An Affair to Dismember (16 page)

“You think you got me pegged, don’t you? Heard
some things around town, have you? How do you know what my type is? You think you’re like your grandmother? You know my type right off the bat? Maybe you’re exactly my type. Maybe I lie awake at night thinking about you.”

I had known him for seventy-two hours, and during one of those nights he had slept with me. I didn’t think he spent much time lying awake thinking about anyone. Spencer stopped for a red light, turned, and stared into my eyes. He was all earnestness, unblinking, the picture of honesty. I snorted.

“Yeah, right. You’re full of it,” I said.

“You’re right,” he said after a moment. “You’re not my type.”

“What’s your type? No, let me guess. Skinny … that’s a given. Long legs, big fake boobs, and hair extensions.”

“Commitment issues,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Women with commitment issues, women who don’t like commitment. They’re my type.”

I blinked. Spencer was the quintessential player. “That’s disgusting.”

Spencer shrugged. “You asked. Enough about me, let’s talk about you. Tell me about the blond head who attacked your grandmother.”

“I have no idea.” It wasn’t a total lie. I didn’t know which blonde, but I was pretty sure I could narrow it down to a few suspects.

“You jumped on the whole blond idea in your grandmother’s kitchen.”

“I like blonds,” I said. “Blonds are my type.”

THE BEACH was crowded, but Spencer found a prime parking place in sight of the rocks where Shep
Smothers was going to propose to his girlfriend. The sun was about to set. This part of the beach, with its outcropping of large rocks, turned into a series of small tide pools when the tide was out.

“How romantic,” I said. “It’s the perfect place.”

Spencer didn’t say anything. He grabbed the basket from the backseat and tore into a Reuben. “You want one?”

I took one and opened a root beer. Spencer ate quickly and drank his root beer in three gulps. “There he is. Oh, shit. What is he wearing?” he asked.

Shep Smothers was wearing a suit. I didn’t know whose suit it was, but it couldn’t have been his because it was six inches too short. His legs stuck out like matchsticks covered in white tube socks with a blue stripe. His arms protruded from the jacket. In one hand he clutched something—the ring, I thought. In the other hand, he held his girlfriend’s hand. She was cute. She had short red hair, freckles, and sixty additional pounds gathered around her lower body. I felt protective of the both of them. They had found each other against almost insurmountable odds. It made a person believe in the power of love.

“You ready?” Spencer handed the camera to me, and I took a couple of shots. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he said. “Take a photo for me so I can prove it to the guys.”

Spencer had a way of getting my hackles up.

“Hey, have you seen yourself, lately?” I shrieked. “Nice choice of shirts, pal. Why are you wearing that? You want aliens to spot you from space?”

Spencer looked honestly insulted. He was usually Dapper Dan, and I had caught him in a weak moment. “I was watching the game on TV when you called. I didn’t have time to change. Anyway, this is a limited edition Padres Luau Celebration Collector’s Jersey.”

“Aren’t the Padres the San Diego team?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were from L.A.”

“What of it? Don’t judge. Take your photos.”

Shep Smothers was down on one knee, presenting the ring to his girlfriend. I took a picture just as she said yes, a big smile on her face, but before Shep could get the ring on her finger, an enormous wave came toward them. In a heartbeat, the wave hit the rock and receded, taking Shep’s almost-fiancée into the ocean in a languid sweep reminiscent of water ballet.

“That wave hit just right,” Spencer mumbled, obviously thinking out loud. He was right. It defied the laws of physics how waiflike Shep could have stayed on the rock, and his corpulent love was swept out to sea.

Spencer grabbed the police radio and called in the accident. He didn’t need to bother. A whole army of lifeguards jumped into the water to rescue her. Spencer and I—along with a large group of tourists—ran onto the rock to see the action. Shep looked out over the water, calling to her. It was a relief to see her alive, flailing her arms, punching out lifeguard after lifeguard as they tried to save her.

“That’s a common sight,” Spencer said. “Drowning victims panic. She’ll get tired after a while, and they’ll get hold of her.”

He was right. Her right hook didn’t last much longer, and they managed to swim her to the beach.

“Do you have enough pictures? I have to get home,” Spencer said.

“Sure.”

Spencer started the car. “Was that romantic enough for you?” he asked.

SPENCER DROPPED me off at the curb in front of my grandmother’s house.

“Looks like there’s a party going on,” he said. The lights were on in the front parlor. Undoubtedly she had summoned over the neighborhood watch group to bring their attention to the knish bandit.

“Thank you for your help today,” I said.

“Are you sure you want to go in? The way we’re going, I figure it’s only a matter of an hour or two before we see each other again. Maybe we should tie ourselves together and call it a day.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, but he had a point. It had been nonstop Spencer for two straight days. We had gone from murder to almost death so many times, I had whiplash. “No offense, but I need a break. I need quiet time.”

“That’s what I want to hear. Stay at home and rest. Give yourself a facial or something. Nothing exciting.”

I stuck three fingers up. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

I watched Spencer drive away. He wasn’t such a bad guy for a male chauvinist. I yawned. My bath and bed were calling to me. What a day! No murders, but emotional nonetheless. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had forgotten something, but it didn’t matter now. I was too exhausted to care. I had just turned to walk up the driveway when Peter Terns’ Porsche careened down the street and skidded to a halt next to me, one of his tires bumping up onto the sidewalk. The passenger’s window rolled down.

“Get in,” Peter said.

“I’m just about to go up to bed. How about we talk tomorrow?”

“Get in,” he repeated. He leaned forward, the outline of a gun pushing against his blazer. “Or else.”

PETER’S VOICE crackled with the familiar sound of craziness I had come to expect from him, but now it was tinged with menace that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He patted his breast pocket, a promise of what was hidden inside.

Gone was my desire to hear his story, and in its place was blind, white fear.

“I really have to go in the house, Peter.”

“You think I’m joking around, Gladie? Get in the car before you’re sorry.”

What had I learned from every after-school special and Lifetime movie I had ever watched? Don’t get in the car. Don’t ever get in the car. Once you’re in the car, it’s just a matter of minutes before you’re locked in a homemade cell deep underground, waiting to be tortured, while slowly starving to death.

My eyes never left the bulge under Peter’s blazer. It was shaped like a gun. Peter’s hand was poised over it. I opened the car door and got in. As soon as the door clicked closed, he drove off.

The inside of the Porsche was the level of clean usually reserved for operating rooms. Peter must have gotten his OCD streak from his mother. Even in the dark, the dashboard gleamed.

Peter was twitchy. He moved his hands over the steering wheel, changing positions every few seconds.

I was worried. My stomach was making scary, apocalyptic sounds. I developed a strategy to jump out of the car if he ever slowed down.

“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” he said. “Nobody will listen to me, and Jane is giving us all the evil eye. You don’t know how scary that bitch is. I’m the only sane one in the family, you know.”

I sighed. My stomach was rumbling and squeaking. We were heading farther up into the mountains. It was pitch-black outside, and he was driving too fast on a narrow dirt road.

“You told me about Jane and the Barbies,” I said.

“And the babysitting? Did I tell you about the babysitting?”

“Uh …”

“She’s such a freak. Always going on about what Mom wants, worrying if Mom is upset. I wish Jane would grow up. She’s such a pathetic Goody Two-Shoes with Mom. Skulking off together for girl talk. What a kiss-ass brownnoser.”

“Sibling rivalry sucks,” I said.

“The police don’t want to hear from me,” he continued, forgetting the train of conversation. “I want you to help me. I know about you and your grandmother, how she knows things.”

“That’s my grandmother. She knows things. I don’t know anything.”

“That’s not what she said. Besides, I’ve been watching you. I can tell how smart you are. You’re going to help me or else.”

Another “or else.” My stomach rolled, and I belched.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t focus on anything else,” he said, turning the car sharply as the road curved around the mountain. “I think my father was murdered, Gladie. I knew my family was a bunch of crazies who didn’t give a damn about each other, but I’ve learned something that has blown my mind. Totally off the charts. I found this in the back of my dad’s sock drawer.”

Peter turned on the interior light, leaned across me, and opened the glove compartment without slowing the car down. He pulled out a press clipping and handed it to me. It was an article about the Randy Terns’ bank robbery. There was nothing written there I didn’t know, but what struck me was the photo: Randy Terns in police custody, dressed like a tree, his face painted green and four branches stuck to his body with tape. The reality was funnier than what my imagination had conjured. My shoulders heaved as I held back a wave of giggles.

“Did you read the last paragraph?” Peter asked. “It says he was a person of interest in a previous robbery.”

I knew about the previous robbery, and I knew Randy had hidden money and was blackmailed by his gang members, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to complicate matters. I wanted to get this over with as
soon as possible. I hoped that Peter would get talked out and drive me home.

“You know what I am, Gladie?” he asked. The question was so loaded, I didn’t know what to say.

“No, what, Peter?”

“I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Been that for long, or is that a second profession for you?” Like hit man. Or serial killer. Or kidnapper. He seemed to have a talent for kidnapping.

“Let’s just say I’ve always been an enterprising sort of guy,” he said. Talking about himself relaxed Peter. His driving slowed, and he adjusted his position in his seat.

“I imagine,” I said.

He slipped his arm around the back of my seat.

“Are you trying to flirt with me, Gladie?” That stumped me. His voice was low, husky, and wholly unappealing.

“I’m too hungry to flirt,” I said, even though I was still digesting the Reuben sandwich.

“I would stop somewhere to get you something to eat, but I’m really pressed for time.”

With that bit of information, he stopped the car. We had arrived at a large open area, riddled with old, abandoned mining equipment and metal barrels. The only illumination came from the car and the stars.

“Get out,” Peter ordered.