Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 18

But I was speechless. The thin woman standing barefooted in front of me was clutching the folds of a blue cotton robe; peeking out beneath it was a worn red flannel nightgown with little lambs on it. She had not brushed her short, not-from-nature-blond hair and-most startling-had some kind of white cream all over her face, everywhere but around her eyes. She looked like a poorly designed Day of the Dead figurine. This couldn't be Margot, could it?

"Well," I said, when I came out of my daze, "at least I know he's not spending the night."

Her hand flew to her head and she said, "Come inside." As she shut the door, she motioned toward a leopard-skin fainting couch in the front room. "Have a seat. I'll be right back down." She paused halfway up the staircase and said, "Make yourself a drink if you like."

"Mind if I turn on some lights?"

"Not at all. I'll only be a minute."

The dogs had switched to an alternative schedule of barking-sporadic outbursts of barking between lengthening interludes of mere growling.

Although she had said she'd only be a minute, I knew Margot wouldn't come back down until she had put herself together, a project that might take some time. I felt a moment's hesitation over what I was contemplating, then thought about Travis and found my resolve. I strolled across her white carpet and out of the front room, trying to remember where I had once seen an office on the first floor.

Trying not to be distracted by the view of moonlight on the ca.n.a.l, or the design of her big open kitchen, I turned to the right, walked down a hallway and opened a door next to a laundry room. A bathroom. I started to close the door, had an inspiration and went to the medicine cabinet first. I found a small box of bandages there and dropped it into my purse.

The dogs started barking again; I began to appreciate the cover their noise provided.

I closed the door, retraced my steps down the hall, turned left this time, and found the office. It was clean and orderly, and during the day it probably had a beautiful view of the ca.n.a.l. The view at night would have been better with a brighter moon; there was just enough light to see Margot's sailboat tied up at the dock. I made myself concentrate on the task at hand. I searched the drawers of the small desk. I looked through a stack of loose papers and invitations, but found nothing of interest.

I had been in this office once before, at one of the Christmas parties, when Margot was giving the grand tour of the house. But this time, all the equipment was new; as I looked around the office, I saw that Margot went in for the latest available models. For the first time, I envied her wealth. The room wasn't outfitted on a part-time reporter's salary-this equipment was better than what we worked with in the newsroom. There was a three-line speakerphone on the desk. Next to the desk, on a carved mahogany cart, was a plain-paper fax machine; a matching cart held a copying machine. There was a beautiful computer work station with a fancy printer on it. I checked the phone lines running between the phone, computer and fax. The second and third lines were hooked up to the fax and computer.

I looked for an answering machine but didn't see one; maybe it was in another room. I thought of turning the computer on, but decided that even with this high-tech office, Margot wasn't the type to make computer notes about her boyfriends. I was about to leave when I noticed that one of the line-in-use lights on the phone was lit. Line one. I hurried over to the phone, pressed the mute b.u.t.ton so that nothing would be heard from my extension, and picked up the receiver. Whatever number she had called at three in the morning had already answered, and I was only in time to hear a male voice saying, "... or enter your phone number and then press the pound key, and we'll get back to you as soon as possible." As I listened, I fumbled in my purse, trying to find a little tape recorder I sometimes use for notes and interviews. There was a long tone, a set of quick beeps, and then the sound of Margot dialing again. I tried to memorize the tune the tones played as she dialed. It was eight tones long. A mechanical voice said, "Thank you," and disconnected. Margot hung up. I quickly followed suit.

It was only then that I found the recorder. I softly repeated the little dialing song into the microphone, hoping I had it right. I was pretty sure it was Margot's number, followed by the pound sign.

I was going to try it out, but since the upstairs phone might also be equipped with line-in-use lights, I hesitated using the office phone while she might be standing near an upstairs phone. I would have to wait to verify that the tones matched her number.

I moved back out into the kitchen. There was a set of hanging baskets near the sink, and one of them held three lemons and a couple of limes. I took one of the lemons, and then, turning to the island in the center of the kitchen, pulled a small paring knife from a wooden block.

I heard water running upstairs just as I pa.s.sed the kitchen phone. Seizing the opportunity, I set my little treasures down, pulled the recorder back out of my purse, then lifted the handset and replayed the tape. I pressed the numbers that matched the tones.

There were two rings, ones I hoped were not awakening some perfectly nice stranger, then Margot's voice on a recording. Her voice mail. I hung up. The number I had dialed was her own. She had called someone's pager number, entered her own number, and was now waiting for a call back. Because she had a voice mail service, when I called her number from her own phone I got the service instead of a busy signal. It also explained the lack of an answering machine.

Whom did she page? Someone who would respond at three in the morning. A lawyer? Perhaps. Or maybe it was the new boyfriend. And if the man who had been looking for me in the lobby of the Express was the bomber, I didn't want to be around if he showed up. I began to wish I had brought Rachel along. I would have done it, but I knew Travis was safe at my home not because there was a patrol car outside, but because Rachel was inside-she would watch over him.

Here at Margot's, my plans had to remain flexible. A lot depended on what Margot did once she came back downstairs.

I quickly searched the rest of the first floor and found one other bathroom. I checked the medicine cabinet-no bandages. I heard a door close upstairs and hurried over to the bar in the front room.

By the time Margot came back downstairs in a blue Chinese silk jacket and loose-fitting slacks, feathery slippers and full makeup, I was mixing an Absolut and tonic. I offered her one, and she accepted.

"I hope you don't mind that I stole one of the lemons from the kitchen," I said, holding it up.

"No, of course not," she said.

I made her drink twice as strong as mine, sliced a couple of pieces of lemon and added them as twists. She sat on the leopard skin. I went for the white leather sofa.

"Now, what's all this about a bomb?" she said.

I told her about the explosion, leaving out lots of details about Travis, merely saying that he was a visiting cousin who was severely burned while trying to rescue my cat. She looked genuinely horrified, which gave me hope for her.

"That's terrible," she said. "But I don't know why you think I had anything to do with it."

"Someone was asking for me in the lobby of the Express a few days ago-but you intercepted him."

She blushed, but didn't say anything.

"A man with a similar description-probably the same guy-tried to follow me when I was on my way to see Travis today. He was unsuccessful then, but it seems he finally managed to reach us at the one place where I'd hoped we would be safe-my home. My own home, Margot."

"But you're a.s.suming it's the same person!"

"Margot, did you look up my address for someone recently?"

She set down her drink, placed her hands in her lap. Her nails were perfect.

The dogs took up barking again.

"Yes," she said, wringing the perfect hands, "but he wasn't the one who-he wouldn't have done something like that."

"If you didn't have some doubts about that, you wouldn't have let me in here tonight."

"Of course I would have let you in. We work together."

"Right, we're such close pals. So for the sake of your old pal's health-who is he?"

She looked away from me.

"Who is he?" I asked again.

The phone rang.

She shot up from the leopard skin as if it still had its claws. "Excuse me," she said, hurrying over to the nearest phone-the one in the kitchen. "Probably my neighbor."

Right.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo!" she said in a voice obviously meant to carry to my ears, "I'm so sorry if my dogs awakened you! I know it's very late, but a dear friend from the paper needed to see me. Yes, of course everything is just fine. Sorry to disturb you. I'll try to keep them quiet."

I glanced out the window. The neighbor's lights were still out.

I figured she was talking to her new boyfriend, and decided to resort to Plan B. I walked over to the bar, as if to make another drink. Margot was speaking more softly now, a quick murmur or two before hanging up.

She came back into the room just as I took hold of the lemon, told myself it wouldn't hurt as much as Travis's burn, and nicked my finger with the knife.

"Ow!" I shouted-beyond what the little sting called for. I immediately grabbed my hand and squeezed my finger so that the bleeding looked worse.

"Oh, dear!" she said, quickly looking away.

"Oh! What a klutz! Oh no, I'm going to bleed all over your white carpet ..."

That snapped her into action. "Come this way, there's a bathroom right down this hallway."

I followed her, and managed to get to the bathroom sink without leaving any DNA on her floor. She was frantically searching for a bandage; of course I didn't tell her there was a whole box of the things in my purse. I was also pleased to note that she scrupulously avoided looking at my hand.

"My G.o.d, it's deeper than I thought!" I said. Utter nonsense, but it worked on her.

"Upstairs," she said weakly.

I followed her again.

The master bedroom was huge and featured a king-sized round bed. I didn't get to see much of it before she hustled me into the bathroom, where there were lots of jars and an array of cosmetics out on the counter.

I held my hand over this sink, but still she avoided looking at my savage wound. I was kind of p.i.s.sed about that, because I figured that if I had known what a daisy she was ahead of time, I wouldn't have cut myself. I could have faked it.

This time, while I surveyed the contents of this larger medicine chest over her shoulder, she found an adhesive bandage. She handed it to me at arm's length, clearly squeamish about the entire business.

"I-I don't think that will do," I said weakly. "Do you have any gauze?"

"Yes, yes." She reached for it, and some tape.

"G.o.d, I think I see bone!" I screeched.

She turned white, but shoved the first-aid items at me before stepping just outside the bathroom.

I wrapped the finger rather artistically, then, in the shakiest voice I could manage, said, "I think I'm going to faint."

It was truer of her than of me. "Oh!" Her eyes widened. "Come and lie down for a moment!"

I let her lead me over to the big dot of a bed and did my best to plop my rear down on that part of the circ.u.mference next to the fancy telephone on a nearby nightstand. I sat, then put my head between my knees.

"I'll be okay," I said in a m.u.f.fled voice. I lifted my head a little. "This is so embarra.s.sing. I'll go home in just a minute."

Now she really panicked. "Oh, no, no! Stay here a little longer. I insist."

I groaned. "Oh, maybe you're right. Listen, would you mind getting my drink for me? I left it downstairs."

"Certainly, certainly," she said, happy to get away from the wounded.

The moment she was out the door, I checked out the phone. I didn't bother with the last-number-dialed b.u.t.ton-that would just be Margot's own number, entered for the pager. But to my delight, it had one of those "caller ID" features on it, the ones that record and store the numbers of incoming calls. The display showed the last call received as number seventy-five, with date and time stamped but indicating it was a "private call"-meaning her boyfriend had called from a phone that blocked caller ID. I hurriedly scrolled with the "review" b.u.t.ton, going back to calls that started on Tuesday, the day she met Mr. Wonderful in the lobby. In the mix of calls, two showed up fairly often, and at hours when her society pals were probably getting their beauty sleep.

Margot had a little notepad next to the phone; I took the top sheet off and slipped it in my pocket, just in case I might need to use old-fashioned methods-raising a number by rubbing a pencil over the indentations. No use outsmarting yourself with technology, I thought. I used the next sheet to write down the two numbers from the caller-ID display.

By the time she had come upstairs, I had made a remarkable recovery.

"Gotta go," I said. "Sitting here reminded me that I'm up way past my bedtime."

She protested all the way down the stairs. At the front door, a little of my smug satisfaction at tricking her left me, and a sense of what I might have set in motion took its place.

"Margot, listen to me. And I mean listen. Your life may depend upon it. If you've called the man who waited for me in the lobby-"

"Called him? At this hour? Of course not!"

"Listen! If you've called him, get out of here. Now. Don't wait for him to come over. He's dangerous. You can see that, can't you?"

"I don't think he's-"

"Fine!" I said. "If you want to wait around here and have Mr. Goodbar make a house call, fine. Invite him in. When they drag the ca.n.a.l and haul up whatever bits and pieces are left of you, I'll tell each and every salt-soaked one of them, 'I told you so!'"

"That's a horrible thing to say!"

"Yeah? Whatever it takes. In fact, if you insist on staying here tonight, at least let me take your Yorkies with me. I'm not as crazy about them as you are, but I hate to see animals suffer."

"Get out!"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Margot. Get out."

She opened the door.

"Please, Margot."

"Get out," she said, but it was softer.

I tried to find some measure of hope in that as I drove off in search of a pay phone.

17.

Since the nearest pay phones on Rivo Alto were on the single nonresidential street on the small island, I decided to drive a couple of miles farther, to an all-night supermarket on Pacific Coast Highway. The supermarket would be well-lighted and I could phone from indoors; better, for my purposes, than standing out in the open on a street Margot's new boyfriend would be taking to get to her house. I was fairly certain she had invited him to come over.

The phone was near the front entrance of the market. I took a quick look around; at the checkout stand, there was an old man buying a bag of potato chips and a can of dog food, and one young couple with an infant buying baby formula. Otherwise, everyone I saw was an employee. The aisles of the store were crowded with pallets of shrink-wrapped cardboard boxes. Stocking hours.

I went back to the phone and, playing a hunch, rubbed a pencil over the paper I had taken off the notepad. The results were good enough to reveal a third and different number. I dropped a couple of coins in the phone and tried this number first. After two rings, a recorded voice said, "The subscriber on the LA Cellular System that you have called is unavailable, or has left the coverage area. Please try your call again later."

So much for hunches. I tried one of the numbers from the caller-ID display.

It rang for a long time, no answer.

I got lucky with the third number.

"You've reached the voice mail of Richmond & a.s.sociates. We're not in the office right now, but you can leave a message of any length, or enter your phone number and then press the pound key, and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."

I hung up. The name Richmond seemed familiar, but then again, it wasn't a rare name.