“I wouldn’t bother anybody,” I said.
“I’m not sure you understand.” Crisp rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “I already have thirty-three students in this class, which is ten more than what I was supposed to have. I simply don’t have enough supplies for everyone.”
“He can use some of my stuff. What’s the big deal?”
“The ‘big deal,’ Mrs. Schmulowitz, is that I’m afraid your friend will distract those of my students who are actually serious about their painting.”
“Serious about their painting? Listen, the only thing these relics are serious about is where they can get a good deal on adult diapers. Don’t be such a nudnik, Meredith. It’ll take years off your life.”
Crisp knew there was no use arguing with her. He exhaled melodramatically, said, “Fine,” and moved off to supervise his other students.
Mrs. Schmulowitz waited until he was out of earshot, then said, “So, I have a confession to make.”
Her confession was she’d wanted me to accompany her to class so that she could introduce me to one of her fellow students, a retired psychologist.
“He’s a real mensch, this guy. And, between you, me and the wall, about the only person in this class with a brain that still works. I thought he could help you get through what you’re dealing with,” she said, looking around, “only he isn’t here yet.”
I told her I appreciated her concern, but that I wasn’t inclined to spill my guts to a headshrinker, let alone one I didn’t know. She patted my cheek and said she understood.
“Just talk to the guy. Ten minutes. He doesn’t help you? Fine. Whatever. I tried.”
“OK, Mrs. Schmulowitz. For you? Ten minutes.”
The psychologist never showed up. For the next half hour or so, I sat with Mrs. Schmulowitz and tried to paint watercolor trees and mountains per Meredith Crisp’s direction while the instructor patrolled us, critiquing our work like he actually knew something about art.
“A rather avant-garde use of pigment,” Crisp said, assessing my artistic offering with his arms folded and the tip of one index finger tapping his pursed lips. “But I must say, the placement of your seagulls seems perhaps just a tad random.”
“Those aren’t seagulls. Those are splatters.”
“I see.”
I needed a break.
There was a wooden bench outside under a big leafy tree. I sat down, spread my arms across the back of the bench, and watched the world go by. The tree was a jacaranda—“jacks,” as the locals called them. They produced profusions of delicate, bell-shaped flowers that, for a few weeks in late spring, bathed Rancho Bonita in a violet-colored haze. Many residents condemned them as “messy.” They disliked jacks for their tendency to drop sticky blossoms on the freshly waxed Porsches and Benzes of the town’s moneyed minions. If for no other reason, they were among my favorite trees.
People came and went: office workers in business suits; tourists clutching guidebooks, with cameras slung around their necks. A shirtless dude of about twenty in grimy jeans, with tattoos covering his toothpick arms and scrawny chest, rolled up on his skateboard to ask if I had any spare change.
“I was about to ask you for some,” I said.
He rolled on without a word.
The sun felt good on my face. A middle-aged redhead strutted past me in stiletto boots, wearing too much makeup and some sort of gauzy, gypsy skirt-blouse combo. She gave me a little smile. I didn’t notice her, however, as much as I did what she was toting in her right hand: a big brown shopping bag from the Nordstrom department store over on California Street, in the swanky, open-air, Casa Grande mall.
Nordstrom.
My brain flashed back on Chad Lovejoy and what he’d mentioned after Savannah and I landed at the Tahoe airport. Wasn’t Nordstrom where he said his ex-girlfriend sold jewelry, the one he maintained an open dialogue with? What did he say her name was? It took me a few seconds to remember: Cherry.
The mall was two blocks to the west. I walked it.
I’d never been inside the Nordstrom in downtown Rancho Bonita. Or any Nordstrom, for that matter. When fashion and wardrobe are as personally relevant to you as the weather on Venus or who wins the annual World Adult Kickball Association championship, you tend not to do your clothes shopping at such places. Like I said, Sears is more my speed. Only I wasn’t shopping.
If platinum smelled, Nordstrom would be what it smelled like — clean and ridiculously expensive. No less than three fresh-scrubbed young sales clerks wished me good morning and asked pleasantly if there was anything they could help me find as I made my way to the first-floor jewelry department.
“Can I help you find something special?”
Late twenties. Blond. Prematurely balding. Wire-frame glasses. Decked out in slacks, suit vest, white dress shirt, a gold tie. He was standing behind a glass display case filled with glittery baubles that I’d never afford.
“Cherry around?”
“She’s on her break.”
“Any idea when she’s due back?”
The clerk checked his oversized divers’ watch.
“Should be back any time. Is there something I can do for you? We have a really nice selection of brooches that just came in I’d be happy to show you.”
“That’s OK. I’ll wait.”
The women’s shoe department was next door. I sat. Mercifully, nobody asked me if I wanted to try on any pumps or anything. I noted an inordinate number of shoppers who were dressed up. That was the difference between Nordstrom and Sears. That and the power tools.
A couple of minutes passed before a round-faced, dark-complected young woman with streaked auburn tresses walked past me to where the clerk in the suit vest was standing behind the display case. She was wearing a black skirt, black ankle boots, and a blousy, zebra-striped top. She and the clerk conferred quietly. He pointed me out and she came over, smiling.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Cherry, right?”
“Right.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. I noticed a tattoo on the inside of her right wrist. In stylish, cursive script, it said, “Baby.”
“My name’s Logan. I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions about your former boyfriend.”
“Which one?”
“Chad.”
Her friendly expression disappeared. I could see pain behind her dark eyes.
“I’m assuming you heard what happened to him?”
“I heard. You a cop?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Cherry said, starting to go around me, “but if you’re not the police, I really don’t think I should be talking to you.”
“I was there when they found him.”
She stopped and looked back at me.
“You saw him?”
I nodded.
“Did he look really bad?”
“No.”
She seemed relieved.
“Chad told me the two of you used to confide in each other, even after you split.”
“He was my soul mate,” Cherry said, her chin beginning to quiver. “We just didn’t get along sometimes, that’s all.”
“I’m trying to find who killed him.”
“What do you care? You said you’re not a cop.”
“Whoever shot Chad also may have kidnapped someone very close to me. He may be holding her hostage.”
She waited until a couple of tall, slim young women in long, flower-print dresses strolled past, each carrying several shopping bags. They were debating the proper pronunciation of foie gras.
“Chad was so great.” Cherry’s eyes glistened. She looked away, wistfully. “We loved each other so much.”
“Who do you think might’ve wanted him dead, Cherry?”
“I don’t know.”