Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [83]
After a while, though, the motion of the sea off the rock-strewn shoreline calmed me. When Berry came back, without the unfortunate beagle but with a slip of paper, I was able to be civil to him. Quickly I retreated to the Tercel, calling out my thanks; several blocks away, I pulled to the curb and looked at the paper: 117 Vía Pacífica, El Sueño, Baja.
* * *
La Encantadora’s courtyard seemed an oasis after my trek from Point Loma in the unair-conditioned Tercel. I parked near the office, thinking to check out after I made a quick phone call and gathered my things. The air was hot, without a breath of breeze from the cove below, but the shade of the jacaranda trees provided a measure of relief. I walked toward my bungalow, then slowed when I saw a figure move far back under the trailing branches of the tree nearest my door. An abrupt turn took me down a path between two of the other bungalows.
The bungalow to my right was surrounded by tall camellia bushes. I slipped behind one and worked my way along the wall until I had a good vantage, then peered through the shiny leaves. The figure had moved forward and was now clearly visible: tall, very thin, craning its neck toward the path I’d just taken.
Gage Renshaw.
My breath caught and I began working my way back again. It didn’t occur to me to wonder how he’d found me; given RKI’s considerable resources, it probably hadn’t been difficult. I didn’t have to question his intent, either; I’d seen the bulge under his suit coat. Armed and dangerous.
I inched along the bungalow wall to its rear, then pressed flat against it. Now what?
Renshaw had spotted me as I walked from the car—no way he could have missed me. But something about his posture—alert but indecisive—told me he hadn’t quite recognized me. New hairstyle, different type of clothing, and if he’d checked with the motel office they’d have described my Clunker ’n’ Junker. He’d probably sensed something familiar, however; it might only be seconds before he made the connection.
My things didn’t matter. They could stay in the bungalow—although I briefly entertained a dismaying vision of them being the first in a trail of possessions discarded from here to wherever this case took me. The car posed a problem, though; I needed to create a diversion so I could get to it.
The path onto which I’d detoured led to a side street. I moved through the bushes, looked out. Saw no one and headed for the pavement. Directly across the street was a cafÉ. I ran over there, found a pay phone, and called the motel office.
“Unit seven, please,” I said to the desk clerk.
“One moment.” She connected me and let the phone ring several times. “Sorry, she doesn’t answer.”
“I wonder if you could go back there and check on her. She wasn’t feeling well when I left her after lunch, and I’m worried.” When the woman hesitated, I added, “Please? She’s a diabetic.”
“All right, hold on a minute.” She sighed and set the receiver down with a clunk.
I hung up, rushed out of th e cafÉ and across the street. As I rounded the corner near the motel office, the clerk was heading toward the rear of the court. I crouched behind another camellia bush and watched as she went to the door of my bungalow. Renshaw came out from under the tree and spoke to her. She motioned toward the door, explaining. Then she unlocked it and stepped inside. As I’d hoped, Renshaw followed.
I ran for the Toyota, key in hand. Jumped inside and jammed it into the ignition. Got the engine started, turned the car, and was out of there, seat-belt warning signal beeping furiously. As I sped away, I tried to remember if there was anything in the room that might tip Renshaw to the lead I’d turned up. The paper I’d doodled names on last night? No, the maid had gone in to clean the room when I left, and I’d seen her empty the wastebasket. W.C.? The sales slip for him was in my purse.
I smiled, trying to imagine what Renshaw would make of my crotchety old parrot.
* * *
I now had an errand to run and a call to make. First