When Secrets Die (5 page)

“See you at the courthouse tomorrow.”

I waved at Emma's daughter, who waved back but did not smile, and heard her say “Who
is
that, and why is she taking your car?” as soon as Emma was on the porch. I backed out of the driveway without looking back, feeling that
you-are-in-so-much-trouble
sensation I hadn't had since I was a teenager myself.

I put the top down at the first stoplight, even though it was cold, and turned the heat on full blast to keep warm. I caught two teenage boys looking at me from the front seat of a Camaro.

“Nice car,” they said, heads bobbing to the thrum of music.

I smiled. And hit the accelerator as soon as the light turned green, leaving them two car lengths behind. I have always loved a powerful engine.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

In the best of all possible worlds Joel would be just walking up the sidewalk to the front door when I pulled into our narrow driveway (paved, to Emma Marsden's gravel, but who's keeping score?). He wasn't. Second best, he would have been sitting in his favorite chair in the living room and getting up to glance out the window. But no, he wasn't home. He'd
been
home, though, because somebody had turned out all the lights I'd left on when I headed out late that afternoon. It's a fate thing—light-leaver-oners always do seem to mate up with light-turner-off-ers.

I hate coming home to a dark house.

My cat was right at the door when I came in. The days when I would have had to snatch him up by the tail as he raced outside to a world forbidden to indoor cats are long gone. John Maynard Kitty is about as old as the economist he was named after.

He nudged his head at my calf, and croaked. His mews deepened into croaks about three years ago. I picked him up, gently with old bones, and turned on the foyer light. He blinked and dug his claws ever so delicately into my shoulders. He did not like being left in the dark.

I turned on the lamps in the living room. The maid service had come, not Joel. They had turned off all the lights, not even leaving on the smallest lamp for my kitty. And they'd rearranged the furniture in the living room again, which pissed me off. I did not like cleaning
crews
. I much preferred the lone cleaning professional who likes to be paid in cash, takes longer to do the work but does a better job, and who doesn't wear a uniform. But Joel is in charge of the cleaning service, and we have other things to argue about. If it was left up to me, we wouldn't have one. Of course, if it was left up to me, we wouldn't clean.

I don't mind a clean house, if only people would
let my stuff alone
.

I moved the furniture back where I wanted it, because, yes, I had actually put it that way for a reason, and picked Maynard up and carried him into the kitchen. He can walk, of course, but these days he prefers being carried, so long as it is me who is doing the carrying.

I poured dry kibble in a bowl and mixed it with real tuna fish—StarKist, white tuna, packed in oil. Maynard has started losing weight, and it worries me. The vet says his teeth are okay, but he really scarfs down the tuna and I am trying to fatten him up. I am waiting on the result of blood work to see if he has a thyroid problem. He has lost way too much weight, especially since he eats a lot of junk food, courtesy of me, and should therefore be pudgy. Maynard and I have long been crazy about potato chips (salt and vinegar my favorite, sour cream and onion his). The vet visit turned into a senior wellness checkup, long overdue I guess, but the bill came to two hundred and thirty-five dollars. Which would not have been a problem if I had gone to work for Clayton Roubideaux, instead of Emma.

On the other hand, that
was
a BMW in my driveway.

I had a new CD of Brazilian music, which I put in the player. I felt so good that I started up the gas grill outside, and headed for the laundry alcove off the kitchen. The hamper was overflowing. And, if left to Joel, it would take days to get it done. One thing you can say about me is that I am efficient. Whereas Joel would sort the laundry into seventy-three little piles that were not even allowed to touch each other, much less be washed together, I just washed everything in cold water. I opened the top of the washing machine, stuffed in a full load, and set the dials. What took Joel at least eight to ten loads, I could do in three. Sometimes two, if there weren't a lot of towels. Was Joel ever going to be surprised.

He was late—around eight-thirty, and he hadn't bothered to call, which he usually did, but I wasn't mad. We both have those kinds of jobs. Cops don't work regular hours, and neither do private investigators. And Joel, moving up in the rank of detectives, often worked late to clear the paperwork from his desk. He likes to leave a clean desk before he leaves the office. I find this odd, since it'll just get messed up again the next day, but there is no need to be critical.

Dinner was ready by the time I heard Joel's key in the lock. One load of clothes was in the dryer, the other sloshing through the wash, and I was curled up on the couch smoking one of the cigars I had found in Emma Marsden's glove compartment. I mean,
my
glove compartment. I had planned, when I saw them, to return them to her tomorrow, but later I had gone out and brought them into the house. I thought that Joel and I could have a celebratory smoke after dinner.

He didn't say hello when he came through the door, but I was used to that. Joel isn't overly vocal, and he comes home looking grim until he transits from the world of work to the comforts of home.

“Hey, baby!”

He stood at the edge of the living room, blinking. Well, the lights were bright. I tend to turn all of them on.

He only glanced at me and frowned, and I realized he was looking for the owner of that beautiful car in the driveway. He didn't know he was looking right at her.

“Who's here?”

“Just me.”

“Just you?”

“Me and Maynard Kitty.”

“Then whose car is parked in our driveway?”

“Mine.”

“Lena, there's a BMW sports car in the driveway, are you totally oblivious?”

Actually, he didn't really say “are you totally oblivious,” but clearly he was thinking it.

“I know, I know, it's mine! Ours! You can drive it whenever you want, I'll share it. Isn't it beautiful?”

“You bought a car?”

“Right, with the jingling change right out of my pocket. Or did you think I got a loan? And who in their right mind would loan me money?”

“Is this something where the dealer lets you drive it home to try it out?”

“I don't think they let BMWs off the lot like that.”

“Well, this one is obviously … used.”

“You mean that big son of a bitch dent beside the driver's door? I don't care, Joel. How else am I ever going to afford a car like that?”

He walked over and gave me a kiss, and just looked at me, waiting for an explanation. He looked tired. Not a good day. He is dark, hair and skin tones. Eyes deep brown. He has lost most of that air of world-weariness he used to carry around like the hump on a camel, but there is something sad in his eyes that will never go away.

“It's payment, from my new client.”

“New client? If they can palm you off with a BMW, they can afford to pay you cash.”

“Palm me off? Joel, you make me feel like that character in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,' coming home with magic beans.”

“You mean Jack?”

“I do if he's the one who gets the heat for screwing up.”

“Nobody ever gives you money, Lena. You always come home with magic beans.”

“What's wrong with that, so long as they're magic?”

“It's just not …”

“Sensible? The norm? What, Joel?”

“Practical.”

“Speaking of practical, I cooked. And don't even start to get that look on your face. It's my kitchen too.”

“Is it corn casserole?”

To his credit, his tone was pleasant. But I never cook corn casserole for Joel anymore, he just doesn't appreciate it like me and Maynard. It's an easy dish, creamed corn with potato chips crumbled over the top, baking time a scant twenty minutes.

“Grilled chicken, dirty rice, and peas.”

“Sounds good. I'm starving.”

“We're out of wine. But I do have cigars. Good ones—Portofinos!”

“As always, Lena, you surprise me.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Headlights arced in through the living room blinds, a car in our driveway, sometime around eleven o'clock. Then the doorbell rang, which was awkward since we were naked, entwined on the couch, and smoking those Portofinos.

“Lena, you are so restless. Can't you be still for five minutes?”

“The doorbell rang.”

“Did it? Probably a wrong number.”

“You couldn't hear it over your snoring. See? Your cigar went out.”

I stood up, pulling on my jeans.

“Always bouncing around these days. You used to be so restful, Lena.”

“You mean depressed.”

“I found it attractive.”

I couldn't find my bra or my sweater, so I grabbed Joel's shirt, buttoning it up quickly. Whoever it was, I'd get rid of fast. Weirdly late for someone at the door.

“I'm too tired for bad news,” Joel said.

“Maybe it's a mortgage lender wanting us to refinance. They're getting so aggressive these days.”

I opened the door. The air outside was chilled, the first blast of fall, and a trio of leaves blew in when I opened the storm door to admit my ex-husband and his woman.

“What a wonderful time to drop in,” I said.

“Lena, you didn't look through the peephole.” Rick gave me two kisses on each cheek.

Judith hugged me. “
Sorry
. I know it's late. But Rick insisted.”

Rick waved a hand. “Oh, please, Judith, it's never too late for family.”

“Or never late enough,” I said.

Rick paused. He was still wearing the black sweater and khakis, and a pair of fake eyeglasses. “What does that mean?”

I shrugged. “Don't analyze it, Rick, just accept the insult.”

“Aren't you going to ask us in? Or are you giving Joel time to get his clothes on?” Rick grinned at me and pointed to the shirt, which was buttoned seriously out of sequence, causing obvious bunching along the midsection. He raised his voice. “Are you decent yet, Joel? Are you wearing her shirt since she's got yours?” Rick covered his eyes and wandered into the living room.

“I brought you something,” Judith said. She'd changed clothes. Levi jeans that fit her loosely and a white work shirt. Her work shirts were always white, and always smudgy looking since she worked with metal and oil paint for a living. “Come look, it's in the trunk. We brought your car back, by the way.”

“My Miata? You didn't have to do that.”

“Yes, we did. The neighborhood association has been sending us notices about you leaving it on the front lawn.”

“How picky. It's a commercial area.”

“I know. And I thought it could wait till morning. The truth is Rick saw you drive away in the BMW and then not come back for your car and he was antsy about it.”

“Why didn't he call?”

“He did.”

“Oh. That's right, the phone did ring. I must have been … doing the dishes.”

She just grinned at me, then opened the trunk of her 1968 Caddy convertible. Solid white, red leather interior. “I have a wedding present for you.”

It was a fireplace screen, heavy, the metal intricately worked in baroque curlicues, and it had been painted chalk white. “I'm getting tired of black and I'm painting things. I just put a lavender one in our bedroom. I somehow thought—for your living room—pure white. To offset the red walls.”

It took my breath away. “I love it, Judith. I'm honored.” I gave her a hug.

Judith's metal works were so highly in demand that it would take years for her to fill every order that came her way. Her solution was to work only on what interested her, since she swore that anything else stifled her creative process. People took her to task for that—some of them other artists who wrote articles about her in the newspapers, along the lines of artists have to work in order to eat, or they are being unprofessional. Her usual reply was that it was
her
creative process, so fuck off.

Judith being Judith, the projects she chose would have no relation to what brought in money. Only, since Judith was Judith and one of those magic people, they did bring in money, and a lot of it. She and Rick were rolling these days. It couldn't have happened to a more perfect woman. Too bad it didn't happen to Rick when I was married to him.

She put a hand on my shoulder when I reached in the trunk to pick it up.

“That's man's work, honey. Let's go inside and have a drink. They can figure out how to get it in later. I just wanted you to see it. Sure you like it?” And she grinned. She knew I did.

I followed her through the door. “Wait a minute. Did you say
wedding
present? Because Joel and I—”

“Shhh, don't say that word so loud in front of the men. They'll spook.”

“This isn't one of your psychic things, is it? Or are you just messing with me? Joel and I haven't even talked or even thought or—”

I stopped, because for a minute I thought Joel did have on one of my shirts. But it was his, only smaller.

“What happened to your shirt?” I asked him.

“It was like this when I found it. In the dryer.”

Rick put a hand to his head. “Oh, my Lord Jesus. Don't tell me you let her do laundry?”

Joel looked sadly down at his jeans, which were gaping open because they could not be fastened. “With Lena, it's never a matter of
letting
or
not letting
.”