When she had put the dishes in the drain, she hurried to the bedroom and returned wearing a yellow-and-purple mumu and flipflops and carrying a blanket and a beach umbrella. Ralph padded out dressed in skin-tight black exercise shorts and a red tank top straining across his considerable girth. Joe watched them toddle down the steps and plow through the muddy, sandy marsh to a streak of sand at the edge of the water, watched them spread their towels on the fish-scented shore. As Ralph put up the beach umbrella, Joe leaped down from the refrigerator and resumed his own search, swiftly prowling, poking with a nervous paw.
He found no other suitcase smelling of Greeley. He dug into the bags belonging to Dora and Ralph, then looked for the money beneath the beds and up under the bedsprings and under the couch cushions, all the while listening for footsteps on the porch or the sound of a car-or the soft thump of paws hitting the windowsill.
He tossed the bathroom, too, then pawed open the kitchen cabinets. He fought open the refrigerator but found no wrapped package that might contain money. Standing on the kitchen counter, he was just able to open the freezer, a favored place for householders to hide their valuables according to Max Harper. Leaning into the cold, he sniffed several paper-wrapped packages, but the smell of each matched its handwritten labeclass="underline" pork chops, shrimp, green beans. He nearly froze his ears off. Being practically inside the freezer, trying to listen for intruders, feeling as nervous as a mouse in a tin bucket, he backed out gratefully into the warm kitchen.
When he could think of nowhere else to look-couldn't figure a way to take the top off the toilet tank or remove the light fixtures-he gave up, sprang out the open window, and trotted up the hill behind the cottage. Fleeing the scene through the woods, he hit the wide gardens above, galloping between those substantial homes wondering where Greeley had hidden the money and what Dora and Ralph were up to. Telling himself that Dora Sleuder wouldn't rip off her own aunt Mavity.
13
WINTHROP JERGEN liked to tell his clients that he was a sentimental nonconformist, that he would endure almost any inconvenience so he could enjoy the magnificent view from his out-of-the-way office-apartment.
In fact, the view meant nothing. That wondrous vista down the Molena Point hills wasn't even visible when he sat at his desk, only the tops of a few ragged trees and empty sky. He had to stand up or move to the couch before the glare of sun-glazed rooftops stabbed at his vision. And this morning the so-called view was a mass of wind-churned trees and ugly whitecaps. That was the trouble with being close to the water, these violent winds whipping inland. Now, standing at his desk looking down to the dead-end street below, observing the weeds and the three battered service trucks parked behind Charlie Getz's rusting van, he wondered why he tolerated this disreputable display.
According to the provisions of his lease, he could have refused to let Damen undertake the remodeling, but he thought it better to endure a few months' annoyance in order to acquire a more respectable environ. And it was always possible that Damen would overextend himself, sink more money into the project than he could manage, and would be in need of cash, perhaps a personal loan.
Glancing at his watch, he left his desk and in the bathroom removed his sport coat, tucked a clean bath towel over his white shirt and tie, ran hot water into a washcloth and steamed his face, bringing up a ruddy color and relaxing the tightness that prevailed after he'd been at work for several hours. He brushed his teeth, used the blow-dryer to touch up his hair, removed the towel, and washed his hands. He was to pick up Bernine at twelve-thirty. He'd had trouble getting a reservation on a Saturday, but Bernine had raved about the Windborne. The restaurant was indeed charming, a rustic, secluded aerie clinging to the seacliffs south of the village. Bernine said she liked the ambiance. The moneyed ambiance, he thought, amused. As long as Bernine wasn't buying. If he kept this up, lunch or dinner every day, she could prove to be expensive.
He wasn't sure whether Bernine Sage would become a client or a lover, or both. It didn't matter. One way or another, she would be useful. She was blatantly obvious in coming onto him, but she was a good-looker, kept herself groomed and dressed in a style that commanded attention. A nice showpiece. And she seemed to know her way around, knew a lot of worthwhile, influential people.
As long as they understood each other, the relationship could be mutually entertaining. With Bernine on his arm he got plenty of appraising looks. She attracted interest, and interest, in a certain strata, meant money.
Straightening his tie and slipping back into his sport coat, he returned to the computer screen to finish up a last group of entries. He checked his figures, then closed and secured the file with a code and punched in the screen saver, a slowly wheeling montage of various foreign currencies. Putting his backup disks safely in the file cabinet, he locked it and locked the desk, left no disk or hard copy accessible. And without the code, no one could access his hard drive.
Surely no one around here had reason to snoop, or very likely had the knowledge to override his code. But he made it a point to follow set routines. He was successful in large part because he did not deviate from carefully chosen and rigorously observed procedures.
Two incidents of the morning did bother him, however. Small mistakes he must have made, though he abhorred carelessness.
He had found a number error in the Benson file. And he had found, in a hard copy file for the Dawson account, two spreadsheets out of order. Such small inefficiencies could lead to far more serious errors. He did not allow such carelessness in others, and he certainly couldn't sanction it in himself.
Locking the apartment, heading down the stairs jingling his keys, he paused at the bottom of the steps glancing to his right into the weedy patio at the stacks of lumber, the sawhorses, and crated plumbing fixtures. He hoped this project wouldn't last forever. Turning left from the stairwell, he stepped out onto the driveway and to the bank of garages. Activating his pocket remote, he opened his single garage door, backed the Mercedes out, and headed down the hills.
Molena Point's shops and cottages were appallingly picturesque. In his opinion, a regular Disney World, though he would not say that to anyone. As for the crowds of tourists, those people might as well be in Fantasyland, they were so busy spending money on foolish whims. No thought to solid investment. No, the tourists weren't for him. It was Molena Point's established residents who made up the predictable cadre of his clients.
Parking in the short-term green zone in front of the Molena Point Library, he had intended to wait for Bernine in the car, but on impulse he swung out and moved through the deep garden, along the stone walk, and in through the dark, heavily carved doors of the sprawling Mediterranean building.
The central reading room was brightly lighted, its white walls and spaciousness offsetting the dark tables and bookcases. Through an office door he could see Bernine, dressed in a short pink suit, standing near a desk beside the head librarian-Freda something-a frowsy scarecrow of a woman who seemed to be scolding a third party standing nearly out of sight beyond the door. Interested, he wandered in that direction, pausing beside the book stacks.
He could see a bit of the third woman, with her back to him. Red sweatshirt, long gray hair caught back with a silver clip, faded jeans. That would be the Getz woman, the person Bernine was staying with.
Plucking a book from the shelf, something about Scottish bed-and-breakfasts, he stood slowly turning the pages, listening for any stray information that might be useful.