Black Current Read online

  I followed Delia through a pair of large sliders to an outside deck. She sat down at one of three round tables and flicked a lighter several times, then touched the flame to the tip of a menthol cigarette.

  “I liked him. Skye.” She looked out to sea. “Everybody did, as far as I know. I just don’t want to think about it. Or picture it, all right? I need to wipe it out of my mind.”

  “It must have been a terrible shock, coming on it all by yourself.”

  She nodded, took a long drag. “It was a shock, all right. I called Neil, and he came right away.”

  “And Neil called Dr. Steinbach?”

  “I guess so. I wasn’t paying all that much attention by then. I couldn’t stop crying.”

  Everything with Delia, I figured, would always come back to the almighty “I.” Still, that was fine by me. I was here for info, not friendship. “So Skye got along with everybody here, all the staff?”

  “As far as I know. There’s not a lot of staff. Volunteers, mainly. But Cheryl Kerr, she runs the gift shop, I saw her talking with him once or twice. Cheryl comes in at nine—you can catch her this morning, if you want.”

  “I will.”

  “And a couple of Skye’s high-school friends are volunteers. I don’t know what their names are, but I heard he got them their positions. For senior-year community service, you know?”

  “Right.” I steered her back on track. “Dr. Thompson, did he like Skye?”

  “Neil? Of course he did.” Her expression grew guarded. “Why are you asking me all this stuff?”

  “We’re not sure what actually happened. And the Rasmussens need to know.” I watched as Delia got up and walked over to the rail, then tossed her cigarette butt over the side. A big seagull sitting on a post lifted his wings as if to dive after it, then decided to stay put.

  I joined her at the rail. “What about Rod Steinbach? I understand he hasn’t been here very long.”

  “Dr. Steinbach?” She pursed her lips and drew her thin white cardigan close around her. “I don’t really know him,” she said in a flat tone. “I’ve only talked to him a couple of times.”

  I knew a retreat when I heard one. How was I going to get this woman to open up? “Do you have kids, Delia?”

  “Two, a boy and a girl.” Sure enough, her expression relaxed.

  “How old?”

  “My son is seven and my daughter’s almost ten. That’s why I work, really, to buy them nice things. My daughter already loves clothes, you know? And Alex, my boy, likes video games. You know how expensive they are.”

  “I do. And I’m sure you’d do anything for your kids. You probably understand how the Rasmussens feel right now, especially Melanie.”

  “Yes.” Delia hesitated. “I heard her at the funeral, when she screamed. It was horrible.”

  I nodded, let the silence expand. “Can you think of anything else you can tell me that might help them?”

  “Not really.” She twisted her mouth into a knot, and studied the varnished deck.

  “One more question, then I’ll let you go. Who knows the combination to the service-entrance door?”

  Her head jerked up. She rubbed at her cheek.

  “There’s me … and Cheryl.” I saw she was working to control her voice now, to keep it casual. “Neil—Dr. Thompson, I mean—and Dr. Steinbach, of course. I think that’s about it.”

  I was pretty sure that wasn’t “it.” But I’d pushed as far as I could, short of calling Delia a liar. “Thanks. I’ll let you get back to work now. If you think of something, anything at all, here’s my card.”

  * * *

  I was outside on the dock below, waiting to ambush the gift-shop manager, when Delia pushed open the service door ten minutes later. She paused, then walked on over.

  “Look, I thought of something. I probably shouldn’t say this. So if I tell you, will you promise to keep quiet about where you heard it?”

  I was itching to say, “I promise.” But I’d learned it was best to be straight. “I’ll do everything I can to keep it quiet.”

  “I guess that’s OK.” Delia stepped closer and dropped her voice. “It’s about Dr. Steinbach. See, he’s been driving all of us crazy. The board only hired him to be a consultant, you know. But he’s on everybody’s case, all the time. Even Neil’s.”

  The big gull swooped down from the deck above and landed on a table a few feet away from us. I stared at the bloodred spot on his beak. “Everybody’s case? What about?”

  “What about? Nothing. Everything!” She planted her hands on her hips. “Nobody measures up. According to him, we all deserve to get fired.”

  “Is that why they hired him? To clean house?”

  “Delia?” Neil Thompson stood in the service doorway. A thin strand of hair hung down the side of his face.

  She spun around. “Oh, Neil—”

  “Ms. Zarlin? What are you doing here?”

  “Chatting with Delia, Dr. Thompson. How about you—do you have time to talk?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I need to speak with Dee—with Ms. Foley. And we have to get ready to open up.” He bent his tall frame as he took a step backward, in through the door.

  When a potential informant takes a step away from me, I can’t help it—I take a step forward. Or two or three. “I understand you’re busy. Can we set up an appointment?”

  He retreated further inside, like a crab backing into a shell. “About what? Rod—Dr. Steinbach—said your job was done.”

  “I’m not working for Dr. Steinbach now. My clients are the Rasmussens.” I walked right up to the doorway. Delia was behind me, waiting to go in.

  “Melanie and Dave want me to find out what happened to their son. They’d appreciate it if you’d set aside some time to talk.”

  “Ah. Well, if you put it that way.” He frowned and looked away. “But phone me, Ms. Zarlin, if you don’t mind.”

  “Excuse me.” Delia stepped around me. As she pushed past Neil Thompson, I noticed how her hip brushed against his thigh.

  There was no surprise in that—the space was tight. But she didn’t apologize, and neither of them shrank from the touch.

  The door closed. I walked back to the edge of the dock, stared down into the water, and thought about what Delia had told me. So Skye’s grandfather had been riding the staff hard. I wondered: had someone taken exception to that?

  * * *

  Cheryl Kerr was late. Frazzled, she bustled past me, her heart-shaped face pink behind her big owlish glasses.

  I caught up with her just as she was beginning to punch in the combination on the door lock. “Hi, Ms. Kerr.”

  She turned to me with an alarmed look. “Yes?” A fine beading of sweat shone on her upper lip.

  “I realize you’re in a hurry. But do you have a minute?”

  “Not—not really.” She tugged her peach-colored nylon top down over her wrinkled linen pants. “What’s it about?”

  I handed her my card. “My name’s Jaymie Zarlin. I’m assisting the Rasmussens.”

  She looked at the card, and blanched. There really was no other good word for it: the woman turned white as a marshmallow. To steady herself, she placed a hand on the door.

  I took her by the arm and led her to a plank bench bolted to the back wall of the aquarium. “I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. May I call you Cheryl?”

  She nodded, then gulped. “Terrible,” she finally murmured. “A terrible thing.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Cheryl smoothed her graying hair. She wore it in a long pageboy, held back off her face with a faded headband.

  “I’d just like to ask you a few questions. I’m sorry to put you through this, but the family would appreciate your help.”

  “I—I really do only have a minute. I have to open the gift shop.”

  “This won’t take long. Tell me, what time did you leave work last Friday?”

  “Oh. At ten past five, the same time as always. I’m paid to five, so I work right up till
then. Then I take ten minutes to get ready to go, on my own time. I think that’s fair.”

  “Ten minutes? What do you usually do in that time?”

  “Oh, clean up my counter. Use the restroom, I guess. And I go talk to Legs, tell her good night.” Cheryl smiled. “I’m her favorite, actually.”

  “Legs?”

  “Our two-spotted octopus. Octopi are very intelligent, you know? About as smart as cats.”

  “I didn’t realize that. Tell me, did you know Skye?”

  “Just a little. I don’t really talk to the volunteers much.” She stared down at her hands, knitted together in her lap. “But he seemed … he seemed nice.”

  “Did everybody get along with him?”

  “I think so. I really don’t know. You should ask somebody else. I’m stuck over in the gift shop all day, I don’t see much of what’s going on.”

  I wasn’t sure interviewing Cheryl Kerr was worth the effort. But I reminded myself that you never knew where a clue might rear its tricky little head. “How about the Rasmussen family, and the Steinbachs? Do you know them?”

  “No. Why, should I?”

  My ears pricked up. Unless I was mistaken, a tiny tinge of rebellion had sounded. I decided to give a further prod.

  “But you do know Skye’s grandfather, right? The new consultant, Rod Steinbach.”

  She sat up straight. “Dr. Steinbach. Of course I know who he is.”

  Ah. I’d put my finger on the sore spot. “Do you—”

  “Excuse me. I don’t like to be late. I almost never am.” Cheryl glanced over, and her pale blue eyes met mine. She almost seemed to be pleading.

  “Of course. Sorry if I’ve kept you.”

  She stood and shouldered her handbag. “Our director, Neil Thompson? That’s who you should be talking to. I’m just the gift-shop lady. Now please—I need to go.”

  * * *

  For the second time in a week, a fresh rose graced the office steps. This one was bouncy and bright, yellow as sunshine. I picked up the plastic water bottle and read the tag: Buttercup. Oh, great. Happy days were here to stay.

  I unlocked the door, set Buttercup on the desk beside Friendship. Was it time to discard the somewhat tired Friendship, and establish the new rose in its place? I would leave that up to the beloved.

  Why was I feeling sour, with all these roses raining down on us? Maybe because they were raining down on Gabi, not us. And that was selfish of me.

  I snapped up the window blinds and raised the sashes. Summertime, mocking my mood, rumbaed into the room.

  I plopped down on the couch and stared at Gabi’s roses. Something was nagging me, all right. Something about love, and hot August nights. Love—and what lurked behind love. Namely, desire.

  Skye Rasmussen, with his athletic skills, winning personality, and good looks, would have attracted more than his share of admirers. More than his share—which meant that female competition for Skye would have been sharp, if not fierce.

  Fierce competition. Bruised teenaged egos. A motive for murder? A long shot, maybe, but one that needed looking into.

  Delia had said that two of the aquarium volunteers were friends of Skye. I needed to find out something about them. And the girl hiding in the restroom at the mortuary—who was she?

  It was time to have a more probing chat with Skye’s parents. I picked up the phone.

  * * *

  The Rasmussens lived in a renovated 1950s tract home in San Roque, near the Earl Warren show grounds. The landscaping had recently been redone, in the politically correct California native plant style. The house was painted a stylish gray-green, and the tangerine front door was mounted with brushed stainless hardware. Either Dave or Melanie kept up with the taste of the times. My bet was on Mel.

  I lifted the door knocker, let it fall. When no one answered, I rang the bell. The minute I pushed it and heard a loud bringgg inside the house, I felt I’d transgressed. This house was in mourning, and should be left in peace.

  I expected Dave or Melanie to open the door. But it was Mrs. Steinbach who faced me. Her straight silver hair was fashioned into a sleek geometric cut, and her sleeveless black cotton shift revealed a gym-toned body. She studied me for a moment, then spoke. “You must be Ms. Zarlin.”

  “Yes. Melanie’s expecting me.”

  “I’m Alice Steinbach, Melanie’s mother.” She inclined her head, and her vintage copper earrings swung out in an arc. She didn’t extend her hand.

  “Mrs. Steinbach, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Again, that dratted empty phrase. It had just popped out, apparently having a life of its own.

  “Thank you.” She was silent for a moment. “I suppose you should come in. Melanie’s in the kitchen.”

  I followed the slight, rigidly upright woman down a hall and into a large kitchen fitted out with an array of appliances. Probably top-of-the-line, but since I barely know how to switch on anything other than a microwave, I couldn’t be sure.

  Melanie stood at the kitchen island. She was up to her elbows in flour, rolling out dough on a marble slab. Her face was a blank. But when her eyes met mine, they filled with tears.

  Just seeing me made her remember, I realized. Remember what she was trying so hard to forget: that her son was dead.

  “Hi, Melanie. What are you making?” I smiled and tried to strike the right note—encouraging, but not gleeful. It would be a long, long time before glee was OK in this house.

  “Individual lemon-apricot compotes. Ninety-six of them.” She turned and rinsed her hands at the sink, reached for a towel.

  “My daughter owns a catering service,” Alice explained. “For select customers.”

  “Not all that select.” Melanie managed a smile. “Mom’s always trying to make me sound better than I am.”

  “That’s what mothers are for,” I responded. But then I added a silent corollary: That’s what they’re for, but some moms don’t ever get it.

  “Actually,” Melanie continued, “Mom’s the impressive one. She’s sixty-six, and she works out at the gym every single day. Right, Mom? Two o’clock on the dot.”

  “Oh, you go to the Y?” I asked, by way of polite conversation.

  “No, I prefer Hard Body.” Alice turned to her daughter. “You’ll do that too when you get to my age, Mellie. It’s that or seize up and—” Alice fell silent. Even so, the completed phrase hung in the air: seize up and die.

  Melanie walked over to a rattan lounge set in the far corner of the open kitchen. She and Alice sat on the couch, and I took one of the chairs opposite them.

  “With Skye it’s different.” Melanie seemed compelled to keep talking. “I’ve never had to make him look good. He’s smart and athletic. Popular, too. That’s just the way he is. Right, Mom?”

  Alice folded her hands in her lap. “Yes. Skye was exceptional. We were all so proud of him.”

  “Mom, you said ‘was.’ Please, don’t say ‘was.’” Melanie began to weep, and her mother placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  After a moment, I spoke. “I can come back another time.”

  “Yes, that would be best.” Alice’s chin trembled, but she held herself firm, her lips pressed together. “In a few weeks, perhaps.”

  “No.” Melanie sat upright and looked hard at me. Flour now dusted her left cheek. “You said you needed more information. And I want to help.”

  Alice Steinbach frowned, but said nothing.

  “OK.” I pulled out my phone and punched the Notes button. “I’d like to know more about Skye’s friends. I understand he helped get volunteer positions for two of them at the aquarium.”

  “Yes. Porter and Vanessa. Porter, well, Skye’s known him since preschool. And Vannie—I think Skye and Vannie started hanging out together in middle school. Maybe eighth grade.”

  “Can you give me their full names?”

  “Porter Logsdon and Vanessa Hoague.”

  I tapped in the names, trying to avoid making eye contact with the glaring Alice. “Were
Skye and Vanessa ever romantically involved?”

  “Honestly,” Alice hissed.

  “It’s all right, Mom.” Melanie smiled a little. “Vanessa always has had a crush on Skye. Really, though, they’re just friends. She wasn’t his—” Her face fell. “His type,” she finished in a near-whisper.

  I sensed an opening, and took it. “Who was his type? I’m sure a boy like Skye never lacked for a girlfriend.”

  But I’d said something wrong. Melanie’s features were dissolving.

  “He hasn’t—hasn’t had a girlfriend for—for a while.”

  “Melanie. This is not a good idea.” Alice turned to me, her eyes black and hard.

  “Miss Zarlin, what is the point of all this? My grandson had a terrible accident. You seem to be taking advantage of my daughter’s vulnerability, creating an issue where one doesn’t exist. Perhaps you need the cash?”

  My mouth fell open. I looked from mother to daughter and back again. “Mrs. Steinbach, I’m only here because Dave and Melanie asked me to look into Skye’s death.”

  Melanie grasped her mother by the elbow. “We’re doing this, Mom. It’s our decision, Dave’s and mine. We’re going to find out what happened to Skye.”

  “But we know what happened, dear. Your father and the police agree. It was an accident. You and Dave don’t need to—”

  “Stop!” Melanie jumped to her feet. “I don’t want to hear about what Dad thinks. I don’t trust him with this. He always—”

  Alice rose from the couch. She was seven or eight inches shorter than her daughter, slight as a stalk of bamboo. Yet somehow she was the stronger of the two. “Don’t air family matters in front of a stranger, Melanie.” She turned to me. “Ms. Zarlin, I really don’t think—”

  “Mom, I want her here, don’t you understand? Jaymie’s going to help us. She needs information, that’s all.” Melanie turned to me, pleading. “Explain to my mother. Tell her.”

  This wasn’t going to work. Melanie seemed to be at a breaking point, and her mother was making it worse.

  “We can talk in a day or two. Maybe your mom’s right, it’s all too soon.” I stood too. I wanted to walk over to the distraught woman and give her a hug, but Alice was in the middle, blocking me. “I’ll phone you tomorrow.”