yeah, Devon and Raney do look like they’re auditioning for ‘The Raven’—you know, the poem by Edgar Allen Poe?”

“Yes, but I never would have figured you to be a fan of his.”

“Love him.” She smiled over at me and then proceeded to flawlessly recite the first two verses.

“Bravo!” I said, applauding. “I’m impressed. I can’t make it past the ‘weak and weary’ part.”

She laughed. “My favorite is ‘The Telltale Heart.’”

I winced.

“Oh, sorry, forgot about your porch. Where were we? Oh yeah, Raney and Devon. You ask me, those two are definitely twisted. Something not right in those two boys.”

“What about KS and MB?”

“Katy Stewart and Mary Brennan. They don’t live here anymore. They took off not too long after Devon and Raney showed up. I think they’re still in town somewhere, though. Someone told me Katy is turning tricks, but they say that about every girl who leaves.”

“Sammy too?”

“Even old skinny bones herself.” She paused and took a long drag, and I could see her debating whether or not to tell me something. “I don’t believe people who say Sammy’s turning tricks. I don’t think she likes guys, except maybe Jacob. She told me her old man used to have sex with her—can you believe it? She hated it. That’s really sick if you ask me. And then he acts like some holy roller or something. Shit, I’d rather live with my dad. All he ever did was hit me.”

“I misjudged her. The more I’ve thought about what she went through—I don’t know if I would have been as brave about it as she was.”

Sarah shrugged. “You do what you have to do to survive.”

We sat there quietly for a while.

“Paul kicked Devon and Raney out yesterday,” she said.

“What?”

“They were assholes. They were really mean to everybody. Beyond mean.”

“Is that why Paul kicked them out?”

“Yeah, he said he was tired of them hassling everybody. They didn’t seem heartbroken about it or anything. Hey—why should you care? You seem kind of down about it.”

“Oh—no, I’m glad he kicked them out. It’s just that now I don’t have much to go on; four of the names in the journal were connected with the coven, and all four people are gone from the shelter.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess it’s five if you count the Goat.”

“Do you think the Goat is somehow connected to the shelter?”

She was thinking about this when a male voice made us jump out of our skins.

“What are you doing out here?”

It was Jack Fremont.

Y
OU TWO ARE GOING
to catch cold—it’s starting to rain again. Come on back inside.” We followed him in, but not before exchanging a look that said we would try to talk again later. Once inside, Sarah took off for the dessert table, leaving me with Jack in the kitchen.

“I’m surprised Frank doesn’t keep a tighter rein on you, Irene,” he said with a grin.

“I’m not exactly broken to the bit.”

He laughed. “I’ll just bet you aren’t. Well, nothing wrong with that. Not at all. I like a woman with spirit.”

Great, I thought. But the man intrigued me. I never would have imagined Mrs. Fremont’s son to look anything like Jack. It wasn’t that he didn’t resemble her—he looked quite a bit like her. But she just didn’t seem the sort to raise a scar-faced, biker son.

He appraised me as well, and made no attempt to hide the fact. Feeling a little nervous, I started cleaning off dishes that had piled up in the kitchen. Without a word, he took off his leather jacket and started filling the sink with hot soapy water.

“I’ll wash, if you’ll dry,” he said.

“It’s a deal.”

He immersed his arms to his elbows and scoured away. As he handed me the first dish, I noticed a colorful tattoo on the inside of his left arm. It was of a horned goat’s head, with the inscription “Satan Rides Again.”

He saw me staring at it and laughed. “Merely a token of my misspent youth, Miss Kelly. And nothing to worry over now.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

He washed a few more dishes, then turned to me and said, “I scare you, don’t I?”

“I just don’t know much about you. For example, how do you know my name?”

“Oh, I asked Paul all about you the first time I laid eyes on you. He seems to think Frank Harriman has a corner on the market.”

I didn’t reply.

“Oooh—that serious, huh?”

“At least that serious.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll back off,” he said, laughing. “Let’s see now. You’ve still got that curious look in your eye, even though I’ve made you mad. Now, what does Irene want to know? Let me guess.” He rinsed a stack of dishes and handed them to me. “She wants to know, ‘How could this ratty-assed biker be my friend Mrs. Fremont’s son?’ Am I right?”

I blushed. He laughed again.

“I am right! Okay, here goes. Life story of Jack Fremont, prodigal son of Althea and John Fremont, Senior. I barely remember John Senior—died when I was five. Left us well off, though. So I became a much doted upon, rich spoiled brat—the apple of my mother’s eye. And totally uncontrollable.

“You might say I had been something of a surprise. She was told she couldn’t have children, and at forty, found herself pregnant with yours truly. Dad was fifty, so I’m sure he felt like quite the old rooster. But as I said, he died not long after. Heart attack. Have this impression of a big guy holding me on his knee while he smoked a cigarette and drank a gin martini. But I couldn’t have known what a gin martini was when I was five, so who knows where that comes from.”

He looked over at me, as if to see if I was still interested, and went on.

“So much for the early years. As I got older, I got wilder. Got mixed up with what every parent in Las Piernas knew was the wrong crowd. Hell, I was one of the ones that made it the wrong crowd. And at fifteen, I got a girl pregnant. Cindy Larabee. Seeing a chance to have her marry into money, her daddy all but pulled out a shotgun. My mother made sure I did the honorable thing.”

“You were married at fifteen?”

“Yep. My mother supported us, of course. Old Cindy had me by the balls then, and she knew it. She knew that all she had to do was have that grandchild and Althea Fremont would take care of her for the rest of her days. I mean, the minute I said, ‘I do,’ the woman was transformed into the meanest thing on two feet. Cindy was a bitch. No other word for it.”

He paused while he rinsed off a plate and then reloaded the sink with dirty dishes.

“Well, all this marriage and pregnancy stuff scared the hell out of me. Nothing like feeling your life has come to an end when you’re fifteen. So I ran off; baby wasn’t even born yet. Mom found me and hauled me back. She did it again and again.

“When Paul was born, I stuck around for awhile. It was really exciting to me at first, but I couldn’t stand playing house with Cindy for long. She made my life miserable. So when I turned eighteen, I took off again, and this time I was too old to haul back home.

“I wandered around for about twelve years, dropping by every now and again. Caught glimpses of my boy growing up. Mom hated me then.

“I even tried to get back together with Cindy when Paul was in high school, mainly because I’d started thinking that I was his age back when he was born. I wanted to know my son.”

He stopped washing, but didn’t look up at me. He seemed to tense up for a minute. Just when I was about to ask him what was wrong, he started washing again and went on with his story. But his sarcastic tone was gone now.

“It was a big mistake. I didn’t have anything to offer either one of them. Cindy was still a nasty-tempered little shrew, and a drunk to boot. The night I left, she went on a bender. Died in a car accident—only good part of it was she took out another drunk.

“Anyway, if Paul didn’t hate me before, he surely did then. He was really messed up by the whole deal.”

He stopped washing again, staring off into space. His voice, when he continued, was much quieter.

“Kid even tried to kill himself.” He shook his head. “When my mom told me about that, I really felt like a piece of shit. I thought to myself, ‘Jack, you should be the one to kill himself. The world would be a better place. You’ve given your mother and that poor boy nothing but grief.’ But I don’t know, self-destructive as I’ve been—and believe me, I’ve pulled some dumb stunts—that just isn’t the way for me.”

He drew the back of his hand across his forehead, then looked over at me, trying to read something in my face. I suspected he wondered if I had passed judgment on him in some way. I’ve never been qualified to cast the first stone, so I was merely waiting for him to go on.

“Paul decided he wanted to live with his cousins, and did for almost a year. Boy, is that bunch something. Cindy’s sister can’t keep her pants on long enough to button her fly. She had five boys, all by different fathers. Married and divorced a couple of them. I think she figured that my mom would give her money for looking after Paul, and when that didn’t happen, out he went. My mother took him in again.

“So anyway, here I am, six years later. Been back in Las Piernas four months. I’ve learned that my son has grown into a fine young man, much better than his dad.” His voice grew quiet. “And I made peace with my mother before she died. I guess that should be enough for anyone who’s been as irresponsible as I have.”

He didn’t look as though it was enough. He seemed tired.

“What brought you back?”

He looked at me and grinned. “Well, well. So you are a little curious about me, even after I’ve told you my life’s story. Good sign.

“Let me see. What brought me back to Las Piernas? I suppose if I tell you it’s the only place I
ever
come back to, you’ll say I’m hedging. So what’s the answer? Hmm …”

He dried his hands on a towel.

“Well, in a roundabout way, a knife fight brought me back. I don’t kid myself that you haven’t noticed the scar. But like they say, you should see the other guy. Only he’s dead. Mom’s lawyers got me off and Mom’s doctors patched me up. And without boring you with a lot of details, I’ll just say I realized then that I wasn’t going to live forever. Ironic, isn’t it? Her doctors said she’d live to be a hundred, and they didn’t give me a snowflake’s chance in hell. But here I am, and she’s gone.”

We had finished the dishes. He looked completely worn down, and his weariness changed him in some way I couldn’t quite name. There was something charming about this maverick. I was thinking that just as the guy with the corner on the market came walking into the kitchen.

Frank gave me that look of his that says he’s just taken something in, some observation that he wants to chew on for a while. But all he said was, “Pete and Rachel want to leave. Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.” I turned to Jack and shook his hand. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a grin.

Frank was looking between us when the door opened again. It was Paul Fremont.

“Frank,” he said, “you can’t leave yet. Grandmother’s lawyer wants to know if we can have the reading of the will now. Would that be okay?”

Frank was openly puzzled.

“I’ll take you and Irene back to the church to get your car,” Jack offered. But seeing Frank’s look, he added, “Didn’t you know? My mother named you in her will. You’re a beneficiary.”

“No, I didn’t know,” he said. It was clear that he was totally surprised. He looked uncomfortable in the extreme. As if to find an out, he turned to me and said, “I guess you need to get to work, don’t you?”

I nodded, and seeing his lost look, wished I could stay longer.

“Let me just walk Irene out to Pete’s car,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Paul said, then added, “By the way, Irene, I meant to ask earlier—how’s Sammy doing?”

I had no choice but to keep weaving my tangled web. “She never showed up. I’m quite worried about her.”

Frank steered me out of the room before I had to dig myself in any deeper. We decided to exchange car keys—I’d take his car from the church, which was not far from work. He’d get a ride home from Jack and use my car if he needed to go anywhere.

We went outside, where the rain had become a fine drizzle. He put an arm around my shoulder and walked me toward the car.

“Frank, if you need me to stay—”

“I’ll be okay. Really. I just wasn’t expecting this. Don’t worry about me. You’ve got an election to write about.”

“Want to meet me for dinner?”

“Okay. Where will you be?”

“Let’s see. At first, probably at the Montgomery campaign gathering. At the Cliffside Hotel. Can you meet me there around seven? Not much will be going on until after the polls have been closed for an hour or so.”

“Okay. I’ll call the dining room at the Cliffside and make reservations for us. And I’ll feed Cody.”

“What more could a woman ask for?”

“You could probably think of something if you tried.” He gave me a quick kiss when we reached the car, and I left with Pete and Rachel.

In the car, I reached into my purse and pulled out Sammy’s journal. I handed it over the seat to Pete.

“This the missing kid’s diary? I told Frank that Bredloe would never believe that story about the cat hiding it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the truth. Remind him that this is the cat that once landed a set of scratches on the face of his fist-fighting detective. Even if he’s mad at Frank, he’ll believe you.”

“You got him all wrong, Irene. Bredloe likes Frank. He’s going along with the suspension for Frank’s benefit—give him a chance to cool off a little. By the way, I don’t know what you said to him, but I think he’s doing better today.”

I smiled, thinking of what Frank and I had said to one another.

Rachel saw me and grinned, thinking something else entirely, I’m sure; but after all, she was close. Pete looked over at her. “What? What did I miss out on?”

“Who knows? It’s just nice to see Irene smile, so I smile.”

He wasn’t satisfied, but said, “Well, Miss Cheshire Cat, I suppose you want me to call you about the plate number Frank gave me.”

“Right,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Oh, so what’s the big problem?” Rachel chided. “It’s not like she couldn’t track it down—it would just take her a little longer.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” he growled.

“Via, non t’arrabbiare.”

“If you’re going to start speaking Italian to one another, please provide a translation.”

“I told him not to get mad. I think Pete feels like we gang up on him when Frank’s not around to even things out.”

“Damn right I do. I feel outnumbered when I’m around either one of you—even one at a time.”

“
Caro,
you can’t mean it,” she said in a honeyed tone.

He turned bright red. I wondered when he would take Rachel home to meet his Italian mother.

We reached St. James and pulled up next to Frank’s old Volvo.

“You be careful, Irene,” Rachel said as I got out of the car. “Frank told me about last night. Call if you need us—don’t go wandering around on your own, okay?”

I thanked them and said good-bye. As they drove off, I could see them through the car’s rear window, having one of their typical conversations—both talking at once, gesturing to one another. It’s a wonder they didn’t wreck the car.