or scuff marks. Nothing much except bird droppings and sewer vents. My inspection was punctuated by the caterwauling of an ambulance coming from the direction of Mercy Hospital.
As the sky deepened to octopus ink, I clicked on my flashlight and turned to go.
Behind me stood a slender man in his thirties, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved camo shirt. He must have entered the roof while the siren was blaring. Anxious and twitchy, he carried a day’s worth of beard and was attractive in a rough-hewn way.
“Hello,” I said, walking up to him, hand extended. “I’m Nikki. Thought I’d come up and check out the view.”
He shook my hand. “Caleb Trout.” He looked me over with an expression that was hard to read. Was he a nosy neighbor who wanted to see where Betty had fallen? Was he keeping an eye out because he suspected something about her death? Was he a meth addict waiting on the roof for someone to deal his next fix?
Suddenly Caleb asked, “Find anything interesting while you were here?”
I looked him in the eye. “Now that the sun has set, there’s nothing here to see, Caleb. Nothing here to see.”
I had one more errand before I returned to the dinner party. Caterina would fuss about how long I’d been gone. Let her.
The parking garage was a vault of shadows and exhaust. I heard soft laughter and the scrape of shoes coming from the next row of vehicles. In Betty’s assigned parking space sat a blue Ford pickup. Her silver Jetta was parked in a nearby visitor’s space. I wrote down the Ford’s license plate number, and made my way back to the dinner party.
In bed that night Caterina wore violet silk, and I wore quite a smile.
The next day I drove to Sciortino’s to give a PowerPoint presentation on the marketing event I’d come up with: The Grapes of Ra, a wine-tasting party where we’d decorate the grounds with hieroglyphs, stuffed crocodiles and cobras, and cheap statuary of Horus and Osiris. We’d hire a belly dancer to perform. Guests would be encouraged to dress like ancient Egyptians. And, of course, the guest list would be restricted to people who could afford half a case of Tempranillo!
I must’ve sold the idea well because everyone bought into it. Sometimes I wonder about people.
That evening I took Caterina out to dinner at the City Deli, a hallmark eatery that was popular even when Sears ruled the hood.
Afterward we went for a walk. Caterina was in an interesting mood. She talked about remembering the smell of violets in her grandmother’s basement when she was a child. She confessed to wearing braces until her sophomore year. She told me her favorite flower was the black Baccara rose, a
When we arrived at my house, the evening was too pleasant for us to stay indoors. We decided to walk across the little-known footbridge that connects one part of Spruce Street, across Kate Sessions Canyon seventy-five feet below, to the other part. The footbridge hangs among tall eucalyptus and acacia trees, suspended by cables secured with concrete at both ends. Walking across this bridge is like swinging in a cab at the top of the Ferris wheel. That half-scary, half-giggly sensation of swaying delighted both of us. Fortunately we were both sure-footed and had no fear of heights.
After strolling through the neighborhood on the other half of Spruce, we returned. That night our lovemaking drew its power from new and deeper wells.
Afterward in bed, my thoughts returned to Betty’s death. “If I’m right and it wasn’t suicide, then it had to be an accident or murder. And I have to agree with the police—an accident, while possible, does seem unlikely. But who would want to murder Betty?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
I nodded. “In Betty’s case, you don’t have the ‘usual suspects.’ She lived off a fat work comp settlement she got from Caterpillar in Indiana years ago. She’d made good investments and never held a regular job after that. So there aren’t any coworkers who might be jealous of a promotion, or that kind of thing.”
“Yes, darling.”
Caterina began licking the inside of my elbow, but I refused to be distracted. “Betty was alienated from her family, so no family feuds.”
“And she didn’t have a partner, so she wasn’t murdered because she cheated on someone,” Caterina observed.
“No; no partner, no spouse. No adultery. No family feud. No big inheritance. No coworkers. So what’s that leave us?”
“Neighbors?”
“Exactly! And guess who owned the truck parked in Betty’s parking space?”
She rolled over onto her stomach and squished a pillow beneath her breasts. “Caleb!”
I nodded. “I bought access to an online database of California vehicle licenses. Looked up the plate number and it was his truck. The day before she died, Betty said she’d argued with someone who kept taking her assigned parking space.”
“Plus he was keeping an eye on the roof. He wanted to know what you saw.”
“I’d say Caleb is my number one suspect.” I failed to mention he was my only suspect. “Let’s get some rest.” I held her in my arms and drifted off. I had hoped she’d stay the night, but around three in the morning, I heard her scurry out of the house, off to her own bed as usual.
On Saturday Caterina sold one of the most expensive scarves in her inventory to an Elton John impersonator. I received an unsolicited pay raise for my marketing work at Sciortino’s. And the production at the San Diego Rep carried all the weight of a marshmallow but was great fun.
