Red House Blues Page 14

  Chapter 17

  E-mail to artyblond@yahoo.com:

  Hey girl, why haven’t you answered my last couple of e-mails?? Don’t tell me you’ve got such a hot social life all of a sudden you don’t have time to drop me a line. I’m willing to blame it on this crash-matic computer. If you get this maybe you should leave me a message on your voice mail back at the apartment and I’ll pick it up when I water your ficus. I really want to talk to you. By the way, your dad left a message. Everything’s okay but you probably should call him. Have you told him you’re in Seattle? Didn’t sound like he knew. If I don’t hear from you soon I’ll phone the house where you’re staying (I kept the ad you sent. Sneaky, right?). So come on, surface or else! Love - Claire

  E-mail to eclaire33@aol.com:

  Hi Sneaky - I’m going to try this one more time. Can’t imagine what happened to my replies to your e-mails. I did reply, really I did. Just as well they disappeared into the ozone though. As I remember the messages were on the hysterical side. Things were not going as well as I had hoped right then.

  To sum up: by accident I met the guy who rents Sean’s old room. Not that it did me any good. I completely blew the opportunity, even after he invited me into the house and offered me coffee (though if you had seen the inside if that monstrosity of a house you would have refused too). I didn’t even ask his name! Can you believe that? Yeah, you probably would.

  And if that weren’t dumb enough, I somehow can’t get the guy out of my head. He’s not my “type” (if such an animal exists), so get that look off your face! We only talked for a few minutes and he didn’t say much even then. Plus what he did say was pretty snotty. Maybe that’s what caught my attention, the way he left me sitting flat on my butt in the rain and didn’t even look back. Wouldn’t that get your attention? He did ask me in after I followed him all the way to the house. Aren’t you sorry you missed that scene?

  Marla e-mailed me yesterday - she’s going to be in town this weekend for a birthday party. It’s being held at the Comet Tavern - where Kiki Zell was the night she died. Not as macabre as it sounds - the birthday boy played with Zell’s band. Marla invited me and I’m tempted to go. Maybe what I need right now is to get Sean and Mister No-name out of my mind for a night - get drunk and disorderly like a normal person! Tell you more later. Attached are a few views of the house. Creepy or what? Love - Suze

  E-mail from eclaire33@aol.com:

  Fast response! You must have been sitting on the computer when I sent my message. Glad to know you still remember me after all this time. Seems like you’ve been gone for months. Hope you can finish up and come home soon. I really miss you, Suze. Don’t you dare fall in love with that mysterious nameless stranger and forget all about us up here!! I think you should go to the birthday party but I know you’ll probably chicken out and stay in your room with a cup of cocoa and a dull book. (I’d love to be proved wrong.) I’ll be at your place this weekend so call and we’ll talk. And yes, from what I see in the pictures you sent, I’d say that house needs serious demolition! Love - Claire

  Claire deleted Suzan’s message and logged off.

  Suzan is sure to wonder why I’m at her apartment this weekend. Good. She’ll be curious and call. Maybe I should call her? No, she’d think something is wrong. Well, something is wrong, but I can’t put that in an e-mail. Especially since I know now Tony really has been reading and deleting my messages. I’ll have to change my passwords. No, I need to stop using his computer, pack up the rest of my things and go. What’s the use? We are all talked out.

  Why can’t changing the course of your life be as easy as a key stroke - hit the delete button and do over. But love isn’t a spelling error. And I can’t blot out the things he said - or the words I flung in his face. Nothing is as simple as we want it to be. Blaming Suzan won’t fix what’s wrong. If I thought that were true, I’d cut her out of our lives like a tumor.

  Claire used the remainder of the morning straitening things out around the house. Tony left for campus without a word. Claire thought a good loud, knock-down-drag-out fight would be preferable to the way things were.

  She pulled out the vacuum cleaner and cleaned the life out of the carpets, then scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen until she ran out of cleanser and energy. Housework done, she packed a selection of toiletries and some clothes for the weekend, wrote Tony a short note and left the house unsure when, if ever, she would return.

  * * *

  The cabbie knew enough English to ask for his fare but not enough to tell Suzan what he thought of someone taking a taxi half a mile. At home in Bellingham she would have felt relatively safe walking that distance at night. Not so in Seattle. Especially when she wasn’t sure where the Comet Tavern was, beyond its Capital Hill address. Not to mention that it was already nine o’clock by the time she made up her mind to go to the party.

  The cab dropped her in front of the Comet Tavern and pulled away from the curb before she noticed there a small hand-lettered “closed” sign taped to the door.

  Wonderful! Do I have the wrong night? No, Marla said Saturday night. And it was undeniably Saturday night. So what was going on? What kind of tavern is closed on Saturday night? Can’t believe this! What do I do now, flag another cab back to Linda’s?

  The street was a cacophony of traffic and nightlife. A group of college age revelers outside the corner sushi bar broke into a slightly obscene rap version of “Over the Rainbow”. Suzan leaned back against the closed tavern door and mulled over her options.

  Barely masked by street noise she detected a drumbeat coming from somewhere close. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the door. Idiot, she thought, you didn’t even try the door. She tried it now. Locked.

  She gave the door’s center panel a closed fist knock and waited, conscious that if Claire knew she had gotten this far, then turned tail she would never let her live it down. The door stayed firmly shut.

  Maybe they can’t hear me over the music, thought Suzan. As she raised her fist to give it another try the door creaked open slowly, letting a wedge of blue light leak onto the sidewalk.

  “Sorry, we’re closed tonight. Private party. Come back next weekend,” said a baritone voice from the other side of the already closing door.

  “Wait! I was invited,” she shouted at the door.

  That reopened the door and produced a mountain in a muscle shirt. He somehow looked familiar. Could he have been the bouncer at Jax’s?

  “How do I know you’re invited?” he asked. What do I need, a secret password, she wondered. She didn’t even know the name of the birthday boy.

  “My friend Marla invited me.”

  That must have been the password. She was in.

  At first glance it looked more like a funeral than a birthday party. The room was crowded but people were talking in subdued voices in small groups. A tape played in the background what Suzan assumed was a Grid album, considering that the guy with the birthday had played in that band. She hadn’t exactly expected balloons and party hats, given the venue, but the mood was thicker than Goth mascara.

  Where was Marla? She scanned the gloomy crowd and spotted her by the bar talking to two guys in black. Naturally. If one of them was the birthday boy he wasn’t celebrating. Suzan’s hopes for a fun evening with interesting people swigging beer evaporated with the look on Marla’s face.

  It was too late to make an unobserved exit. Marla had seen her. Suzan squeezed through to join her and the men at the bar.

  “Didn’t think you’d come,” she said, making it sound like an accusation. “Suzan, this is Joe and Bag. Want a beer?”

  “Nice to meet you. Sure, a beer would be good. Thanks.”

  Joe and Bag made polite greeting noises but didn’t go out of their way to be friendly.

  “What happened to that bitchin’ leather jacket of yours?”

  At the last minute Suzan had thrown on her trusty loden green L. L. Bean barn jacket, about as appropriate for the venue as opera gloves at a mud w
restling tournament.

  “Thought it might rain later.”

  “This is Seattle, ‘course it’ll rain.”

  Marla turned toward the bartender and bought her a bottle of Miller Light as Joe and Bag wandered away into the throng.

  “I didn’t mean to run them off,” said Suzan, accepting the beer.

  “You didn’t. They’re not feeling social at the moment.”

  “I thought this was a party. What’s the deal?”

  “Everybody’s in a shitty space right now. Last night someone we know got hurt. He’s in Harborview Hospital,” she said. “It brought back the whole thing about Kiki. That and something that happened a while ago to a friend of ours. Owned deli up on Union.” She dug around in her jeans jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Suzan.

  “No thanks. What happened to the deli guy?”

  “Found sitting in his Lexus a mile from his store, shot through the head. The cops haven’t found the asshole and probably don’t care anyway. Ronny was Black. If you’re not a nice clean whitey from Magnolia they don’t bother.”

  “Seattle hasn’t a patent on crime, Marla. I’m sure Portland gets its fair share, doesn’t it? I know Bellingham does, though you might not believe it.”

  “In this case you don’t know what you’re talking about. Lot’s of people here take it personally. First Kiki, then Jonson and now . . .”

  “Wait, you can’t be saying the killings are related. Wasn’t Kiki Zell killed years ago? And they solved that.”

  “Yeah, ten years,” said Marla. “But the District is like a small town in lots of ways. Everyone knows everyone. People say crazy things. Half the people in this room thought the cops didn’t get the dude who actually killed her.”

  Marla finished her beer and motioned the bartender for another.

  “Ronny was one of the ones who didn’t believe it,” she said. “And just as the fisherman goes to trial somebody shoots Ronny two blocks from where they found Zell. The fisherman didn’t off Ronny, that we all know. He was already in jail at the time.”

  “It has to be a coincidence, Marla.”

  “Too many of those lately. Look what happened to . . . what was his name? Sean?”

  Right, thought Suzan. Here we go. Marla, you’re trying too hard. Might as well put it in neon and hang it on the wall with the beer sign. She wants me to conclude that Sean’s death was connected with the other two murders and by implication that I might be next on the hit list. What’s her motive? Trying to scare me out of town?

  But how could Sean’s death have anything to do with Kiki Zell or the deli guy? All they had in common was the same neighborhood. Plus the murders were all different. Zell was raped and strangled, the deli guy was shot, and a car ran down Sean. These sad, unexplained things happen in any city the size of Seattle.

  “Marla, what makes you think this attack last night had anything to do with the murders?”

  She looked confused. “Attack? I didn’t say anyone was attacked.”

  “The guy last night, who’s in the hospital?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “Sorry. You were talking about murders, guess I just made the leap. So, then why are people connecting it with Kiki Zell?”

  “The coincidence. The Grid is doing a memorial concert to benefit a self-defense program for women we started after Kiki was killed. The Grid was going to give the dude a chance to play keyboards with them.”

  She stubbed the cigarette out on the neck of the beer bottle, ashes scattering across the bare bar top.

  “I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

  Marla looked out over the crowd toward the stage where a d.j. was switching tapes. As the music began, a woman at Suzan’s elbow stifled a sob.

  “Was it the guy with the birthday?” she asked Marla.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who was hurt last night. Is this his party?”

  “No. The party’s for Teddy. He’s sitting over there with Alexis.” Marla nodded toward a table by the stage. “The dude who got hurt was Alexis’ housemate.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Let’s talk about something else. So, what’s been going on with you? Are you ready to leave this hellhole yet?”

  Suzan wondered if “hellhole” referred to Seattle in general or the Comet Tavern in particular. She didn’t know Marla well, that was true enough, but to this point she’d been candid. Or appeared to be. Now suddenly she clams up. She’s worried or afraid. Either that or she wants me think that. What after all could frighten a woman as street smart as Marla?

  Suzan’s eyes stung from the smoke. This wasn’t the kind of night she had anticipated when she started out, and the mood burrowed deep, her thoughts drifting in the inevitable direction of loss and sorrow, her own and that of these strangers gathered together in a closed tavern, the songs of a dead woman running through their heads. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock.

  “I think I’m ready to pack it in for the evening, at any rate,” said Suzan. “I’d better call a cab, Marla. Maybe we can get together another time. When are you going back to Portland?”

  “Tomorrow. No sense hanging around here,” she said. “Hey, if you wait a minute I’ll drive you back to your place. I have a rental.”

  “That’s okay. Stay with your friends.”

  “Nah, this place is doing my head in. I need to talk to Teddy and Alexis for a second, then we can go.” She pushed her way through the crowd toward the front table.

  The man known as Teddy got up as Marla reached the table, gave her a half-hug. Marla said something to him and kissed his cheek. The woman Marla had identified as Alexis stayed seated. There was a short exchange between the two women. Suzan wished she could lip-read. The tension was thicker than the cigarette smoke. Marla glanced over her shoulder toward where Suzan stood nursing her beer. She couldn’t read the expression on her face any better than she could lip-read but as Marla rejoined her at the bar there was no mistaking the murderous look Alexis shot at her retreating back.

  “Finish that beer, princess, and let’s blow this joint.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Tell you later.”

  Suzan trailed Marla through the crowd to the exit at the rear of the tavern. What lay behind the hostility between the two women, she wondered. Rivalry over the birthday boy or something not that simple? Certainly they were far from being best buddies.

  Marla led her out the door and down the alley to a small Diamond Parking lot. The rental car parked under the only light standard was a gray Toyota Corolla. It made a comic contrast to the driver’s spiked hair and tattoos. Only, Marla wasn’t looking at all amused. She had the keys out and the doors unlocked fifteen feet from the car.

  “Get in.” she said, flinging herself behind the wheel.

  Before Suzan could get her seat belt fastened the door locks clicked and Marla was gunning the Toyota out of the parking lot.

  “Hey, what’s the hurry?”

  “Not now.”

  Marla floored it up the block, squealed to a rolling stop at the crest of Capital Hill, then took a free right onto Broadway. Suzan checked the side mirror to see if they were being followed. There were headlights a couple of blocks back but the car turned onto another street. They were now speeding south toward Seattle University.

  “I’m staying on Alder,” said Suzan. “It’s not a through street, so take a left on Boren, then left on Spruce. It’s just around the corner off Sixteenth.”

  “We’re not taking you home right now, Suzan.”

  “Why, where are we going?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  When they hit Boren, Marla took a left all right but just past the intersection with Spruce she pulled the car over to the curb and shut off the engine. Boren is one of those Seattle streets that give San Francisco competition in verticality, plunging off Capital Hill into the Yesler housing projects before it turns a corner in Little Saigon and b
ecomes Rainier Avenue. Where they were parked the Toyota was doing a headstand pointing at the intersection below.

  “Time we had a little chat, Suzy-Q.”

  “We’re in a no parking zone.”

  “Never mind about that. I want to know what you’ve been up to.”

  “What do you want me to say? What’s this about?”

  “I thought we’d been getting along pretty good, sweet-pea, but I hear you’ve been holding out on me. When were you planning on telling me you’ve been hanging around Fir Street lately?”

  “Fir Street? What are you talking about?” And what possible business could it be of yours? “That’s where Sean lived, but I haven’t been ‘hanging around’, as you put it. I dropped by the other day to talk to someone. I told you I’m here to find out what happened to him.”

  And why do I feel the need to defend myself?

  “How did you find out I was there?”

  “From Alexis Harding. Which, by the way, I do not appreciate since I’m not her biggest fan,” said Marla. “She sees us together and she wants to know who you are. She says, and I quote, ‘who’s the blond bitch in the geeky green jacket’, because apparently there’s been a blond in a green jacket nosing around Fir Street.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s the connection? I’ve never seen her before so how does she know what I’m doing and why should she care?”

  “She cares about everything that goes on in that house. It’s her house. Well, next best thing. She’s the landlady of that particular roach ranch.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”