“I’m trying to be open about all of it. When did Wallace start preferring younger women?”
“I’m not sure. I hope it was after his wife died. August found it funny. He’d say that even though I was way over-the-hill for Wallace, he, August, still appreciated me.”
Cheney noticed her eyes then, maybe because of the way she’d angled her head toward him. Her eyes, a quite nice light green, were bright today. He thought of the woman he’d saved the previous week—pale, hunched down, drawn in on herself. She’d changed, and the change had begun when she’d saved herself. She still looked thin, but not fragile, leached-out thin—she looked sleek and strong. She looked ready to vibrate, she was so solidly in the present, focused and involved. Yes, involved, that was it, no longer a victim, no longer helpless.
Cheney realized he liked her, realized he really didn’t want her to die by an assassin’s hand.
She snapped her fingers under his nose. “Earth to Cheney, you there?”
“Yes. Now, are these all rumors about Wallace’s young groupies?”
“Nope. Actually I saw one of his girls coming out of his house. He obviously didn’t think anyone was around because he fondled her on the top step. Then he saw me, saw that I’d seen what he was doing, and he looked bilious. When he realized I didn’t condemn him or anything, and never made any smart-mouth cracks, he was as he’d always been toward me, kind and charming. Like I already told you, Wallace asked me out, but before that, he’d call simply to see how I was, to hear the sound of my voice, send me the occasional flowers. I remember telling him once I was far too old for him. He only laughed.
“I only went to dinner with him occasionally since the police were still looking hard at me, probably even had me followed.”
“Nah, they don’t have the manpower.”
“No, really, I just bet they reasoned that since I’d already married one older man, why not another? I could be following a pattern, no?”
“What did Bevlin think of Wallace’s wooing you?”
“He’s young, he sees Wallace as old. I don’t think he was worried, or even cared. The psychic community is small and very incestuous. There aren’t many secrets.”
“Well, naturally not—they read each other’s minds, right?”
“More snark. To be honest, I don’t hear much about mind reading, but it would be really scary if some of them could do that.”
Cheney turned on the ignition. “Okay, let’s go see if we can catch Tammerlane fondling another teenager. Filbert, right?”
“Right, fourth house from the corner on the left.”
“A mansion like yours?”
“It’s very different from ours—mine. You’ll see. How odd. I’ve never thought of my house as a mansion. It’s just my house, where I live, where Freddy sometimes visits and sheds all over the sofas.”
He thought of his condo, how it would fit into a third of her downstairs, thought of that big cat hissing, and smiled.
There was a lot of traffic that morning under a steel-gray April sky, and the wind blew sharp and chill. An hour of sun would have been nice, Cheney thought. At that moment, the thick clouds parted and a wide shaft of sun speared through in front of the Audi. A good sign, he hoped.
As Cheney’s Audi muscled its way smoothly up the thirty-degree-angled street, he said, “I’ll never forget the first time I drove up one of these steep hills—I thought I was going to sail right off the top of the earth. It still gives my old heart a leap.”
“Just try it driving a stick.”
Cheney said, “A friend of mine, another agent who’d transferred in from Utah, drove a stick, bragged he was the only real man in the office, that it took real skill to do it right, until one day his clutch gave out and he went hurtling backward down into an intersection filled with cars. Thankfully, no one was hurt. No one in our office drives a stick anymore, him included. Do you know your hair looks like my desk?”
She whipped her head around. “What? I look like your desk?”
“Your hair—it’s the same mahogany color.”
“I see. So, do you like your desk? Admire the finish? Polish it every day? Maybe you even like it so much you don’t put your feet on it?”
He laughed, felt every care roll off his shoulders for a moment. He hadn’t laughed much in too long a time, too much crap at work, too many crooks they couldn’t catch up with, too much frustration. But he felt good right then, really good. He said, “Nah, I never put my feet on my desk unless I’m barefoot. I worship my desk, I even have papers under my computer so it won’t scratch the finish. I plan to be buried with my desk.”
She laughed, lightly touched her fingertips to his hair. “The color of your hair reminds me of a tan-colored Subaru I once owned. Soft and creamy, sort of like a caramel.”
He turned onto Filbert Street. “Pay attention. I ain’t no caramel. My hair’s plain old brown.”
He turned right from Filbert, and in the next minute he turned his Audi onto Wallace Tammerlane’s wide driveway. “Dear God in heaven, a double garage in San Francisco,” Cheney said. “That alone has got to make this place worth big bucks.”
“Probably.”
“Julia, I know he’s your friend, that you care about him, but be watchful—you know his body language, his expressions, okay?”
She gave him a look, then nodded.
As he walked her to the front door of the flamboyant three-story Victorian, he said, “Just jump in when and if you think it’s appropriate.”
He was including her, really including her. She gave him a blazing smile.
CHAPTER 26
A man dressed entirely in starched black answered the buzzer. He stood squarely in the middle of the doorway. Good grief, a butler? “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’m Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, and this is Mrs. Julia Ransom. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Tammerlane.”
“I know who Mrs. Ransom is. You’re looking well, Mrs. Ransom. Let me say I am relieved that you’re looking well. A pleasure to see you. Come in.”
“Nice to see you, Ogden.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about all this misery, Mrs. Ransom.” They were shown into a Victorian living room, stuffed with hundred-year-old dark Victorian furniture, down to elaborately crocheted antimacassars spread over the backs of the twin sofas and chairs. The walls were covered in dark red silk flocked wallpaper. Doodads, the term Cheney’s father used for all the knick-knacks his mother displayed in their living room at home, were everywhere—dozens of little carved wooden animals that looked vaguely African, and scores of tiny teacups and saucers, doubtless at least as old as or older than the furniture, covering the shelves of glass cabinets. Cheney didn’t see a speck of dust.
Old portraits marched up and down one entire wall, all of them showing nurses and soldiers from what looked to be the Crimean War. There didn’t seem to be any family photos or portraits. “Good morning, Julia, Agent Stone.”
Julia turned, let him hug her. “Hello, Wallace. Thank you for seeing us.”
Wallace Tammerlane smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, Julia. I couldn’t very well say no, now could I? I’m worried about you, about this maniac trying to kill you. You do know, don’t you, that I had nothing at all to do with these attempts on your life—that I know nothing about them?”
“Of course, Wallace. Agent Stone is now looking again into August’s murder, and he needs to speak to everyone.”
Wallace nodded. “I will do what I can to help. Agent Stone, I understand why you wish to speak to everyone again about August’s murder. But let me say, you may be wasting your time. I don’t know anything, nothing at all.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Tammerlane,” Cheney said easily. “I’m not here to accuse you of anything.”
“I should hope not! Sit down. Julia, would you care for anything to drink?”