“Yes,” Baxter replied.
I felt a little let down. This meant the key I’d picked up in my vacuum cleaner hadn’t been sent from Wendy after all.
His expression turned solemn. “You’re lucky that kayaker came along when he did and bailed you out.”
“I thanked him a hundred times, believe me,” I said.
“I thought you were psychic. Thomas had outstanding warrants, one for assault with a deadly weapon. Didn’t you sense he was trouble?”
I hadn’t. Thomas had done such a good job of making me feel like an asshole for harassing the old man that I’d failed to notice what an asshole
“I missed my cues,” I said. “So let me get this straight. Thomas killed Wendy because of her pig?”
“He killed her because he’s a sick son of a bitch. Now that we’ve made an arrest, all kinds of beach people are coming forward and describing his angry rants about the way ‘immigrants’ and ‘indigents’ are bringing down the neighborhood.”
“Now they speak up.” I wasn’t surprised. People have all kinds of reasons for staying silent about the suspicious behavior they see. They don’t want to get involved. They worry they’ll be wrong. They worry they’ll pay for talking.
“You were right about one thing,” Baxter said to me.
“What’s that?”
“The missing handcuff key. I blew you off about it, but it’s going to be an important piece of evidence. How’d you know?”
To tell, or not to tell?
“My vacuum cleaner picked up a handcuff key the day after Wendy’s drowning. This sounds stupid, but I honestly thought it was a message from her.”
“I don’t know about a message,” Baxter said, “but it is a pretty weird coincidence. The important thing is, Gunner Thomas is going down, and it’s because of you.” He started for the door. “It’s late. I’ll let you get some rest.”
I thanked him and waved from the door as he pulled out of the driveway. Walking back to the family room, I imagined the suntanned boy-man sitting in a prison cell downtown.
With that, the tears came. Thomas had attacked me and nearly snuffed out my life. He’d forced a brutal death on Wendy. I wished I could rage at the ruthless bastard, but the best I could do was cry. Better than numbness, I thought. At least I was alive and feeling something. When my tears were exhausted, I turned off the lights and trudged upstairs, feeling the full weight of the day in every step.
Before collapsing into bed, I went to my altar to light some fragrance and a candle, small gestures of thanks for my deliverance. I found a book of matches by the incense burner and fired up a stick of sweet Nag Champa. I moved the flame slowly to the candle and froze. Something wasn’t right.
The handcuff key was missing. I searched every inch of the bureau top, but it wasn’t there. I got on my knees and scoured the floor. No key. I turned on the overhead light and searched again. Nada. I widened my search. Zip.
Standing in the center of the room, I asked out loud: “Did you take the key?”
There was no answer, of course. But I swear I could hear Wendy, in her silent way, telling me that I could stop looking now.
PART II
THE NEW GIRL
BY DEBRA GINSBERG
I suppose most people have some trouble with their neighbors at some point or other. It isn’t possible to get along all the time, after all, especially not with strangers with whom you live cheek by jowl. People have such peculiar habits and inclinations—so evident when there are common alleys and kitchen windows without shades. Still, my policy has always been live and let live as long as nobody gets hurt. But sometimes the definition of “hurt” becomes a little murky. And sometimes people are just plain rude. There is no excuse for rudeness. It almost always leads to trouble.
Our particular trouble began last summer—in June, to be exact. The jacarandas were in fresh bloom and it was beginning to get warm. Not too warm, mind you. San Diego never really reaches a full boil until late August and into September. We’re always lulled into a false sense of security by then because the weather’s been so pleasant; warm enough to complain about all the tourists glutting the beaches but not hot enough to consider joining them there. And then, every year, there are two or three scorching weeks in the late summer and we all start falling apart like melting ice-cream sandwiches. By the time those bone-dry, fire-starting Santa Ana winds blow through here in October, we can’t even remember what it was like to grumble about the marine layer making things too gloomy. But last June was lovely—bright, sunny, and sparkling—the kind of climate that makes you happy to be alive. And we were, Sheila and I. Until the dogs were installed in the condo next door.
