Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 5

"That's extraordinary. What is the house worth?"

"According to the most recent tax appraisal, nearly six hundred thousand, but most of that's come from appreciation and renovation. Destiny bought it twelve years ago for a hundred and fifty thousand."

"Her car?"

"She drives a late-model Maxima. The t.i.tle must be free and clear. Again, no debt shows up."

"Fascinating," Carolyn said softly.

"You can stop worrying about blackmail. She seems to have enough money."

"What about her personal habits? I a.s.sume you've had a chance to follow her."

I gave a terse recital from memory. "She's at work by eight and rarely leaves for lunch. She stays late, until seven at least. Most evenings, she stops at a gym on Fourth and Broadway and spends about forty-five minutes. Afterward, she picks up dinner, usually at Whole Foods or a Mexican restaurant. At the Lesbian Community Center, she seems to be in the middle of a big project, something to do with outreach to teenagers, but you probably know that."

After a long pause, Carolyn said in a low voice, "Does she have someone special in her life?"

I had done so well, kicked into autopilot, as if discussing a stranger. Now, I had to pause and debate. I knew the safe answer, the words Fran had coached into my subconscious, but I longed to scream the truth, oblivious to shock or consequences.

Instead, I erased myself. "I'm not aware or anyone."

Good," Carolyn said flatly. "I have a tip for you."

I swallowed hard. "Okay."

"I believe Destiny will be at an event at the Botanic Gardens on Thursday night. I suggest you attend as well. I'll leave a ticket in your name at the front gate. The setting should give you the perfect opportunity to watch her. Should you, perchance, see me as well, don't approach."

"What's the event?"

"A fund-raiser for Urban Teens, a program for homeless youth."

"How does that involve you?"

Borrowing the tone of a kindergarten teacher, Carolyn said, "Most homeless teenagers have dropped out of school. Through Urban Teens, we can contact them and encourage them to attend one of our alternative high schools."

"How does the Lesbian Community Center tie in to Urban Teens?"

"It doesn't, but studies have shown that a high percentage of runaways identify as gay or lesbian. I'll introduce Destiny Greaves to influential community leaders. If she can leverage these connections, they'll lead to further alliances, which should satisfy her agenda. And mine."

"Her agenda?"

"You should have uncovered this by now. The young woman is on a mission to save every gay and lesbian teen from the trauma of coming out. A quaint, but naive, pursuit, wouldn't you agree?"

"Mm," I said indifferently.

"I suppose, though, her ardor is part of what excites me," Carolyn said slowly, choosing each word as if she had to pay for it. "Her boundless zest and enthusiasm, her commitment. She is committed, isn't she?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Then you must not be astute. Everyone I've spoken to remarks on her dedication. I must say, that's a turn-on, too."

"About Thursday-" I said abruptly.

I never finished the sentence, because Carolyn O'Keefe had disconnected. She'd a.s.sumed, without confirmation, that I'd follow her marching orders.

If she hadn't cut me off mid-sentence, she would have heard me say, "I can't make it Thursday."

I'd made plans with Destiny for Thursday night.

Our date, sketched out weeks in advance, included a movie at the Mayan and dinner, not schmoozing and wine and cheese at the Botanic Gardens.

I glanced at the phone, prepared to erase Carolyn O'Keefe's number from caller ID and Fran's notice, but once again, it had registered as "Restricted."

Trembling, I pounded Destiny's number into the keypad.

Before I could bring up the subject of our date, she apologized in the most gentle, provocative voice. "Kris, I hate to do this, but I have to skip the movie Thursday. I might be able to make a late dinner, but I need to attend a fund-raiser earlier in the evening."

"Can't you get out of it?"

"No. It's a benefit for Urban Teens, at the Botanic Gardens. Dr. O'Keefe invited me, and people I need to meet will be there. I can't miss this chance."

"All right," I said quietly.

Destiny missed the despair in my voice. "Thanks, honey. I knew you'd understand."

I didn't understand, but I couldn't spare the time to vent. I was already fifteen minutes late for an appointment with Nell Schwartz, the daughter of Hazel Middleton, the owner of the Fielder mansion. Nell had canceled on me twice the week before, and I didn't dare call and give her the opportunity to postpone again. I raced out the door, hoping for the best, but I needn't have worried.

When I arrived at the sprawling ranch house in Bonnie Brae, one of central Denver's most expensive neighborhoods, I saw a barefoot woman kneeling in the garden. Behind her was an array of geometric figures, sculpted out of bushes, shrubs and privet hedges. The neatly trimmed squares, circles and rectangles helped break up the expanse of yellowish-green lawn on the oversized lot, and wooden planters, filled with geraniums in several shades of pink, formed a colorful border around the concrete front porch of the blond brick house.

Before I could hop out of my car, the woman, who wore light blue capri pants, black kneepads, a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and a straw hat, stood and removed her gloves. As I approached, she walked toward me and introduced herself.

Nell Schwartz had a round face, full lips, red cheeks and long, wavy black-and-gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. She'd lost her chin to the folds of her neck, but a vibrancy in her eyes and an easy grin gave her a youthful look.

"Do you need some help?" I offered.

"I'd never turn down an extra set of hands," Nell said, dropping to the ground. "Go around back, through the gate on the side. In the toolshed, you'll find gloves, a digger and a cushion."

"Okay," I said, heading around the corner.

"Kristin-"

"Yes?" I stopped and turned.

"On your way, could you take that sack and set it by the trash can in the back?"

"Sure," I said, resentfully eyeing the overflowing Hefty.

The mere thought of touching an empty black bag made me hot, and Nell had filled this one past capacity. I could barely lift it with both hands, and when I started to drag it, balancing most of the weight on my right foot, the side tore. Cussing under my breath, I bent and hoisted it to stomach level, ensuring stains on my pale yellow shirt and white shorts.

I staggered into the backyard, and after I deposited the bag next to a plastic trash can, I entered a toolshed the size of a starter home. A quick search produced gloves and a digger but no cushion.

"Hey, does my grandma know you're taking those?"

"She said I could use them," I said defensively to a prep.u.b.escent boy who was enjoying the shade of the covered patio.

Lying on his back on a lounge chair positioned at a slight incline, he wore baggy shorts, flip-flops and a tank top that exposed flabby arms and a big belly. Unruly brown bangs hid all of his forehead and the tops of his eyes. "You better not be lying," he said in a bored tone.

"Why would I come here to steal gloves and a tool?"

He sniffed. "Because you don't own any."

"Do I look like a thief?"

He considered me with vague curiosity. "You have big muscles for a girl."

"Thanks," I said, smiling expansively, not caring whether he'd meant it as a compliment or an insult. "Think about it, though. Would I haul that trash bag back here during the commission of my crime?"

He giggled, a high-pitched sound. "Grandma filled it too full, didn't she?"

"What do you think?"

He grinned, exposing silver braces, which were a wise investment. "She always does that, and it makes my dad mad."

I put on the gloves and leaned against the patio table. "What're you reading?"

He held up the cover. "Nothing special."

"A Harlequin?" I said, trying to delete surprise from my voice.

"Adult romance. My mom gives them to me."

"You like them?"

"They're okay."

"Where's your mom? Inside?"

He fidgeted in his chair and adjusted his shirt. "In North Carolina. I live there with her and my sister and my mom's phony husband, Tate."

"What's a phony husband?"

"Someone who lies about everything. My dad's the only real husband."

"Your parents are divorced?"

"Supposedly," he said, pushing his bangs to the side.

"You're just visiting?"

He nodded. "For the summer. My dad lives here, but he's at work. We used to all live in Denver. I wish we'd move back."

"You like it better in Colorado?"

"Of course," he said, taking a swig from a c.o.ke can. "It isn't as hot, and my sister's not here."

"She didn't want to come?"

He shrugged his shoulders in an easy fashion. "She has a job this summer and two boyfriends."

"Why aren't you helping your grandma?"

"I get a rash. I'm going to pull weeds later, after the sun goes down. Grandma said she'd give me ten cents for every root I dig up."

I surveyed the half-acre of dandelions. "You could make a hundred bucks, easy."

He scratched his cheek with the spine of the book. "Sweet! I'm getting rich this summer. My dad gives me ten dollars a week allowance, Grandma pays me extra for ch.o.r.es, and Great-Grandma Hazel gives me step-and-fetch money."

"Step-and-fetch?"

"A few dollars every time I get something for her."

"You won't help for free?"

His eyes narrowed behind the greasy hair. "Would you, if you were a kid and someone offered to pay?"

"Probably not," I admitted, straightening up. "I'd better get going. Maybe I'll see you later."

"Maybe," he said, his nose buried in the sheets of the romance.

Chapter 7.

I came around the corner of the house and clapped my gloved hands. "What can I do to help?"

Nell Schwartz pointed to the hordes of dandelions that blanketed the lawn. "How about removing anything yellow?"

"I can do that," I said, squatting. I wrestled the first one out of the ground with the dull tip of the digger and said, "I take it you don't like Roundup?"

She shot me a chastising look. "Not when there's a healthier solution."

"It seems like a lot of work." I sighed, tossing a second weed toward the new trash bag she'd opened.