Death By The Riverside Part 7

"Go ahead, make my day," I replied. She dropped him in the water. The first boy was climbing out and complaining about my using his blazer for the kitten. I put my foot on his shoulder and pushed him back in. Both boys made satisfying splashes.

Cordelia and I grinned at each other. Kitten rescuers extraordinaire.

She was wearing old faded blue jeans, an off-white sweater a few sizes too big, and a beat-up brown leather jacket. I am very rarely in the company of straight women who are dressed, shall we say, more comfortably than I am. She wore no makeup and had large hands and feet, somehow reminding me of a lion with its huge paws. When she walked she had a quality of stepping with a surefootedness most people, particularly women used to high heels, don't have. It was the grace of a lion padding along her jungle path.

"Hey, give me my jacket back," one of the boys yelled as we started to walk away.

"Wait a second, this bag holds everything," Cordelia said. She started rummaging around in the gray duffel bag she was carrying.

With a triumphant "aha" she pulled out a pair of gi pants. I bowed the proper bow to show her that I knew that they were karate pants and I threw the jacket down. I almost threw it in the water, but I figured the kid might need something dry to wear.

"Don't be too impressed," she said as we transferred the kitten, "I've only been doing it about four months."

"What style?" I asked.

"Gogu. You?"

"Shotokan."

"How long?" she asked.

"Eight years. We should spar sometime."

"Haven't we already?" she said in a manner that Jane Austen would have described as arch.

"Touche. Speaking of which, how's Karen?"

"Spitting nails. At small children." I laughed, because it was * 52 *

something that I could see Karen doing. "Can I carry the kitten for a while?" she asked.

I handed him over. He let out a breathy mew at being moved, but he didn't seem to mind too much. Cordelia pulled her jacket around him. He was a little marmalade cat with big green eyes.

"Do you want her?" she asked.

"No, I've already got one cat too many."

"How many do you have?"

"One."

"Oh. Good. I'd like to keep her. I've been thinking about getting a cat. Maybe I should name her 'Fountain,' since that's how I got her."

"How about 'Drowned Cat'? That seems more appropriate."

"I'll work on it."

We walked on, a companionable silence marked by purring from the unnamed kitten.

"Who are you?" she suddenly said. I looked at her. d.a.m.n, she was a little taller than I was. "First I thought you were one of those hustlers that Karen plays with. But you weren't after money. Now I find you saving kittens from wanton boys, dressed like a professional.

Explain."

"Twenty-five words or less?"

"Thirty or even more, if you need. To start with, what about the standard boring question, what do you do?"

"As little as possible." That was my standard answer.

"In a gray suit and black heels?"

"Temp work."

"Temp work?" She sounded disappointed. "Somehow, I never pictured you as an office temp. Aren't you in the wrong city if you want to be an actress?"

"I don't want to be an actress. I want to be what I am," I countered.

"Which is?" Cordelia had a manner that was more no-nonsense than blunt. I actually liked it; I just didn't like all her questions. I'm used to being the one doing the asking. For some reason it nagged me to let her think that I was a lowly office temp. Usually, the more misinformed people are about me, the more I like it. Once, for six months, I let Aunt Greta think that I was on welfare. I pulled out my license and showed it to Cordelia.

* 53 *

"A private investigator?" She still didn't sound very impressed.

"Do you earn any money at it?"

"Of course," I answered, incredulous that she could doubt it.

"So why are you working as an office temp?" So that was what she thought. As this was the one time my word processing skills were actually connected to my work as a private investigator, I didn't want her to think otherwise.

"I'm investigating the company," I answered.

"Investigating for what?"

"That's confidential." She looked dubious. And I had run out of impressive things to tell her about myself. I suppose if I had been her I would have been dubious too.

"Isn't it kind of...tawdry?" she asked. "Snooping around for dirt on one person to be used by another person."

"Sometimes, yes." I couldn't deny it. "But I try to pick and choose my cases."

"Try to?"

"Yes, try to. There's rent to pay, cat food to buy."

"Slave to money," she muttered.

"Some of us weren't born rich," I countered. "I have to work for a living," I added with emphasis on have to.

"Funny, someone just said that exact same thing to me. She was a prost.i.tute."

"Meaning?"

"If we want to, we can find an excuse for anything. You do what you want to do, so you justify it by 'trying to pick' your cases."

"Look, one of the things people pay me for is privacy, so I can't and won't trot out the cases that I've done for your approval. But I'll bet I do more good than you do." I stopped walking, forcing her to stop and face me.

"Think so? Why don't you come down to Charity Hospital some time and put your good against mine?"

That shut me up. I was p.i.s.sed, at both of us. I had walked into that one. Of course, she would be some nurse or doctor to outrank me on the do-gooder scale. But I had been the one to suggest ranking us.

However, I bet she had no problem paying her bills. We stood silently glaring at each other. The kitten mewed.

* 54 *

"He's hungry," I said. I wanted to say, How dare you judge me?

You've lived your life under the umbrella of Holloway money. I wore hand-me-downs and haven't stopped working since fifth grade when I had two paper routes. But there was no point in it. We didn't want to understand, only to score points.

"Yes, she is," she answered.

"She?" I questioned, just to put a hole in her surety.

"Yes, she. I looked."

I shrugged to show that it wasn't important. I turned back down the way we came.

"I've got to get going," I lied. "Thanks for the sparring match," I added as I was walking away. I walked a few more yards, then couldn't stop myself from glancing back. I caught sight of her disappearing around a bend in the path. The victorious lioness with her kitten.

These shoes were hurting my feet. It was time to go home and change.

When I got there, I kicked off my shoes and flung my gray suit in a heap on the floor. Hepplewhite, mistaking it for a new bed made just for her, snuggled in. I left her, even though I knew this was a dry-cleaning bill I couldn't afford. I poured myself a drink and began listening to Beethoven's Ninth. I put on headphones, turned the volume up, and sat thinking of things that I could have said. Beethoven's Ninth is one of my favorite pieces of music and I don't listen to it very often. I don't ever want to get tired of it. It is a refuge, a place of solace. Soon, I stopped thinking and started listening to the music. I sat for a while even after it was over. When I finally got up, I noticed the light on my answering machine.

It was Danny.

"Kant's categorical imperative," was her message.

"d.a.m.n it, Danny, I've tried to call you," I said to the machine. Not very hard, my little voice answered.

Kant's second formulation of the categorical imperative, which is what I a.s.sume she was referring to, is, basically, to see people, including oneself, only as an end in themselves, never as the means to an end. Danny was hinting ever so subtly that I was coming up short in the means versus ends department, at least as far as our friendship was concerned. Perhaps there was a bit of truth in this. But not a truth * 55 *

I cared to ponder upon at the moment. I decided that I was out and didn't get in until late and that I would deal with Danny's phone call tomorrow.

By the time I called her on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, she wasn't there.

At first, I thought I had called the wrong number because the voice on the answering machine wasn't hers. It was Elly's. I hadn't realized that they had been living together long enough to be changing not just messages but voices on their machine. It also made me realize that any message I left for Danny would not be private.

"Hi, Danny, this is Michele. I called your office earlier, but you were out of town. Which formulation of the categorical imperative?"

was the message that I left. I did owe her an apology, and I would give her one when I could talk to her personally. Perhaps Cordelia was right, perhaps we can find an excuse for anything.

* 56 *

CHAPTER 9.

It was Monday morning again. But this was the last Monday morning that I would have to deal with bright and early, at least for a while.

Barbara and I had lunch together. She told me stories of Patrick's play, with its missed cues and tottering scenery. Sat.u.r.day had been spent watching Cissy's (Melissa's, formally) Little League team play.

She made it sound like fun to be a single mom and have two kids.

My "This evening?" and her "Sure, why not?" were the only discussion we had about breaking into the locked file drawer.

The afternoon dragged slowly by. I wanted to go on an adventure, do something right, and impress at least one of the women in my life.

At last, four-fifty-one arrived and we were in the copy room by ourselves. I crumpled up a piece of paper, then ran it through the machine. It ate the paper and got indigestion.

"Oh, dear, the copy machine's broken," I said. Barbara started to giggle, then put her hand over her mouth to stop herself.

"Oh, that's too bad," she said, in an exaggerated Southern accent.

I started to laugh. Then forced myself not to. Our hands touched and we looked at each other for a moment. I thought about kissing her, but I backed away. Barbara was possibly going to be a very good friend. A much better friend than lover. I wanted to keep her around for a while, something I hadn't been very good about doing with lovers. So I backed away. I think she caught it, but she didn't say anything.

We waited until there were no more people sounds from the office.

Barbara took a quick look around just to make sure. Then we headed to the file room. She punched in the combination. We didn't turn on the * 57 *

light, since there were two windows out to the street; instead we used a flashlight. I wanted to do this quickly and get out of here.

I crouched down next to the file drawer, and Barbara held the flashlight on the lock. It took me a couple of minutes of fumbling before I could get the lock open. No alarms went off when it finally gave way.

A good sign. We'd be out of here in five minutes.

I slowly slid the drawer open. There was a flicker of red light, then it was gone. s.h.i.t. A bad sign. We had tripped some electronic eye.

"Get out of here," I said to Barbara. Better they find me than her.

I grabbed the top notebook out of the drawer, stood up, and kicked the drawer shut.

"But hadn't you better re-lock it?" Barbara asked.

"No, they already know." Her eyes widened. "Electric eye," I explained as we left the room. "Now, go, get out of here."