When the Snow Falls Page 14

  Roberta reluctantly obeyed as she regaled me with tales of how Christmas had been celebrated in “yonder years.” I have to admit, after listening to her, I kind of thought it was lucky we had as many forebears as we did. Fire was a definite hazard before electricity. There’s just no escaping that fact. Give me a cool-to-the-touch string of colored LED lights any day. Candles? On the tree? Really?

  Before bed, I filled a pitcher of water and replenished the tree stand’s receptacle. Then I climbed into bed, and The Binkster hurried after me, propping herself against the side, standing on her hind legs and digging at my arm with a Jingle Paws-less front foot. I hauled her into bed with me and she snorted around and circled a few times before settling down, pressing her back against mine and heaving a sigh of relief.

  “You and me both, Binky,” I told her, then went to sleep dreaming about Dwayne in a white, unbuttoned shirt and not a whole lot else.

  I woke slowly the next morning, feeling as if a heavy, gray weight were pressing down on me, the residue of some unresolved problem. The Binkster had wriggled her way under the covers down to the foot of the bed and my toes encountered her as I turned over, dragging the pillow over my head as if that could keep me from waking and having to face whatever problem hadn’t quite surfaced yet.

  Darcy . . .

  Oh, yeah. Her.

  I flung off the pillow and threw back the covers. The Binkster dragged herself from under the covers to see if it was breakfast time. I knew I had enough of her low-cal kibble left for a few more meals but was pretty sure my own meager collection of limp carrots, condiments and packets of Taco Bell hot sauce, the contents of my refrigerator, wouldn’t sustain me. My memory still lingered on the sandwich from the night before, and I wondered if there were any left.

  It was then I smelled the scent of cinnamon and something frying. French toast? Both The Binkster and I turned our noses in that direction. I was out of bed and yanking on my jeans, and The Binkster was whining and pacing the top quilt as we both realized that Roberta was cooking.

  I picked up The Binks. Her feet were already moving as I put her on the floor, and if my bedroom door had been open, she would have shot through with the reserve energy of a wind-up toy. I opened the door and she scrambled through ahead of me. We had to circumvent the Christmas tree on our way to the kitchen, and once there, I gazed upon Roberta shoving a spatula under a slice of toast that had been sprinkled liberally with cinnamon. Her other hand held one of my plates, and she slid the slice onto it and pointed at the table, where a newly opened bottle of maple syrup stood.

  “Your syrup didn’t look that fresh,” she apologized, “so, when I went to the store yesterday, I got a new bottle.”

  “You went to the store?” I opened up the refrigerator in a daze. It was stuffed to the gills with all kinds of produce and dairy items, and she’d even purchased a rotisserie chicken. I hadn’t thought to look the night before, even though she’d made me a sandwich. Guess I’m just too used to having nothing to eat.

  I ate my French toast with more decorum than I had the sandwich and fed The Binkster a few teensy bites along with her morning bowl of dog food. I thanked Roberta profusely and warned her again about feeding the dog. She beamed with pleasure and swore she wouldn’t let The Binks overeat. I could tell she was on board about the dog’s diet now, which was a relief, and I was too happy, dazed and confused about having someone feed me to hear the warning in her words when she said, “I’m just going to unpack a few more Christmas decorations.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, heading for the shower. The bulk of Roberta’s belongings were in storage, so how bad could it be?

  Half an hour later, I was dressed in clean jeans, a shirt and a Columbia Sportswear jacket that was warm enough for the weather and had the advantage of being water-repellant. I’d put on a pair of boots in place of my usual sneakers because I was meeting Dwayne at his place at ten for a trip to his friend’s farm.

  My mind was on Darcy, and James, and Karen Aldridge and her boyfriend or brother. I felt there were big pieces of information missing from everyone’s account of what had transpired on the Vista Bridge. Darcy and James wanted the world to believe they were champions of the poor, infirm, underprivileged and misguided when they clearly had their own agendas. I mean, the whole role-playing with switched partners thing that included Dwayne made my toes curl and bespoke of some inner Darcy that she let come out to play only when more basic desires overrode her desperate need to keep up the do-gooder image. James appeared to just be enjoying the ride, though who knew?

  And then Karen . . . Though I wanted to feel more empathetic toward her, let’s face it, so far the woman had come off as hard, grasping, angry and unlikable. To date, I’d never heard one thing about Karen’s family. If the guy I’d seen her with was her badass brother, why hadn’t Darcy mentioned him? Did the Wexfords even know about him?

  I determined that I needed to find out more about Karen. Darcy and James were paying me, happily, so far, and though I didn’t really like them and I wasn’t into their lifestyle, I believed that Darcy’s heart, as far as Karen Aldridge was concerned, was in the right place. Sure, she wanted to be the savior and preen in the publicity her good deed would engender her, but . . . well, she was into saving lives, and at least there was something positive in that.

  I pulled up to Dwayne’s cabana just as he was coming through the front door. My mind instantly went back to my dream as I watched him stride down the walk. Though he was careful with his right leg, the break in his stride was barely discernible. Like me, he wore jeans and boots, but there was no white shirt from my dreams. His was denim and his jacket was black Gore-Tex.

  “Hey,” he greeted me as I climbed from the Volvo and headed toward the passenger side of his truck.

  “What are we shooting with?” I asked.

  “Gil’s got a shotgun.” He gave me a sidelong look as we both climbed into the pickup’s cab. “You’re gonna have a sore shoulder if you really intend to do this. It’s got quite a kick.”

  “Of course I intend to do this. What do you think? This was my idea.”

  “I’m just sayin’ . . .”

  “I know it’ll pack a punch, okay?” He shrugged, which I found annoying, but I kept my feelings to myself with an effort. I wanted to shoot that shotgun, and if it knocked me on my butt, so be it.

  We drove about two hours to Gil’s place, which was southeast of Lake Chinook and toward the Cascade Mountains. Turned out Gil Headley was something of a mountain man, with a thick head of hair and a thicker beard, wearing overalls and a gray jacket over broad shoulders. As we pulled down his long, rutted lane, bouncing hard enough through puddles for me to wonder about the truck’s suspension rods, he came out with a couple of hound dogs who looked up at him with wagging tails, then at us with less welcoming enthusiasm. Gil cradled a shotgun in his right arm.

  The rain and snow had diminished some as Dwayne pulled the truck to a stop and we both got out. Gil and Dwayne shook hands, and Dwayne introduced me as his partner. Gil wasn’t much of a smiler. When he shifted the gun to his left arm and then offered his hand, I shook it, as solemn as him. I figured any man holding a shotgun deserves great respect.

  I slid a look toward Dwayne as Gil led us around the back of the house and through the gate of a field. No question, Dwayne had interesting friends.

  The oak tree stood by itself at the far end of the field, top heavy with huge balls of mistletoe. Gil gave a quick demonstration of how to use the gun, then placed it in my hands. It was heavy and awkward, and I started having misgivings immediately. To say I’m a chicken is an understatement. I value my own hide, and my desire to shoot something had faded . . . like by a lot.

  “Want me to fire it?” Dwayne asked, and there was something indulgent about his tone that brought back my annoyance tenfold.

  “I’m ready,” I snapped and saw Dwayne hide a smile. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I see in him.

  I lifted the gun to my shoulder and a
imed for a big chunk of mistletoe attached to a high limb. The wind shook rain from the limbs and blew it in my eyes. I steadied the gun, aimed and fired.

  The kickback damn near knocked me off my feet. My head buzzed a little from the loudness of the report.

  But damn if I didn’t blast that mistletoe apart. It rained down in fluttery little pieces.

  “All right!” I yelled as Gil took the gun from me. I can’t tell you how jubilant I felt. What is it about destroying things that helps tame aggression? Nothing I like better than smashing a can beneath my heel before I put it in recycling.

  Gil took aim at a couple more of the thick balls of mistletoe, blasting them out. “You know it’s a parasite,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” I picked up a few little sprigs of the stuff and shoved them in my pocket. “Souvenirs,” I told Dwayne, who fired the shotgun a few times as well, though most of the mistletoe was already gone.

  I was in a better frame of mind on the drive back, I brought Dwayne up to date on my meeting with Karen Aldridge and my surveillance of her afterward. I also related seeing her being admitted by a skater dude type to his apartment, and that the man patrolling the bridge, Paul, thought that he might be her brother. I finished with, “It just seems strange that there’s been no mention of him. Not by either Darcy or James. Karen was with Darcy for twelve hours or so. You’d think she would have mentioned her brother in all that time, but all I’ve heard about is the lawsuit and that she’s suing Darcy for kidnapping.”

  “Was she seeing a therapist?”

  I gave him a look. “I don’t know that either.”

  “Ask Darcy. Karen musta told her something.”

  “You’d think.... Even if Karen has one, no therapist’s going to talk to me.”

  “I wonder what sent her to the bridge. Has she tried this before?”

  “Again, Darcy never said.”

  “Talk to her again,” he advised.

  “Yeah,” I said without enthusiasm.

  When I was back in my Volvo, I drove to the office and sat down at my desk, where I’d left my laptop. Normally I take it home with me, but I’d forgotten it and now, with Roberta taking over half my space, I was glad it was here. I did some Internet research on suicide bridges in general and Vista Bridge in particular, and sure enough, it appeared suicide victims chose certain methods and didn’t generally change tactics if they tried multiple times. Someone was quoted saying that despite deterrent structures built on bridges, and the efforts of groups like Friends of the Vista Bridge and Think Twice, the overall suicide rate had not appeared to diminish. Jumpers dissuaded from one bridge tended to find another.

  I thought about Darcy, doing her bit to save lives. I really should like her better.

  As if she knew she was in my thoughts, my cell phone buzzed, and I saw that she was on the other end of the line. I thought about not answering. Craven, I know, and counterproductive, but I just didn’t want to talk to her.

  The phone stopped ringing while I was making up my mind. If she calls back, I’ll answer, I told myself, but when the phone began merrily chiming away again and I saw it was her, I had to force myself to pick up. “Hey, Darcy,” I said.

  “Did you talk to Karen?” she asked eagerly.

  “Yes, we met at the coffee shop where she works.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “I didn’t convince her to stop the lawsuit, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Where are you now? The office?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Oh, there’s your car! I just drove up. Shame on you, trying to avoid me.” She laughed. “Come on, Jane. Sorry I scared you about Dwayne. Did he talk to you about the plan?”

  I was still getting over the fact that she was right outside and I probably didn’t have time to run out the back to the wine bar when her last words arrested me. “What plan?”

  “Maybe he hasn’t had a chance to yet. We talked about things last night over a glass of wine at that great wine bar next to your building. Have you been there? The wine selection is fantastic, and the hors d’oeuvres are really a cut above. Not that I tried anything but the olives and almonds, though those salmon and toast bits really looked scrumptious. When—”

  “What plan?” I demanded again. My heart was pounding. She and Dwayne had gone to the wine bar together? “James and I went to Wine About It the day he asked me to meet with you.”

  “Oh? He did say something about wine, or food, or something.”

  “Dwayne never mentioned any plan,” I said testily, trying to keep her on track.

  “Well, he’s kind of cagey, too. Just like you. I swear, you both are trying to make me work way too hard. Life should be easier, you know?”

  “Is that why you throw yourself into causes? To make your life easier?”

  “You sound mad, Jane.”

  “Not mad . . . just concerned about what you said to Dwayne.” And why hadn’t Dwayne mentioned this to me today, huh? He’d acted like Darcy had beaten around the bush. I hated thinking there were secrets buzzing that I knew nothing of, especially when I was in some way a part of them.

  “Oh, you know. . . .”

  Was she deliberately trying to be aggravating? “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Okay, I may have mentioned that you and I had talked about getting our juices flowing with a partner swap.”

  “God. Please. I hope you’re joking.”

  “I don’t know what the big deal is, Jane,” she said in a huff. “Can’t reasonable adults discuss natural sexual desires? We weren’t made to be monogamous, you know. Even in the apes, the young males are vying for the females behind the alpha males’ backs. Everybody’s looking at everybody else. There’s no mating for life.”

  “Swans mate for life,” I pointed out. “And there’s no mating going on, period, if you’re talking about Dwayne and me in the same sentence.”

  “We’re not swans,” she said stubbornly.

  “We’re not apes, either. And we’re not a couple, Dwayne and me. And furthermore, we’re not interested.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Dwayne about that.”

  “Don’t do this, Darcy. There’s nothing going on between Dwayne and me. How many times do I have to say it before you’ll actually open your ears and hear me?”

  The front door rattled, and I congratulated myself on not unlocking it.

  “Jane, I’m here,” she said into the phone, giving the door a frustrated shake.

  “Go have a glass of wine,” I suggested.

  “Oh, hey . . .” I heard her say, followed by Dwayne’s drawl. It was sexy enough for me to want to dig my fingernails into my desktop and scratch through its faux wood surface. If only my fingernails were long enough . . . well, and strong enough.

  He opened the door for her, and Darcy clicked off the phone, but not before I heard her voice ratchet upward into a breathless, little-girl range that sent me shooting into the outer room.

  What I beheld made me slide to a stop. Darcy, instead of wearing another put-together outfit, had opted for jeans, a black, ribbed turtleneck sweater, and a pair of black ankle boots, a hell of a lot more stylish than anything I possessed but looking like it came out of my closet all the same. She’d pulled her short blond hair into a ponytail of sorts, and I swear to God, I had one of those gulping moments of awareness that sends your heart lurching painfully and your palms sweating. She was trying to be me.

  For Dwayne?

  Maybe . . . maybe not . . . I tried to ignore the rushing in my ears. Darcy had been the same in high school, always emulating someone, like she never had an identity of her own. It was spooky and odd, and it reminded me yet again that I didn’t like her.

  “I’ve been trying to tell Jane about our earlier conversation,” she was saying, spreading a palm my way and sighing as if I were such a difficult child. “She hasn’t let me tell her everything.”

  I swivelled my gaze to Dwayne. In the glare I sent him all kinds of accusations, the o
ne in the forefront being you went with her to the wine bar and you never told me?

  Dwayne ignored me, though I was sending mental lasers of fury directly into his thick skull. “Do you know if Karen had a therapist?” he asked Darcy.

  She lifted a dismissive shoulder, like who cares? “Dwayne, tell her what we talked about. She’s dying to know.”

  “Darcy seems to think we’re a couple,” Dwayne elucidated.

  “I don’t know what to say to that,” I sputtered. I just wanted out of the conversation. “Does Karen have a brother who lives by the Vista Bridge?”

  “Maybe she does.” Darcy was not to be deterred. “What I said was, if you were a couple, and if you wanted to go out together, James and I would love to double with you.”

  Double date? I narrowed my eyes at her. That’s all she said to Dwayne?

  “It’s just hard to meet great couples at our age,” she went on. “James and I have a lot of business friends, but catching up with someone from school like Jane is priceless. And Dwayne, as I said earlier, you feel like an old friend, too, and you know I mean that as a compliment.”

  Though Darcy turned innocent eyes my way, I knew the strings attached, even if she hadn’t clued Dwayne in on them yet.

  My gaze on Darcy, I said to Dwayne, “I’m sure you told her we’re just business partners.”

  “I did,” Dwayne said.

  Darcy rolled her eyes at us as if we were just being too, too coy. “Okay, business partners. We can start with that. I want you both to come to Christmas Eve dinner. Please don’t tell me you have plans with family because—”

  “I have plans with family,” I said.

  “—we’d love to have you share a meal with us. More than soup,” she added for my benefit. “It wouldn’t be Merina cooking. I know this fantastic chef who owes me a favor and has been promising a Christmas goose since last year. How does that sound?”