Thicker Than Blood (18 page)

“Did you pick up the Cadillac with the new fender from Andy’s—”

“I heard the question,” Charlotte fired back. Silence seemed to hum in the tiny office. Finally, Charlotte broke it: “I may have. I collected some car from a body shop. The entire fleet was in use, I needed a car, this one had been repaired, I picked it up. I didn’t ask why it was at the body shop.”

Something in her eyes convinced Rachel she was telling the truth, but maybe only part of it. “You were going to find out exactly who was driving that car the day Jason was killed, but you never did.”

Charlotte’s brow pulled into a hard line and the eyes beneath it seemed to be fixed on something in another dimension. “I’ve been busy.” She looked far older than Rachel remembered, but perhaps it was the overhead light.

“Will you do it now?”

Charlotte’s voice sounded small in the stillness of the empty building. “I suppose I should.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

The next morning, Rachel again put on clothes dredged from the back of her closet—this time a pale, businesslike blouse and black skirt. When rush hour had subsided, she drove around the neighborhood until she saw Irene leaning on her supermarket cart, elbows splayed on the bars, frowning intently over a somewhat disheveled newspaper.

Rachel rolled down her car window and called, “Can you do me a favor?”

The woman squinted into the sun that shone behind Rachel. A small felt bird dangled from the hat that sat rakishly atop hair that seemed determined to escape it. “Ah, dear girl, Wall Street is in trouble now, it is.”

Rachel’s thoughts stopped, backed up. “Really?”

“Too many mergers,” Irene said sagely. “Too much of anything is never good.”

“Could you go over to the garage and keep an eye on things until I get back?” Rachel asked. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

“Of course, dear girl, of course. You go on, now. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Irene ambled in the direction of the parking garage, pushing the cart, still reading the paper.

Rachel took the first ramp to the Santa Monica Freeway. Last night she’d felt nothing but relief when Charlotte didn’t call the police. But now, Charlotte’s reaction seemed oddly accommodating.

Westbound traffic on Interstate 10 was always slow, even midmorning. Nervously, Rachel reached into her purse to reassure herself that the tie tack was still there.

Jason Karl’s house was on a cul-de-sac on a side street in Santa Monica not far from the beach. The neighborhood was clearly upscale, but the house itself was a plain brown stucco, not the pretentious castle Rachel had expected. Getting out of her car, she heard a piano. Liszt, she guessed as she walked up the driveway.

When the door opened, a great crescendo burst through the gap as though it had been bottled up against its will. The woman who faced her was small and pretty and wearing a bikini top so brief it might have been a costume for a strip show. White-blond hair had been tied carelessly in two long pigtails framing a pouty face.

“Mrs. Karl?” Rachel shouted above the music, thinking that if this nymphet was Jason’s wife, the reason for his murder might be quite different than she had supposed. But Liszt and Lolita?

“I have something I think belonged to your husband.”

The music came to a sudden halt, its echo shimmering in the stillness. The blonde rolled her eyes, whether at her question or at the music, Rachel wasn’t sure. “You must want my mother.”

Not sure why she was relieved, Rachel nodded. “Is she home?”

“Obviously. Or did you think that was a player piano?” The blonde still blocked the door and Rachel did not really want her to turn around in those cut-offs.

“Who is it, Mellie?”

Soon a tiny woman, exquisitely painted and manicured from what looked like size three high heels to her perfectly highlighted hair, appeared beside the blonde. She tilted her head toward Rachel like a hummingbird seeking nectar.

“I have something I think belonged to your husband,” Rachel said again. “I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. Rachel Chavez. I own the garage where he used to park and I think—”

With no warning, the woman’s eyes flooded and tears gushed down her cheeks. “Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry.”

Rachel thought she caught a whiff of brandy. She well remembered what it smelled like. Well, the woman was in mourning and probably still in shock.

“Mother,” Mellie said impatiently before turning to Rachel. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and upset her again. That piano will be going all night.”

“Perhaps I should come back later,” Rachel stammered. She had been so intent on her own thoughts she’d forgotten this would be a painful time for Jason’s family.

“No,” the woman said, drawing a carefully folded lace handkerchief from the pocket of her black linen dress and patting it at her eyes—an exquisite wind-up doll. She stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

The wall facing Rachel was entirely glass with a view over mounds of African daisies and graceful Japanese pines to a glimpse of the ocean. Other walls were a parquet of polished hardwoods. Beyond a banister, open space plummeted a dozen feet to a handsome living room arranged to grant ample room to a grand piano.

“The music was magnificent. Was that you?” Rachel asked as they descended a suspended curving staircase.

The woman gave a quick nod as they reached the final stair. “Thank you. Please call me Lily.”

“The view is…incredible,” Rachel said. She hated that word, but couldn’t think of one better.

Lily dabbed at her eyes again. She gestured Rachel to a seat on the nine-section sofa that curled through the room. “Excuse me,” she said and exited, returning a few minutes later. This time the odor of alcohol was unmistakable.

“Now where were we?” the little woman asked.

“I was admiring your home,” Rachel said honestly.

“Jason was so proud to be able to buy such a fine house.” There was ever so slight a lisp to the woman’s words, and Rachel wondered whether it was natural or the booze.

“He said it wasn’t a bad place for a dumb Polak,” Lily continued. “He always regretted that my parents were not alive to see it. He wanted to show them they were wrong. We were old Philadelphia. Jason was from Pittsburgh. His father made sausages and sold them in a shop on the riverfront.”

Feeling huge and clumsy beside her hostess, Rachel was grateful the daughter had disappeared, sparing her the feeling she was old as well.

“The family name was Karlinski,” Lily went on, to no one in particular, the way people in nursing homes sometimes do.

Rachel wondered if grief had unhinged her. Or maybe the woman just wasn’t used to drinking.

“To this day, I can’t imagine how we made it through those first years. Jason was at the university all day and tending bar half the night,” Lily reminisced dreamily. “But he wouldn’t hear of my working. He wouldn’t even allow me to drive. He bought this house to show my parents.” She was staring, seemingly unseeing, at the view.

“They never did speak to me again.” She turned to Rachel on the sofa. “Mellie is right. I run on too much. You said you have something of Jason’s?”

Digging into her handbag, Rachel produced the tie tack. Despite a few scratches, the face of the tortoise seemed proud.

Lily took it, held it at arm’s length on her palm, and didn’t speak for a full minute. “He never liked this, but he wore it to please me. I bought it for him in New Mexico. I hardly ever bought anything. Jason bought things before I even knew I wanted them.”

Rachel wondered if Lily had been bored with her life as a hothouse plant. What would that life be like now, with the hothouse suddenly gone? “I think I saw him wearing cuff links like this, too. Was it a set?”

“Oh yes, the Indians wouldn’t sell just the one piece.”

“I suppose you still have the cuff links.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to bring myself to go through his things.”

Rachel waited for the tears to start again, but they didn’t. “That’s such an interesting tortoise.”

“Really? Is that a tortoise? I thought it was a turtle. But thank you so much for returning it. Perhaps I can have earrings made. Of the cuff links, I mean. I wouldn’t need three earrings.” Lily gave a weak little laugh and stood up.

Recognizing her dismissal, Rachel rose, too. Then, feeling loathsome and deceptive, she plunged into the reason for her visit. “I was wondering if you might loan it back to me. Just for a short time.”

“Really? Whatever for?”

“I’d like to show it to my father.” The words came as easily as if she had thought it all out.

“He likes Indian jewelry?”

“When I was a child, he used to read to me out of a book that had a story about a tortoise and the illustration looked very much like that. I realize you don’t even know me, but.…”

Lily gave a real smile for the first time. “You would hardly have bothered to return it if you were dishonest. Of course you can borrow it. Jason won’t be needing it, will he? What a dear story. You must borrow the entire set. I’ll find them for you.” Before Rachel could reply, she was climbing the stairs.

Feeling wickedly pleased with herself, Rachel sank back onto the sofa and waited.

It didn’t take long. “They were right there on his chest of drawers. I remember now. You aren’t the first to return one of these. That woman he worked with found one in his office. I’ve been so addled, I paid little attention.”

Rachel stared down at the silvery ovals in her hand. Three perfectly matched tortoises looked back at her. “I’ll return these very soon.”

“Of course you will. But keep them as long as you like. I’m glad you like them.” Lily’s lower lip began to quiver again. “I just know that Jason would be pleased, too.”

Rachel rose. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Lily’s tears were flowing again. She moved toward the piano as if it were a magnet, drawing her.

“You play beautifully. Do you tour? ”

“I did once,” Lily faltered.

“Perhaps you would enjoy it again.” Rachel felt she should somehow be encouraging, that life would go on.

“My parents never forgave me for giving up the concerts,” Lily was saying. “Now, well, Jason would never forgive me.” Gazing at Rachel almost apologetically, she raised her hands over the keys. Then it seemed to dawn on her she was forgetting something and she stood up again. “I’m sorry, I should see you out.”

“Please, don’t trouble yourself. I can find my way.”

By the time she had climbed three steps, the rippling notes of Liszt had begun again. Relieved, and a little sad, she closed the door behind her.

333

When Rachel got back to the parking garage, Irene was sitting in the glass booth, plump arms planted on the counter, gazing at the street like one of the stone lions that guard public buildings.

She blinked at Rachel. “Nothing to this job. Not a thing went on aside from four fools who got it into their thick heads this was a public lot. I told them where they could park for free down by the river.”

Rachel handed her two twenty-dollar bills.

“For a couple hours just keeping a chair warm?” Irene tried to hand one back. “Best I don’t price myself out of this market, dear girl.”

Rachel pushed the bill away. “So you owe me a couple more hours.”

Irene rescued her cart from where it sat, a lost toy in an automotive jungle. Just before she reached the street, she turned and called, “Almost forgot. Two phone calls. Both women. Such a boring life you lead, dear girl. Look on the steno pad.”

Chapter Thirty

Rachel opened the pad of paper she kept by the phone. The first entry read only Charlotte, followed by 616-0001. She leaned her chin on her hand. So she had gotten the information on the car. That should be interesting.

On the second line Alexander Millhouse was neatly printed. She didn’t know anyone named Millhouse, either. A possible client? She had maybe thirty slots left in the garage, and filling half of them would pay the electric bill. With the end of her pen, she dialed the number.

“Friends of the Earth.” The person who answered sang the name as if it were a psalm.

“Rachel Chavez,” she said into the receiver. “I have message to call Alexander Millhouse at this number.”

“You sure you don’t mean Alexandra Miller?”

“That must be it,” Rachel said, scratching her eyebrow with the end of the pen.

“Rachel!” Alexandra’s voice was full of energy. “I have good news for you. We are holding a parade on Earth Day—it’s a Saturday. How many can you park?”

“On a Saturday? Nine-fifty or so.” A full house on a weekend could bring in ten thousand dollars. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“We must have lunch someday soon. I’ll call you.” Alexandra rang off.

Rachel pushed the button and dialed again.

“Rachel Chavez. I got a message to call you,” she said when the secretary put her through.

“Yes.”

“Did you find out who checked out that car?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said again and paused. “I need to talk with you.”

“All right. When?”

“I’m not sure just now.” Was there a tightness to her voice?

“Can you tell me who it was?”

Charlotte hesitated again. “It was checked out to me that day. But I was not the one driving it that afternoon.”

“Who was?” Jason was killed in the late afternoon.

“I can’t say just now.”

“When?” Rachel warned herself not to push too hard.

“I’ll call you later,” Charlotte said and rang off.

333

After work, Rachel sat at her kitchen counter, a fork suspended over a microwaved dinner, trying to sort out the bits and pieces that cluttered her head.

No question it was Jason’s tie tack she had found wedged under the hood of the DeVille. Which seemed to make it obvious the Caddy—owned by the water agency—had killed Jason.

And Charlotte knew who was driving it.

Or did Charlotte only know that she, herself, wasn’t driving it?

Maybe she had checked the car out, driven it that morning wherever she needed to go, put it back in the garage, and someone else had taken it. Maybe Charlotte wasn’t sure who that someone was but was trying to find out.