“I need more time,” I said.
“Let me get this straight.” The voice on the line was the same gruff bellow I’d heard the last time, belonging to “our Mr. Andrews.” I had a lot less trouble getting through to him this time. Either his name moved mountains, or I was finally getting my just reward for my charm school manners. I wolfed a bite of tuna sandwich while he summed up the situation. “You haven’t been able to reach your husband.”
“That’s right,” I replied truthfully enough. “I’ve left messages,” I added, less truthfully.
“And he hasn’t gotten back to you.”
No doubt about it. This man had a grip on reality. I shooed fluffy Red Emma away from my potato chips. She adores potato chips, but then she has to drink about a gallon of water because she gets salted out.
“Er,” the gruff voice sounded oddly hesitant. “Er, I don’t quite know how to put this, but are you and your husband having any difficulties?”
I swallowed. “Difficulties?”
“Of an, er, marital sort? You’re not separated, are you?”
“Would that disqualify us?”
“Oh, er, no. Not at all. As long as he, uh, as long as both of you show up to claim your prize.”
“Well, like I said, I’ll keep trying.”
“Where exactly is your husband?”
“Why?”
His voice got all smooth and jovial. “Oh, I just thought we might be able to phone him. Cedar Wash has operators on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
“Thomas hates to be bothered by strangers,” I said, which was an out-and-out lie. T.C. will rub up against any stranger, any time, any place. “I’ll get through. I just need time.”
“Can you call me back in two days?”
“Sure. No problem. Don’t give the money away till then.”
I held the phone to my ear long after he’d hung up, because I could swear I’d heard an extra click at the beginning of our conversation. It made me wonder if someone didn’t know wiretapping was illegal.
They’ve got this bug detector in the Sharper Image catalog, this monthly bulletin of trendy gadgetry that I get through the mail due to some computer error. Anyhow, this item only costs forty-nine bucks plus two-fifty postage, “thanks to a breakthrough in microcircuit technology.” And it only weighs two ounces, so I could keep it in my shoulder bag.
Roz picked that moment to enter the kitchen. At least I thought it was Roz. Her hair was a bizarre shade of pink, and I wondered if she had done it on purpose or if this was the end result of all that dye. She yanked open the refrigerator. The seat of her skintight black stirrup pants looked like the seat of Roz’s skintight black stirrup pants. When she turned around, a jar of peanut butter in one hand, I knew beyond a doubt that it was Roz and that she, at least, thought her hair had turned out fine. She had a dreamy, faraway smile on her lips, in anticipation of the peanut butter, which she adores for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and she was wearing one of her signature T-shirts.
Roz is a sweet kid, honestly, underneath the fake eyelashes, the pouty makeup, the garish jewelry, and the tough-gal, heavy-metal image. She has a fake leopard skin coat. She’s only about five two, and she’s really thin, except for these incredible breasts, which may be why she has the best T-shirt collection in the world. The messages range from “McGovern ’72” to “Tofu Is Gross” to “Stamp Out Smurfs.” Today she wore one of my favorites, a copy of the classic crimson T, with Psychotic U. emblazoned where Harvard ought to be. My absolute favorite comes from a shop in Harvard Square and is a wild shade of purple, imprinted with the following verse:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I’m schizophrenic
And so am I
I never comment on Roz’s appearance.
“Yo, Carlotta,” Roz said. “How’re ya’ doin’?” She unscrewed the peanut butter jar and scooped a glob of yellowish goo onto a green-painted fingernail. We use the same refrigerator, but we buy separate supplies. Her attack on the peanut butter made me glad about that.
I wondered if her karate-instructor boyfriend was still lurking upstairs. Roz calls him Lemon. I’m not sure if that’s his genuine nickname, or just Roz’s special term of endearment, but his real name is Whitfield Arthur Carstairs III, I swear, and when he’s not teaching karate, he’s a performance artist. Some days he stands immobile, on a soapbox, for hours, in the middle of Harvard Square. I once saw him juggle four grapefruits. He also does sporadic underground theater, and has one of the most gorgeous bodies I have ever seen.
“You busy today?” I asked Roz.
“Not especially,” she said. At least I think that’s what she said. Her speech was slurred by the peanut butter.
“Want to earn a few bucks?”
“Today?”
She’s sharp as a tack sometimes. I don’t hold it against her. She’s at least ten years younger than I am, and she was probably weaned on television and marijuana. When she’s cleaning the house she sings TV-commercial jingles. On the other hand, she really can paint when the mood strikes her; wild abstract oils, layered with color and energy. She also does an occasional, surprisingly delicate, watercolor.
“Yeah,” I said. “Today. You have other plans?”
“Lemon’s coming by.”
Hah, I thought, you mean Lemon’s here. I’m a detective, for crying out loud. His truck is still parked across the street. I wondered if she thought I’d charge more rent for the two of them, or if she imagined I’d be scandalized by his overnight presence. The last thought kind of offended me. I mean, I’m not that ancient, and I’m not particularly righteous. I comforted myself by recalling the anguished and delighted grunts and groans of the night before. If Roz really wanted to keep Lemon a secret, surely she would have muted her ecstasy.
“If he wants to earn some dough,” I said, “I can use him, too.”
“Great,” she mumbled through the peanut butter. “What’s up?”
“Wear working clothes. And you’d better bring rubber gloves.”
“Rubber gloves,” she repeated. “Is this weird?”
“The job is housecleaning. At a client’s house.”
“Time and a half for housecleaning, if it’s not this place,” she said. She is sharp where money’s concerned.
“Okay,” I said. I had access to a lot of cash. I gave her Margaret’s address, made her write it down. She’s scatterbrained on addresses.
“Bring your camera,” I said. “And before you touch anything, take photos. For insurance, okay?”
Roz brightened. She loves photography. She converted this old root cellar in the basement into a darkroom, and sometimes she stays down there for days, coming up only for an occasional hit of peanut butter.
“No artsy-fartsy stuff, Roz,” I warned. “For a straight-arrow insurance company. And the place is a real mess. You’d better have Lemon drive his pickup so you can haul stuff away.”
“Okay.”
“And bring Hefty Bags.”
“Hefty Bags, rubber gloves, and a camera,” she said. “Lemon’s gonna love it.”
“Leave the Wesson Oil home,” I said.
She giggled.
“Look, Roz, seriously, here’s the key to the front door, and if anybody rings the doorbell, check them out before you open it. The lady who lives there is mixed up in some heavy-duty shit, and I don’t want you taking any chances.”
“Me and Lemon—”
“I know the two of you can kick anybody’s ass around the block, Roz, but you can’t kick a gun unless they let you get close enough.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be careful.” She returned the peanut butter jar to the fridge. Breakfast was evidently over. I wondered what poor Lemon subsisted on. “Hey,” she said, “did I tell you that guy came by again?”
“Huh?” Sometimes I don’t catch on very fast either.
“That guy you went to school with.”
“School,” I repeated. “Where?”
“I don’t know. I thought U. Mass., probably, but he looked kinda well dressed for that.”
“You’ve seen him with me? Here?”
“No.”
“He have a name?”
“Yeah. Let’s see. Smith. Roger Smith. Didn’t you see the note on the fridge?”
We both stared at the forest of paper on the refrigerator door. Time for a little local housecleaning, I thought.
“Oh, Roger Smith,” I said finally.
“A really nice guy,” she said. “You dating or what?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“Huh?” It was her turn to look bewildered.
“I don’t know anybody named Roger Smith, and I never went to any school with anybody named Roger Smith.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know?”
I shook my head sadly. The phantom had struck again. According to Roz, he’d made two appearances at the front door: the first, about five days ago; the second, the day before yesterday. The first time, he’d worn a navy blazer, charcoal slacks, black loafers, a light blue shirt, and a patterned tie. The second time, he’d worn a three-piece gray suit with a faint stripe, white shirt, dark tie, wing tips. He’d been sorry to miss me, just wanted to know how I was doing. Was I still driving the Toyota? Did I have another car? Did I ever buy that place on the Cape?
Huh?
I have to say that for an artist, Roz was terrible when it came to describing the guy’s face, which tickled me because she had his clothes down cold. Maybe she concentrates on bodies. Lemon is certainly evidence of that. She told me the guy had a definite mauve aura. When I questioned her closely, it sounded like he was the same man who’d chatted with Gloria, the same preppy, good-looking soul who’d passed himself off to Mooney as Mr. George Robinson of the Department of Social Services.
“Was he alone in the house, in any room, even for the briefest moment?” I asked.
“Well, I guess,” Roz said reluctantly, “I mean, when I went to get a piece of paper to write his name down and all.”
Shit. I was definitely going to buy that bug detector.