Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [139]
“He is. Four years old when his daddy joined up. I'm raising him as my own.”
I went back into my hand-bag and laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “I'm sure there's something the boy needs. This is a thank-you from an English citizen, to one who made the great sacrifice.”
He took the money, shook my hand again, and watched me walk away.
Around the side of the garage, I found a water tap and a bar of filthy soap stuck onto a nail, and absently scrubbed at my palms, my mind caught up in the sensation of pressure, of memories unseen, and the inner echo of that morning's voice murmuring: They died.
Clearly, the Southern woman and her scarred companion had hired another agent. Still, I'd have expected their “insurance man” to be more than a few days ahead of us. Gordimer had thrown the pair off the lake property five weeks ago—why hadn't they come to the Serra Beach garage at that time? If they were looking to retrieve any evidence of their murderous sabotage of my father's motorcar, why wait until I was breathing down their necks?
I joined Flo and Donny at the car, but before I got in, I turned to study the garage and its adjoining café.
Something was missing here; either that, or I was missing something. Trim building, petrol pumps, big gum tree growing around one side, a general air of prosperity; the air smelt of eucalyptus oil, the sea, petrol, and frying meat from the café; the sounds were the chugging of the pump, the cries of sea-birds, voices in conversation, a dog somewhere barking in play; I couldn't put my finger on what should have been there but was not.
“Do you see something missing?” I asked my companions. When they did not answer, I glanced around and saw their expressions, which were frankly concerned. Belatedly, I realised that my peremptory commands of the morning, given without explanation, had left them wondering as to my stability.
“It's okay,” I said with a rather forced laugh. “I know I've been a bit lunatic this morning, but really, I simply remembered that there was something I needed to do in the city, and hadn't made other arrangements. Sorry I've been so pushy. And here, well, I'm trying to remember what it is.”
Both of them dutifully turned to study the front of the garage. Donny cleared his throat and suggested, “These kinds of places sometimes have signs standing out in the road,” but that did not feel right. With a sigh of resignation I climbed into my assigned seat.
My thoughts were so distracting that all the way back up to the city, I was scarcely aware that I was not the one driving.
Back at the St Francis, I invited them in for a cup of tea. They hesitated, then Flo said that she knew it was early but she'd really like a drink, and so they left their car with the valet and came in. The waiter brought their “tea” in long-stemmed glasses with an olive in each, although I stuck to the more traditional English stimulant. I excused myself for a moment to go up to the room, but there was no sign of Holmes, and the only message was from Mr Braithwaite at the hospital, giving me the information I'd asked for regarding Dr Ginzberg's death. I read it, noticed the house keys on top of the dressing-table and pocketed them, then went back downstairs.
I made an effort to redeem myself and be friendly and relaxed, but when Flo and Donny left, amidst a flurry of affectionate cries and kisses worthy of her mother, I felt a great burden depart with them. I waved them away, thought about the empty room upstairs, thought too about the possibility that Holmes could return at any time, and asked the man for a taxi: If the keys were here, Holmes was not at the house, and I could have some quiet in which to meditate.
During the short trip into Pacific Heights, I considered what I would do with the remainder of the day. After I