Injustice for All (6 page)

“Will they cancel the workshop?”

She smiled mirthlessly. “Not even Trixie Bowdeen has nerve enough to go through with it after what happened to Sig.”

“Who’s she?”

“Chairman of the parole board.”

“You don’t like her much, do you.”

“No,” she responded.

With my hair combed and a splash of after-shave on my face, I surveyed the roll-away with an eye to making it look more like someone had slept in it and less as though a heavyweight wrestling match had occurred. I gathered up the sheets and blankets and started to put it to rights. “Beau?”

Busy with the bed, I didn’t look up when she spoke. “What?” “Do you think badly of me?”

I abandoned the roll-away. “Think badly of you! Are you kidding? Why should 1?”

“Because of last night. I didn’t mean to c I-” In two steps I stood beside her.

“Look, lady,” I said gruffly, placing my hand on her shoulder and giving her a gentle shake. “It’s the blind leading the blind. I was worried about how you’d feel this morning, afraid you’d be embarrassed, think I’d taken advantage. “

She reached out and took my hand. She kissed the back of it, then turned it over and moved it from her hairline to her chin, guiding my fingers in a slow caress along the curve of her cheek.

“I’m not embarrassed,” she said softly. “Greedy, but not embarrassed. ” She allowed my hand to stray down her neck and invade the soft folds of her robe. She was wearing nothing underneath.

Her robe fell open before me. Our coupling the night before had been in pitch-blackness.

Now my eyes feasted hungrily on her body. She was no lithe virgin. Hers was the gentle voluptuousness of a grown woman, with a hint of fullness of breast and hip that follows childbearing. A pale web of stretch marks lingered in mute testimony.

My hand cupped her breast. It changed subtly but perceptibly. The nipple drew erect, the soft flesh taut and warm beneath my fingers. She caught my chin in her hand and turned my face to hers until our lips met. “Please, Beau,” she whispered, her mouth against mine. I shed my clothes on the spot while she lay naked before me, tempting as a pagan sacrifice offered to me alone. My fingers and tongue searched her body, exploring her, demanding admittance. She gave herself freely, opening before me, denying me nothing. She took all I had to give and more, her body arching to meet my every move. A final frenzy left her trembling against my shoulder, my face buried in her hair. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” she said, when she could talk. “What wasn’t an accident?”

“Last night.”

“I don’t understand.’.” I was mystified.

“While you showered, I was wondering if last night was an accident or if it could have been that way all along.”

I raised up on one elbow to look at her. Her face was serious, contemplative.

Understanding dawned slowly. No one had ever before made love to her like that. Dan-ell Watkins had never tapped the wellspring of woman in her-not in eighteen years of marriage. I kissed her tenderly. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“The bastard!” she said fiercely. “The first-class bastard! I’ll take him to the cleaners.”

I had unwittingly unleashed Hurricane Ginger into the world. “Maybe he doesn’t know any better.” I inadvertently defended him, and she gave me a shove that sent me sprawling from the bed onto the floor. “He’s been giving it away to everyone else. By God, it’s going to cost him.” Angry tears appeared on her cheeks.

The phone rang on the other side of the bed. I scrambled to reach it. “This is the desk. Can I come get that roll-away now? I’m almost ready to leave.”

I cleared my throat. “Sure. Anytime. The bed’s all ready to go.” I spoke casually, all the while motioning frantically to Ginger. She hopped out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom.

“By the way,” I continued, stalling for time, “before you come, would you ask the dining room to have my usual table set for two? We’ll be down for breakfast in a few minutes. I don’t want to wait in a crush of reporters.” “No problem,” Fred replied.

I rushed back into my clothes and made the room as presentable as possible. I went so far as to beat an indentation in the pillow on the roll-away. I also did my best to straighten one side of the king-size bed. Ginger’s transformation was speedy.

Dressed, brushed, and wearing a subtle cologne, she emerged from the bathroom well before the clerk arrived. She may have worn some makeup other than a dash of pale lipstick, but I couldn’t tell for sure. She looked refreshed and beautiful. Smiling, she surveyed my clumsy efforts to conceal our activities. Walking to the far side of the bed, she expertly straightened the bedding. “Whose reputation are you trying to protect?” she asked. “All of the above,” I told her.

“I see.”

The desk clerk knocked. We managed to fold up the roll-away contraption and move it out of the room.

“Hungry?” I asked after Fred was gone.

“Famished,” she replied.

“Let’s go do it, then,” I told her. We walked through a quiet Rosario morning. The only noise was an occasional squawking gull. No one else from her group seemed to be up, although several of the dining room tables were occupied. The hostess led us directly to my preferred table, one by the window overlooking Rosario Strait.

“Morning, folks,” said the same cheery waiter who had sewed us the night before.

“What can I get you?”

“The works,” I told him. “Eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, juice, coffee.”

He looked questioningly at Ginger. “I’ll have the same,” she said with a smile.

My water glass had a narrow sliver of lemon in it. I speared the lemon with my fork, then offered it to Ginger across the table. Puzzled, she sat holding it.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

“To wipe that silly grin off your face,” I replied. “People might get suspicious.”

She laughed outright, but soon a cloud passed over her face. “I believe,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to understand what Sig meant.” Outside our window the sky directly overhead was blue. As we watched, a thick bank of fog marched toward us, rolling across the water, obscuring the strait beyond the resort’s sheltered bay. We were well into breakfast when, over Ginger’s shoulder, I saw an obese but well-groomed woman pause at the dining room entrance, survey the room, then make her way toward us like a frigate under full sail. She wore a heavy layer of makeup.

Her fingers were laden with a full contingent of ornate rings. A thick cloud of perfume preceded her. “Ginger.” Her voice had a sharp, schoolmarmish tone. Ginger started instinctively, then composed herself.

“Good morning, Trixie.”

The woman stopped next to our table and appraised me disapprovingly. “I went by your room several times last night and this morning, but you weren’t there.” She paused as if waiting for Ginger to offer some kind of explanation. None was forthcoming.

“Trixie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, J. P. Beaumont. Beau, this is Trixie Bowdeen, chairman of the parole board.”

“Glad to meet you,” I said.

Trixie ignored me. “Have you gotten word that the meeting’s canceled?” she asked coldly.

Ginger countered with some ice of her own. “I think that’s only appropriate. “

Trixie forged on. “We’re all leaving this morning. Do you need a ride back to Seattle?”

“No, thanks. I can manage.’,’

“All right.” Trixie turned her ponderous bulk and started away. Then she stopped and returned to our table. “Under the circumstances, it’s probably best if you don’t go to Sig’s funeral. “

All color seeped from Ginger’s cheeks, but she allowed herself no other visible reaction to Trixie’s words. “Why not?” Ginger asked. Her question seemed to take Trixie aback.

“Well, considering c ” Trixie retreated under Ginger’s withering gaze, turned, and in a rustle of skirt and nylons; left the room.

Ginger carefully placed her fork on her plate and pushed it away. “Can we go?”

I took one look at her face and knew I’d better get her out of there fast. Trixie Bowdeen had just layered on the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Chapter 9

THE fastest way out of the building was down the back stairs and out past the long, narrow, bowling-alley-shaped indoor pool. By the time we reached the terrace outside, Ginger’s sob burst to the surface. She rushed to the guardrail and stood leaning over it, her shoulders heaving, while I stood helplessly to one side with my hands jammed deep in my pockets so I wouldn’t reach out to hold her.

I’ve never seen fog anywhere that quite compares to Orcas Island fog. One moment we stood in the open; the next we were alone in a private world. As the fog swept in, Ginger faded to a shadow. I moved toward her, grasping her hand as the building disappeared behind us. She was still crying, the sound strangely muffled in the uncanny silence. Pulling her to me, I rocked her against my chest until she quieted. I continued to hold her, but I also glanced over my shoulder to verify we were still invisible to the dining room windows. She drew a ragged breath.

“Are you all right now?”

She nodded. “I am. Really.”

“That was an ugly thing for her to do.”

“Trixie enjoyed passing along Mona’s message.” There was a shift in Ginger’s voice, a strengthening of resolve. “I’ve got to resign. Without Sig, I can’t stand up to those people. They’re all cut from the same cloth.”

Ginger broke away from me and moved along the terrace, running her hand disconsolately along the guardrail. I trailed behind her, at a loss for words, wondering what made her think Trixie had served as Mona’s emissary. “The fog feels like velvet,” Ginger commented. “I wish I could hide in it forever and never come out.”

“That’s not the answer.”

“Isn’t it? When you’re drunk you don’t feel the hurt.”

“What are you going to do?” Her remark had sounded like a threat to start drinking.

If she was truly a recovering alcoholic. a drink was the last thing she needed.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’ll go to a meeting. There’s one in Eastsound tonight.”

“What meeting?”

“An A.A. meeting. Whenever Sig and I were on the road, we went to meetings together.

We planned to go to this one tonight. I don’t remember where it is.”

“Can I come?”

Ginger stopped and faced me, looking deep into my eyes before she shook her head.

“It’s a closed meeting, Beau, not an open one where everyone is welcome. I’ll go by myself. If I’m not going to Sig’s funeral, it’ll be my private remembrance for him. “

She made the statement with absolute conviction. I couldn’t help but respect her desire to have a private farewell for the man who had pulled her from the mire. We didn’t discuss it again. The subject was closed. The fog lifted as quickly as it had come. I moved discreetly away from her. “You’re one hell of a woman, Ginger Watkins, I’ll say that for you.” She gave me a halfhearted smile and started toward the building.

“Are you sure you want to go in there? There’s probably a 47

whole armload of reporters having breakfast by now. The murder of a public official is big news.”

She stopped, considering my words. “Reporters? In there?” She nodded toward the dining room overhead.

“The desk clerk told me last night that some of them stayed over. I know for a fact Maxwell Cole did.”

“He was that funny-looking fat man you were talking to in the lobby when I came back from being fingerprinted? The one who was supposed to meet Don Wilson?”

“One and the same.”

“Who does he work for?”

“The P. Z He writes a crime column.”

She paused thoughtfully. “Is that all he’s interested in? Crime?” I couldn’t see where the discussion was going. “Why are you asking?” She grinned impishly. “I told you I’d get Darrell, starting now. I’ll file on Monday, but it’ll hit the papers Sunday morning. The only reason they want me to reconsider is to keep it quiet until after election day. Believe me, Darrell doesn’t want me back. Now, where do I find what’s-his-name?”

:’Max? Probably under a rock somewhere.”

“I mean it, Beau. I want to talk to him.’ Hell hath no fury, and all that jazz. I figured Darrell Watkins

deserved just about anything Ginger could dish out: “Go on into the Moran Room and wait by the fireplace. I’ll see if I can find him and send him there. I’m also going to have your things moved to another room for tonight, if you’re going to stay over.”

“Why? Can’t I stay with you?”

I shook my head. “Discretion is the better part of valor, my dear. You can sleep wherever you damn well please, but you’d better have a separate room with your clothes in it or you’ll get us both in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Oh,” she said. “I guess I should’ve thought of that.”

Maxwell Cole was eating breakfast. Talking to him was tough because all I could see was the blob of egg yolk that dangled from one curl of his handlebar mustache. “Ginger Watkins wants to talk to you,” I said. His eyes bulged. “No shit? Where is she?”

“In the Moran Room, just off the lobby, waiting.”

Cole lurched to his feet, signaling for the waiter to bring his check. “Hey thanks, J. P. I can’t thank you enough.”

Max persists in calling me by my initials. My real name is Jonas Piedmont Beaumont.

Mother named me after her father and grandfather as a conciliatory gesture after my father died in a motorcycle crash before he and Mother had a chance to tie the knot. It didn’t work. Her family never lifted a finger to help us. She raised me totally on her own. They never forgave her, and I’ve never forgiven them. It’s a two-way street. I shortened my name to initials in high school. In college people started calling me Beau. Except for Max. He picked my initials off a registration form, and he’s used them ever since, mostly because he knows it bugs me. “How about if you drop the ‘J. P.’ crap, Maxey? That would be one way of thanking me.”

With a hangdog expression on his face, Max followed me out of the dining room to the crackling fireplace in the Moran Room. Afterwards I stopped at the desk to reserve a new room for Ginger. Just as I finished, someone walked up behind me and clapped me on the shoulder. It was Peters. I shook his hand. “Huggins got ahold of you, then?”