'But can't you tell me what it is?' I pleaded when we were alone outside, standing in front of her car.
'No,' she said simply.
'You seem to be forgetting something, Beau,' Delcia Reyes-Gonzales returned sweetly, favoring me with a dazzling smile.
'What's that?'
'That is Arizona, not Washington, remember? Keep in touch.'
With that, she got in her car and drove away, leaving me fuming in the parking lot.
An old drinking buddy of mine once told me that when it come to women, men don't know shit.
He sure as hell got that right.
CHAPTER 15
The way Delcia Reyes-Gonzales wheeled out of the asphalt parking lot leaving strips of rubber in her wake told me that she was a woman with a definite purpose in mind, a lady with a fire lit under her slender butt. I must have said something that jibed with information she already knew or suspected, something important enough to merit her immediate attention. It pissed me off that she hadn't bothered to tell me what that something was.
Frustrated, I got in my rented Subaru and drove home to Ralph Ames' house, intent on finishing the laundry. At the very least, sorting and folding clean clothes was a job with some resolution to it, with a tangible beginning and end, both of which were firmly under my power and control. That was whole lot different from the people and circumstances surrounding Joey Rothman.
There were two messages on Ames' answering machine, both from Rhonda Attwood, both anxiously trying to reach Ralph, and both saying she'd call back later. Hearing her voice made me crabby as hell. It reinforced my suspicions that she was up to no good and made me wonder what kind of subterfuge she was going to use to sucker Ames into helping her. I was sorely tempted to erase the messages entirely, but I didn't. My mother taught me to be a better houseguest than that.
MYOB, Beaumont, I told myself firmly. MYOB.
I had completed the only crossword puzzle in the house and was just folding the last load of wash, the once-muddy sandbagging clothes, when the doorbell rang. I saw the green Fiat through the sidelight windows. What the hell is Rhonda Attwood doing here? I thought as I opened the door.
She smiled up at me. 'Is Ralph back from the golf tournament yet?'
'No,' I answered with some vexation. Again I was odd-man-out. Ralph hadn't told me about being in a golf tournament, but he had told Rhonda.
'He said he thought he'd be done by three-thirty or four,' Rhonda continued easily. 'Mind if I come in and wait?'
'No,' I said. 'Come on in.'
Someone else might have noticed my annoyance, but Rhonda didn't. She followed me into the spacious living room, where I motioned her toward the long white leather couch. Once again, Rhonda didn't take the hint. Instead of sitting down, she prowled around the room, examining the various pieces of artwork on the walls and tables, frowning at some and nodding in appreciation at others.
Finally she turned and looked at me. 'Ralph certainly has the eye of a connoisseur, doesn't he,' she said.
'I wouldn't know about that,' I answered brusquely. I thought she had a hell of a lot of nerve to meander uninvited around Ralph's living room, treating it like a goddamned museum.
'Would you like a drink?' I asked, attempting halfheartedly to assume the role of stand-in host.
She glanced at her watch before she answered. 'A Crown Royal if you've got it, Neat.'
I made my way to Ralph's well-stocked wet bar. The Crown Royal was there. So was a bottle of MacNaughton's. I poured the Crown Royal and left the MacNaughton's alone. There was a tiny refrigerator-cum- ice-machine under the bar. I threw some ice cubes in a glass and poured a can of Sprite into it for me.
When I gave her the Crown Royal, she looked me straight in the eye.
'Most men find me attractive,' she said, 'but I get the feeling you don't like me much.'
She had me dead to rights. 'You worry me,' I said.
'Why?'
'Women who do vendettas scare hell out of me, that's all. You know, the female of the species is deadlier than the male and all that jazz. You asked me to help you track down the people responsible for your son's death, remember? And now you're trying to get Ralph Ames to do the same thing.'
'So that's it,' she said, taking a sip of her drink.
'Of course that's it,' I replied impatiently. 'Ralph Ames happens to be a super-nice guy, and he's a good friend of mine. I don't want to see him bamboozled into your wild-haired scheme. He's a lawyer, goddamnit, and a good one. If he messes around in an ongoing homicide investigation, you could end up getting him disbarred.'
Rhonda Attwood regarded me levelly over the rim of her glass. 'It's not what you think,' she said. 'When I asked you to help me, I didn't know about the baby.'
'Baby?' I asked.
'Joey's baby, my grandchild. You're right, when I first talked to you, I didn't care what happened. The only thing I could think of was evening the score. I'd lost him years ago, but I'd always had a secret hope of getting him back. I can't do that now, but I have something else, a grandchild, something of my son that will go on from here. That's why I want to see Ralph, to ask him to help me set up a trust fund for the baby, and the mother too, of course.'
'When you change your mind, you do a complete one-eighty, don't you?'
Rhonda smiled and nodded. 'So I've been told.'
I sat there for a moment and let her words sink in. She was talking as confidently about that baby as though her grandchild were already a living, breathing entity. All I could think about was Michelle Owens' hollow-eyed misery and Guy Owens' despairing pronouncement: 'Fifteen and pregnant.'
I hated to burst her bubble, but somebody had to do it.
'You'll never see that baby, Rhonda. Michelle is only fifteen. She's still wearing braces. Her father will never let her carry that baby to term. Even if he did, he wouldn't let her keep it.'
Instantly two angry splotches of color appeared on Rhonda's cheeks. 'It's a baby, Mr. Beaumont, not a stray puppy. Of course she'll keep it. I'll help her. Michelle can come live with me if she wants to. If she has to. Thanks to Ralph, I've just sold five paintings to Vincent at five thousand dollars apiece. That's what I want to use to start the trust fund.'
'You're not listening, Rhonda. Twenty-five thousand is only a drop in the bucket of what it would take. We're talking about an adolescent here, a druggie with no education, no prospects, and no husband. What kind of life would that be for her or the baby, either one?'
Rhonda's glass, spewing Crown Royal all the way, sailed past my ear and shattered against the wall behind my head. At the same time, she launched herself from the couch, springing toward me like an outraged, unleashed tiger. I scrambled out of the way, slopping my own drink in my lap, jumping up and catching her wrists just in time to keep her sharpened fingernails from raking my face.
She screamed unintelligible words at me and fought to get loose with surprising strength, but I kept her wrists firmly imprisoned. I don't know how long we struggled like that, but finally I felt the fight ebb out of her. She sagged against my chest, sobbing, as the dam she had built across her emotions broke free.
I let her cry, knowing she was weeping for two babies, not one, for her lost son and for the grandchild she was afraid of losing, for herself and for Michelle Owens as well. I patted her shoulder, murmuring what comforting words of consolation I could think of. They sounded empty and inept. Useless.
At last she gave a shuddering sigh and moved to disengage herself. When I let her go, she crouched near where the glass had smashed and began picking up the jagged pieces.
'Here,' I said gruffly, 'I'll do that.'
She bit her lip. 'I'm used to cleaning up my own messes,' she said.
Together we cleaned up the splatters of Crown Royal that clung to the wall and the sticky Sprite that dappled the tile floor. Luckily, most of the mess had missed the mint-green oriental rug.
