There was a short silence. I was trying to decide if there were any other questions I should ask. It was hard to concentrate, however. Darlene Girvan was looking at me speculatively.
“Henry’s right, isn’t he? The car does have something to do with the murder.”
“Possibly,” I answered. “And you can bet I’m going to get busy and check it out the first thing in the morning.”
“What are you going to do between now and then?” she asked.
Instantly we were back into one of Darlene Girvan’s multilayered conversations, and I was losing ground.
“Sleep,” I said. “I’m going to sleep. I’ve had a hell of a day. As a matter of fact, I’ve had a hell of a week.”
“And will you be sleeping by yourself?”
I still don’t know quite how to navigate the shoals in this modern, Women’s Lib world where women are free to ask for what they want. It catches me off guard whenever it happens.
“For the time being,” I said.
“You’re not interested?” she asked.
“I never said I wasn’t interested. Wary’s more like it. Once burned, twice shy.”
“You’ve been burned?”
“On occasion.”
“So I wasted my pork chop sandwich?”
“I wouldn’t say wasted,” I told her. “You’ve certainly got my attention.”
She set her glass down in the middle of her plate. “I’m in the market for more than attention,” she said, getting up. She took both our plates to the kitchen and put them in the sink.
“I’d better be going, then,” she said. “They’ll be looking for me.” She walked to the door and paused there, with her hand on the knob.
“I don’t seem to handle rejection very well,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m not used to being turned down.”
I’m sure she wasn’t used to it. I wasn’t used to doing it, either. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “I’m just basically shy when it comes to women.”
“Not gay?”
“Definitely not gay. Shy,” I repeated.
“So this isn’t a permanent turndown?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, in that case, you know where to find me in case you get over it.” She left then, quickly, closing the door behind her.
More stupid than shy, I thought, standing there in the entryway, staring at the closed door.
A hell of a lot more stupid.
CHAPTER 19
I didn’t sleep. I spent the whole night, tossing and turning. I remembered when, over spring break, I had dragged Karen home from school to meet my mother. Karen had been from San Diego. My mother’s comment was that I should look in my own backyard, try for the girl next door.
With our high rises just up the street from each other, Darlene Girvan was literally the girl next door, but hardly the kind my mother would have had in mind. She was bright, assertive, interesting, and available. So why the hell had I turned down her offer? What was the matter with me? Was I really getting that old? Or was I just plain old-fashioned?
I spent a long time chewing on the possibilities. I didn’t much care for any of the answers that bubbled to the surface. Before I left the subject alone, however, I finally made one decision-that I’d spend some time hanging around Darlene’s bar doing some in-depth research to see what, if anything, might come up-Having disposed of the personal as best I could, I turned to the other part of the problem-Darlene Girvan’s hit-and-run driver and what implications her story might hold for Dr. Frederick Nielsen’s murder investigation.
Garage doors are implacable. You can’t argue your way through one. They simply will not open for people without properly keyed openers. So whoever had almost run down Darlene Girvan had to be someone who belonged in Cedar Heights, someone who had a legitimate reason for being there, someone who had access to a garage door opener.
That boiled down to exactly two possibilities. Either the driver of the foreign car had something to do with Dr. Nielsen’s murder or he didn’t. That’s my job, figuring out which is which.
I spent the rest of the night working the problem, but no answers were forthcoming. It was almost four in the morning the last time I rolled over and looked at the clock.
The phone rang at seven. “Rise and shine,” Peters ordered cheerfully.
“Couldn’t you let me sleep late for once?” I grumbled.
Peters was undeterred. “Nope, I called to ask for some advice.”
“What kind of advice?”
“Romantic.”
“Jesus Christ! What now?”
“I’m going to pop the question.”
“To Amy?”
“Who else, asshole?”
“So why do you need advice from me?”
“I’m going to ask her tomorrow night, and I want to do it right. Where should I take her? Is there any place right around there close? If she says yes, I want to be able to come over and tell the girls, so they can feel like they’re part of it.”
Fortunately I had a ready answer to his question. “There’s a place at First and Cedar,” I said. “Girvan’s. I was in there just the other night. They have a nice dining room overlooking the harbor.”
“Candles?” Peters asked. “Atmosphere?”
“Affirmative,” I answered.
“Good food?”
“I haven’t had that much of it,” I told him, “but what I had was good.”
“What about wheelchair access?” he asked. “I can get a cab with a lift, but are there any stairs?”
“No stairs at all. There’s an elevator. The restaurant’s up on the fifth floor. Remember? We were there once on the bum-bashing case.”
I could almost hear Peters nodding into the phone. “That’s right. Now I remember. It was a nice place.”
“It still is,“ I told him. ”And I happen to know the owner. Want me to make a reservation for you?“
“Thanks, Beau. That would help. I want it to be a surprise, but that’s not easy when Amy pops in and out of my room without any warning. So far I’ve managed to smuggle the ring in without her seeing it, but I don’t want her to catch me calling a restaurant.“
“What time?”
“Make it early, seven-thirty or so. The doctor says he’ll give me a pass, but not to stay out too late.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “And by the way, congratulations. Amy’s terrific.”
“I think so, too,” he said.
On that bright note, I got up and took a long, hot shower. By the time I’d chased the shower with a couple of cups of coffee, I was beginning to feel halfway human. After I was dressed and had put on my. 38, I reached out to scoop my change off the dresser.
That was when I noticed Dorothy Nielsen’s hospital identification bracelet. I had put it in my pocket the day before when I clipped it off her arm, then I had forgotten all about it. Completely. I hadn’t even noticed it when I emptied it out of my pocket along with my usual fistful of change and miscellaneous crap.
I held the bracelet up to the light. The logo said it was from Swedish Hospital up on First Hill, Pill Hill as the locals call the hospital district. In addition to the hospital’s name, the bracelet contained a few other relevant bits of
