Mudlark (26 page)

The kitchen was strictly from Jenn-Air. No Victorian nonsense there. I couldn't help feeling that was a
shame. The sideboard in the dining room gleamed with crystal, and Annie had had the huge table set for ten with
the old family Spode. That was the last room on show. When we had all duly admired it, we drifted out to the porch.
Quentin's McKay's daughter was reciting the background spiel in a bored voice for seven or eight other people. She
led them into the house as we straggled out. The other boy was guarding the door.

Everyone seemed bent on thanking Rob for the tour, shaking hands, exchanging little stories that
showed how well they knew his mother or father or uncle or grandparents. Bonnie and I hung back.

He saw the last grande dame down the steps and returned to the porch, smiling.

Bonnie beamed at him. "That was great, Mr. McKay."

He blushed. "Call me Rob."

"I'm a little disappointed, though, Rob. No horse and carriage."

He laughed. "No, and there never was a carriage. A narrow-gauge railroad used to run north as far as
Shoalwater, with a private spur into the Enclave. Most people kept pony traps to haul luggage from the train, but
they left their carriages in Olympia or Portland or wherever."

"I thought residents commuted by ferry," I interjected.

"We do now, but that didn't start up until after the Korean War. My grandfather got a deal on an old
ferry the state was mothballing, and he persuaded the other owners to chip in. They built the landing with private
funds. A yearly fee takes care of maintenance and fuel and so on. After the ferry started running, people built
garages and brought their cars."

"If this house is listed with the Historic Trust, didn't they object to a modern garage?"

I glanced at Bonnie. She looked earnest and eager, a real Victorian purist.

Rob's eyes narrowed. He waved an arm bayward. "We hired Jensen and Brevard in Seattle to design a
garage that would fit in with the house. Most people think they did a good job."

"Can we see it?"

"It's not part of the tour, but I suppose you can walk around and have a look at it."

Bonnie gave him a ravishing smile. "Thanks. Around here?"

"Follow the walk." And stay on it, his tone said. "Pardon me, ladies, I have to go."

"Thanks for the tour," I murmured.

Bonnie was halfway to the edge of the house. I trotted after her. When we got beyond the kitchen wing,
the garage hove into view, an uninteresting two-story structure about the size of a tithe barn with a little cupola on
the top. It looked like a garage to me. The doors were open and three vehicles showed us their polished rear ends.
There was an empty bay for a fourth. The Mercedes was gone.

"A Porsche, a Trans Am, and a Blazer," Bonnie intoned. "What do you want to bet Bob drives the
Blazer?"

"He was driving the Mercedes the night of the murder," I offered. "Or so Annie claims. She followed him
home in the Blazer." My gaze drifted past the cars. "I wonder who rides the bikes?" Half a dozen gleaming bicycles
lined the far wall.

We were advancing gently in the direction of the Blazer when a voice came from behind us.
"Satisfied?"

Chills ran up and down my spine. I said, "The cars are a little anachronistic, but I suppose you could
make a case for the bicycles."

We turned and smiled at Annie. She bared her teeth and her eyes glittered. It was clearly time to head
for the Escort.

"Nice cupola," Bonnie said.

As we trudged back toward the parking area, I spotted the Mercedes. Annie had driven it off onto the
lawn.

"Hard on the grass," Bonnie murmured.

I agreed absently. Annie must have come home in a roaring hurry.

Clara Klein fed us homemade bread and black bean soup for lunch and I told her what I knew of Matt
and Lottie. Clara was still distraught. She talked a little about her mother, who had also suffered a series of strokes.
She was horrified by Matt's confession and inclined to agree with Freddy's diagnosis of survivor guilt.

"Have they arrested him yet?"

"Matt? I don't think so." I buttered a third slice of the luscious bread. "Jay says the doctors sedated him
and were keeping him overnight for observation. I suppose Dale Nelson will take Matt in for questioning when he's
released."

"It's so sad." Clara was drinking burgundy. Bonnie and I had passed on that. If I drink wine at lunch, I
fall asleep.

Bonnie polished her soup bowl with a crust. She had listened to the dialogue without comment. I was
grateful. I didn't think Clara would appreciate Bonnie's relief that Matt was in custody.

"Dessert?" Clara passed a bowl of fruit. Bonnie took a plum. "Lark?"

I was eating bread for dessert. "No, thanks. Do you think Lottie wanted to tell Jay something
incriminating?"

Clara sighed and lit a cigarette. "I just don't know. She was trying so hard to communicate she must
have had something urgent to say. But it could have been that she didn't like the color of the privacy curtain.
Whatever. I'm going to miss Lottie. She was such a fighter--" Her eyes teared, and she took a long pull on the
cigarette. "Tell me about the Enclave. Was it your first visit, Lark? I know it must have been Bonnie's."

I said, "First time for me, too. Do you go there often?"

Clara exhaled through her nose. "A couple of times a year. One of my steady customers lives in that
neo-Bauhaus box beyond the ferry slip. I've only been to the McKay house twice, though I see Annie fairly often. She's
on the library board, too."

"Everything in that house matches," I blurted.

Bonnie said, "What?"

Clara stubbed out her cigarette and smiled at me as if I were a particularly bright pupil. "Go on."

"I've seen a lot of Victorian restorations near my home town. For that matter, my mother restored an
old house that was built after the Erie Canal went through. Ma didn't try for a single period. She just wanted us to
be comfortable, so we have stuff from the 1840s alongside modern bookcases and halogen lamps. Our house is fun.
Living at the McKay place would be like living in a decorator's show home."

Bonnie said, "Hey!"

Clara nodded. "That house is too perfect. It's Annie's pride and joy, though. I've never had the heart to
tell her at least three of her collector's items are modern forgeries."

I laughed.

Bonnie said, "No kidding? Which? How can you tell?"

That set Clara off. She really knew her stuff. It turned out she'd taught art history as well as painting at
San Francisco State. I was glad my coverlet was authentic.

By the time the lecture ended Clara had cheered up. We told her about our abortive look at the McKay
garage, and she seemed to find our impressions amusing.

Bonnie said, "The Historic Trust is a fraud, isn't it?"

Clara sighed. "No, but it
is
political, like everything else. The McKays can get away with their
tarted-up garage and space-age kitchen. Lesser folk toe the line."

"And Tom's house is going to be rejected--" Bonnie took a savage bite of plum.

"It seems unfair," I ventured.

Bonnie wiped off the excess juice. "That insufferable prig--"

"Who, Rob?" I interrupted. "I thought he was a nice kid."

Bonnie glowered. "He was patronizing as hell." She turned to Clara. "He gave us this antiseptic history
of the house and said that the senior branch of the McKays had died out. What is Tom, chopped liver?"

Clara poured coffee for us. "I don't think the McKays go in for matrilinear succession." She tasted the
delicate euphemism, adding, "Tom doesn't really want a bunch of tourists trotting through his house, telling him
how quaint it is, anyway. And now he won't have to worry about that."

Bonnie subsided but indignant spots of red burned on her cheeks. "I hope they make a blockbuster film
of
Small Victories
. Then Gray Line can run tour buses past the Enclave, so everybody can see where the
Prom Queen wound up."

That was a good thought, pure Hollywood. I entertained the fantasy. "And Tom can buy a big house in
the Enclave and paint it black and orange."

"And decorate it with nude statues in lifelike colors." Clara seemed taken with the idea, too.

We left after the coffee. Clara thanked us for coming and said she felt much better for our visit. She was
an interesting woman, but I still found her puzzling. I told her I'd keep her posted on Matt's situation, but I didn't
say anything to her about Bob McKay's alibi. Whatever she might be, Clara was undeniably a gossip.

"I suppose we can't go out clamming without Matt to guide us to the public clam beds." Bonnie heaved a
sigh.

Clara had come out to the car with us. A breeze lifted the errant lock of hair from her forehead. "Do you
really want to go for steamers?
I'll
take you out."

Bonnie was digging for her keys. She paused with one hand in her small shoulder bag. "Will you? Gosh,
that'll be great, Clara. When?"

Clara smiled. "Tomorrow if you like. Low tide is around three. It's best to start a couple of hours before
then. You'll have to put up with my ratty old rowboat, though. I don't believe in using engines on the bay."

I said, "I like to row."

"Good. You're elected. Bring waders and buckets, and dress warmly. We can drive to the dock around
noon and be home with a mess of steamers by four or five. If the weather cooperates. It's supposed to stay
calm."

When we tried to thank her, she said it was okay. She needed the distraction. So did I. Bonnie just
wanted clams.

At home, I discovered Darla playing with Freddy's computer and Freddy packing a duffle. They had
decided to drive to Portland to survey Darla's apartment. School was set to start on Monday.

"She thinks I ought to enroll in some programming courses." Freddy looked shy and hopeful.

"That's a thought."

"I did flunk out."

I had no doubt the college would overlook Freddy's little academic peccadilloes when the finance office
discovered he could pay his tuition without student aid. I assured him of that in somewhat more tactful terms. He
thought he might move in with Darla. Darla seemed amenable. She had taken off the neck brace and looked pretty
and excited. I wished her luck in law school.

All that took a while. Jay dragged in at four-thirty, spent but not miserable. He said his presentation had
gone well. Matt was still in the hospital undergoing tests. At least he wasn't under arrest. As Freddy was bringing
Jay up to date on the Portland expedition, Tom appeared, tired, grimy, and thirsty, with a sackful of canned smoked
salmon.

I picked one of the tuna-can sized tins up and turned it over in my hands. "You went fishing for
this?"

He opened a beer. "One of the old guys gave me his catch. Likes to fish, hates to eat fish--can you believe
it? I figured we were oversupplied with frozen Chinook, so I traded for smoked. It comes in handy around the
holidays."

I thanked him and stowed his booty in the cupboard. Freddy and Darla called Dale to notify him they
were leaving town for a day or two. Then they took off. Tom said he was going to cook spaghetti for dinner, so I
took a nap. I needed it, for some reason.

I woke at six, refreshed and energized. Tom was yawning over a pan of meat sauce, and Jay was on the
phone. Jay hung up almost at once. He looked perplexed.

I began setting the table for three. "What's up?"

He fetched salad bowls. "Dale thinks he has a lead on the other man in Johnson's pickup. I wish the kids
hadn't gone off. You aren't going to disappear, are you?"

I doled out flatware. "Not until noon tomorrow. Clara's taking Bonnie and me out clamming."

Jay tugged his mustache. "I guess that's all right."

Tom was filling a big pan with water for the pasta. "I bet Clara conned you into rowing."

"Conned?"

He turned the burner up high and rummaged for spaghetti. "She likes to paint the Shoalwater dock
from Coho Island. Bread-and-butter pictures for the local market. She had a boat with a greasy old outboard for
years. Then last year she decided to be ecologically correct and row. It's a long haul to the island, so she usually
persuades a friend to share the labor."

"And I volunteered."

Tom grinned. "Patsy. You and Bonnie will want waders. Help yourselves. I'll unlock the garage for you
in the morning."

"Thanks."

Jay pulled a big green salad from the refrigerator and laced it with olive oil. "Is Bonnie coming over
tonight?"

Tom said, "She took a rain check. Wants to spend the evening with Gibson and a book."

She was reading
Starvation Hill
. I said casually, "How's the writing coming?"

Tom began breaking pasta into the boiling pot. "I got a couple of ideas while I was bobbing up and
down on the river. I may move the computer down tonight. If I don't fall asleep over the spaghetti."

Tom's pasta was basic bachelor cookery. After our salmon glut it tasted good. Jay had made the salad,
so it was only fair that I wash dishes. Jay helped Tom move the computer, and Tom announced that he was going to
sleep for twelve hours. He vanished into the guest room, and Jay and I drifted upstairs for a little connubial
cuddling. The telephone interrupted our idyll. It was Dale.

When Jay hung up I said, "Give. I'm tired of listening to your half of phone conversations."

"Dale said Lottie's autopsy showed no sign of facial bruising, no fibers in the air passages. There was a
lot of medication in her blood, but no more than was consistent with the meds prescribed for her. She died of a
massive cerebral hemorrhage."

"Then Matt didn't kill her?"

He set the phone back on the bedside table. "The M.E. didn't rule that out entirely. Those guys like to
play it safe, but Dale thinks she died of natural causes. So does the prosecutor." He began rubbing my neck with his
left hand.

I wriggled closer. "That's good news."

"It sure is. Come here."