Wild Goose Chase (8 page)

“What does WGC stand for anyhow?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Warm Gouda Cheese?”

“Wacky Girl Consortium,” Vangie added. “Wild Grannies Corporation.”

I laughed. I could always count on her to lighten my load.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “In the meantime, let me balance the receipts from the booth.”

“That’ll take hours,” I protested.

“No, it would take
you
hours.” She tugged on my chair. “Come on, take off. I can straighten this out in no time.”

I got up from my desk, grateful to go home and get into bed.

“Want to hear the worst part?” I said, as she began expertly sorting the credit card slips.

“Worse than Claire dying?” she said, without looking up. Her forehead was creased with concentration on the task.

“The homicide detective, Sergeant Sanchez, thinks I did it.”

She looked up. Her expression was concerned. “Thinks you killed Claire Armstrong? Is he crazy?”

“I mean, it’s ridiculous. She had an accident with her rotary cutter. But he’s not convinced and thinks I had something to do with it.”

“I bet she was murdered.”

“Vangie, how can you say that? She was a quilter, for crying out loud.”

Vangie put more slips into a pile, sorting by a method I could only imagine.

“What? she said. “Quilters can’t kill each other? Come on, all that slicing and dicing—what’s that about? I bet Claire had a lot of enemies.”

“I don’t think so.” I remembered the toasts in the bar. Except maybe Eve. And Lark.

“What’s more important is what the cops think.”

“What do you mean?”

Vangie looked up. She pointed her chin at me, eyes narrowed.

“You need to be proactive. You can’t just lay down and let the cops walk all over you. Go out there and find someone else who might have done it.”

“Vangie, you’re not serious.”

“Dude,” Vangie continued. “You’ve never been in trouble; you don’t know how the system works. Once the police know your name, everything changes.”

I loved my neighborhood,
and after the day I’d had, the familiar streets lined with mature olive trees, cracked sidewalks, and yellow roses were like a balm on my frazzled nerves. The houses were a brew of Spanish and craftsman architecture with the odd Cape mixed in. Most of the houses were small; the large Victorians on the Alameda had long ago been turned into law offices and real estate firms. I’d only moved back to the old neighborhood two years earlier when my company stock split and left me with a windfall that made a sizable down payment. Even with that money, my house was tiny and on the wrong side of Park Avenue. And the monthly nut was large enough to make my mortgage-free parents gag.

I parked in the driveway and went in through the back door.

My bungalow was a work in progress, what Ina would call a UFO, Unfinished Object, but I loved the graceful proportions of the built-ins, the warmth of the wood floors and the arched doorways. When I’d first moved in, all I had to do was enter my back door and I felt renewed and safe. That sense of security had been spoiled by my mother’s death.

It was only lately that the sheltering feeling in my house had returned. And it was because of Buster. For weeks after my mother’s death, I’d found it impossible to sleep through the night. I’d wake up about three in the morning, too keyed up to read, too unfocused to watch television. I tried to knit, but ended up with a twisted mess of yarn in my lap that looked like a psychotic kitten had been playing with it.

One night, after Buster had left a particularly disarming message, I pushed play again to hear his joke at the end. Alone in the dark, I found the sound of his words comforting.

All of his messages had been stored on the voicemail system, filed neatly under Buster’s return number. I’d played another and discovered if I rewound clear to the beginning, the messages would replay one after another. In the pre-dawn emptiness of my small house, Buster’s deep timbre filled the space up.

He was shy in the first few messages, growing bolder as he called more often. His monologues were funny, endearing, and sometimes pathetic, but they always drew me in. After that first night, I used his voice as a lullaby many times. I knew every modulation, knew where the self-deprecating chuckle would come, where his voice broke with pride, where it fell off in thought.

There was something very intimate about his disembodied voice coming out of the answering machine. Each evening, I’d looked eagerly for the blinking red light that meant I had new messages.

I hovered by the phone now. No new messages. I nearly pushed the button to hear the old ones, but after spending the afternoon being questioned by him, Buster’s voice held new meaning. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to separate Homicide Detective Ben Healy from Buster.

I started the water in the tub instead. A long, deep soak would have to serve as comfort tonight.

I stripped off my running suit, wondering where Sanchez had taken my clothes. When would I get them back? Did I want them back?

In the tiny mirror over the sink, I was surprised to see the same face that I’d seen this morning looking back at me. So much had happened since then. I felt like I’d changed so much, but the trauma of finding Claire didn’t show. I couldn’t even see a new wrinkle.

The combination of the emotional day and the hot water lulled me to sleep almost as soon as I lowered myself into the tub. I awoke to pounding on the front door. My heart echoed the rhythm. The water in the tub had gone cold. I dried myself quickly and pulled on a pair of boxers and a tank top. The rooster clock on the kitchen wall read just after eleven, too late for visitors. It had to be family. Maybe Dad, back early, or Sean, down from the city and needing a place to crash. I shuffled to the front door and looked through the peephole.

Buster stood on the front porch, dwarfing the pillars, filling up the small space. My craftsman-style bungalow had the proportions of a dollhouse, built when people were shorter. At six foot four, Buster was definitely no doll.

The oak door creaked loudly as I opened it. Why was he here? I looked past him. He was alone. He had changed into a scuffed leather jacket and jeans.

“Can I come in?” he said, one foot over the threshold. The shy smile on his face told me I wasn’t going to be taken into custody.

“Are you going to arrest me? I don’t see any handcuffs.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocked. “Did you want me to bring handcuffs? I’ve got some in my truck.”

“Very funny. Come in.”

The front door opened directly into the living room. I knocked a pile of books off the faux Stickley armchair and took a seat on the couch. Buster sat down in the chair. Feeling underdressed, I pulled a fleece throw off the back of the couch and wrapped myself up. I stroked the soft nap, stopping when I saw Buster’s eyes following my hand.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “I brought you this.”

I lunged for it, dropping the throw to the floor. “Oh, thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. I felt so …”

“Disconnected?” he supplied, sporting a goofy grin.

“Well, no phone does make it hard to reach out and touch someone.”

Buster groaned. “Bad joke begets worse one. Nice.” He sat back. “We’re done with the cell, so there was no reason you should be without it.”

“Hallelujah.” I hugged the phone, which beeped complainingly. It had been nearly nine hours since I found Claire. I couldn’t remember ever going this long without retrieving messages. I wanted to get started. I looked expectantly at him, but he had moved to the fireplace, rubbing the wood grain on the surround appreciatively.

“Great mantel. This is the old Colombo place, isn’t it? Bobby and I were in grammar school together.”

“I bought it from a young couple,” I said. “I didn’t know the people that owned this house before that.”

“I spent many an afternoon in that bedroom right there.” He pointed over my shoulder at the wall the living room shared with the spare room.

“Really?”

“Bobby and I, playing with our joy sticks.”

I gave him a sidelong glance. “You called them joy sticks?”

“Bobby had a Sega,” he said innocently. “What did you think we were doing?”

“Gee, I don’t know, two teen boys, maybe a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition.”

“Wow, you have an evil mind.”

“No, just three brothers, remember?”

“Good point. Bobby and I were pre-pre-puberty, far more interested in our Star Wars figures than bikinis.”

“That’s a relief,” I laughed. “I’d have to strip the floors again.”

He laughed, too. His face was open and expressive. “You remodeling?”

I nodded. “Just about every room in the house is in an uproar. The only room that’s done is my bedroom. I made sure that I had one place to retreat to.”

“Can I see it?”

“My bedroom?” I yelped.

His eyes twinkled at my discomfort. “The whole house. I’m a big fan of bungalow architecture. I’d like to see what you’ve done with it.”

I stood and crossed my arms across my stomach, conscious of the thinness of the boxers I’d changed into and the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra under my tank top. He followed me into the dining room. My running commentary about home improvements would end at the back door, and me showing him out.

“We redid the floors before I moved in, and now we’re stripping and staining the built-ins.”

“We?”

“Me, mostly. Kevin and Dad help out when they can.”

“I thought maybe you had a boyfriend,” he said, rubbing his hand over the door jamb appreciatively.

“Not right now.” I reddened, glad he wasn’t looking at me.

Stick to talk about hardwoods, I cautioned myself. The house was only 950 square feet, so the tour didn’t take long. Living room across the front, dining room, and kitchen along the back of the house. Two bedrooms and a bath off a short hall, unfinished attic space upstairs.

We stopped in the kitchen near the back hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom.

“You’ve done a great job,” he said.

“Thanks, I still have a long way to go.”

Buster rested his hand on a kitchen chair. I leaned my butt on the counter. The proximity of his body to the speaker where his voice had come out so many nights was too much for me. I blushed, remembering how often I’d played the messages.

Now he was here and I wanted to hear more of his voice. Without the answering machine between us.

My guitar lay across the kitchen table, along with a teach-yourself chord book, open to Lesson Four. I hadn’t gotten very far. He picked it up, put a sneakered foot up on the chair and plucked the strings, humming softly. I liked the look of his hands, nearly too big for the neck, his thick fingers moving nimbly as he tuned the guitar. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he squinted as he worked the strings. His head curving over the guitar made one lock of black hair fall over his forehead.

“You learning guitar?” he asked, without looking up. He played the first few notes of “Here Comes the Sun,” then turned the top key.

“Trying.” Many of our family parties ended with the guitars coming out. Buster was a good player with a raspy, sexy voice. “I’m always jealous when you guys jam. I feel left out.”

“Yeah, but you’re the only one that remembers the words to ‘Losing My Religion.’”

“A vital skill, I know, but I’m looking to expand my repertoire.”

He looked up from the guitar, smiling. “I’d love to come over and play with you. I might be able to teach you a few things.”

I bet. Just behind him was the doorway to my bedroom. My mind went to places it didn’t belong, picturing his fingers on me instead of the fret. I was a sucker for a boy with an acoustic guitar. MTV Unplugged all the way.

I shifted farther into the kitchen, away from the danger zone.

He lowered his head back to the strings, fingers moving quickly, squeaking now and again. A leather thong on his wrist dropped down. I hadn’t noticed it under his suit earlier. He had showered and changed into a SJPD black T-shirt and jeans, but he hadn’t shaved, so his chin was blue-black. The five o’clock shadow, the man bracelet, and the guitar was a dangerous combination. I smelled a spicy aftershave and felt a low burn in my belly. I swallowed hard.

He brushed the hair back off his forehead and caught me looking at him. He stopped playing, leaned over the guitar and smiled.

“I was surprised when you said you were selling. Kevin told me you liked working at the store.”

“He did?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

“I wondered about that. The quilt shop was the last place I thought you’d end up. I can’t really picture you working with a bunch of women.”

“It’s tough. I don’t always feel like I speak the language,” I said.

“Didn’t you get into computers or something? Is that easier?”

“Much. At least I feel competent. At the store, most of the time I just feel stupid. I knew nothing about quilting when I started. And I still don’t know much.”

“Did your mother leave you the shop in her will? he asked.

I nodded, chewing the side of my finger. I didn’t want to say anymore about the shop.

After a moment of silence, he spoke again, pointing his chin at the answering machine.

“You never returned any of my calls.”

I couldn’t keep up with the change of topic. “Why did you keep on calling me?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your mother,” he said bluntly.

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to that.

Buster strummed a familiar tune that I couldn’t name. “Her death hit me hard,” he said into the belly of the guitar. “It was the first time someone I knew died while I was on the job. I couldn’t talk to Kevin; he didn’t need me, he had Kym. I thought maybe you’d want someone to talk with. Someone who remembered her.”

He was right. I had needed someone to talk to about her. I just hadn’t known if he was the right person.

“Did you know she sent me packages when I was away at school?” he asked. “Candy, and beef jerky, and toys.”

I nodded; I got those packages too. “Once I got a set of jacks.”

He stopped playing and pointed at himself. “Nerf basketball. I was the envy of my floor.”