Follow the Dotted Line (10 page)

“That’s okay. Really,” she announced, standing up and motioning Harley to do the same. “Let me take it from here. We’ll get back to you if we need you.”

He nodded without saying anything.

Andy looked at her watch. “That was less than fifteen minutes,” she said, making the point that she, too, knew about billable hours.

“Yes, it was,” the lawyer agreed. “Well done.”

He crossed the room, held open the door and made a sweeping motion with his hand. “However, you have to cross the threshold before I stop the clock,” he said, almost enjoying himself now.

She did him the honor of smiling at the joke.

As Andy passed by him, she turned back. “I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Pescaras, but I wrote one on TV.”

“I saw that particular movie-of-the-week, Ms. Bravos.”

“You did?” she said, both astonished and flattered.

“Know Thy Client,” he said. “I would like to tell you what I thought of it, but . . .” He took her hand, shook it and then grinned slyly. “I would need another retainer. Goodbye. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Goodbye,” she said, both pleased and a little embarrassed by her behavior.

Eye of Newt

“What are you going to do when you get there?” Harley asked.

At the moment, Andy was completely occupied with finding the address and hadn’t thought too much beyond that.

“Hackberry,” she mumbled.

“Huh?”

“The address is on Hackberry. Here we go.”

She turned right and drove slowly along a tree-lined street in a residential neighborhood near downtown. The yards were relatively big and very bushy, with lots of palms, a few oaks, and scruffy patches of dry grass. This section of the city was definitely not as tony as the suburban tracts of new-builds they passed on the way into town. Those were filled with ranch and two-story brick homes designed for families with young children and dogs. This was an older neighborhood with more traditional wood frame and adobe structures. It had a little character but not much else, Andy thought, and wondered why her ex-husband would live here. Then she saw the glow of a blue-neon hand in the arched window of a mission-style house with a dirty red clay tile roof. Zoning, she realized. Tilda had her business here at home, and they needed to be someplace where you could hang a ‘palm reader’ sign in the window without your neighbors going ballistic. She pulled the car to the curb and parked.

Harley stirred in his seat. “I mean it, Aunt Andy. What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she answered, truthfully. “Maybe nobody’s home.”

“But what if she is? What are you going to say?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” said Andy. “I could ask her about why she sent fake ashes.”

“Okay.”

“And then I could demand to know where the real ashes are.”

“Do you really think she’ll tell you?”

Andy considered this. Tilda did not strike her as the kind of person who would care to answer either of these questions. Or anything else Andy wanted to ask. Instead, she struck Andy as the type who would just try to scare the hell out of her. “I think she’ll say something like, ‘Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble.’”

Harley’s jaw descended slowly. “Is that a curse?”

“It’s Shakespeare, Harley,” she said, mentally rolling her eyes. “I was making a joke. You have to relax. She’s not a witch.”

Now that they were in Texas, and there was a real possibility of confronting the daughter of Beelzebub in person, Harley seemed to have lost a little of his moral bravado.

“This is not a joke,” Harley reminded her. “There really are people who consort with the Devil,” he said, earnestly.

He was out there dangling his hook again.

“You don’t believe in the Devil, either. Do you, Aunt Andy?”

It was hard to tell which of her non-beliefs disturbed him more.

“I don’t. No.”

“Because he doesn’t interest you?”

“No. He’s the villain, and villains are inherently more interesting,” she said, wishing he had saved this discussion for another time. “I don’t believe in him because I don’t
want
to believe in him.”

He looked more mystified than troubled. “Why?”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t think there’s evil in the world. I prefer to account for it in a different way. Without the whole hell and damnation scenario.”

“I don’t think you can do that, Aunt Andy,” he said, fumbling to find his footing. Then he apparently remembered something from class. “When it comes to eternal life, we can’t just pick and choose.”

Andy looked back at the house, thinking someone must be home or the neon sign would be turned off. She needed to end this conversation.

“Neither of us is living an eternal life yet, Harley,” she pointed out. “And the one we’re in has a ticking clock. So let’s get moving, because I don’t intend to waste another moment of it worrying about the Devil.”

As she moved to get out of the car, Harley clutched her arm.

“What if she doesn’t answer the door?” he asked.

“What?”

“What if she doesn’t answer the door?”

Andy was confused now. “I thought that’s what you’re were hoping for—that she wouldn’t be home.”

“I mean, what if she
is
home, and she doesn’t answer the door?”

“That makes no sense,” Andy said, as he continued to hold her back with his outstretched arm. “Why wouldn’t she answer the door?”

She could feel his fingers pressing down on her skin. His words tumbled out in a weird mixture of caution and excitement. “I mean, what if
he
opens the door?”

Andy flinched and laughed at the same time. “You think the Devil is going answer the door?” she asked, incredulous.

“Not the Devil, Aunt Andy!” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I mean Uncle Mark. What are you going to say if
he
answers the door?”

“Oh, god,” she muttered. “That possibility never occurred to me.” Even though, after what the lawyer had said, it was perfectly plausible. “You’re right. What am I going to say if he’s not actually dead?”

“And if it turns out
he’s
the one who sent the fake ashes?” Harley added.

The intellectual tortoise from Omaha had beaten her to the obvious one more time. What if Mark opened the door? What if he had, indeed, sent the ashes? Rebounding with mental agility that surprised even her, Andy slapped her nephew’s knee. “I’m not going to say anything,” she declared, “no matter who opens the door.”

“You’re not?”

“No. You are.”

“What?”

She leaned over and opened the door on his side of the car. “Tilda has no idea who you are. And Mark will probably have even less. So let’s just avoid a scene and send you up to the door.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Pretend you’re selling Girl Scout cookies or something.”

“I’m not a scout. I’m not even a girl,” he said. “You’re only making me do this because you don’t want to do it yourself.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But a man of the cloth has to learn to think on his feet. Here’s your chance.”

“But I don’t want to—”

“Harley,” she declared, “it was not my idea to bring you on this trip. I couldn’t imagine a single thing you could do to be helpful. I just found one. Go up to that door and knock.”

Reluctantly, Harley rolled out of the car and got to his feet, where he stood, looking a little paralytic. Suddenly, a woman pushing a baby stroller rammed him head on.

“Oh, man!” he yelped, clutching his left shin.

“I’m so sorry,” said the young mother propelling the buggy. “I didn’t expect you to just stand there. I expected you to keep moving. “

“Oh. Right,” he said, looking nervously toward the house. “I was just going to see the, ah, lady there.” He nodded toward the house.

“Tilda?” she asked.

Andy popped out of the driver’s side of the car and stepped right into the conversation.

“Yes. Yes, Tilda Trivette. Do you know her?” Andy asked.

“A little. They haven’t lived here long.”

“They?”

“She and her husband. Mark, I think, is his name. She’s some kind of spiritualist. The radiating hand in the window has been sort of an issue on the block. And since they rent, we’ve been trying to contact the landlord.”

“I bet,” said Andy, hoping to keep her informant talking. But the young mother didn’t seem to need much encouragement.

“We’re zoned residential. I mean you can have a home business, I guess. But signage is a problem.”

“Right,” Andy agreed.

“Property values, you know.”

“So the palm reader is a problem,” Andy prompted.

“She was. But it’s sort of a moot point now.”

“Oh, really. Why’s that?”

“Tilda moved out last week. Sold all the furniture. Everything. Then left that stupid sign in the window. Just to annoy us, I think. We’re trying to get someone to turn it off.”

“She moved?” Andy needed to hear it again.

“Uh huh,” said the woman. “Last Monday.”

Well after the arrival of the burger box of ashes in California, Andy calculated. “Did her husband go with her?”

“Yeah. I think so,” said the woman. “At least he helped with the yard sale on Sunday to get rid of the furniture.”

“So you saw him—Mark—last weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Tall? Graying hair? Late 50s, early 60s?”

“Yeah. Way older than she is. Real salesman. He got rid of everything by noon.”

Andy looked at Harley, and it was another race to the obvious.

“He’s alive,” Harley said, getting there first.

“Why? Isn’t he supposed to be?” the woman asked.

“We’ve been getting mixed signals,” Andy told her. “Do you have any idea where they went?”

“No.”

“Does anybody else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did they have friends, do you know?”

“They weren’t here very long,” she reminded Andy. “I don’t think so. Not in the neighborhood, anyway. And they were gone quite a bit. On cruises, I think. Are you an investigator or something?”

Andy hesitated just long enough for Harley to fill the void. “His ex-wife,” he announced.

The woman looked mildly uncomfortable with the answer.

“The mother of his children,” Andy appended. “And several weeks ago Tilda sent them a note saying Mark was dead.”

“Whoa,” said woman. “How strange is that!”

For someone who rarely needed validation for her feelings, Andy found she was damned glad to have it.

The two returned to their hotel, washed off the grit they had accumulated in the Texas humidity and headed to dinner at a small Mexican restaurant across the street.

“Does this mean we’re going home tomorrow?” Harley asked, as Andy sat down in the booth across from him after a trip to the salsa bar.

“Yes.”

“So you think Tilda was just joking around with the ashes—to keep Mitch and your other kids away from their dad?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“I don’t get it.”

Neither did Andy. “Jealous women do things like that. As I say, maybe she just wants him all to herself. It’s mean, and it’s petty, but it’s not all that sinister.”

Harley poked at the green slices decorating the food in front of him. “What are these again?”

“Avocados.”

“I didn’t eat much Mexican food in Oklahoma.”

“They’re like a fruit.”

“Not spicy?”

“No. Give ‘em a try. They’re pretty benign. Except as an investment,” Andy said.

“What?”

“Nothing. Turns out Ian got into trouble with the IRS over some avocado orchards. They’re not a good place to put your money, but they’re perfectly safe to eat.”

Despite her assurances, he nudged the slices to the side of his plate. “Are we going to the bank before we leave tomorrow?”

“The bank?”

“You know, where the lawyer said Uncle Mark has his accounts.”

“I doubt people at the bank would tell us much.”

“I think we should go anyway.”

The boy seemed psychologically incapable of agreeing with her. She speared the slices of avocado from his plate and put them on her own.

“You are beginning to sound like one of my children,” she told him.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Whatever I say, you insist on offering your own opinion.”

“This really isn’t my opinion, Aunt Andy. It’s one of those things I learned on television.” He took two of the avocado slices back. “I thought you said I could talk about those things.”

Even as she glowered at him, she ran through the only database they both shared.

“So on television they always say—”

“Stop right there, Harley.”

“Why?”

This time she was going to fend off the usual humiliation before he had a chance to deliver it. “Because I already know what they always say on television.”

But ignorance of your elder’s insecurities is bliss, so he charged right on. “They always say
follow the money
.”

“Damn it, Harley.”

“What? What’d I do wrong now?”

The Texas Fidelity branch where Mark had his bank account was located in a strip mall, wedged between a homeopathic chiropractor and a do-it-yourself ceramic shop. Because their flight left at 2:00 p.m., Andy and Harley were parked outside when the bank opened at 10:00 a.m. A very young man in pressed pants, wearing a short sleeve shirt and tie, held open the door as they walked inside. As soon as he repositioned himself behind the teller cage, Andy stepped up and asked to see the manager.

“Can I ask why?” The newly minted teller looked as if her request might mean the end of his job.

“I want to ask about an account.” Andy said, flashing her I’m-okay-you’re-okay smile.

“You mean, you have an account with us?”

“Well, no. Not my account.” This was the hard part, and she knew it wouldn’t go down well. “An account belonging to Mark Kornacky.”

“Mr. Kornacky,” he said, as if he knew the name. “Oh. Okay. I guess. Sure. Let me get the manager.”

Sandra Berry, executive officer, was a slip of a woman in her 40s with dark framed glasses and stupendous auburn hair that gyrated up and down every time she took a step. She led Andy and Harley into her office and directed them to take the chairs directly in front of her desk, which were upholstered in a pattern that featured longhorns, cactus flowers, and the logo for the FDIC.