“Oh dear.” It was Derek Stone, all right. I might not know cars but I knew that rugged profile.
“I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to watch you like a hawk,” Robin mused.
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah.” She sipped her wine. “When the police took you away for questioning, I was pretty much stuck with him.”
I let the front curtain go, leaned against the bookcase and sipped my wine. “So, what else did he say about me?”
“You’re joking, right?” There was a hint of disbelief in her voice. “Um, gee. He said he’s going to ask you to the prom. What is up with you?”
“Nothing.” I put the wineglass down on the worktable and paced nervously. “He’s a jerk. I just meant, I hope he didn’t, you know, bug you.”
She started to laugh. “Oh God. You like him.”
“What? No.”
“You do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She held her arms out. “Hey, why not? He’s totally hot, I’ll give him that much. Great car, too.”
“Oh yeah, it’s all about the car. Are you insane?” I waved my arm toward the street. “He’s a-a stalker.”
“And as stalkers go, he’s a hot one.”
“Oh, I’m so flattered.” I grabbed my wine and took a gulp. “The man has no sense of humor and he thinks I’m a murderer.”
“Sounds like love to me.”
I groaned. “Shut up.” I turned the lights up and headed back to the worktable. At least my personal stalker had given me something else to think about besides Abraham’s murder.
Robin chuckled as she backed away from the window and followed me across the room. “So, how’s the putrid pile of caca doing?”
The smell of mold and ancient leather and old paper wafted up and I’ve got to say, I loved it.
“It is nasty, isn’t it?” I said with a satisfied smile. “But this is my version of heaven.”
“You can actually fix all this?”
“Of course I can,” I said, turning the cover over. “I’m a genius, haven’t you heard? And I’ll earn every penny on this job because some of the damage is dismal. Will you look at this?” I pointed to a jagged rip on the end plate.
She squinted. “Is that duct tape?”
“Yes.” I shook my head in disgust. “On a John Brindley binding! Can you imagine?”
“The horror.”
“It gets worse.” I held out a stiff column of mottled, torn leather for her closer examination. “Rats. They nibbled straight through the-”
She jumped back a foot. “Oh, good God. Rat cooties on top of everything else? Get that disgusting thing away from me.”
“Wimp.”
“Freak.” Robin laughed again and shook her head. “Come on, it’s time to sleep.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m shocked. Good night.”
“Good night.” I gave her a hug. “Thanks again for staying.”
“I loved the old coot, too, you know. And I didn’t want to be alone, either,” she admitted, as she toddled off toward the guest bedroom. “Don’t forget to feed the cats.”
“I’ll feed them in the morning.”
“You already forgot, didn’t you?”
What? Was she a mind reader? “No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t make me have to call PETA,” Robin said with a laugh.
Disgusted, I rummaged in the kitchen junk drawer, found a yellow stickie, wrote Feed cats and stuck it to the refrigerator door. “There, are you happy?”
“Yeah. Now don’t forget to read the note.”
“Go to bed.”
“Nighty-night.”
I stuck my wineglass in the sink, debated whether to break into the bag of leftover Chinese food, but took the high road. I poured water into the automatic coffeemaker and added three scoops of Peet’s Blend 101 for the morning, then headed off to bed.
Eight hours later I awoke feeling strangely refreshed and amazed I’d been able to sleep even a wink. The smell of freshly brewed coffee assailed me, so I jumped out of bed and checked the guest bedroom. Robin was already up and gone, but when I got to the kitchen, I saw that she’d taken ten or twelve stickies and drawn arrows pointing to the one in the middle that said Feed cats.
“Very funny,” I growled as I grabbed a cup of coffee. I savored it for a few minutes, then called Ian and confirmed our ten o’clock meeting at the Covington before wandering off to take a quick shower. Afterward, I blow-dryed my hair, then dressed in black jeans, black boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. I glanced in the mirror and felt depressed by all the black, so I added a cheerful green jacket for color. After a few quick swipes of mascara and some lip gloss, I microwaved a bowl of Vinnie’s Shanghai noodles and slurped them down, followed by two caramel chocolate kisses from the new bag I’d opened. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but the noodles were incredibly delicious and helped raise my mood a few more notches.
I was down in the garage, jogging to my car, when I remembered Pookie and Splinters.
“Oh, crap.” I smacked the innocent car door. I really wasn’t cut out to be a caretaker of other living creatures.
Riddled with guilt, I calculated exactly how late I could afford to be this morning. I supposed the cats could live out the day without food and water, but did I want to take that chance? What if Vinnie and Suzie came home early and found the food bowl empty and two emaciated kitties listlessly mewing for their lives? We would no longer be friends and they wouldn’t tell me where they got those Shanghai noodles. And lest I forget, those women owned chain saws.
And worse, Robin would have a field day with the news. That convinced me to take the high road.
Ten minutes later, with the cats fed and me feeling guilt free, I fired up the car. As I exited the parking garage, I glanced across the street, half expecting to see a black Bentley parked there. It was gone. Good. The man had no business following me around when there was a murderer running free in the City. Apparently, Derek Stone had come to the same conclusion at some point during the night. I hoped he suffered some mild frostbite before driving off to his cozy hotel room.
I headed west on Brannan to Ninth Street and over to Hayes in order to skirt the Civic Center mess, then turned right on Franklin. From there it was a straight shot up to Pacific Heights and the Covington.
I parked in the adjacent lot and followed the tree-lined walkway to the library, pulling my jacket a little tighter around me as I walked. It was a glorious February morning, the air crystal clear and brisk. From here at the top of Pacific Heights, I could see the amazing span of the Golden Gate Bridge stretching across the whitecapped bay to meet the rolling green hills of Marin County on the far side.
Once inside, I went straight to Ian’s office, where his secretary told me he was already downstairs. I detoured through a small side gallery and down to the basement studio area. I was a little creeped out to see that despite the yellow crime scene tape still strewn across the entrance to Abraham’s workroom, the door itself was open.
I peeked around the doorsill to find Derek Stone, kneeling on the concrete floor, studying the blood spill.
I must’ve made a noise because he saw me and jumped up, then ducked under the yellow tape and hustled me down the hall.
“I won’t pass out,” I insisted, almost stumbling from the bum’s rush he gave me.
“So you were whimpering on general principle?”
“I never whimper,” I said with a sniff.
From two rooms down, Ian popped his head out. “You made it.” He approached and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close for a quick hug; then he walked me to the new workroom. “You’re working in here.”
“Okay,” I said, and hated that my voice trembled. Seeing that dark red blob brought back all the horrors of the night before.