"Presumption Of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Shaughnessy Perri)

10

“B EN?” NINA KNOCKED AGAIN ON THE door of the old bungalow on Siesta Court.

It was quarter to six on this long summery Saturday afternoon. She could hear the stream flowing behind the riprap wall and smell the inimitable pungency of charcoal lighter fluid mixed with animal fat. The party must already be starting two doors down at the Puglias’.

She felt like a narc. Paul did it all the time, but she wasn’t sure she could carry this off. Again, she mentally counted the houses on the street: David and Britta Cowan in the big house on her left on the corner, Ben’s door right in front of her, Darryl and Tory Eubanks’s roof past a fine fir tree on the right, and past that, the Puglias, then Ted and Megan Ballard, and finally the Hills. She could hear kids screaming somewhere and the thought came, maybe one of them was a kid, arsonists are often young.

Ben opened the screen. “You’re early.”

“I love a good party.” She went into the dim low-ceilinged living room with its tweed couch and shook hands with Ben, who wore a black T-shirt and jeans. Condolence cards lay on the coffee table where they had been tossed. Someone had brought a huge flower arrangement, which still sat by the door.

He didn’t smile, and his eyes still had the puzzled, hurt look that comes with the shock of sudden death. Though he couldn’t be older than his early thirties, Ben’s face was lined and the tops of his ears were red as if from a permanent sunburn. She imagined he worked outside at least some of his day at Valley European Motors. None of this made him any less attractive. “Thanks for letting me tag along,” she said.

Ben sat down and said, “Anything, if it helps you find the killer of my nephew. I can’t sleep at night. He died so young, and while he was in my care. He played the flute. See it there, on the table?” The black flute case lay half-buried by the flowers like a miniature casket. “Danny’s flute,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“We have the same goal in mind,” Nina said, sitting down beside him. “I know my friend Wish didn’t set any fires, so I don’t see how Danny could be involved.”

“What is Wish to you?” Ben asked. She apologized mentally to Paul, because she couldn’t help enjoying sitting next to him. He had warm brown eyes in a smooth face in which she glimpsed the sun-drenched walls of a Yucatán pyramid.

“He worked for me. He helped with my law-office work at Tahoe. His mother is-was-my legal secretary.”

“Why are you here instead of at Tahoe? Is that why Wish was down here, too?”

“That’s a long, irrelevant story, Ben.”

He accepted this. In his soft voice he said, “We buried Danny this morning at the Catholic cemetery in Monterey. He was sort of Catholic. I said some things.”

“Who came to the cemetery?”

“My brother and his wife-Danny’s parents-came down from Tahoe, but they had to get back to work and they left right after. A couple of his cousins came too, and my sister and her husband. We decided to keep it small, even though some of the neighbor ladies wanted to come and have a meal after.”

“I’m sure Wish would have come if he could.”

“I guess. I don’t know what went on between them, but Danny-he gets so irritable, maybe Wish just had enough. Danny had a hard time making friends. He used to go out to Cachagua and spend the evening at Alma’s with his buddy Coyote. I didn’t even know how to call his buddy to tell him Danny’s dead.”

“Cachagua? I haven’t been there in a long time. I don’t remember a place called Alma’s.”

“There’s only one bar in the place. It used to be the Dew Drop Inn.”

“Oh, sure.”

“You know it? You don’t look like the kind of person who would go there.”

“Well, I haven’t always been thirty-five,” Nina said. “Ben?” Ben had immersed himself in a sad reverie. “Do you have a picture of Danny? I’m trying to get to know him, understand him.”

“Sure.” Ben went into the bedroom and came out with some snapshots.

A long, lanky, long-haired Native American boy, she thought. She could not see his face, hidden by a baseball cap. In one photo, Danny stood by a fence post, some scrubland behind him; in another, Danny sat at Ben’s kitchen table, a beer in hand, his head down, still wearing the cap.

“That’s the concho belt?” Nina said, showing him the outdoor shot.

“That’s it. Other than that belt, he didn’t care about clothes.”

“He doesn’t look happy in this picture in your kitchen.”

“That was the day after he was laid off,” Ben said. “He was low. I told him he could get another job, but he said he didn’t want to look yet. I’d come home from work and he’d be laying on the couch watching sports, anything that was on in the afternoon.”

“Do you think he was depressed?”

“You start depressed,” Ben said. “You feel hopeless, like you just can’t make it. You don’t have money to take a girl out, get parts for your car, nothing. Finally one day, if you’re lucky, you put your head down like a bull and you get out there and try to find work, whatever it takes.”

Nina nodded. “I’ve been there,” she said, and it was true.

“I didn’t know if Danny was going to make it that far until a couple months ago he told me he was doing some yard work for George Hill. Then Mr. Cowan hired him for some odd jobs. You know, he always wanted to be part of the neighborhood. Be one of the guys. But we were the outsiders on the street.”

“Outsiders?” Nina said.

“Sí.” He’s subtle, Nina thought. That one Spanish word had explained pretty well why he and Danny had been considered outsiders. “Danny is half Washoe, half Mexican-American. His mom is a full-blood Washoe. I’m not related to her or the Washoes.”

“He wanted to belong, you said before.”

“Maybe because he never had any roots. He didn’t even have a brother or sister to fight with. Anyway, everybody in the neighborhood suddenly figured out how good Danny was with his hands. He was working thirty or forty hours a week, gardening, repairing stuff, building a shed for George, doing errands for Debbie-it was like he had a family here. He had some money in his pocket and he started living again, making plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“Same old thing. The other thing Danny needed besides a family was to make it big. When he was feeling good, it was always about getting the money fast. One night I said, ‘For what?’ And he told me, ‘Maybe start a business you and me can run ourselves.’ ”

Nina nodded.

“I didn’t blame him. Our parents came into this world poor and they’re gonna leave poor. Danny didn’t want to do the same, but look what happened. He was murdered. He died at twenty-one. And now people think he was a bad person.”

Ben shook his head. “Is it bad to want the same thing we all want, a better life for us and our families? Enough money to live”-he looked around the cottage-“better than this? The system… it relies on workers’ misery.”

He got up. “Well, let’s do it. The party goes on no matter what. People come and go, but the party stays right here on this street, once a month, Saturday night.”

He stretched out a hand and Nina let him help her up. She watched him tuck in his shirt in back. He didn’t really notice her; the life had been kicked out of him for now. “Ben, I understand you’re not in a party mood.”

“I have other reasons for going. Reasons you don’t need to worry about. So, let’s get our story straight, okay? You’re my old high-school girlfriend, around for the summer. Right?”

“Right. What high school did we go to?”

“Douglas High, up at Tahoe.”

They walked down his gravel driveway to the street, turned left, and, passing the Eubanks house with its brightly lit windows, turned into Sam and Debbie Puglia’s concrete drive. Balmy evening air carried the charcoal and wood smoke drifting through the forest. The laughter of children and the clinking of glasses emanated from the backyard.

“This house has been around awhile,” Nina said.

“They keep it up. Debbie is the street housemother. She’s always around, doing her projects. She and Sam like having the block parties. They like to know their neighbors, get close. Let’s go around back.”

They climbed the stairs to a wooden gate festooned with miniature white lights, which seemed to wrap all around the big deck the Puglias had built for entertaining. Nina felt panicky, and Ben wasn’t going to help much. She reminded herself that this wasn’t her social debut. Nobody should care about her if she kept a low profile. She was there to observe and keep quiet.

She didn’t expect much. Nobody would inadvertently let fall that he was an arsonist. She couldn’t ask many questions.

But if the Cat Lady was right, tonight she might meet an arsonist.

Would she know him when she met him? Keep an open mind, she reminded herself.

“Oh, my poor Ben. Poor, poor Danny. We are so sorry.” A middle-aged woman in a Hawaiian sundress rushed over to greet them, her arms held out. Nina, with Paul, had seen her that afternoon on the deck. The woman pulled Ben to her and held him as tight as a lug nut on a tire, patting his back. When she released him her eyes were wet with tears. “Such a loss,” she said. “I can’t imagine.”

“Thank you,” Ben replied.

He had some dignity, some presence. Nina had already realized that she liked him. Hope it’s not him, she thought to herself, but he was young and strong. He could commit arson. His kindness could be a pose, and his cooperation with her could be a way of defusing the opposition.

“And you brought a date! Introduce us, Ben.”

“Uh, here’s a good friend of mine from high school. Visiting in Monterey this summer. Nina.”

“Hi there, Nina. I’m Debbie Puglia.” Debbie took a small step forward and Nina took a small step back, not wanting to suffer Ben’s fate. Debbie wore a lot of makeup and had one of those faces that exaggerate emotion. Nina thought guiltily of Tammy Faye Bakker. Debbie went on, “You know, Nina, in all these years, Ben has never brought a guest before.”

“Thanks for letting me join you.”

“I’m glad you have company tonight, Ben. Oh, it’s so awful. We stopped by but you weren’t home. Is there anything we can do? We don’t know what to think. Danny-”

“Let ’em in, Debbie. Yo, Ben. Cerveza for you. Let me guess. White wine for your friend.” A short beer-bellied man came up and slipped his arm around Debbie’s waist.

“This is Ben’s friend Nina. Nina, my husband, Sam.”

“Hello, pretty lady. What can I get you?”

“White wine sounds great.”

Sam turned to Ben. “I don’t know what to say about Danny, man. Let’s get drunk first, okay?”

“Sure, I’ll have a beer.” They followed Sam onto the deck. A hundred silver lights twinkled festively along the railing. A cluster of fluttering candles and a red vinyl tablecloth decorated the big table in the center of the deck. Some dishes had already been laid out: a big bowl of tortilla chips, salsa, and guacamole.

Branches hung over the deck and about ten adults stood around in small groups. Off the deck, in the darkening backyard, Nina watched small children flitting in and out of the trees and a pair of older kids jumping on a huge trampoline, yelling as they flipped and bounced.

Sam went over to a blue cooler and Nina saw a bulky young man who looked like a football player standing at the charcoal grill, wearing a garish green-and-red apron. He noticed her looking at him, smiled, and waved.

“That’s Darryl. He’s cooking tonight. The men trade off,” Debbie said beside her.

Ben was shaking hands with a lean young man in shorts and expensive running shoes, his ginger hair cut short. Next to him stood a tall athletic woman, her face all angles, also with short hair brushed back, also glowing with health.

“Meet Ted and Megan. The Ballards.”

“Hi.”

Ted and Megan wore the determined, agreeable look of those who come out of duty. They shook hands with Nina. “Wow,” Megan said to Ben. “We’re just floored. We’re sorry, Ben, we really are. No matter what Danny did, we are really sorry.” She and Ted stood so close they might have been one body. Both had the overdeveloped calves of fanatical bikers, both held diet sodas. They had identical earnest, sympathetic expressions.

“He didn’t do anything,” Ben said. “He was up there with his friend, trying to catch the firebug. The real arsonist murdered him.”

Megan nodded politely, but Nina didn’t think Ben’s words had made any impact on her. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Ted Ballard said. “Did you know him, Nina?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to say he was perfect,” Ben said.

“You don’t think it was him? I mean, don’t the police have his friend in custody? It said in the paper-” Ted said.

Sam returned, holding an icy bottle for Ben and a tumbler full of wine for Nina. She sipped. Cheap plonk. It tasted like it came out of one of those gallon boxes of wine you could buy at the supermarket, but she didn’t really mind. White wine was like chewing gum for her, a guilty pleasure, and she was glad tonight to feel it building a numbing buffer between her and her tingling nerve ends.

She felt like the target of an eyeball inquisition all around her. Was it so astounding that Ben would bring a date? With her body language, she tried to tell them all, I’m not here. Pay no attention to the woman knocking back the cheap white wine.

Debbie was back. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the Siesta Court Bunch,” she said, leading Nina from her haven at Ben’s side. “It’s a sad occasion tonight, what with Danny and all. But we try to get together whatever the weather. We’re kind of cut off here on the river by ourselves, so we try to be good neighbors. Is Ben really all right?”

“He’s managing. Uh, your house is so nice, and your flowers are sensational,” Nina said, setting her glass down for the moment. A tumbler this size ought to last the evening, if she wanted to last the evening. She noticed that Sam, talking to Darryl at the barbecue, was waving a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured himself a healthy dose on ice.

“Oh, I just love puttering around our place,” Debbie said. “Sam goes to his office and now that our kids are at college I have the whole day to myself.”

Hey, thought Nina, maybe Paul and I do have ESP. Debbie had just confirmed exactly the fiction they had invented for the Puglias. Somewhat encouraged by this, she allowed Debbie to shepherd her over to the couple standing at the railing.

“Ben finally brought somebody to the party,” Debbie told the couple. “This is Nina. Nina, this is David Cowan and his wife, Britta. They live on the corner.”

Nina flashed to the big concrete house with “colonnades” next to Ben’s place. The Cowans. Yellow Porsche. Hmm. Pretentious sprang to mind.

“Pleased to meet you,” Britta Cowan said. Her husband held back, smiling slightly. They hadn’t been talking to each other. Like Sam’s glass, Britta’s glass held a cascade of ice cubes, but she was already due for a refill on the whiskey. She shook her empty glass, turning full-face to Nina.

Whoa!

Nina looked back, and found herself staring straight into green eyes shining with suppressed rage. Britta was a knockout, a blond with a lush body straining against the stretch in her black minidress, curving expanses of freckled, fine skin on full display. She kept shaking the ice, swaying slightly, while the others seemed to circle around her.

Her husband was the afterthought. He adjusted his glasses. Nina got an academic impression. He wasn’t wearing a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows, but he should have been.

What he wore was baggy shorts and a baggy shirt. And, if she was not mistaken, a gold Piaget Emperador watch on his wrist.

Debbie shifted her weight from one foot to another, clearly not comfortable, while Britta gave Nina the twice-over.

“I didn’t think Ben had it in him,” she said finally. “You’re not bad.”

“Excuse me?” Nina said.

“Britta, behave,” David said.

“Don’t you people recognize a compliment when you hear one?” Britta said. She sidled up so close to Nina, she could practically rub against her, and her moves suggested she intended exactly that level of invasion. “Where you from?”

“Tahoe. But I’m spending the summer down here.”

“Doing what?”

“Just hanging around for a while.”

“How nice for you. So many of us work for a living.”

“What do you do?”

“I arrange expensive, exotic trips for lazy rich people at Carmel Valley Travel in the Village.”

“Interesting?”

“No, but it gets me out of the house. Once in a while, if the boss isn’t looking and a promotion is heavily discounted, I get to do a preview. Adventure travel. Now, that’s fun.” She paused and licked lasciviously at her glass, then looked at Nina appraisingly again, and said, “You cruise?”

Nina tried to smile, but failed. “No. No,” she said. “I get seasick. And what do you do?” she said to David Cowan. Before he could speak, his wife broke in.

“Oh, he rests on his laurels. You’ll find them down there on his butt.”

Debbie let out a nervous laugh.

David Cowan’s expression didn’t change. Nina picked up her wine and took a slug. He did the same. “Actually, I’m an astronomer,” he said mildly.

“Really.”

“With the Monterey Institute for Research in Astronomy.”

Paul had mentioned that. Smart and detached, Nina thought. “Oh,” she said. “I’ve heard of it.”

“His head’s in the clouds,” Britta said, laughing gaily. She put her arm around Nina’s shoulder. “Tell me, how is Ben?”

“He’s all right. He’s had trouble sleeping. He misses-”

Britta frowned. “No, no. Forget Danny. I mean, how is Ben? How is he in bed, you know? Do you and he actually do it? Because he’s so good-looking and he lives like a eunuch.” She leaned over and whispered into Nina’s ear. “I wondered if maybe he was a-”

“God, Britta,” David Cowan said, no inflection in his voice except maybe fatigue.

Britta’s arm dropped from Nina. Her eyes swept the yard. “Wonder what Sam’s up to over there with Darryl? Ooh. I see he’s got the bottle.” She whirled around and left them.

The three left behind each took another sip.