“You didn’t like my little performance,” he said mockingly.
“Not particularly. I...”
The front door opened behind us. Sebastian entered, tapping along with a white cane.
“Neverman? Is that you in here?”
“Christ!” Neverman muttered. “He’s like something out of Charles Addams.”
Sebastian could not have missed the comment, but he merely said, “Who’s with you?”
“It’s only me, Sebastian,” I said. “Sharon McCone.”
“Miss McCone! You do turn up in the most amazing places.”
“So what do you want, Sebastian?” Neverman asked impatiently.
“You’ve got a phone call up at the dormitory.”
“Oh, yeah? From who?”
“It sounds like your wife.”
“Jesus Christ!” He twisted the light switch angrily, and the church subsided into darkness. Without another word, he stomped out the door.
“The man has a dreadful temper,” Sebastian commented.
“I guess. Shall I help you back to the convent... dormitory, I mean?”
Sebastian’s scarred face contorted into a smile. “That’s not necessary. I get around perfectly well with my cane in places I’m familiar with.”
I glanced at my watch. It was close to eleven, and I was in no mood for further conversation. “In that case, I’ll be going. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow at Gus’s new apartment?”
“Very likely, Miss McCone.”
Sebastian left me on the path in front of the church, where the full moon looked down coldly through the twisted branches of a tree. Yawning, I decided to go home for some sleep. I’d talk with Mr. Moe, the dark-haired man who spoke falsely to me, in the sane light of morning.
10
The sane light of morning saw me called back to All Souls for a pretrial conference on the redwood hot tub case. It had not been a particularly dramatic investigation, but I’d discovered that the so-called contractor had used substandard materials. We had, as Hank put it, an airtight case against an outfit whose tubs did not hold water.
By one o’clock I was officially on vacation again. I returned to my office to fetch my bag and check for messages. There were two: one from Greg and one from Linnea.
Greg’s message simply said, “What’s new?” Briefly, I wondered if this indicated repentance over the sarcastic tone on which he’d departed yesterday. No, I concluded, it probably meant he was bored and hoped I’d take him to lunch. I discarded the note in the wastebasket.
The second message was disconcerting. Linnea asked that I call her; it was urgent. I lined the slip up on the blotter and stared thoughtfully at it, tapping my fingers on the edge of the desk. My friend had taken a turn for the better, but now I wasn’t sure how long it had lasted.
When I’d arrived home the night before, all had been quiet in the apartment. A cloud of warm, steamy air and the scent of Linnea’s favorite perfume greeted me as I entered.
Things must be picking up, I thought. She’s taken a shower.
I went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The mirror was polished, the basin scoured clean. Fresh towels hung on the racks, the old ones dumped into the wicker hamper. A note, Scotch-taped to the mirror, said:
“Sharon — Sorry about the mess. I’ll try to do better. Love, L.”
I looked beyond the note to my face, which wore an expression of shame. Linnea meant well. I didn’t give her enough credit for trying.
I felt my way down the hall to the main room, where a night light burned. It revealed Linnea’s sleeping form in the bag on the floor, the cat curled up beside her. The room was orderly, and a Ghirardelli chocolate bar was propped against a vase of fresh daffodils on the coffee table. My stomach knotted as I thought of Greg.
Calm down, I told myself. So what if he was here? So what if he discovered Linnea was staying with me and talked to her? There’s nothing suspicious about the fact I haven’t mentioned her to him; we haven’t been seeing one another since she arrived.
But I still felt uncomfortable and knew it was directly linked to that missing piece of drapery cord.
I undressed, sniffing appreciatively at the clean, scented sheets as I slipped into bed and pulled the heavy quilts over me. I should get my mind off that elusive piece of cord and concentrate on the facts of the murder.
Try motive, Sharon.
What motive could Linnea possibly have? She liked Molly. So they quarreled. So Molly bawled her out about her drinking. You don’t strangle a person over something like that.
Not if you’re rational.
Is Linnea?
Of course she is.
Is she?
Well, maybe not all the time. But look at the other facts: Molly’s apartment was searched. And she was preoccupied — worried, really — about something the day of her death. That alone should tell you her murder was well motivated. Maybe even well planned.
Why don’t you get off Linnea and look for the real killer? When you find him, you’ll know your friend is innocent.
Give it a try, huh?
My next impression was the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I struggled up on one elbow as Linnea emerged from the kitchen, wearing a yellow terrycloth caftan, her wheat-colored hair in childish braids. She looked at me with the expression of a naughty six-year-old.
“Are you mad at me?”
I could remember her asking the same thing in exactly the same way when she’d knocked me into the creek at the Girl Scout picnic. “Not now. Thanks for the coffee.” I made space for it on the bedside table.
“You’re welcome.” She sat down crosslegged on the bed. Her fresh-scrubbed face was cheerful, and her lips curled up contentedly. “I tried to clean the place up last night, and I promise I’ll finish the job today.”
“You must have really dervished around here,” I said, recalling how she and Clemente had left the Blind Center after nine-thirty.
Linnea chuckled. The verb “to dervish” was one of our old terms, part of that private language that springs up between close friends. “You should have seen me. It was sort of like doing penance.”
“Penance was easier than cleaning house.” I remembered the comforting shape of the rosary beads as I knelt in the shadows of Holy Name back home, then shook off the thought. I’d quit going to church many years ago. “So what do you have planned for today?”
“I thought I’d go to the Laundromat and do some ironing. Maybe I’ll bake us some bread. I want to be home in case...” She flushed prettily.
“In case Herb calls?”
She nodded, her eyes alight. “Sharon, he took me up to the Blind Center last night. You should see his place!”
“He lives in what used to be the rectory, right?”
“Yes. It’s beautiful — all parquet floors and dark wood and adobe. He’s got these handwoven Mexican rugs on the walls, and pottery and statues that look pre-Columbian, and a waterbed that I’m looking forward to...” She paused, both embarrassed and pleased.
I grinned, and she grinned back, and then we both snickered like boys in the locker room.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” Linnea said.
“It’s amazing what a new man will do for your spirits.” I got up and went to the closet. “Anyone who can make you turn to housework...” I gestured at the chocolate bar on the coffee table. “Did you buy the candy too?”
“Yesterday afternoon, at Safeway. I ate the last one that cop gave you, and I wanted to replace it.”
With a flash of relief, I took out a black wool pantsuit and reached for the clothes brush. “Lord, you didn’t have to do that!” And I wished she hadn’t; the chocolate bar she had eaten had been Hershey’s, an excellent brand. As far as serious chocolate lovers were concerned, the best thing about Ghirardelli was the wrapper.