Black Current Page 25

  I stared out the window. The flat landscape was empty, unconscious as a surgical patient under the intense late-summer sun. Kind of like my brain lately.

  Had Cheryl known Rod Steinbach was once a suspect in her brother’s death? Probably the answer was yes. If so, how dismayed she must have been when Rod showed up, newly hired as a consultant at the aquarium. And how it must have infuriated her when he bore down hard, told her to lose weight and spruce herself up.

  The highway twisted up out of the valley, heading into the San Andreas fault zone. Dexter whined and looked up imploringly from his spot under the vent.

  “I know you hate the curves, Dex. Can’t stop, though. Hold on and we’ll be through this patch in a bit.”

  I hashed it all over again in my mind. And I wondered: had Cheryl threatened to reveal Rod’s past? She’d been a timid woman, but even timid people can strike out when they’re backed into a corner.

  The phone rang, but I didn’t look at it. A minute later a beep announced a message. I switched the phone off and pushed the distraction from my mind.

  Yes. Rod could have shoved Cheryl over the side of the wet deck. But he hadn’t killed his own grandson, surely. All the evidence suggested he’d loved Skye.

  I stopped myself there. What the evidence showed was that Rod was proud of Skye, saw him as a chip off the old block. Narcissism wasn’t love.

  What if Skye had challenged his grandfather about the past, possibly armed with information received from Cheryl? Rod could have become furious, and he might have struck back.

  * * *

  Dexter was raking my trouser leg with his claws by the time we got to Cholame Junction.

  I pulled in at the greasy spoon, switched off the ignition, and braced myself. When I opened the door, the dry heat hit me like a board up the side of my head.

  Dex didn’t wait for me to lift him out. He tumbled to the ground, picked himself up and trotted over to the nearest Chinese Tree of Heaven. The gravel-strewn clearing was nearly surrounded by the weedy saplings.

  I wandered over to the nearby James Dean Memorial. The actor had died a few hundred yards from here, wiped out on his motorcycle by a drunk driver. I sat down on an overturned cable spool in the sparse shade of a live oak, then switched on my phone.

  The call I’d ignored was from Mike. His voice message was composed of four words: Jaymie, please call me. He didn’t sound good.

  Mike answered my call on the second ring. “Jaymie?”

  “I got your message—what’s up?”

  “I’m in San Luis.” I heard him draw in a breath. “Dad died an hour ago.”

  “But I—I was going to come up and see him again!”

  Mike could have told me that was the dumbest and most self-centered thing he’d ever heard. But he was kind.

  “Yesterday I told Dad you were thinking about him. He understood.”

  My throat constricted. I wanted to ask if Bill had suffered at the end, but I didn’t. Best not to ask. “I’m so sorry, Mike. So, so sorry.”

  “I know. Me too.” His voice was shaky. I could tell he’d been crying. “Jaymie, hold on a minute—”

  I heard Trudy’s voice in the background, Mike answering her.

  “The undertaker’s arrived. Jaymie—”

  “Yes?”

  “The funeral. Will you come up?”

  I had questions I wanted to ask, like “What about Mandy, won’t she want to go?” Or even, “We aren’t a couple anymore, do you think it’s a good idea?” But this wasn’t the time to ask stuff like that.

  “Yes. Of course I’ll be there. Your dad was so good to me.”

  We said goodbye. I walked over to the Camino, and retrieved Dexter’s bowl from under the seat. I set it down in the strip of shade cast by the vehicle and poured half a bottle of water into it. I didn’t have to call him over: Dex made a beeline.

  A hot dry breeze stirred a nearby patch of rattlesnake grass. When Dexter finally stopped slurping, I could hear the rattle of the grass heads and the wind hissing in the saplings.

  I tipped what water was left in the bowl onto the dry cracked ground. It was sucked up in an instant. A lizard skittered out of the grass, halted, and fixed me with a glittering eye.

  The faint dark stain left by the water would be gone in a minute or less. Just about the length of time it took to be born, live out one’s days, and die.

  Chapter Twenty

  I drove straight down to the marina when I got into town. It was late, and the sun had just plunged over the horizon’s edge. The sunset was subdued, but a vast bronze mesh lay on the ocean.

  The gate to the marina gaped wide open. A commercial fisherman pushed a plastic wheelbarrow down the narrow walk. It was loaded with small shiny fish, still twitching. The silver ellipses glistened in the twilight.

  “Are you going to stand there all day?” The guy scowled.

  Must have been a tough two hours before the mast. Dexter and I moved to one side.

  Neil Thompson was washing down the Lindy Sue. He wore a dirty old canvas hat and black rubber boots, and held a thick hose in his hands. We studied each other for a moment, me on the dock, Thompson on the soaked deck. Finally he twisted a valve to close off the nozzle.

  “I told you, I don’t have anything else to say. Would you—well, would you just go away?”

  “No,” I called back. “No chance of that.”

  Thompson stared out to sea, then dropped the hose at his feet. He walked across the deck and up to me. We stood four feet apart, with a watery gap separating us. “You’re harassing me,” he tried. “I’m going to report you.”

  “Fine. But you might want to talk to me first.”

  “I’ve told you everything.” Thompson’s eyes were tinged red, maybe from the sun and salt air. “I’m sick of it all.”

  He wasn’t the only one who was sick of this dance. I’d about had it up to here with Seaweed Man. “Look, let’s cut the crap. I’ve just driven in from Fresno. You know who lives there? Judith Rosenfeld. And who is she? Rachel Berger’s sister, that’s who.”

  Neil hadn’t expected this. His mouth flew open and he began to stammer. “N-nothing to—to do with me.”

  “Bullshit!” I was half pretending to be angry to rattle him, but on the other hand I was hot, bothered, and pissed off. “Rachel and Rod, you and Alice. Two couples, a sweet little foursome. But here’s the bombshell, Neil. Ready for it? I know Cheryl Kerr was Cheryl Hobson. Gary Hobson, the young man who died in the fire? He was her brother.”

  But now it was my turn to be surprised. I saw the truth written in Neil Thompson’s expression, heard it in his gasp: this he hadn’t known.

  “You’re making it up. I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s a fact. What you believe doesn’t matter.”

  Neil bent his head. The oily brim of his hat shaded his face from view. “I didn’t want you to know about what happened back then. That part’s true. Just didn’t think it was any of your business. But, I swear to God. I never knew who Cheryl was.”

  “You worked with her for years. She never once mentioned her brother?”

  “Never, I swear.” He shook his head quickly, as if he had a fly in his face. “Cheryl never talked about anything personal. She mentioned her mother a few times, never said her name.”

  “Neil, listen to me.” I made my voice friendly now, consoling. “I know Rod killed Gary Hobson all those years ago. He may not have intended to, but he did.”

  He kept his eyes on the deck. “That was never proved.”

  A powerboat ploughed through the water nearby. The wake hit the Lindy Sue, and she bobbed like a cork. Neil tottered.

  “Why won’t you leave me alone? Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

  “No, I don’t. A double homicide has been committed under your watch—or hadn’t you noticed? Skye and Cheryl’s killer is at large.”

  “That’s crap,” Neil said stubbornly. “Tactacquin’s guilty.”

  “I’ve got news
for you. Someone’s come forward. John Tactacquin has a solid alibi now, for both murders.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Don’t. Like I said, what you decide to believe doesn’t matter. And by the way, your little mop-up job at the scene of Skye’s murder? Hardly an effort to spare the Steinbach’s feelings, was it. No, it’s looking more sinister now.”

  “I was just—just—”

  A seagull swooped down and perched on the rail of the Lindy Sue. It let out the most god-awful, mocking squawk.

  “Just what, trying to keep the hatches battened down?”

  “All right! I didn’t want the police to think Skye’s death was anything but an accident. Don’t you see? They would have focused on Rod, dredged it all up again. And not just Rod. They would have focused on all of us! What we did back then would have come out, been in the papers. It was an accident, that kid dying in the fire back in ’70, but nobody would have seen it that way!”

  “No. Oh, and besides: there’s no statute of limitations for murder.” I paused, then dropped the bomb.

  “I’m not just talking about Hobson. I’m talking about Rachel’s death, too.”

  “What? Rachel had cancer. Terminal. You—you—”

  “Rachel had at least another month to live. You stole it from her. You dialed up the morphine, because she was going to tell the truth.”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t!” His eyes brimmed with tears. “Maybe Rod. Rod and Alice, I left them alone with her.”

  “So maybe you didn’t actually pull the trigger. But I think you knew.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, I sank down in my old aluminum chaise and gazed out to the darkening water. The Channel Islands, ancient beasts of the sea, swam steadily north in the gathering dusk. The twinkling lights of the oil rigs lit their way.

  I said a silent prayer for Bill Dawson, now gone from this world. Or maybe the prayer was for the rest of us, left behind.

  I shut my eyes and let the night noises fill my ears. Insects clicked and sang, and a great horned owl boomed its loud yet velvety call. Now and then I could hear the high-pitched cheeps of tiny bats, not hunting but talking to one another.

  I needed to phone Gabi, to let her know what I’d learned in Fresno. This was big, and she’d want to know.

  I leaned back and slipped my hand in my pocket. Uh-oh. No phone.

  I scrambled to my feet and checked all my pockets. Nada.

  “Damn,” I muttered aloud. I could go check in the Camino, and I would. But I was pretty sure I wouldn’t find my cell there. I thought back to the last call I’d made. Mike. Mike, at Cholame Junction. When we’d finished I’d—well, shit. I’d set the phone down on the cable spool. Yep, and then I’d walked away.

  I’d have to phone the Cholame greasy spoon in the morning, from the office. Transfer some cash, get them to retrieve my phone and send it along. In the meantime, the world would keep on spinning. Without a phone, I’d survive.

  * * *

  Gabi unlocked the door to her tiny apartment. She switched on the light, then shut and relocked the door.

  She loved her apartment. She loved that it was all hers, hers alone. That was one good thing about not being with Angel anymore, she reminded herself. Now she’d get to stay in her own home forever, just like she wanted. And she wouldn’t have to share it, either.

  She dropped her heavy bag on the couch, went into the bedroom, and tugged off her tight pants. They kept shrinking in the dryer, and now they were so tight around the middle that she had to undo the top button whenever she sat down.

  Gabi pulled her top over her head but didn’t take off her bra, just in case a neighbor or somebody knocked on the door. It was late, but you never knew. She got her Hawaiian muumuu from the closet and slipped it on. She was tempted to lie down on the bed and relax. But thinking about Angel, even that little bit just now, made her feel depressed. So she decided to watch some TV.

  Gabi had a bunch of telenovelas recorded and thought it would be good to watch one. All that drama and misery put her in a nice relaxed mood and made her forget her own problems. Soon, she would be ready for sleep.

  She’d had dinner out, all alone, at Los Agaves. You had to treat yourself when you were sad. Her uncle’s best friend worked there in the kitchen, and they always gave her almost double in amount, so she had food to bring home in a box for lunch the next day. This time she’d ordered the chiles rellenos, the best chiles rellenos this side of Guadalajara. That reminded her, the take-out box was still in her purse.

  Gabi padded out to the living room, removed the food, and carried it to the refrigerator. The friendly little light came on when she opened the door, you could always count on it. Now she was getting in a happier mood. She wasn’t hungry, but the pitcher of chilled sun tea caught her eye. She poured herself a glass, only small, so she wouldn’t have to get up in the night.

  It was late and she’d had a long day. Gabi had cleaned two big houses in the morning, one a two-story, so she’d had to lug the vac up and then back down, plus do the stairs. Then she worked at the office, making phone calls and paying bills. It was a good time to catch up, because Jaymie was away in Fresno.

  And then, well, she hadn’t wanted to quit. She felt bad whenever she thought about Angel, and work made her feel better. So Gabi had gone and cleaned one more house, the vacation rental on the Mesa. Lucky, the renters had left everything nice, washed the dishes and even vacuumed already. But even so, she was exhausted.

  She dropped down on the couch and switched on the TV. In only ten minutes, her head lolled to one side. She pressed the off button on the remote and stretched out. Gabi knew she should get up and go to bed, but she was too tired to move. Another two or three minutes, and she was fast asleep.

  A mariachi band woke her two hours later. It was playing near her feet, at the end of the couch. Confused, still half-asleep, she looked around for the radio … or maybe the TV was still on?

  Then she realized the band was playing in her purse. She leaned down and reached inside it, blindly digging till her hand closed on her phone. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” said a small faraway voice. “I can’t talk loud.”

  “Claudia?” Of all the people who might have called her in the middle of the night, Claudia Molina was the least likely. “What did you wake me up for? Don’t you know what time it is?”

  “Jaymie. I gotta talk to Jaymie, I’m in trouble. But I called her number and nobody answered. I need help! I need help right away.”

  Now Gabi was wide awake. She stared at the blue light glowing on the DVD player. “Miss Jaymie went to Fresno this afternoon. She told me she was maybe gonna have to stay over night in a motel. Maybe she left her phone in the car, or—”

  “Gabi.” Now Claudia’s voice was hoarse with fear. “I’m at the piñata party. They caught me listening, Vanessa and Port. Port said he’s going to teach me a lesson. He’s going to take me somewhere.”

  Claudia sounded terrified. And Gabi couldn’t help it, her heart opened up. “Where are they gonna take you, mija. Tell me where.”

  “To the Chamber of Lust.”

  “The—the what?” Gabi’s throat tightened.

  “I don’t have time to explain. I’m at the old Miramar Hotel.”

  “Shall I call the police?”

  “No! I was in juvie for seven months! If they arrest me again, I’ll—”

  The phone went dead.

  Gabi called the number back. It rang for two seconds, then stopped.

  She sat there in the dark, focusing on the blue light. Thinking, thinking. The Chamber of Lust. Now she remembered how the piñata party worked. Yes she did. And there was no way she would let that girl, that girl who understood so little of life, be dragged into a room like that.

  Miss Jaymie was still in Fresno. So that meant it was up to her. But she was fifty-one years old and five feet tall. Wherever she went in this town she got ignored. How was she gonna rescue Claudia? How wa
s she even going to get into that room—that Chamber of Lust? She needed some kind of disguise.

  She got to her feet, walked over and switched on the overhead light. That made the light in her brain come on too. She wasn’t going to put on a costume. No, she was going to just be her usual invisible self.

  * * *

  Gabi knew exactly where the Miramar was. She used to work there years ago, before it closed down.

  She steered her station wagon through the sagging gates of the abandoned resort. It was pitch black, no moon and two o’clock in the morning. Her headlights cut like Hollywood searchlights through the grounds.

  The gardens, she noticed, were still kept up. But the buildings were dilapidated, spray-painted with graffiti. Sheets of plywood were nailed up over some of the windows and doors.

  Gabi headed toward the ocean, winding through the maze. She turned a corner and came on the cars, maybe thirty of them, parked at the end of a cul-de-sac. She slowed down, trying to figure out the best place to leave the station wagon for a quick getaway.

  She nearly had a heart attack a few seconds later, when a sharp rap sounded on her roof. She jammed on the brake and turned to see a face in her passenger’s-side window. A mean man’s face, not a kid’s. The security guard.

  “Open your window,” he barked through the glass.

  Gabi did as he ordered, the way any woman who cleaned for a living would do. She twisted away as a strong light slapped her in the face.

  “This area’s restricted. What are you doing here?”

  She answered in Spanish, “I’m coming to clean.”

  “English,” the man demanded. But he took the flashlight out of her face.

  “Sorry my English is no good. Miss Vanessa call me to come and clean up a room.”

  “What, now?”

  Gabi shrugged. “Yes Miss Vanessa said right away. She’s gonna pay me extra, she said.”

  The guard shone his light through the back windows of the wagon. Gabi was confident her organized system of cleaning tools and supplies would impress.

  “Park over there.” The guard indicated a spot with his giant flashlight. “Take that walkway to the rooms at the back.”