Marcia Muller
Vanishing Point
Book 23 in the Sharon McCone series, 2006
For Alison Wilbur-
finally, one under your real name-
and
Larry Griffin-
your own big-girl thriller!
Special thanks to:
Melissa Meith, my expert on legal matters-and mothers!
Bette Lamb, extraordinary nurse, artist, and writer.
And, as always, Bill Pronzini: Dammit, why are you always right?
VANISHING POINT
1. a point of disappearance, cessation, or extinction
2. (in the study of perspective in art) that point toward which receding parallel lines appear to converge
–
Sunday
“My God, what’s going on down there?” I asked Hy.
He peered through the Cessna’s side window as I banked over Touchstone, our property on the cliffs above the sea in Mendocino County. “Hate to say it, but it looks like a party.”
“Oh, hell, I never should’ve called the office from Reno.”
It did indeed look like a party: tables dotted the terrace, their brightly colored cloths fluttering in the sea breeze; smoke billowed from the barbecue; a crowd of people stood on the mole-humped excuse for a lawn, staring up and waving at the plane.
“There’s Mick,” Hy said. “And Charlotte. And Ted.”
“Probably the instigators.” I banked again and began my approach to our dirt landing strip along the bluff’s top. “How on earth did they organize this in just a few days?”
“Well, your people’re nothing if not efficient.”
“Yours, too.” I pointed down at Gage Renshaw, one of Hy’s partners in the security firm of Renshaw and Kessell International. “He made it up from La Jolla in time.”
“Nice of him. And I see Hank, Anne-Marie, and Habiba. And Rae. But all these people kind of put a damper on the rest of the honeymoon.”
“Oh, Ripinsky, we’ve been honeymooning for years.”
“That’s a fact.”
I concentrated on making a smooth landing, then taxied toward the plane’s tiedown, where my nephew Mick Savage, his live-in love, Charlotte Keim, and several other friends had converged. When I stepped down, I was smothered in one hug after another, while Mick helped Hy attach the chains to the Cessna. The hugging and exclaiming continued as we started toward the house, and then I heard someone singing.
The voice belonged to my former brother-in-law, country music star Ricky Savage. The song, apparently, was one he’d written especially for Hy and me.
“So did you get married in a wedding chapel?” Hank Zahn, my former boss and closest male friend, asked.
“Plastic flowers and a rented veil?” This from his wife and law partner, Anne-Marie Altman.
“Were there Elvis impersonators?” The dark eyes of their daughter, Habiba Hamid, sparkled wickedly.
“You guys are thinking of Las Vegas,” I told them. “We spent the night in Reno, then drove to Carson City, the state capital, applied for a license, and were married that afternoon by a judge. It was nice. Private. Tasteful, even.”
Hank and Anne-Marie nodded approval, but Habiba looked disappointed. She was a teenager who probably would have delighted in the image of Hy and me rocking-and-rolling down the aisle.
“What, no ring?” Ted Smalley, my office manager, demanded.
“Neither of us likes to wear rings. Besides, we feel married enough as is.”
“Nobody can feel too married,” his partner, Neal Osborne, fingered the gold band that matched Ted’s. They’d exchanged them at a ceremony at San Francisco City Hall, during the brief period when the mayor had declared the clerk’s office open for the issuance of marriage licenses to gay couples.
“I guess not,” I said. “And you two are a good example for all of us.”
“Tell that to the governator.”
“He’ll be told, come next election. You’re married in the eyes of your friends, and someday you’ll be married in the eyes of the state.”
“Sure is nice to be working for an honest woman.” Charlotte Keim, my financial operative, punctuated the comment with a bawdy laugh.
My nephew Mick said, “I think that’s a hint. She wants to fly off to Reno like you did.”
“Flatter yourself, already!” Charlotte elbowed him in the ribs.
“One of these days I just might weaken and ask you.”
“One of these days I just might weaken and ask
“Well?”
“Well?”
I smiled and left the happy couple to their half-serious standoff.
“So, McCone, you gonna tame him down?” Gage Renshaw, one of Hy’s partners, smiled slyly at me, dark hair blowing in the wind off the sea.
“No more than he’s going to tame
“Yeah, I guess that would take some doing.”
Gage never discussed personal things with me. I glanced at the champagne in his glass, wondering how many he’d had.
“In my experience,” he added, “a man gets married, he gets cautious, loses his edge. In our business, that makes for mistakes. And mistakes can be fatal.”
No, Gage wasn’t drunk; he was trying to send a message.
