Time and Trouble (31 page)

“
He
’
s mine,
”
Yvonne said, her voice a cat
’
s, if cats could speak.
“
He s mine.
”

Billie felt dumbfounded, but that wouldn
’
t do any good. She thought of Emma, tried to be Emma, to bulk up, add years and solidity.
“
Go away,
”
she said in a low but steady voice.
“
I
’
m talking forever. I
’
m taking out a restraining order against you, you understand?
”
She had no idea if such small provocation would get her one, but maybe Yvonne didn
’
t know, either.
“
If you show your face in this neighborhood again, if you ever once come close to my house, to my child, my baby-sitter
—
you will be arrested. Do you understand?
”

Yvonne burst into tears.
“
But I love him! He
’
s mine! It was his parents
—
they put a wedge between us, they poisoned his mind. I can make him understand. Give me the chance, a few minutes. You don
’
t need him
—
you
’
ve got that one.
”
She waved at the house.
“
I can
’
t live without him. He has to see that, has to understand.
”

Or? This kind of sick passion, possessiveness, was too often a preface to a headline-making event. All the
“
If I can
’
t have you nobody can
”
murders. Because, of course, they love the corpse so much.

And then Yvonne changed tacks, anger replacing desperation.
“
He owes me,
”
she said.
“
Owes me big, and he
’
d better pay up. I never finished college because of him. Palimony. A lawyer said I had a case. He can
’
t go spending his money on somebody like you. He owes me!
”

“
He isn
’
t here,
”
Billie said.
“
I
’
ve never met him. I
’
m looking for him because maybe he knows what became of a runaway. I haven
’
t found him, either. I don
’
t have an address or a phone number or anything. Go away.
”

“
He
’
ll ruin you, the way he ruined me. It
’
s all a game with him, like his imaginary world thing, his
Society
people
—
that
’
s all he cares about.
”
Her hand
’
s gesture seemed to brush away the imaginary thing.
“
Not any kind of society people I ever heard of.
‘
Creative,
’
they called themselves. Their name.
‘
Creative
…’”
She shrugged.
“
Some shit. Can
’
t remember what they were creative at.
“
Creative Assassins. Right. A lot of crap about lords and ladies in the meadow. Hell, get a grip, look around
—
this look like a castle? The fake names
—
like he
’
s suddenly, really, Lucan the Steward. Like he
’
s tight with King Arthur.
”

Lucan. The Steward. Luke Stewart. Billie felt a schizy split of rage and terror at her intruder, and excitement about seeing the hunt more clearly.
“
I don
’
t know him, never met him, and you
’
d better get out of here and stay away from us.
”

Yvonne made Billie think of a vibrating wire. Even stock-still, waves of energy, tension, and near hysteria jostled the air around her.
“
I
’
ll get out,
”
she finally said in a growl.
“
But don
’
t think it
’
s over. I
’
m not through with this. Never will be. True love is forever. I won
’
t be through with Stephen until one or both of us are in our graves.
”

Billie watched the madwoman make her way to and then into her car, a dark hatchback that looked victimized by inattention.
You will stay away. You will never again frighten my son. You will
…

She reentered her home, slamming the door, the image and fear that persisted behind her.
“
How about I read you a story before I have to head back out?
”
she asked Jesse.

He beamed and nodded. As long as the people in his personal drama, even the reduced cast he
’
d been scripted, stuck to their assigned roles, stayed in character
—
even if he knew they were only acting
—
all was right with his world.

They were the opposite of estranged. They were intertwined pieces of the whole
—
as long as she played her role, that of protector. Jesse was simply too young and trusting to comprehend that she had led the snake home to Eden. She was glad her son didn
’
t hear the hint of a tremor in her voice as she began, for the hundredth time, his current favorite,
The Velveteen Rabbit,
the story of the toy who loved his boy, who was saved from disaster on the discard pile. The story of Jesse, who, she feared, remembered being taken and not returned.

She had to make sure and keep his story the same as the rabbit
’
s, complete with happy ending. And the happy endings had to happen every day, with every new installment.

She refused to allow her voice to shake. Instead, playing for the second balcony, she read:
“
There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid.
…”

Nineteen

Number twenty-seven, she had said. Brown-
shingled. Second or third on the left. She was paranoid, made everything more difficult than it had to be, insisting that he park where she couldn
’
t be seen, around the corner.

What was it about him that attracted normal-seeming girls who then went bonkers? Yvonne hadn
’
t seemed crazy at the start
—
would he have lived with someone who did? He found girls with the seeds of craziness, but what did he do to make that seed bloom and grow to blue-ribbon size?

He pressed the doorbell of number twenty-seven, waited, then repeated the process.

Maybe they were around back. There were obviously children, if Penny sat for them. Maybe there was more of a play area behind the house, because out front, there was almost none. He walked up the narrow cement drive that led to a shingled single-car garage, and saw a plot of mostly dirt behind the house. A wooden climbing gizmo, two beach chairs, and a sandbox with a rain-filled cover over it. No Mrs. DeLuca, no DeLuca kids.

And whatever energy had driven him from his home this morning to Sausalito, to here, was suddenly and completely dissipated. What the hell was he doing? And why? Who cared? He
’
d been so furious with her
—
still was
—
that he was proving a meaningless point by hammering it into the ground.

Probably all he wanted was to be important, be the guy whose wits had broken an old, unsolved case. Maybe his ego was just that pathetic. He wandered back toward the street. The hell with it. They
’
d go home to San Geronimo and make a plan
—
not about the stupid pendant, but about her future. Which had to take place away from him.

“
Thanks again for accepting that package,
”
a light voice said as he emerged from between the houses.
“
They insist on delivering them the one hour I have to
—”

“
Hey!
”
a male voice said.
“
What are you
—
?
”
Stephen looked over to where a middle-aged woman stood holding open the front door of her house for a guy in a maroon sweatshirt. The guy who was shouting at Stephen, coming his way, double-time.
“
You looking for somebody?
”
He
’
d seen too many Clint Eastwood movies, acting like Stephen was here to blow up the neighborhood.

“
I
’
m looking for Mrs. DeLuca,
”
Stephen managed.

“
She
’
s not there.
”

“
Yeah, I
…
I thought maybe she was out back.
”

“
No.
”

“
Okay,
”
Stephen said.
“
I
’
ll try some other
—”

“
What about?
”
the man asked.

“
About?
”

“
What do you want to see her about?
”

“
Nothing important. A question.
”

“
You selling something?
”

Stephen shook his head again and backed off a step. A lunatic vigilante with nothing to guard against. But he had only himself to blame. He should have dropped the issue way sooner. He attempted a half-nod, the sort of thing that signaled leave-taking when there was no relationship whatsoever.

The man looked at the shingled house, then at Stephen.
“
You want to leave a message? Your name? What this is about?
”

Stephen shook his head.
“
Thanks, but no.
”
He repeated his sociable, impersonal half-nod and walked by the man, toward the corner.

And realized the man had gone inside the shingled house. He lived there. That
’
s why he was so worried to see Stephen prowl around it. He lived there, so he must know Penny. He
’
d go back
—
he was here, after all. Anyway, he wanted to establish that he wasn
’
t some kind of neighborhood creep.

The man in the maroon sweatshirt answered the bell and looked annoyed by the sight of him.
“
Kids are napping,
”
he said, interrupting Stephen
’
s attempt to introduce himself.
“
Could you keep it down?
”

“
Yessir. Just wanted to say sorry if I worried you. I didn
’
t realize this was your house. I
’
m here on behalf of Penny Redmond. You know her, right? I believe she baby-sat for your wife.
”

“
Is Penny okay? Do you know where she is?
”

Jesus. Why was the guy so eager? How did he even know she was gone? It had only been a few days.
“
This is actually about a gold heart she found. Apparently, your wife has, or had, one that looked like it.
”

“
And? I don
’
t get this yet, and I
’
m more concerned about where Penny is.
”

Stephen was getting a really bad feeling from this, like DeLuca and Penny
…
Maybe he was one of her many secrets.

“
And how does she know my wife, let alone my wife
’
s jewelry collection?
”

“
Penny? Because she sat for
—”

“
Me.
Penny sat for me when I was on deadline. I
’
m a writer.
”

He said it belligerently, as if Stephen had asked him what he was doing home in the middle of the day. Maybe too many people did.

Mr. DeLuca checked that the door was unlocked, closed it behind him and stood warily on the top step, arms folded over his chest.

Stephen tried to speak softly and clearly and to make his point, even though he could barely remember it.
“
Look, Mr. DeLuca, if I
—
Could I maybe just show it to you and you can tell me if she had or has something like it? See, Penny says the design is really common, that lots of girls had them. That
’
s all we
’
re trying to establish here.
”

“
Man, you
’
re not making sense. It
’
s not like Penny to get worked-up about whether something
’
s too common or not. What have you done to her? And you forgot to say your name, too.
”

“
Stephen Tassio.
”
He should have said
Mr.
Tassio to the asshole. He held out the pendant and chain.
“
Is this familiar-looking?
”

DeLuca seemed ready to fit a butterfly net to Stephen
’
s head.

“
She found it in a field in West Marin. Near where they found those bodies. I say she should take it to the police, that maybe it
’
s important. She says it
’
s so ordinary it can
’
t mean anything. That
’
s all I
’
m trying to find out. She says your wife had one like it. Either your wife showed hers to Penny or told her about it. So did somebody else she sat for. If that
’
s so, then probably she
’
s right and I should get off her case. And I don
’
t want to be like a jerk with the police, if every girl really had one
…”

DeLuca looked at Penny
’
s trinket, then at Stephen.
“
I have no idea. You could have taken it out of Betty
’
s jewelry box this morning and I still wouldn
’
t know, except she wouldn
’
t wear it now. It
’
s not power dressing. But she wasn
’
t as conservative when we were undergrads.
”
He shrugged and looked at it again.
“
And she wasn
’
t in a sorority, either. Against her principals to join anything back then. So maybe. Times and taste in jewelry change, so she probably had one if she said so. Although when Penny would have met Betty
…”
There was something creepy about the guy. Why shouldn
’
t Penny know his wife? Was she buried in the cellar? Or was Penny
his,
as if he owned her?