Adjusted to Death Read online

  “Consider it mentioned,” he said. Was this a polite refusal? I poured the tea, and we sipped quietly for a while.

  “How’d you like to visit Valerie’s ashram with me Monday night, for dinner and a video of Guru Illumananda?” I asked, as if this were an everyday event.

  A groan slipped from his lips, but he added quickly, “With you, a delight. The occasion?”

  “She invited me—us, actually. She said she needs to explain something to me. All very mysterious.”

  Wayne’s face and posture stiffened. “Scott?” he asked in a low growl.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Damn it, I should be taking the risk, not you,” he said, his voice filled with the tension of yet more unexpressed feelings. “It’s my responsibility. You could be hurt.”

  “I understand the danger,” I answered curtly, thinking of the invasion of my house. “That’s one reason I invited you. But it’s up to me to decide what risks I’m going to take or not take.”

  In that moment of assertion, I realized why I hadn’t told him about the trespasser. My own fear and confusion were enough. Someone else’s panic and warnings could become unbearable on top of it. Wayne’s eyes had disappeared under his low brows. I sat glaring in his direction. A gust of wind rattled the kitchen door.

  “Lay off the paternalism?” he essayed in a lighter tone.

  “Right,” I answered softly.

  Gradually we both softened into renewed smiles. I poured another cup of tea for each of us.

  “Any thoughts on who killed Scott?” I asked. Might as well get down to cases.

  “Police think I did. They can’t understand why a grown man would take care of another one for so long. Sometimes, I can’t either.”

  “But you didn’t kill him?” I needed to hear him say it.

  “I didn’t kill Scott,” he said firmly. At that moment, looking into his liquid brown eyes, I believed him absolutely. But then what was my judgment worth? The judgment of a woman who had failed to notice her own husband’s infidelity. I was still stinging from that one.

  “Can’t see who else would want to, myself,” he continued. “In the past, maybe. Scott had lots of enemies. Other dealers whose profits he cut into. But he was already getting out of that business when he hired me in seventy-six. I wouldn’t have worked for him otherwise.” He paused and stared out the door into the rain. “This murder came out of nowhere, or maybe the past.”

  A Halloween ghost fluttered up from a tombstone in my mind. The cartoon quality of this mental image made it no less frightening. I shivered and sipped my tea to warm myself.

  Wayne shifted in his chair as if the ghost had visited him as well. “Really came to ask you to dinner tonight. Been attempting a dairyless lasagna. Never used soy cheese before, but it seems to work. I’d like you to try it,” he said.

  It took me a moment to shift gears. I gave my head a little shake, looked into his battered face and accepted. He asked if he could come by and take me to his house at six o’clock.

  “I’ll leave you to your work,” he said once I had agreed, and left without another word.

  I went back to the refuge of my bookkeeping, working mindlessly until I needed an accounts payable file.

  I walked to my file cabinet, opened a drawer, and saw the hidden work of the trespasser. My files had been completely reorganized. I always arranged my color-coded file folders by subject matter. My own personal system. The invader’s method had been less sophisticated. All the folders had been rearranged in strict alphabetical order. I quickly opened the remaining three drawers in that file cabinet and then the drawers in my other two cabinets. All had been similarly violated. Anger and fear welled up in me. My legs and hands began to shake once more and my mind floated into free-style panic. Herbs, I need herbs, I told myself, and headed out into the storm.

  Once I reached the health food store, I grabbed a basket and swept through the wet Saturday crowd, ignoring the gustatory lure of barbecue-flavored brown rice crackers and teriyaki tofu balls. I went straight to the herbal remedy section, all the while refusing to consider the invasion of my home. A bit of valerian to relax the muscles? I felt the tightness in my shoulders and filled a small bag with the acrid-smelling herb. Some NatuRest so I could sleep that night? I got a bottle of ninety capsules. A little chamomile tea? I added it to my basket. And a bottle of Calms. Passion Flower, oat, hops… Ought to do the trick. I got in line and avoided thought.

  Lines were always long on a Saturday. Customers holding bottles of freshly squeezed carrot juice, tiny plastic cups of wheat grass, tofu chocolate bars, blue corn chips and vitamins, awaited their turn patiently as Paul Simon’s “Graceland” played on the sound system. The couple in front of me were talking about how they had adopted a turkey for Thanksgiving instead of killing one. I wondered what they’d do with it when it arrived. Keep it in their backyard? their living room? Send it to a turkey kennel?

  Finally it was my turn. The cashier was an unnaturally tan and muscular young man who added up my purchases with a look of disdain.

  “That’ll be thirty-three forty-five, lady,” he said. “Why don’t you just forget all this crap and buy yourself a bottle of whiskey? It’d sure be cheaper.”

  - Twelve -

  I came home, cold and wet, and washed down two Calms with some chamomile tea. Then I sat down on the floor next to the blast of the heater vent, waiting to calm down as advertised. After fifteen minutes I had come to the conclusion that there was at least one great difference between whiskey and herbal relaxants. Whiskey worked.

  I watched the rain in my yard for a while, then decided to run the risk of disturbing my friend Barbara’s vacation in Maui with a telephone call. I rationalized that if she was in her room, she wouldn’t be actively vacationing anyway. And if she wasn’t in, I wouldn’t be able to reach her. Amazingly, she answered the telephone on the first ring. Not so amazing actually, when you consider that she is a practicing psychic.

  “Hiya, kiddo, I’ve been waiting for you to call,” she said cheerfully.

  I sighed audibly. I should have known she’d be waiting. I had never been able to figure out whether Barbara was really psychic or not, but her ability to foresee my actions always irked as well as fascinated me.

  “I suppose you know why I called, too,” I said.

  “Not exactly. But I get vibes that you’ve been touched by death again, and perhaps, love?”

  My face got hot. “Did Felix call you?” I asked in an accusatory tone.

  Her laughter floated over the line. “Okay, I talked to my sweetie.” Then her tone deepened. “But seriously, I’ve been concerned. I’ve consulted my spirit guides and I don’t get any mortal danger for you. But I see confusion and fear everywhere. Tell me about it.”

  I did, at great length and long-distance cost. I described the day of Scott Younger’s death. I reviewed the suspects. Valerie’s record and her dinner invitation. Maggie and Eileen. Renee’s relationship to Scott, and her hostility. Devi and Tanya and Ted. And, finally, Wayne.

  “But what about Scott Younger?” she asked when I had finished. “You’ve told me he was a former drug dealer and a patron of the arts. He was cold, rich and reclusive, but what else? You haven’t really told me who he was.”

  “I guess I don’t know who he was,” I said slowly.

  “Ah, my dear Watson,” she said. “That is exactly the point. Find out.”

  I considered her words silently as the charges for my phone call mounted up. I could ask Wayne. He probably knew.

  “That’s right,” Barbara responded to my unspoken thought.

  “Stop that!” I said. Apparently, long distance didn’t crimp her intuitive powers any.

  “Wayne is your best source,” she prodded. “For lots of things,” she added with a lascivious chuckle.

  “Is this channeled advice?”

  Her laughter came over the line again. “No, it’s culled from all of the mysteries I’ve been reading while I lie on the be
ach sunning myself.”

  I sighed again, this time with envy.

  After hanging up, I found myself centered enough to report the break-in to the Sheriff’s Department. I don’t know if it was Barbara, or the combination of chamomile and Calms, that had relaxed me. I was thankful that due to my residence in one of the many unincorporated sections of Mill Valley, my troubles came under the jurisdiction of the County Sheriff’s Department instead of the Mill Valley police. I certainly didn’t want to talk to Detective Sergeant Udel again unless I had to.

  The switchboard operator told me someone would visit me in the next two hours. I did forty-five minutes of distracted bill-paying before they showed up.

  The two uniformed sheriff’s deputies who came through my door were young, white, wet, mustachioed, and interchangeable. They refused to sit down, but nodded with simultaneous sympathy while I told my story. The effect was therapeutic, bordering on hypnotic. Once I had finished, the two men cleared their throats in concert.

  “Anything stolen, ma’am?” asked the one on the left.

  “Taken from the house,” clarified the one on the right.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “But I know someone was here.”

  “We’ll file a report,” offered the one on the left.

  “Talk to the neighbors,” said the other.

  “Take a look around,” continued the first.

  “Anything else you’d like to tell us?” asked the second.

  I shook my head.

  “Call us if you find anything missing,” said the first.

  They chorused their thank you’s and clattered back down the stairs into the rain. They were certainly efficient. The visit had taken less than ten minutes. No plaster casts of footprints. No fiber samples. No fingerprints. At least I wouldn’t have to clean up fingerprint powder.

  I spent the next hour in a flurry of manic energy, putting my file folders back into color-coded order. I yanked the files from the cabinets and shoved them back in roughly. I slammed drawers and cursed. I trashed outdated files mercilessly. By the time I finished, I felt back in control. By God, I could shove files around!

  My illusion of control wavered when I realized I had only fifteen minutes to prepare for Wayne’s arrival. I stripped off my clothing and gazed critically at my A-line form in the mirror. My mother’s voice told me to wear clean underwear—in case of accident. I chose my newest, brightest, flowered bikinis, a lavender bra with lace cutouts, and lavender socks. In case of love? Then I buried all that frivolity under a purple turtleneck sweater, black corduroys and rain boots.

  Breathing deeply, I went to the cedar chest by the bed and drew out a condom. The doorbell rang. I sprinted to the front hall, after throwing the condom into my purse. It seemed to glow through the black leather as I opened the door.

  At the sight of Wayne dripping on my doorstep, I began to babble. “What can I bring? Some fruit juice? Sparkling water? Bread?” My heart thumped erratically. A combination of lust and fear.

  “Just yourself,” he answered. He lowered his eyes as he spoke. His deep voice seemed filled with sexual promise, but I told myself it was probably my imagination, fueled by the radioactive condom in my purse. Maybe that explained my dizziness and the heat spreading through my body.

  Once inside the luxury of the Jaguar’s belly, I calmed myself down by deep breathing. Wayne and I spoke sparingly, and only of food, while he guided the purring beast through rainy streets, and finally up a twisting road that ended at a set of black wrought-iron gates in the hills of Tiburon.

  It was cold, dark, and isolated there. The only light came from a small sentry box by the gates. Wayne excused himself and stepped from the car into the sentry box, letting the chill of the evening into the Jaguar. The black gates opened magically as he got back in the car. We drove up a graveled driveway and parked in a three-car garage near the top of the hill.

  A dimly lit, covered walkway led us to the house. It was made of curved slats of wood which ambled mysteriously around soft corners until we reached a door. Wayne unlocked a small box on the door and tapped in a series of numbers. The front door opened and bright lights came on to guide us into the house.

  The room we entered was immense and blindingly white after the darkness outdoors. When my eyes had adjusted, I saw that it was contained by chalk-white brick and plaster walls, large windows dark against the night sky, hardwood floors, and redwood beams that peaked at twenty-five feet. It was furnished in minimalist style. Three white sofas, two ice-blue glass-topped tables, and a few silvery grey rugs didn’t come near to filling the void. There were six randomly spaced lighted recesses in the walls, for paintings and ceramics. A grey-toned painting depicting a lone fetal figure on the floor in an empty house seemed at home in the room. The brighter works did not.

  “I never liked this room,” said Wayne. “Reminds me of an empty ice-skating rink. Impossible to keep warm.” I jumped at the sound of his voice. Lost in the large room, I had almost forgotten that he was standing by me.

  “Take you to the kitchen, my territory,” he said, and gestured across the hall.

  The kitchen greeted us with warmth and tantalizing whiffs of garlic, tomatoes, yeast and herbs. The walls of white plaster were saved from sterility by wooden cabinets, and cinnamon-and biscuit-colored tiling on the floor and work areas. Plants, baskets and cookbooks sat on top of the cabinets and filled the shelves. A small wooden table sat in the center of the kitchen, topped by a vase of gladioli. The pinks, salmons and whites of the flowers matched the colors in the place mats and cloth seats of the two matching wooden chairs. The contents of the recessed niches here (terra-cotta animals, copper cooking utensils, living herbs and a painting of an avocado with one slice removed) filled the room with life.

  “Have a seat while I turn on the oven, then I’ll show you the rest of the house,” he suggested. “If you’re interested,” he added uncertainly.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, too loudly for my own ears. The living room had had the effect of a cathedral on me, compelling quiet and hushed whispers only. I let out the breath I had been holding and breathed in the warm kitchen smells. “Did you cook for Scott as well as yourself?” I asked in a softer voice. I looked up into his eyes, just visible under his brows.

  “Yes. I’ve done the cooking for years. Last few months, developing tastier recipes for Scott. Try and get him interested in food again. But he’d hardly eat, anyway.” Wayne’s voice had become barely audible. He opened the oven, peered in, and continued in a lighter tone. “But I could always get him with sweets. He couldn’t resist my apple crisp.” He smiled momentarily, then the light left his eyes as he returned to the present.

  “You should move away from this house,” I said emphatically. At least it was my mouth that said it. I certainly hadn’t consciously planned on butting in.

  “Probably right,” he replied, pausing with his hand on the oven door. He thought for a moment, then turned on the oven, set a timer and pulled a salad out of the refrigerator. “Scott’s house really. Not mine.”

  “You have your own room, don’t you?” I asked. For a moment when he had spoken of Scott I had wondered if they had been lovers after all.

  “My own suite. Show you if you’d like. But first, this floor.” He smiled and waved me out of the kitchen.

  He escorted me first to a stark, formal dining room furnished with nothing but a long, icy, glass-topped table and six grey modern highback chairs. I was relieved when he told me we could eat in the kitchen.

  He pointed out the doors to the guest bathrooms, then led the way to a library, where built-in bookshelves occupied two of the white plaster walls. One wall, Scott’s, held a tastefully arranged selection of volumes on art and music. Wayne’s wall was stuffed with fiction, and a smattering of metaphysics, law and psychology. A piano sat in the center of the room.

  “Do you play?” I asked Wayne.

  He shook his head sadly. “Scott used to.”

  A room filled wi
th video games, exercise equipment and one lone pinball machine (Four Square, one of my favorite Gottlieb machines) was next. I was impressed, but not half so impressed as I was by the indoor spa. I’d never seen anything like it, outside of Hearst castle.

  In the spa, a good-sized swimming pool shimmered, a hot tub steamed and doors lead offstage to a sauna and dressing rooms. The echoing sound of the pool water lapping inside harmonized with the drumming of the rain outside. The walls of the room were also white plaster, but with scattered, odd geometrically shaped windows that looked as if they had been tossed into the walls. This, along with a series of blue lights and the blue of the water, gave the room a whimsical, fairy-tale feeling. I knelt down and put my hand in the water of the pool. It was heated.

  “Go for a swim if you’d like,” offered Wayne, his eyes lowered.

  I hesitated. I hadn’t brought a suit.

  “Couple of suits in the dressing room, and a robe,” he said. “It’s up to you. Dinner will be another forty-five minutes at least. You can see the rest of the house later.” God, I thought, we hadn’t even seen the whole house.

  “A heated pool in November?” I said in awe. “How can I refuse?”

  I found two swimming suits as promised in the dressing room. Both were modest one-pieces, the first black with trailing lilac flowers, the other simply lilac. I chose the black. Doesn’t black slim the hips? I removed my own clothing and pulled on the suit, feeling something scratch as I did. There was still an inspection sticker on it, although the price tag had been removed. I sat down on the plaster bench with a sudden slap of bare thighs. This suit was new. Wayne had probably bought it especially for me, as well as the lilac one and the robe.

  I couldn’t remember anyone ever doing something quite like that for me. Certainly not Craig. And the dinner. How much time had Wayne put into preparation? The flowers, the dinner at his restaurant. My legs felt weak. I was touched, but frightened at the same time. How badly could I hurt him? How badly could he hurt me?

  Then I switched to the “I wouldn’t want to join a club that would have me” mode. Why was he trying so hard? What was wrong with him? Was he trying to use me to replace Scott in his life? Or was Maggie right? Had he fallen irrevocably in love with me? I couldn’t believe that. But still… I pulled the suit all the way up, threw the robe over my shoulders and came out of the dressing room, feeling like an attractive woman.