Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [41]
The air was still sultry at half past midnight—unusual for San Diego in June. Soft halos from security lamps relieved the darkness. I saw no one on foot or in any of the cars. Moving casually, I turned toward the wing where my room was. Held down my pace and regulated it, listening for a counter rhythm. For a moment I heard nothing but the slap of my own shoes; then I heard others, like a soft echo of mine.
I kept walking slowly, went as far as the door to my room, then hesitated, feigning indecision. Began walking again, toward the motel next door. The footsteps—at some indeterminate point behind me—stuttered. Then they came on regularly again, their sound deflected faintly off the surrounding buildings. I gave no sign I was aware of them, just moved in my ambling out-for-a-stroll pace toward the next motel’s main entrance. The footsteps stopped; my tail was allowing me some distance.
Big mistake. Once inside the lobby, I put on speed. Slipped around a tall planter and ducked my head, moving even faster. The bar and ladies’ room entrances were exactly where I remembered them.
I pushed through the swinging door of the rest room, heart pounding now. On my way past the mirrors I caught a startled look from a woman who was combing her hair. Caught a glimpse of myself, too: grim, intense, focused.
Out the other swinging door and into the pool area. Darkness there except for the bright aquamarine rectangle. No hesitation now—a jog to the right, up some steps, through the gate in the enclosure, and into the gardens.
White crushed-shell paths winding through the shrubbery. Small lights bordering them, and a soft glow from some of the guest-room windows. I chose a path, plunged off it, ran along its side, out of range of the lights.
No point in listening for a pursuer; I couldn’t have heard one. No point in looking back; it would only slow me.
Gardenias there—sweet, decaying fragrance. Something else, a bitter-smelling plant. Around a hedge, and then the lights of Paoli’s Restaurant shining bright across the parking lot.
The lot was at a lower level, bordered by a four-foot-high retaining wall. I crouched on top of it, jumped, feet hitting the concrete and pain shooting up my legs. Ignoring it, I ran for the shelter of the cars and dodged through them.
At the last row of cars, I stopped, leaning against one. Glanced back at last.
No one.
I scanned the front of the restaurant. And saw Reliable Cab number 1102, waiting just where I’d asked for it to be. I hefted my bag and began running toward it.
Sist’r Rabbit was on the way to her brier patch.
Ten
The house lay dark and silent, burdened by age, neglect, and—to a person who knew its recent history—disappointment. I pulled the key that had been mine since high school from the lock, shut the door behind me, and dropped my heavy purse on the floor.
Heat was trapped in there, mustiness, too. Out of habit, I moved down the hall toward the kitchen. The floorboards creaked, the joists sighed. Other settling noises formed a chorus of complaint.
When I switched on the kitchen light, the enormity of the changes overwhelmed me. No cheerful flowered dishes in the glass-fronted cupboards; no bright pottery bowls and red canisters on the counters. Those things had all gone to Ma’s new kitchen in the Rancho Bernardo home she shared with her new love, Melvin Hunt. The room smelled wrong—of cleanser rather than hearty cooking.
I crossed to the sink, peered out the window at the dark rectangle of garage. I hadn’t expected anything, but it still seemed strange not to see lights, not to hear the whine of power tools, a baseball game on the radio, Pa’s reedy voice raised in one of his dirty ditties. But Pa had been traveling around the country in his new camper for three months now—traveling, I suspected, with a new woman friend. Funny none of us had dared