Chapter Five

Monday, February 18 (Washington’s Birthday): Air Force helicopter search team rescues U.S. pilot who parachuted from disabled plane 40 miles north of Saudi border.

In the morning, of course, Jenna’s fears seemed very foolish. Mrs. Raymond was not from San Ignacio. She did not belong here. The roots of this tragedy were in her, not in this place. She had told Nancy it was not like TV, so what was the reality? She had yet to hear any details that would suggest a likely scenario. Ockham’s razor—the simplest solution was the best.

Very well. Barbara Raymond was not murdered. It was only gossip. Megan Wells had said she was murdered—but what did she know? Nancy had said the same thing about Rick Alvarez’s wife, and Rosalie had said nobody knew anything of the sort. She couldn’t depend on gossip and rumors. She should get a TV or subscribe to a newspaper—was there a local paper? If only she could get the local news without inviting the Gulf War in.

Megan had said “they think” she was murdered. San Ignacio didn’t have the resources of a large city police department. They might be mistaken. Mrs. Raymond fell and hit her head. She took a midnight swim and drowned. When had she last been seen—at the barbecue? Was she involved in a messy divorce? A custody dispute? Did she have a jealous lover? Was she, as Rick had said, “too beautiful” and “nothing but trouble”?

Jenna had no answers, and indeed she needed none. She was not an amateur detective in a cozy whodunit. Her story was about something else entirely—although she had to admit she wasn’t sure exactly what it was. Her grandfather had left her this house, and she was going to live here, make a life for herself.

After breakfast, she took the paint cans out of the car and put them in the shed. Nothing lurked in the shadows. She found an old brush and took the top off one can. She wasn’t ready to paint yet, but she wanted to see how it would look.

She chose a partially shaded area on the side of the house and painted a two-foot square patch. She stepped back and eyed the result critically. Not bad. She had intended to paint the whole house herself, even if she had to do it a little at a time, but now, taking in the peeling paint around the windows, near the ground, and up under the eaves, she reconsidered.

She wanted the job done properly, with thorough preparation. She didn’t much want to climb a ladder, if she even had one in the shed. She didn’t want anybody to criticize her sloppy brushwork. Nor did she want the help of teenage amateurs, even if Harvey vouched for them. They would probably make a mess, and she would be liable if they fell off a ladder. No, she wanted a fast, careful, efficient, professional job—even if it meant having Rick Alvarez underfoot for a few more days. At least she knew he had a ladder.

On the other hand, she did not want to walk or drive down the road and ask him to do it. It was ridiculously inconvenient that he didn’t have a phone. Why didn’t he? It was absurd, at the end of the twentieth century, especially for a man who did freelance work for his neighbors. She remembered that Gabe Burrows had seemed hostile to him—because he wouldn’t have a phone put in? Or had Rick refused to have one put in because of Gabe’s hostility or whatever had provoked it? The question was moot, because she didn’t want to call him, either.

She was back inside, writing a letter to her parents, when Rosalie Hayes ambled over to return the cracker tin Jenna had used for the cookies. In true small-town friendly fashion, Rosalie had filled the tin with freshly baked cream cheese brownies. Jenna made coffee, and they sat at the kitchen table, munching sweet, moist brownies and talking. Topic number one, of course, was the murder of Barbara Raymond.

No, her death wasn’t an accident. She didn’t drown or hit her head. She was stabbed several times with a thin blade, like a small fishing knife, the kind half of San Ignacio used every day. This information was apparently reliable—it had come straight from the local police chief, Vince Allan. No suspects had been named, which meant everyone was a suspect. Chief Allan had no personal information about Mrs. Raymond, except that she was a widow and had no children. So no nasty divorce or custody case. Her husband had died six years ago. By the look of her, she might have had any number of jealous lovers or would-be lovers.

When the juiciest subjects had been exhausted, Rosalie remembered she had laundry to do, and Jenna, even though she could make her own hours, did have a deadline. “I’ll let you go,” Rosalie said, an expression Jenna hadn’t heard since her grandmother’s time.

She had passed the point where she could get any work done at the kitchen table and tried setting up a work station in the guest bedroom. The space wasn’t ideal, but the light was good, and the drafting table wouldn’t be in the way as it would in the living room. She worked steadily with T-square and pencils until her stomach told her she needed something more nutritious than Rosalie’s cream cheese brownies. It was past lunchtime.

She opted for the fastest protein lunch available—a peanut butter sandwich—and sat down to finish her letter. She had written about the Hayes family and the barbecue, about having the roof fixed, and her progress on the book. Nothing to suggest discouragement or uncertainty, nothing about the murder. Now she described the brownies, praised Rosalie’s neighborliness, and rhapsodized about the ocean view. She wondered if she was fooling anybody, herself included.

Tires crunched on gravel, and this time she recognized the sound. Rick Alvarez was back. “Another interruption,” she wrote. “For such a small, out-of-the-way place, we seem to have a very brisk social life.” She left the letter on the table but took her sandwich with her to the front door to let him know he had interrupted her again.

He got out of the pickup with a rolled paper in one hand and strode toward the house. He wasn’t wearing his tool belt. Jenna opened the door and stepped out on the porch. Again she waited for him to speak first.

“Hi,” he said. He seemed as supremely confident as ever, but stopped at the foot of the steps because she hadn’t responded.

“Hello,” she said finally, and automatically, “Where’s Danny?”

“With a friend,” he said. “I have an hour.” He came on up the steps. “I brought you something.” He held up the rolled paper but didn’t offer it to her. She would have to invite him inside. She took a bite out of her sandwich and gestured for him to enter. He followed her into the kitchen, where the letter lay on the table with the pen across it, clearly unfinished. Rosalie had apologized for her timing. Rick didn’t notice. Rosalie had offered information and delicious brownies. What had he brought?

He spread the paper out on the other side of the table, revealing a drawing of a kitchen. Not blueprints, not an artistic rendering, but a sketch done with an ordinary pencil and ruler. It was nevertheless a thing of beauty. It suggested, without the niceties of shading and perspective she was used to, an efficiently organized and attractively arranged kitchen, a reimagining of the space she stood in. He had given her a walk-in pantry as well as a shelf for a microwave. “The window is here,” he said, as if she couldn’t see for herself. She was so annoyed with him, and he had created this for her, and damn it, the thing was perfect.

“If you like Rosalie’s cabinets,” he began, and Jenna put up a hand to hold him off.

“We don’t need to get into the details,” she said. “I probably can’t afford it anyway, and I have work to do.”

“Okay,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if he was surprised or offended. He started to roll the plan up again, and she reached out to stop him. Without meaning to, she closed her hand on his. She let go at once and felt her face go hot.

“Leave it,” she said. “I’d like to think about it.”

“Okay,” he said again. “You can let me know.” He glanced around the kitchen, and his gaze fell on the letter lying on the table. She both did and did not want him to see the drafting table instead and know she had been seriously working. Why did she care?

She could let him know, he said, but she couldn’t call him. “Why,” she began—and stopped. She was being rude and wanted to be ruder. Instead she took a deep breath. “I appreciate what you did,” she said, gesturing at the plan. “I can’t do it right now, but—I can see you worked hard on it.”

“No problem,” he said. He sounded like he meant it. She knew it would be awkward to ask him to do the painting now, but she couldn’t face a retreat to her previous position of self-reliance. “I want to get the exterior painted first,” she said. “If you’d be interested…”

“I don’t do a lot of painting,” he said, “but…sure. I’ll give you a discount.”

“Why?” she asked bluntly. A better question was why she wanted to question his motives.

“You’re Bill Scott’s granddaughter.”

“Yes. And…?” He couldn’t have known her grandfather very well, having lived here for only three years.

“I kind of owe him,” he said. “Anyway, I can paint the house for you. It’ll take a few days, but I can start…probably Thursday.”

“Probably Thursday,” Jenna repeated. “I know you can’t call first, but it would be better if I knew when to expect you.”

“Sorry,” he said. He didn’t sound very sorry, but neither did he have the tone, so familiar to her from her life with Patrick, that suggested she was the one with the problem. “Let’s say Thursday at eight, unless it rains.”

“It must be inconvenient not having a phone,” she said.

He shrugged. “It can be, but it’s a small town. People talk to each other face to face. They walk. There are kids with bicycles who can carry messages.”

“Do you tip them?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The kids with bicycles.”

He shook his head, not in negation, but in amazement. “What are you being so prickly about?” he asked.

The phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said and picked up the receiver. It was her first call.

“Having one can be inconvenient too,” he said

A bit flustered, Jenna answered the phone. It was Harvey Wells. He had ordered her paint, but the green wasn’t immediately available. Did she want to wait or make another choice? She couldn’t quite focus on the problem. “Rick Alvarez is here,” she said. “He’s going to do the painting. Maybe you should talk to him.” She held out the receiver. “Harvey Wells,” she said.

He took the phone and quickly determined the trim paint would be available by the time he was ready for it. He didn’t sound like a man with a phobia about phones. He asked after Megan, which Jenna hadn’t thought to do, and confirmed a date to play poker. Taking his sweet time standing in her kitchen, when she’d told him she had work to do. He might have read her mind, because he looked right at her and said conversationally, “I don’t think she likes me.” Whatever Harvey said in response made him smile. “Yeah, okay, Harvey. I’ll see you later.” He hung up, and before she could think of anything to break an awkward silence, he said, “I’ll get out of your hair,” and started to leave.

“Wait,” she said. “Rosalie made brownies. Would you—?” He shook his head before she could finish. “I remember—you don’t like chocolate. But Danny—?”

“Thank you,” he said. “He would like that.” He waited while she wrapped three brownies in aluminum foil. “Thank you,” he said again. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

He started out the door, stopped, and turned back. “What do you call that color?” he asked.

“What?” She stared at him, her mind going logically to paint, but he lifted a hand and took a lock of her hair between his fingers. She could barely feel the contact, but it made her heart beat a little faster. “Oh,” she said, trying not to sound flustered. “Auburn, I guess.”

“Auburn,” he repeated, and then he was gone, leaving her standing in her kitchen, completely incapable of thinking about work.

“What?” she said again. What was it with this guy? After a few very confused seconds, she reminded herself he was an artist. Ah, yes, aesthetic curiosity, nothing more.

She did manage to get a decent amount of work done in the afternoon and finished her letter. She studied Rick’s sketch—he had labeled it Scott Kitchen—and tacked it up next to the sink. She reminded herself she had priorities to consider and went outside to study the paint square again. She stepped back and tried to visualize the forest-green trim. Only then did she remember she had forgotten to ask him for an estimate, with or without the discount.

Footsteps sounded behind her, a familiar, light tread. “Hi, Nancy,” she said without turning around.

“Hi, Miss Scott.” The girl came to stand beside her and study the test patch. “White is boring,” she pronounced.

“No, it isn’t. It’s clean and fresh. I like it.” Fresh was what she needed—a fresh start.

“But it’s still boring.”

“Sorry,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

“School. Also boring. I hate fractions, don’t you?”

“Not my favorite thing,” Jenna agreed. “What have you been reading?”

“I finished the one about whales. It was good. Now I’m reading the one about stars—but it isn’t, really.”

“That’s as clear as mud,” Jenna said with a smile.

“It’s about a girl in Denmark,” Nancy explained. “The title is something about stars. The Nazis were very bad. Are they all dead?”

“Yes, all dead, before you were born, even before I was born.”

“Good. I dreamed about them last night.”

“That must have been scary.”

“Yes,” Nancy agreed, “but I was brave. Are you brave?”

“Not very. I guess I could be if I had to.”

“Me too. Who do you think killed Mrs. Raymond?”

“I don’t know. Whoever he is, I hope he’s gone.” She also hoped she wasn’t encouraging ideas Rosalie and Mike would prefer to dismiss. Being admired by other people’s children carried a certain responsibility. Which reminded her…

“Is Larry still mad at me?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Nancy said disinterestedly. “He’s sure mad at somebody. But all he cares about is the stupid war and stupid Heather.”

“Heather seems like a nice girl,” Jenna objected.

“Yeah, but stupid, hanging around with my dumb brother. I think love makes people stupid.”

“You may be right.” Yes, love had made her stupid. She was through with love, thank God. The tears she had shed for Patrick yesterday seemed remote and foolish. She was better off without him, better off without romantic entanglements of any kind, admiring teenage boys included.

When Nancy had gone next door to do her homework, Jenna did more work on the illustrations, enough to let her count the day as a success.

She slept well, without nightmares of murder, Nazis, or even deadlines.