“Let’s go.”
I got up and went to the window. A man wearing a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap was loading his car truck. A woman and a boy were getting in the car.
“That’s everything,” the man said and closed the trunk.
He saw me in the window, wasn’t sure how to react, and decided t6 smile. I smiled back and for some reason waited till he and his family had driven away before I got dressed, checked out and jogged to my office home.
The door was closed but not locked. There was no crime-scene tape. I went in. There was blood on the floor where Beryl’s body had been. There was blood on the floor near my bed where the tire iron had been thrown. I changed clothes and hurried to the Geo.
I made my usual stop at Sarasota News and Books for two coffees to go with chocolate biscotti, left the car in a space in front of the bookstore and took my paper bag to Ann Horowitz’s office a block away.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, handing her the peace offering of coffee and biscotti. I knew she was a sucker for sweets.
She placed the biscotti on a napkin on the table nearby, opened the coffee, smelled it and nodded her approval. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with a pattern of large red apples. Her earrings were matching red apples. The room was flooded with light.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Fortunately, the time was available.”
“But still…”
“You are forgiven,” she said. “Talk. I’ll drink, eat and listen.”
I talked. She dunked her biscotti, listened, nodded from time to time. When I stopped talking ten minutes or so later, she had finished her biscotti and was almost finished with her coffee.
“That’s what happened, but how do you feel?” she said.
“About what?”
“About what?” she said with a hint of exasperation. “About the dead woman. About your date with Sally…”
“Porovsky,” I said.
“Jewish?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Because I’m Jewish?”
“You mean did I ask her out because you’re Jewish? No, I don’t think so.”
Ann nodded.
“Wishful thinking on my part,” she said. “You want me to tell you why you did it, asked her for a date? I don’t know yet. You feel guilty about it, feel you are betraying your wife.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But you had a good time? You like this woman?”
“Yes. She’s easy to be with.”
“Sexual thoughts, feelings?”
I hesitated and then said, “Yes.”
“Good,” Ann said. “If you’re not going to eat that biscotti…”
I broke it in half and handed one part to her.
“She reminds me of my wife in some ways. She doesn’t in others.”
“You plan to see her again?”
“Yes.”
“How would you characterize what you did on this date?”
“I made it safe for both of us by spending most of the time searching for Adele Tree.”
“She seemed to find this acceptable?”
“Yes. She said, ‘You know how to show a girl a good time.’”
“Irony,” said Ann, taking care of the last few biscotti crumbs.
“Yes. My grandmother made something like biscotti. I don’t remember what she called it. It was good.”
“And she came from Italy?”
“Yes, Rome. Spoke with an accent but her English was good.”
“You find that observation relevant?” Ann asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know why.”
“We’ll save that for another time. And now to murder and your dream. How do you feel about the dead woman, about what happened, about what the dream is telling you?”
“That’s a lot,” I said, finishing my now cold coffee.
“Jump in. Are you angry?”
“Yes, but I think I should be more angry. She seemed to be a decent person. I should have helped her more. She was murdered where I live. She… I’m still having trouble feeling. Even with this, I’m still having trouble feeling. My wife…”
I stopped and went silent.
“You want to tell me what you think the dream means?”
I shook my head no.
“Then I’ll try. Is the Joker a messenger? Is the Joker a jester? He is certainly handing the dead Mrs. Tree a box with a message for you, a message she gives you, an overflowing box of red pieces of paper. Anything?”
“Blood,” I tried.
“Why not? She gives you the gift and wants you to accept it. She wants you to feel, to find the person who killed her. She wants you to find her daughter, to help her daughter. The three men in shawls are people you know who want to help, who want you to help find this murderer, to help find the girl, the child, Adele.”
“And that’s what my dream means?”
Ann sat back, shrugged and said,
“In the absence of an interpretation by you, that’s what I want the dream to mean. I had a big breakfast. I shouldn’t have had that last piece of biscotti, but…”
“No offense, but isn’t there something unprofessional about telling me what you want my dream to mean?”
Ann touched the right earring.
“I’m old and can say what I wish to say. I want to cut through the baloney and get you jump-started. I want to prod you. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Then go get something to eat, find out who killed Mrs. Tree and find the girl.”
“What about Melanie Sebastian?”
“Who needs finding more?” Ann asked.
“Adele,” I said.
“That’s your answer. Now, go forth, accept the help of your three men in shawls and when you get a chance, call Sally Porovsky.”
“I will,” I said, getting up. “I think I know who one of my men in shawls is.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Good,” she said, reaching for the phone. “I have an opening the day after tomorrow at nine. You have twenty more dollars?”
“I’ll be here,” I said, moving for the door while she dialed.
“There’s probably a frightened young man in my waiting room,” she said. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”
The young man was there. He looked very frightened but he didn’t look at me when I told him Ann would see him in a few minutes.
I went out the door and into the sun to have breakfast and look for Adele.
