had anywhere else to go, I would take my mother and sister and go there. At least for a while.'
Lorenzo's questioning gaze held mine for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. 'I have another cousin,' he said. 'His name is Sergio Hurtado, and he lives in Yakima. I can take my mother and go there. Maria can't miss work, but she can stay with friends.'
'Does your cousin have a phone?' I asked. 'Can I call you there if I need to?'
'Yes,' Lorenzo answered. 'Yes, you can.'
'Is he listed in the telephone directory?'
Lorenzo nodded. And then he offered me his hand.
As we shook, I realized the entire process had been a test, from the moment the two of them stepped inside the door of the Ballard Fire House. It had been a life-and-death examination on the subject of trust, and although there were still many unanswered questions, I knew I must have passed.
20
By the time we left the Ballard Fire House, it was far too late for even the former BoBo Beaumont to pay a call on Else Gebhardt. Besides, I was beat. And the bone spur on my heel was kicking up again. I told myself it came from just watching all that salsa dancing, but it probably had a lot more to do with stumbling around in the dark out at the Camano Island fire two nights before.
In any event, I took off for home, where I dosed myself with prescription anti-inflammatories. The directions on the bottle said that the medication was to be taken with food. Since there wasn't much of that lying around loose in my bare-bones kitchen, I followed the pills with a chaser of peanut butter. A generously rounded tablespoonful. I figured since peanut butter seemed to be good enough for the other old dogs in my family, it was probably good enough for me.
And it worked, too. Soon after I crawled into bed, the throbbing in my foot lessened enough for me to fall asleep. During the night, I dreamt, not surprisingly, of salsa dancing.
Ralph Ames, who is often an overnight guest in my high-rise condo, has made a crusade of bringing me out of the technological Dark Ages. He had prevailed on one of his electronics/computer-whiz friends to design a dazzling system for my apartment that can do everything but bring me coffee in bed. If I carry a little electronic wafer in my pocket, I can set the thing to automatically adjust lights and music as I move from room to room.
The system also includes a wireless pagerlike controller and intercom that can, from any room in the apartment and without benefit of telephone, answer and open my apartment door as well as the door to Belltown Terrace's outside entrance. It's a great gimmick-if I'd just remember to wear it. Most of the time it stays parked on the counter in the bathroom, which is where I most often have need of it.
That was the case the next morning when the doorbell rang just as I stepped out of the shower. It was the bell to the apartment.
Belltown Terrace is a secured building. That means no one is supposed to enter without being buzzed in by either a resident or allowed in by the doorman. If the doorman lets a guest inside the building, he's supposed to call and check to see whether or not the arriving person is expected and should be allowed to proceed. In other words, whoever was standing at the door to my apartment should have been one of my fellow residents, a neighbor from inside the building.
And she was. 'Hi, Uncle Beau,' Heather Peters chirped through the pager. 'Can we come in?'
Heather and Tracy Peters are the daughters of Ron Peters, a former partner of mine. After a disabling line- of-duty injury left him wheelchair-bound, he and the girls moved into a unit on one of the lower floors of Belltown Terrace along with Amy, the physical-therapy nurse who became his second wife. Never having had any nieces and nephews of my own, I appreciated being allowed to borrow the girls on occasion.
'Sure, Heather,' I said, pressing the button. 'I'll be out in a minute. Just let me get some clothes on.'
Eight-year-old Heather had said 'we.' I assumed that meant she and her ten-year-old sister would both be waiting in my living room. I was wrong.
I came down the hallway a few minutes later to find both Heather Peters and an amazingly large Afghan hound-who was either Charley, the elevator dog, or Charley's twin-enthroned on my window seat. Heather's arm was around the dog's shoulder, and they both sat with their backs to the room, peering down through yet another morning of Puget Sound's late-autumn fog.
'Hey, what's he doing in here?' I demanded.
'Charley's a she,' Heather corrected primly. 'She's named after the perfume.'
'Well, get her down off my window seat.'
When ordered to get down, Charley complied, but not without a baleful look at me. She sighed, disdainfully shook her footlong ears, and then flopped down at Heather's feet.
'Have you ever met Charley before?' Heather asked.
'Only once. In the elevator. Is that where you found her?'
'Oh no, I'm taking care of her for the whole weekend. I told Amy and Dad that I'm taking her for a walk, but I need your help.'
I come from an era when people who owned dogs usually had yards to go with them. When the dog needed to be walked, the owner simply opened the door, and the dog walked itself. No one carried pooper-scoopers and plastic bags back then.
'I don't walk dogs, Heather,' I said, stopping in the kitchen long enough to pour the first cup of coffee from the morning's second pot. The last statement sounded grouchy, even to me. When Heather's face fell in disappointment, I modified my position some. 'At least I never have up till now,' I added.
Heather brightened instantly. 'Did you know it's Amy's birthday today?'
Amy Peters is Heather's stepmother. 'I had no idea.'
'I know what I want to get for her birthday present-Frangos. You know, those chocolate things?' Heather prattled on. 'She just loves Frangos. I've got enough money, but my dad's too busy to take me to the Bon. I could walk there by myself, if I had Charley along to look out for me, but then what would happen to her when I went inside the store?'
What indeed? Forty-five minutes later, I was cooling my heels on the corner of Fourth and Stewart outside the Bon Marche, one of Seattle's premier department stores. I stood there hoping to God none of my fellow police officers would see me doing dog-sitting duty with that arrogant, snooty animal. Charley and I seemed to be of the same mind-we were both pretending we'd never seen each other before, which is hard to do when you're on opposite ends of the same leash.
Much as I hate to admit it, Charley was an exceptionally well-behaved dog. Although nearly as tall as Heather, the dog obeyed all instructions issued by her diminutive keeper. Head held high, Charley pranced along beside Heather when we walked, or sat with her narrow nose high in the air while we waited for lights to change at intersections.
Heather is a cute kid in her own right; always has been. Charley is a beautiful dog, and the two of them were a winning combination. Just like any ordinary regular uncle, I got a boot of pride out of the way passersby craned their necks to take a second look.
We spent some time window-shopping downtown and sauntering through the Saturday morning throngs at the Pike Place Market. I told myself I was just minding my grandmother-taking the time to stop and smell the flowers. Along the way, I picked up some groceries. With the gourmet cook Ralph Ames due to arrive the next day, I couldn't afford to be caught foodless in Seattle.
Back at Belltown Terrace, I said good-bye to Heather and Charley in the elevator, put away the groceries, then picked up the phone and dialed Ashland, Oregon. Jeremy Todd Cartwright III, my recently acquired son-in-law, answered the phone.
'Kelly's outside with the kids. Want me to go get her?'
Kelly runs a day-care center out of their newly remodeled home, so she is often 'outside with the kids.' One of those kids, Kayla-short for Karen Louise-is my only grandchild.
'Don't bother. I can talk to you. Do you and Kelly have any plans for Thanksgiving?'
Jeremy paused. 'We had talked about going down to Cucamonga, to visit Dave and Karen, but Dave called
