Dark Tort Part 6

When we arrived, Marla marched up the cement steps and rang the bell. Tom, Julian, and I followed her to the small red-painted landing. When no one came to the door, Marla pressed the buzzer again. Still there was no answer. She turned around and frowned at us, then tried again.

"Go away!" a voice shrieked: Sally Routt. She couldn't have been more than six feet from what I knew was a thin door. Yet we had heard no movement from within. "I don't want to talk to you anymore! I haven't got a lawyer, so you're just going to have to deal with it."

Marla raised her hands: Now what? Tom lifted his eyebrows at Julian.

I walked up next to the door. "Sally, it's us," I said in a low voice. "Goldy and Tom from across the street. And our friends Marla, from the church, and Julian Teller. We've brought some food for you. You can just take it, or you could let us in, if you like." After a beat I said, "Your father said it was okay for us to come over."

The stained, hollow door opened a crack. "Your husband, Tom, is a cop," Sally, still unseen, announced in a high, frightened voice. "I don't want any more cops in here. Suggesting my baby deserved to die." She erupted in a sob.

Suggesting what?

"Mrs. Routt, it's Julian Teller." Julian nodded confidently at me. "You know we loved Dusty." He hesitated respectfully. "But if you don't want us just yet, we can leave our trays here, then come back later for them. Or you could, you know, come over to Goldy's place-"

The door creaked open and Sally appeared. Short and slender, she was dressed in a graying sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. Her thin, frizzy light brown hair looked like a frayed broom. Her slender face, usually quite pale, was pink from crying. Her eyes were so swollen I didn't know how she could see out of them.

Without looking at our little party, she said, "I'm never leaving this house again. There's nothing out there for me."

With that, she departed, but she swung the door all the way open, which I took as an invitation. She could always tell us to leave, I reasoned, as we pushed our way into the small living room, with its bedspread-covered couch, flimsy coffee table, and mismatched chairs. I'd only been inside the Routts' place a few times, but it invariably depressed me. The church might have helped build and pay for the house, but they hadn't provided much in the furniture department.

Sally slumped on the couch and gazed at the floor. Julian placed his tray on the battered coffee table. I followed suit.

"Kitchen must be back here somewhere," Tom muttered. He swung past us around a short corner. There was a clattering of wood hitting counter-presumably Tom's suddenly putting the tray down-and then a guttural sobbing emanated from the same direction. But I knew this voice, too: it was John Routt.

Tom's comforting voice interspersed the deep groans and sobs. I felt confident Tom could handle Mr. Routt; it just would take a while. Meanwhile, Sally began to rock back and forth and wail. Before I could turn my attention to her, though, someone started banging on the front door. Sally rolled sideways on the couch and buried her face in a folded, incongruously cheery red-and-white-patterned quilt, no doubt brought by the deputies. After rubbing her cheeks and eyes with the quilt, she stopped crying momentarily. The pounding on the front door started up again, more loudly and insistently than before.

"I can't...take any more," Sally whispered to me. As she lay on the couch, her puffy eyes sought out mine. "Get rid of whoever that is, would you please, Goldy?"

I nodded. Marla and Julian, eager to be helpful, had been building blocks with Colin on the far side of the room. But the knocking had scared him, and he began to cry. He toddled over to his mother's side and threw himself on top of her legs. Sally reached out a limp arm and patted Colin's head.

What were neighbors supposed to do to be helpful in times like this? Just work on getting your friends through the next hour, an inner voice said. Failing that, attend to the next fifteen minutes.

I shouldn't have been surprised to see Vic Zaruski at the door. His face, like Sally's, was blotched, his expression stricken.

"What's going on?" he asked me. The humidity from the previous night's fog had made his head of straw-colored curls wild. "Why are you here?"

"Vic, you know we live across the street," I said gently. Behind me, Colin raised his crying a notch. "Look, it would help if you didn't bang on the door."

He looked in over my shoulder. "Where is everybody? Mrs. Routt? Her father? Colin?"

Get rid of them, Sally had said to me. But surely she would want to see her daughter's ex-boyfriend? Would it help to have him here? I hesitated. Julian appeared from behind me.

"The little guy hasn't had any breakfast," he announced. "I checked their refrigerator, and they don't have any eggs, juice, bread, b.u.t.ter, stuff like that. Mind if I get some goodies from your place? I'm not sure the kid would like that quiche, so I thought I'd make him French toast. I've got my own keys."

"Sure," I said, then turned my attention back to Vic. He had been so kind and helpful to me after I'd found Dusty. Still, I was uncertain about how to proceed. What if Sally, in the way of mothers of teenage daughters from the beginning of time, had not actually liked her daughter's boyfriend?

Stepping agilely around Vic, Julian trotted down the stairs. "Oh yeah, Goldy," he tossed over his shoulder. "You'd better check on Sally, see what she wants to do about...visitors."

"Stay here," I ordered Vic. I walked quickly back to Sally, who still lay on the couch, with a steadily weeping Colin leaning against her knees. "Vic's here," I said softly. "Do you want to see him, or should I tell him to come back later?"

Sally closed her eyes and shook her head. "He's a nice boy, but I'm not ready to see him."

Great. I leaned in to Colin. "Will you come into my arms, Colin?" I crooned. Colin shook his head steadfastly and gripped his mother's legs.

"Seems to me," Marla called from the opposite side of the room, "that Colin's auntie Marla has some chocolate candy deep in her purse!" She picked up her voluminous Louis Vuitton bag and began to rummage through it. Then she stopped and stared into it. "I know that candy bar is in here somewhere. If only I had Colin to help me look for it!"

Colin, suddenly alert, but still wary from not quite comprehending the source of the chaos around him, nevertheless unclasped his mother's legs. He ran toward Marla as fast as his short legs would take him. So much for a nutritious breakfast.

I turned and wiggled through the barely open front door, which I shut behind me. "Vic, look, you were so great and helpful last night. Could you come back later? They're all a mess in there-"

"I'm a mess." His voice was fierce. He turned away, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stared at his white Sebring convertible, its top still down in defiance of the gathering clouds and the cooling days. "I just...I can't..." He twisted his head and lifted his pointed chin. "So do the cops have any idea who did this?"

I exhaled. "I don't know, Vic. They just left here a short while ago. I had to go down to the department to answer their questions, just as you did. Did you see Dusty last night?"

He sank down on the red concrete landing and put his head in his hands. "No, no. I...hadn't seen her for a couple of weeks." He paused. Then his words came out in a sudden rush. "We were supposed to have lunch together today. She said she had something important to tell me. It's her birthday, too. But she told me not to get her anything." He ran his fingers through his wild hair. "Oh, G.o.d. If she just would have talked to me."

I ran my right sneaker across the Routts' dusty gray doormat, with its inscribed "Welcome" worn down to nubs. "Talked to you about what?"

He shook his head, despairing. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know."

"Did she get along with the people at the law firm?" I asked mildly, my voice low.

Vic jerked his head around and stared up at me. "Now what do you think, Goldy? I mean, look what's happened. It's just like at that stupid school. Elk Park Prep. Everybody else screws up, and Dusty gets blamed."

Everybody else screws up? I knew Dusty had become pregnant; I knew she'd been expelled. But who had screwed up? I asked calmly, "What are you talking about? Someone made a mistake and Dusty got blamed for what?"

Vic jumped up, dusted off the seat of his jeans, and pulled his keys out of one of his pockets. "I'm out of here. You want to know the details of Dusty's history, maybe Julian will tell you." He jumped down the stairs two at a time. "n.o.body wants me here, right? 'Could you come back later?'" He mimicked my voice so cannily that chills scurried down my back.

"Wait, Vic," I pleaded. "Why don't you go across the street to our house and wait for us? We'll be over in a little while. Julian just needs to get some supplies, and after he does some cooking, he can stay with you-"

"Forget it!" He jumped over the Sebring's driver-side door and landed in his seat with a whack. He shoved on a pair of dark gla.s.ses and revved the engine. "Could you come back later?" he aped again. He hooked a long arm over the pa.s.senger seat, twisted his head, and backed too fast out of the Routts' steep dirt driveway. The Sebring rocked and b.u.mped until it reached the street. Vic braked hard in the street and stared at me, all the goodwill from the previous night evaporated. Then he drove away.

Shaking my head, I watched Julian cross from our house. He was carrying two brown paper grocery bags.

"What was he yelling about?" Julian demanded. "He's just going to upset Mrs. Routt even more."

"I don't know." I frowned. "He wanted to come in, and she didn't want to see him yet. Vic helped me last night, when I ran away from the law firm and was desperate for a phone. He was very upset when he learned the news about Dusty. Maybe talking to the cops pushed him over the edge-"

Julian shifted the bags and started up the porch steps. In a low voice, he announced, "Word I heard was that he and Dusty had broken up recently."

"Yes, Dusty told me. She didn't tell me the reason, though."

"You know how ambitious she was. She must have been thinking, How far can a guy working his way through vocational school go? Can you open the door for me?"

"Sure." Was that really what Dusty had been thinking? I wondered.

Twenty minutes later, Colin was shoveling Julian-made, syrup-soaked squares of French toast into his mouth so fast I was afraid he would choke. Julian rolled his eyes at me as he stood guard over Colin's little table and waited to be told "More!" The dull yellow chair-within-a-table where Colin sat was a thick plastic square with a small seat cut out of the middle. It may have been the modern version of a high chair, but it was so scuffed and worn that I was willing to bet it had served at least four toddlers before it was given to the Routts.

Everything else in the kitchen, and in the house, looked second-, third-, or fourth-hand. In the living room, Sally still lay on the spread-covered couch. John Routt, whose elderly face always reminded me of an enormous piecrust that had spilled over the edges of its dish, tapped his way in with his cane, with Tom by his side. As usual, John Routt had his very thin white hair neatly combed back from his large forehead. He was wearing clean but extremely wrinkled clothing, including a large, formerly white shirt that hugged his copious belly. His much-washed black chinos had shrunk above his ankles.

He had composed himself somewhat, although his skin was still mottled and the area around his blue, sightless eyes was very red.

"Thank you for coming," John said. "You all have always been very kind."

"Oh, you're certainly welcome," I mumbled.

When I lowered myself onto one of the chairs, Sally sat up. She pressed her hands between her knees and stared down at them. Marla, murmuring rea.s.surances, sat next to her and put her arm around Sally's shoulders. It wasn't at all clear if Sally was listening to her. I looked around the living room. The low walls held no pictures. Ranged across the s.p.a.ce were an old portable TV on a dented pressed-wood console, a set of TV tables from the fifties, and a dinosaur-era computer on a seen-better-days card table.

After Colin had eaten, Julian and Marla and I all looked at one another: Now what? John Routt stood shakily, and seemed to be asking himself the same question as he swayed, sightless, chin held high, his right ear c.o.c.ked, waiting for a cue.

"Sarah?" his low, brittle voice inquired. "Where are you, dear?"

"Here, Dad." Sally rose and gently led him to the couch. Marla hastily stood as the old man felt his way into a sitting position. He set his cane onto the floor. When Sally sat down beside him, he put his right arm around his daughter's shoulders.

I looked up at Marla, who shrugged. Tom said, "The food is all in the refrigerator, and I wrote out directions on how it should be heated up."

"That's very kind of you, Tom," John said, his voice rusty.

Julian tipped his head toward the door, as in We should split. But I couldn't just yet. I had to say something to the Routts, offer to help, to ask if I could do something practical besides just saying, "If there's anything I can do..." I'd heard that sorry phrase enough at funerals, when it was offered to the bereaved as an exit line. To me it always meant "Don't bug me."

"I'd like to bring in your meals this week," I announced to Sally. "I can call St. Luke's, too, if you want, to ask, uh, Bishop Sutherland to come over, help you with the arrangements..." I stopped talking when Sally raised her head and gave me a sour look.

Sally snorted. "Please don't insult me, Goldy. After Father Pete had his heart attack and that guy came in, I went to see him. Just to say hi, introduce myself. He asked if I was there for money. Before I could reply, he asked if I'd availed myself of the job-search services available through the county. I said no, because I had a three-year-old and a blind father to care for. I was so embarra.s.sed, and I so wished I'd never stopped by. But it got worse. He sat there wearing his expensive, hand-tailored clothes-believe me, I can recognize fancy garments, even if I don't wear them-and said our house had been paid for by the church, and he didn't have the authority to give us any more funds. Goldy, I wasn't there for money. But I was so taken aback, I just shook my head. My voice wouldn't work, so I turned around and left his office. Later, of course, I thought I should have said, 'Nice to meet you, too!'"

My brain muttered, G.o.d help us. "I, uh, I'm sorry-"

"You see, Goldy," Sally said, her voice suddenly fierce, "that's what you don't understand." She lifted her chin, and her thin face quivered. "I know you're married to a cop, and Tom, I know you're a good man. Julian, thanks also for your help." She took a deep breath. "But as far as the rest of the world goes? We're trash. I learned that when my dear-" Her voice cracked. "When my sweet son Edgar died in custody, who cared? n.o.body, except us. I learned it again when Dusty was going to Elk Park Prep. One of her teachers gets her pregnant, and whose fault is that? Who gets kicked out? Not the teacher! He claimed she was lying, but she wasn't."

One of her teachers got her pregnant? Now this was a part of the Elk Park saga that I had not heard. "I-I'm sorry." I faltered. "I didn't know-"

Sally's voice didn't drip with sarcasm, it was a veritable waterfall of sarcasm. "Oh yes, the cops are going to find Dusty's killer. Just like they found Edgar's. The cops will find out what happened!" She rubbed her forehead with stiffened fingers. "Like h.e.l.l."

I said firmly, "You know our phone number-"

Sally shook her head. She stood up, as if to usher us out. Tom, Marla, and Julian responded with alacrity, hustling to the front door. Colin, sensing that another dramatic change was taking place, began to whine to be let out of his chair. But my feet were glued to the living room's thin, faded rug.

"We'll wait for you outside," Julian announced as he held the door open for Marla and Tom.

"Sally," I repeated, my voice hopeless, "I just feel so awful-"

Sally kept rubbing her forehead, her face down. "How did my baby look?" she whispered. "Did she look as if she suffered?"

I thought of Dusty's bloodied forehead, of her darkened cheek, of the broken gla.s.s of the picture frames. Her neck had been very red, too red, when I was doing CPR. Had she been strangled? I remembered from Med Wives 101 that it took four minutes for the brain to be deprived of enough oxygen to die. Four minutes of having someone's hands grasping your throat so tightly that you can't breathe. Four minutes of struggling with a choker's deadly grip. Four minutes of being swung around an office, getting your face smashed into gla.s.s and your legs and torso whacked mercilessly into desks and furniture. Four minutes.

"No," Sally interjected. "Don't tell me, I don't want to hear about it. I want to imagine her the way she was. Trying to grow up. Trying to get ahead in the world." Sally's bloated eyes sought mine. "But you know what? The world didn't want her. When she was down, that's what she'd say. 'The world's against me, Mom,' she'd say. And then she'd start over on some new project. Some new job. Some new boyfriend." Sally exhaled again in disgust. "And for what? For nothing."

"Oh, Sally."

Sally put her hand on her hip. "I don't need meals, Goldy. What I need is for you to find out what happened to my baby."

"What?"

"I read the paper. I know you help Tom sometimes."

"Well, I...the police are-"

"You really think they're going to help the welfare people? The way Bishop Sutherland did, for example? Please. That law firm was a nest of vermin. Vermin, all of them. Dusty knew it. Something was going on, I'm sure of it. I know my...I knew my daughter. The past month, she'd been acting really secretive. Something was going on, and that's what got her killed."

"Did you tell the detectives this?"

Sally's laugh was shrill. "No, Goldy, I didn't tell the detectives this, because then the next thing you know, they'll start spreading rumors about Dusty, and who she was going out with, and what she was up to, and then oops! All of a sudden some dark facts will come out. They tried to say my son Edgar was a violent drunk. Goldy"-her eyes implored me-"he was a kid. And I don't want to be hearing that my daughter did this or that, she was involved with so-and-so. And by the way, wasn't she expelled from Elk Park Prep, and oh yeah, didn't she use her wiles to try to break up the marriage of one of her teachers? And on and on, until in the minds of the public, she deserved to die."

I sighed, unable to think of anything to say. She was right. I'd seen it again and again. A low-income person without power is blamed for a crime and goes to jail on scanty evidence. A wealthy person who's guilty as h.e.l.l impugns the job the police are doing, impugns the victim, impugns whoever's around, and gets away with rape...or murder.

"You want to help us?" Sally asked, her voice both defiant and pleading. "Then help. I'm not saying you're a bad cook. We think you're a great cook. But if you really want to help me? Find out what was-what is going on in that sc.u.mbag law firm. Then you'll be able to tell us who killed my baby girl."

I looked her in the eye and licked my lips.

"Please," she begged me. "Please find out what happened to my baby."

I nodded. I thought, What the h.e.l.l am I doing? But I said, "Okay, Sally."

As I walked carefully back across the street, I again saw Dusty's lifeless body. I remembered her eager expression as she learned to cook. I recalled how disappointed she'd been when one of her own cakes had fallen. I remembered how her face had lit up when I found her the vintage Calvin Klein suit.

I thought of the birthday cake I'd made her.

And then I remembered a joke Marla had told me when I'd started working at Hanrahan & Jule.

Q: Who's the only kind, courteous person at a law-a.s.sociation breakfast?

A: The caterer.

Well, I thought as I entered our house. Not anymore.

CHAPTER 6.

Our kitchen clock said it was just eleven, aka back-to-reality time. Or at least, that's what I tried to tell myself. I stared at the phone. What did I need to do? Oh yes, call Nora Ellis to see if she still wanted to throw a birthday party for hubbie Donald the next day.

She wasn't there, so I left a message. Even if the sky falls in, never a.s.sume a client will cancel a party, Andre, my mentor had told me. Feeling numb, I moved mechanically over to my computer to check the prep schedule for my three upcoming events: the party, the christening, and the ribbon cutting for the new Mountain Pastoral Center. That last was supposedly going to be held at my catering and conference center, the Roundhouse. The plumbers had a.s.sured me they would be done by then. I had too much on my mind to call them for the fifteenth time and bug them.

In the hallway, Tom, Julian, and Marla were talking in low tones about Dusty's friends, who should be called, who else in the church could bring in meals and run errands for the Routts. I should have been helping them. But somehow talking about the Routts, after all I'd been through during the last eighteen hours, was more than I could handle at the moment. I walked into the kitchen.

Nora had handed me the recipe for the birthday cake she wanted for her husband. It was from one of Charlie Baker's last paintings, she said, The Cake Series II. She'd bought the painting for Donald and was giving it to him for his present. Charlie's recipe, Nora claimed, was an historically accurate version of Journey Cake, a confection the pioneers had baked on a board and eaten as they journeyed across America in their covered wagons. Actually, what Nora had given me was just a list of ingredients, which was all that my good old pal Charlie Baker, for whom I'd catered and with whom I'd cooked for the St. Luke's bazaar, had ever put at the bottom of his paintings. I made myself a latte and remembered Nora's happy expression when I said I was an old hand at Journey Cake, also known as Johnny Cake.