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Maren spent the day working on Saturday. She had to complete a promotional piece about the cell phone bill before Monday, when Senator Rickman’s office would circulate it to legislators and the press, and Ecobabe would feature it on their website as a marketing tool. Key content would be how many children’s lives could be saved if the bill was enacted.
Unfortunately, Maren’s writing wasn’t going well. Sean in jail for murder was still beyond belief, and she was used to being able to help when things went wrong for those she cared about. But unless she could come up with Tamara’s real murderer, she didn’t see what she could do. Tracking down an unknown killer seemed a grandiose notion to entertain. Where would she even start?
She took a break and checked her phone. The first message was from Noel, cancelling their weekly Sunday get-together—he also had a project he couldn’t put off. The second was from Simone Booth’s daughter, Liza, asking if Maren might join her family for an impromptu dinner at their home in three hours time.
Maren was free, and she hated to keep putting Liza off. She decided she’d ask her if she could bring a “date”.
Two hours later, Maren and Polly stood inside the entry of a small flat located on the second floor of an older fourplex, not far from Maren’s office in Midtown. The eye of an artist was evident in Liza’s choice of wall hangings and eclectic, colorful ceramic dishes on the glass-topped oval dining table. Tomato, onion, and garlic smells from the kitchen competed with jasmine-scented candles on the mantel. An open door to a study revealed the chaos that often follows a teacher home—John Booth-Henry’s white laminate desk was covered with grade and ungraded exams. Books were jammed upright and sideways onto shelves. Some had made their way onto the floor.
“Can I get you a drink? Wine, sparkling water?”
In her late twenties, Liza Booth-Henry was lean the way some young mothers are from racing after their children rather than from dedicated workouts. Her shiny, chin-length brown hair flipped up at the ends, framing an even-featured, attractive face. The sleek, three-quarter-length black pants, sleeveless black turtleneck, and black ballet flats she wore were ’60s mod. Maren’s hostess struck her as a cross between Barbie’s best friend, Midge (minus the freckles), and an early Mary Tyler Moore. The only break in her unicolor look was a striking brooch of Liza’s own design, a thin figure of indeterminate gender fashioned in flat silver, its outstretched arms supporting a quarter moon of burnished copper.
Polly chose red wine. Maren was about to ask for sparkling water when a streak of fur raced past, followed by a two-year-old girl in whirling, giggling Tasmanian devil-like pursuit. Seconds later, a boy with determined composure marched after the girl, gaining ground only because of his considerably longer legs.
“I’m so sorry, Maren, you’ll remember . . .” Liza faltered, probably not sure how to proceed given that Maren had met her children in a time of crisis. She tried again. “Maren, you’ll remember Zoey and Zane. Mother’s kitten, Raffi, has come to live with us. It’s a bit of an adjustment for everyone.”
“Mostly for Raffi, I’d say,” Polly said, smiling when Zane came back into view carrying the cat wrapped in a bath towel, the feline’s fuzzy black head peeking out, its ears back. Zoey followed closely, her cheeks puffed out and eyes narrowed, clearly poised to howl if Zane took the kitten completely out of reach.
Maren looked for recognition in the young boy’s eyes as he walked by, but either her dry hair and clothes made her incognito relative to the awful day she had dragged him from the sunken car, or more likely he was choosing not to acknowledge her.
“Please, have a seat.” John said, as he sat down on one of two black leather loveseats and was joined by Liza.
The other loveseat was occupied by Legos and a large purple teddy bear—pre-party cleanup evidently having been thwarted by the apartment’s youngest occupants. Maren settled uncomfortably in a modern, orange, sling-back chair by the hearth. Polly made what turned out to be the smarter choice, a broad leather ottoman. Maren wasn’t sure it was intended for seating, but Polly looked at ease there.
“Your place is lovely,” Maren said.
Liza looked around her. “It will be hard to leave. We’ve been here since before the children were born. But we’ve decided to move into Mother’s place. There’s a nice yard and a garden . . .” She paused, seeming to lose steam. “There really isn’t any way we can express our gratitude to you,” she said at last, looking directly at Maren. Tears formed in her eyes.
John Booth-Henry, a large man with bushy black hair and black-rimmed glasses, took his wife’s hand. Maren assumed he was intimidating to his high school students until they heard his gentle voice. “We had so little time,” he said. “Simone only moved out here from D.C. last spring.” He looked at Liza, whose head was bowed.
Maren wondered if scheduling this get-together so soon had been a good idea. She pictured Simone Booth there with them, her white curls framing a grandmotherly smile as she cuddled Zoey on her lap or helped Zane with his latest Lego creation.
Maren felt suddenly tired. The sense of emptiness Liza exuded from her mother’s passing was contagious.
“I understand she was a terribly talented journalist,” Polly said brightly. “She must have left a wonderful legacy in her writings.”
Thank goodness for Polly, Maren thought.
Liza gestured expansively. “Yes, there’s so much of it. That’s one of the challenges with the move. My mother wrote everything long-hand and recorded her interviews on cassette tapes.”
“Not even digital. Real cassette tapes,” added John.
“There must be thirty years’ worth. Hundreds of them. Some might be of interest to writing programs, or even museums. Mother did some important journalistic research. Especially on government activities and legislation, both when she was in D.C. and since she came here to Sacramento. But the labeling is unintelligible—random numbers and letters. No words or dates. It’s like a code. I can’t imagine having the time to go through them all. Not with work and the kids . . .” Liza’s shoulders slumped. Her hands fell limply back into her lap as her burden of grief returned.
Maren focused on Liza’s hands as they went from motion to stillness. She felt Tamara’s hand in her own in those last moments, a young woman beyond her reach. Perhaps she could do something for this one.
“That could be a good project for my interns,” Maren said. “They’re all policy or political science students of one stripe or another. From what you say, there’s likely a lot in your mother’s research that they could learn from.”
“Listening to the tapes might be educational.” John adjusted his glasses with his free hand. “But it would take forever. I can’t see you freeing your assistants for that many hours.”
“They might be able to find a way to upload the tapes into the computer,” Maren said. “Or perhaps a dictation program to translate them from voice to text. Then they wouldn’t need to listen to each one. They could skim and highlight the transcriptions to pick and choose instead.”
A crashing sound from the other room followed by an inhuman yowl and some very human crying brought both Liza and John to their feet. John was out of sight first, returning with a kicking, screaming Zoey in his arms. Maren experienced déjà vu as she recalled Senator Alec Joben in the same posture with the toddler at the scene of Simone Booth’s fatal accident.
John handed Zoey off to Liza, who spoke softly and stroked the girl’s fine brown hair. The child ceased her resistance, laid her head on her mother’s chest, and with thumb in mouth allowed herself to be taken back toward the bedrooms.
“The cat sought refuge at the top of the bookshelf,” John reported. “Fortunately, the shelves were bolted to the wall as an earthquake precaution. Still, most everything that was up there is now on the floor.” He smiled, and in a somewhat theatrical gesture downed the remainder of his wine. “Although unclear how much of that was due to the cat, and how much Zoey caused in pursuit. Anyone else for a refill?”
Polly was game for another glass of red. Maren set her water down and asked if she might use the bathroom.
“Of course. There’s only one, I’m afraid,” John said. “Past the nursery. Sorry, it’s a bit overrun with kid stuff.”
Maren had noticed before that people with young children seemed to apologize often to the childless. She wondered if they worried whether she and others without offspring lacked the genes or the will to accept the discomforts that invariably accompany the joys of parenting.
* * *
JOHN BOOTH-HENRY’S description of the small bathroom did not disappoint. Despite a clear attempt to organize, brightly colored children’s plastic bath toys and child-safe body products claimed every surface, from the area around the sink to the sides of the tub. A blue toddler’s potty competed with the adult version for the limited floor space.
After drying her hands on a My Little Pony hand towel, Maren adjusted her belt using the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door.
On most days, her style tended toward artistic, avant-garde, or ’60s hippie, depending on who was describing it—loose, flowing skirts, scarves, and jackets in peaceful, deep hues, along with her red western boots. Once, while leaving a luncheon, her oversized silk jacket in a print reminiscent of a Monet watercolor had caught on a chair, which proceeded to drag behind her as she tried to leave. A colleague had commented, “Maren, only you could make the furniture part of your fashion statement.” But with Polly’s urging, she’d recently purchased an above-the-knee, bell-shaped white skirt with black embroidery along the hem. Tonight she’d paired it with a sleeveless white top, a broad black belt, and new shiny, strappy black heels. Not bad, she thought, as she appraised her updated look and noticed that even her dark curly hair seemed to be trying to behave itself.
Before leaving the bathroom, Maren dug into her satchel, retrieved her phone, and checked for messages. There was only routine work. It was odd not to see Sean’s name among them. The two of them should be busy pulling together the cell phone bill strategy, talking daily about how to get the votes they needed to beat the opposition. She wondered if she would be able to get the law enacted without his help. Although achieving that outcome, even though her job might be at risk if she did not, seemed far less important than it once had.
As she made her way back past the closed door of the nursery, Maren heard new voices from the main room.
Both male. Both familiar.
She turned the corner to find Senator Alec Joben accepting a beer from John Booth Henry. A younger man stood next to them, his prematurely receding hairline ending in a short, stubby ponytail.
Never a good look, Maren thought. But his clothes were thrift-store chic—a ’50s mustard-colored suit and a thin blue tie, which together almost made the hair thing work for him. Maren felt she knew him from somewhere. She wasn’t sure where. But that was Sacramento—a small town despite its big-city aspirations. Not that it mattered to her. The younger man wasn’t relevant.
Maren was mapping her escape strategy.
It was one thing to have hoped and imagined Senator Alec Joben might appear at this thank-you dinner since he’d also participated in saving Zane and Zoey from the sinking car. In fact, it had occurred to her he might be on the invitation list when she chose her new outfit. But to have him actually show up unannounced? She wasn’t ready—she needed more time. She wanted her next encounter with him to be well thought out. Pro and con lists made and diagrams drawn, perhaps a role-playing session where Camper could be Alec. Because Maren felt she had two modes in life: carefully planned versus “what the hell just happened?” with the latter rarely ending well.
She looked more carefully at the two new guests, wondering if they could have come together. If Alec Joben were gay, if they were a couple, my problems would be solved. True, the thoughts Maren had been cautiously entertaining and then pushing away of a potential romance with him would be crushed. But at least the pain that reaching for love might cause her would never arrive.
“You know the senator,” John Booth-Henry began. “And this is Ed Howard, our neighbor in the next flat.”
“We’ve met,” Howard said, stepping awkwardly toward Maren, extending his hand. “Spoken, actually. You prevented me from removing my belt.” He stammered, then blushed, realizing that didn’t sound right. “In the security line. At the capitol. Artists Lobby Day,” he clarified.
“Maren often has that effect on men,” Polly said. Her British accent made the quip come across as droll, rather than crass. There was laughter, except for Howard, who blushed again before retreating to the sling-back chair Maren had vacated. Polly and Liza, chatting amiably, sat down. John was clearing the second love seat while making more apologies for having children. Alec moved toward it, then slowed, waiting for Maren to seat herself first.
Musical chairs, she thought. She never was good at games. Still, she was sure there had to be a way out. Until Polly caught her eye with a stern “don’t you dare” expression.
Since Polly was her getaway driver, that narrowed Maren’s options.
She smiled at Alec. She hoped it was a smile and not a grimace, and tucked herself into one corner of the love seat. But while the senator did his best to observe the boundary she was setting, he wasn’t a small man. They might as well have been in economy class in a commuter plane on Southwest Airlines. Maren’s breathing increased. She felt unnaturally warm. Her response to his proximity made her picture Garrick Chauncey—the last man she’d been intimate with, and she felt oddly guilty. She pulled her arms tightly against her sides.
“Come here often?” Alec asked, smiling softly.
Is that flirting? Did he just flirt with me?
“No. Yes. I . . .” she began, marveling at how a simple conversation became a land mine when hormones were involved.
“I thought maybe you didn’t venture out after dark,” Alec said, his eyes not leaving hers. “I’ve looked for you at postwork events.”
Okay, that was flirting—even I know that was flirting, Maren thought. Unless he’s worried I’m a vampire.
Fortunately, before Maren moved on to the possibility that Alec Joben suspected she was a shape-shifter, Ed Howard cut in, leaning forward in his chair until it almost tipped over and he had to lean back again.
“Senator Joben, I was starting to say, I mean, when we were standing . . .” Howard stopped and took an audible breath. “I have an appointment with you. Next week. I booked it with Shelly. No. Sharon, I think. I’m an artist, really, but my day job, I’m in hotel management, in training actually. I’m coming to see you about the bedsheet bill.”
Bedsheet bill? Maren hadn’t heard of that one—but then there were thousands of legislative proposals in California each session.
It was well known that Alec Joben loved policy discussions. It was one of the reasons he had run for office. He shifted gears. “Ed, isn’t it?”
The young man nodded.
“I understand management's concerns about the cost to the hotels. But I’m worried about the health of the housekeeping staff. That’s why I’m carrying the bill. The time required bent over to tuck in the corners of bottom and top flat sheets hour after hour, day after day, as compared to sheet changes using fitted bottom sheets, contributes significantly to workers’ back injuries.”
Ed Howard’s blotchy complexion reddened. He licked his lips, and when he took a drink of wine to clear his throat, his hand was unsteady. But he was prepared on this topic and his content was clear. “New policies at forty-two percent of larger hotels permit guests to choose the option to skip sheet changes for days at a time to lessen the impact on the environment. It also really reduces housekeeping staff’s workload. The back injury data you cite is old. Really, hotels can have both—flat sheets which are less expensive in bulk, and injury rates still less than half what they used to be.”
The two men parried, exchanging statistics back and forth, but it was not unfriendly. Maren tuned out their words, hearing only “Blah, blah, blah bedsheets.” She found herself observing Alec’s strong mouth, his teeth and tongue moving as he talked, and imagining what else they might be good for.
* * *
WHEN SHE GOT OUT OF the shower Monday morning, there was a message from Alec asking if she would like to have a drink Thursday night, and one from Lana Decateau saying she’d cleared Maren to visit Sean as a consulting attorney of record.
First, Maren accepted Alec’s invitation, finding it easier to act like a grown-up in romantic matters when they occurred virtually. Although she knew doubts would crowd in when she had to get ready for what was clearly a date. If her past experience was any guide, fundamental questions would jam her most basic operating systems. Was she good enough for him? Was he good enough for her?
She turned her attention to Lana’s message, jotting down the logistics to see Sean. Her work would have to wait. She grabbed her satchel and headed out the door.
The county jail at 711 G Street loomed large on the flat Sacramento landscape. Ninety percent of its twenty-four hundred inmates were in for felonies. Its three massive towers were crisscrossed with scores of narrow, tinted windows.
A short, older guard with white hair escorted Maren to an empty interview room with putty-colored walls, scuffed chairs, and a metal table. He left without comment. Within minutes Sean arrived accompanied by a second guard.
Rather than the orange jumpsuit Maren had expected, Sean wore prison-issue gray slacks and a gray button-front shirt. Several days’ growth of beard darkened his face. His bangs, usually a fashion statement, hung dull and lanky in his eyes. The guard leaned against the wall, apparently planning to stay.
“I have a right to privacy with my client,” Maren asserted, although in truth she had no idea what the rules were. Maren’s legal experience was limited to drafting proposed legislation and reviewing company contracts for Ecobabe. But she figured the same basic principle applied in all legal matters—ask for anything, you might get it. She added, “Uncuff him. I’ll take responsibility.”
“I’ll be outside,” the guard said, ignoring her request to remove Sean’s handcuffs. But he did leave. One for two, she thought. Until she noticed a small window in the top half of the door enabling the guard to watch them.
Sean backed his legs against the chair before folding his six-foot-plus frame into it, by feel, like a blind man. He kept his head down.
“I don’t believe for a minute that you . . .” Maren stumbled over the right choice of words. “That you harmed Tamara Barnes.”
Sean looked up. He appeared to be taking in each aspect of Maren’s expression—her eyes, the slant of her mouth—as though he didn’t recognize her. Or maybe, she thought, he was measuring her, checking to see if she really believed in him. When he finally spoke his tone was hard, his hands balled into fists at his side, although the rest of his posture remained passive.
“I told Tilly—Tamara, I told her I would come to the governor’s office when I was done. That she should wait for me. She was probably only there alone because I was late . . .” He broke off, swallowed. “I was almost to Tamara’s office, the governor’s suite. I heard something as I passed the bathroom.” His face twitched. He grimaced. Maren pursed her lips and pulled her jacket closed tightly around her, also remembering that night, the body, the blood.
“She was on the floor,” he said. “By the sinks. She tried to speak.” Sean stared at the wall—Maren might as well not have been present in the interview room.
“I knelt to hear her. To hold her . . . She tried, but . . . she . . . there wasn’t anything.” His tears came hard. He made no effort to wipe them away.
Maren wanted to comfort him, but was conscious of the time, of the guard just outside the door. “You said she was on the floor? When I came in, that’s not how—”
“The tiles were cold. She was pale.” His eyes were anguished. “I lifted her onto the couch.” He looked down again. When he raised his head the vivid pain was gone, replaced by exhaustion, his lids heavy. “I don’t know the rest, I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean?”
He spoke as if by rote, as if it was something he had repeated many times. “The next thing I knew I was outside. I heard sirens. I went home. In the morning I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.”