Time and Trouble (43 page)

“
It
’
s horrible that everything special about a human being can be killed that quickly. That finally,
”
Billie whispered.
“
We
’
re designed badly, aren
’
t we? We
’
d take a machine back to the store if it were that fragile.
”
Then she looked at Emma as if seeing her clearly for the first time in a long while.
“
I
’
m sorry. I sound like a fool. Unprofessional. No detachment. I
’
m sorry.
”

Emma felt her hand muscles contract, willed her palm and fingers to stay in place, to not go crazy and overdo it, for Christ
’
s sake, but she was overruled and once again she softly patted Billie
’
s hand.
“
Don
’
t be sorry,
”
she said. There were probably other touchy-feely words a goddamned role model might say, but enough was enough.

“
I had changed my mind, but maybe we should make that other stop, after all. Lighten up. Remember that life goes on.
”
Not that Miriam was precisely comic relief, or even Emma
’
s definition of
“
life.
”
She was another variation of the theme of loss, another tragedy, but this one orchestrated by nature, whose cruelties were not considered criminal outrages. Not even considered aberrations, more was the pity. To Emma, violent death had come to seem less frightening than the nonviolent, piece-by-piece variety.

Billie
’
s smile was tremulous.
“
The case of the bloody trash can?
”

“
Unless
—
It is later than we
’
d expected. Did you have plans?
”

“
Jesse
’
s asleep by now, so no, I don
’
t.
”
Billie looked out the windshield again.
“
It
’
s frustrating to watch this and do nothing. I know there
’
s nothing to do
—
the police are in charge. They
’
ll notify, and clean up messy ends and look for the person with the baseball bat or tree limb or whatever it was.
”

“
And PIs are not allowed to be involved in an active, ongoing homicide investigation,
”
Emma said.
“
Except in the movies and on TV.
”

Billie nodded.
“
I read the book you gave me.
”

“
I told them about Yvonne,
”
Emma said.
“
The phone calls. The woman who hung up. The man he talked to.
”

Billie nodded again, but this time, with reluctance, as if begrudging the words she was about to say.
“
I hate to say this, but I was thinking about Penny Redmond, too. It could have been
…
He came out here alone. If she was with him, but they were having problems
…
Of course, we don
’
t know if she was
ever
with him. If he was the guy driving the car when she left. Or somebody who borrowed it that day.
”

“
I mentioned Penny as well. The situation. Had to explain why we knew about the dead boy, little as it is we know.
”

“
Maybe it was somebody else altogether, somebody who had nothing to do with his romantic life, or Penny
’
s running away. That other message. And even Arthur Redmond. He
’
s such an angry man, if he knew who the boy who took Penny away was
…
But of course, he didn
’
t. Neither did I. I didn
’
t know Stephen. I have nothing to offer.
”

She was getting a taste of the futility. The
“
What
’
s the point?
”
would gnaw at her, but not for a while yet.
“
What the hell,
”
Emma said.
“
Let
’
s go solve a mystery.
”

*

Miriam lived on the flats of Mill Valley, or at least on the semi-rounded, on the gentle slopes approaching Mount Tam; and unlike her neighbors farther up the road who often as not were cantilevered, half-perched on stilts that clutched the steep mountainside, she had a level yard edged by what appeared to be a wall of ivy. Even in the dark, the love expended on the plot of ground was obvious as she toured her visitors through her garden en route to the
“
scene of the crime.
”

Miriam waved toward the vertical ivy.
“
I would show you where I saw the blood next door, but we
’
ll have to go around because of that thing. I hate it, hate having a fence. I try to cover it with vines, but it still looms like a prison wall. But at least the deer can
’
t get in, and I can have my roses. They just love roses. And this
…
It
’
s a
…
this
…
this, um
…
thing? Before the fence, I thought it was a bush because it never had the chance to grow!
”

Miriam was diminutive and dimpled. Her dark eyes were lively, although now and then, as when she
’
d tried to remember the word
“
tree,
”
her conversation halted and her eyes turned puzzled and worried. Two seconds later, they were again as bright and intense as ever. Emma listened to Miriam intently explain each bit of flora. She wanted to punish
—
or hide from
—
nature whenever she saw Miriam, which is why she tried to avoid seeing her. Coming here had been a decision to be brave, which was easier with somebody else

Emma
’
s own yard was an unkempt mess, and had been forever. Back when she had small children and toys littering ground hard-packed from ball games and the pressure of sand boxes, she
’
d incorrectly believed she
’
d become a gardener someday. Back then and through till now, her only garden knowledge was to warn her children not to go near the shiny green-and-scarlet poison oak and not to eat the blossoming pink-and-white oleanders, a deadly plant even the deer didn
’
t touch. Emma
’
s total botanical knowledge.

Her children had made it to adulthood, which meant they were at least as smart and self-protective as the dim-witted deer.

Miriam waved her flashlight to a new spot, passing over without comment a bulky green trash can on wheels.
“
See this flower?
”
she asked, the beam revealing blue petals, closed against the night.
“
One of my favorites, a
…
It
’
s a
…
oh
…”

Miriam had been trained as a botanist, that was who she was under all the layers of roles: housewife, mother, and widow. It was unbearable watching her core shred like worn silk.

We don
’
t get to keep a thing, Emma thought. And if we do, we surely don
’
t get to choose what it should be.
“
Is that the trash can?
”
She pointed in the direction of the enormous green plastic tub she
’
d seen.

“
What? Oh, no.
”
Miriam chuckled, as if the idea were laughable.
“
That
’
s for prunings and clippings, for the green collection. They compost the stuff. So do I, but not the bigger limbs.
”

“
Then where is your trashcan, Mir?
”

“
Where it should be. Outside the fence, in the enclosure dear Charlie built us. Why?
”

Emma smiled to hide the fear Miriam
’
s degeneration caused her.
“
You asked me
—”

“
I
’
m glad you reminded me because tomorrow
’
s trash day and I would have forgotten. I have to clean the cat
’
s box.
”

“
Maybe we should take a look at it,
”
Emma said.

“
The cat box? Why on earth?
”

Emma wished she could shake her, rattle things back into place.
“
The trash can,
”
she said gently.
“
The one you called me about.
”

Miriam nodded. The flat dark look fluttered over her face, a split second of acknowledgment and mourning.
“
Yes. Good. Although I
’
ve washed it down, of course.
”

“
Of course,
”
Emma said.

“
It would have smelled. Attracted rodents.
”

“
Lovely garden, and thanks for showing it to us,
”
Billie said.

She
’
d been silent except for politenesses since they arrived. She hadn
’
t yet let go of the scene on the mountain, Emma realized. But some instinct pulled Billie back when etiquette was required. She wore white gloves in her soul and probably sent thank-you notes to everyone she interviewed.

Emma remembered that she wasn
’
t going to think those stupidly resentful thoughts anymore. Except, of course, when she forgot to remember.

The trash can sat inside its latticed enclosure, the doors of which were slightly open.
“
I leave them that way. It
’
s easier for the trash men,
”
Miriam explained.
“
They work so hard, poor dears. Besides, Charlie was a craftsman, do you see? I don
’
t want them bumping his woodworking here.
”

“
Anything unusual in it this time?
”
Emma asked her old friend.

“
I didn
’
t look. I took out the trash an hour or so ago, and it was already dark. It was in the morning that I saw the blood that time.
”
She looked near tears.
“
Do you think I
’
m a cracked old lady?
”

“
Of course not,
”
Emma said.
“
Why would we both be here otherwise? I might visit, but my associate wouldn
’
t. We
’
re here investigating for you, dear.
”

“
Because you see, all I could think was what if something horrible is going on and nobody makes a fuss?
”

“
Of course.
”
Emma felt as if she might drown under a tsunami of exhaustion. Coming here had not been the best of ideas this particular evening. She was too tired to be tolerant of what was happening to Miriam. Too tired to check whether it was gaining on her as well.

“
Jeffrey Dahmer
’
s neighbors didn
’
t do anything,
”
Miriam went on.
“
And look what happened there! All those dead boys!
”

“
You
’
re right.
”
Each word was an effort. She couldn
’
t remember being this tired before in her entire life. She put her hand on the lid, for what reason, she couldn
’
t have said. There was nothing there, if there ever had been, but this looked as if she cared, as if she were behaving professionally. Or as if she were performing a faith healing for a trash can. Emma lifted the lid.

Miriam
’
s attention wandered, and she waved to a man in a gray sweatsuit at the end of the street.
“
My neighbor,
”
she said.
“
Man never sits still.
”

“
Is he hiking now with that backpack? It
’
s dark.
”
Emma inspected the underside of the trash-can lid. Nothing.

“
A perpetual-motion machine,
”
Miriam said.
“
He hikes and bikes and runs or swims laps in his pool
—
well, swims in summer
—
or goes camping, and his wife
’
s just as bad. Exhausts me to watch, and makes me angry, too. They don
’
t use a single one of those muscles on their garden, which is a disgrace. I don
’
t know why people like that want a house. They
’
re never in it, except to watch TV too loudly, and they don
’
t care about it.
”

“
Want to flash that light this way?
”
Emma asked Miriam, who obliged.

Nothing except two bags of trash, one in paper and the other in a tied-shut white plastic bag with a Safeway logo, the sort the market used for potentially leaky or sweaty goods. Miriam disapproved
of all excess packaging. She carried string bags to the market and used them as much as possible.

“
If I
’
m stuck with plastic things,
”
Miriam once had said,
“
I use them for the cat
’
s poop. Can
’
t put poop in the compost, you know.
”
That part of Miriam was still intact. She always had the least-used trash can Emma had ever seen, and discussed it, because it galled her to have to pay the same collection fee as
“
the trashmakers,
”
she called them. She was as hyperclean about her natural environment as she was about her garden and her dwelling. Recycling, buying without excess wrappers
—
the proof was in the can. Emma had done her share of pawing through people
’
s trash, looking for receipts, bills, and bank statements. Had she needed to investigate Miriam, she
’
d have come up with zilch. Miriam used the backs of mail for memo paper. She reused aluminum foil, used the curbside recycling for cans and bottles and newspapers. She used fabric napkins and towels, and composted all vegetable matter the city didn
’
t collect in the green cans. The obsession with world-cleanliness was so ingrained, it was going to take a very long time for the forces erasing her mind to reach that portion.