Read Online Spit In The Ocean: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 4) by Shelley Singer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shelley Singer
Tags: Mystery, California, San Francisco, cozy mystery, private investigator, murder mystery, mystery series, Jake Samson, P.I. fiction, sperm bank, Shelley Singer, Bay Area mystery
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fizzled a couple of years before she had come back to Wheeler to stay.
I was beginning to understand what Fredda had meant about Wolf’s problems with women, but his story didn’t seem very different from anyone else’s. Not very different, for example, from mine. A lot of us had limped footloose in one way or another through the seventies. Periods of realignment are hard on everyone, especially when they end up with absolutely nothing having been changed by all that agony.
“When you came back to town,” Rosie asked, “what happened between you then? He was free, wasn’t he?”
“He was free, but nothing happened. We went out once or twice, but it didn’t work.”
Rosie persisted. “And he never resented you for not marrying him?”
“I think he was relieved, when he got to know me again later. Relieved that we hadn’t gotten married. I’m not the easiest person to get along with and I love to work. I don’t think that’s the kind of wife he had in mind.” She sighed. “Poor Gracie. She would have been right for him. Poor Wolf. Anyway”—she drummed her fingers on her desk— “I really don’t think any of this has any significance. It’s all years and years ago.”
“You say Gracie would have been perfect for him,” I said. “How?” All she had ever said about Gracie before was that she was a good employee and was “sweet,” whatever that means.
“Oh, you know. Feminine in a traditional way. She would have let him take the lead, make the decisions. She wasn’t assertive at all as far as I could tell. Don’t misunderstand— I liked her.”
“But you weren’t friends,” Rosie said.
The phone rang. She picked it up, asked the party on the other end to hold on, covered the mouthpiece, and said, “Listen, guys, I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. Could we pick this up again later?”
We said good-bye.
I was thinking about those “years and years” since she and Wolf had been together. It didn’t mean much. A man can carry a heartache around for decades. A relationship that should have worked and didn’t— because you were too young and stupid, maybe— can leave you looking for that person for the rest of your life. I had one like that. It has been years and years, and a lot of women, including one marriage, in between. And if I knew where she was, I’d go and get her. If she was still the person I remembered.
It was early. I figured we should go look for Marty Spiegel, Gracie’s friend, and that the place to look for him was probably the house he’d been so worried about.
The road out along the spit was still slick with mud now half-dried. A birch tree had fallen onto the road, but it was passable. The big trees sheltering the houses didn’t look much the worse for wear, all in all, but there were branches scattered on the road and in what we could see of the yards.
In daylight, without blinding wind and rain, the spit was a beautiful place. The ocean was as quiet as it ever gets up here, and the air was fresh and salty. The glimpses of wealth between the trees didn’t spoil the effect one bit, although, on the way out to Marty’s, I noticed a couple of houses that didn’t look so great. One was modest. One was even humble, with plywood still covering the windows from the night before.
We stopped at the bottom of the driveway where, the night before, Gracie’s car had been parked. In its place now was an old red Jaguar. We didn’t doubt for a second that we’d found the right driveway. The Jaguar’s license plate said MOVIES. We left Alice sleeping in the car and walked up to the door.
It was quite a door.
One of those big double jobs, about ten feet tall, but not the kind you’d expect a butler to answer. Eric the Red, maybe, but not a butler. It was made of thick rough redwood slabs with monstrous black iron strap hinges. The small round windows on either side of the door were heavy leaded glass pictures of sailing vessels of some ancient and
I was beginning to understand what Fredda had meant about Wolf’s problems with women, but his story didn’t seem very different from anyone else’s. Not very different, for example, from mine. A lot of us had limped footloose in one way or another through the seventies. Periods of realignment are hard on everyone, especially when they end up with absolutely nothing having been changed by all that agony.
“When you came back to town,” Rosie asked, “what happened between you then? He was free, wasn’t he?”
“He was free, but nothing happened. We went out once or twice, but it didn’t work.”
Rosie persisted. “And he never resented you for not marrying him?”
“I think he was relieved, when he got to know me again later. Relieved that we hadn’t gotten married. I’m not the easiest person to get along with and I love to work. I don’t think that’s the kind of wife he had in mind.” She sighed. “Poor Gracie. She would have been right for him. Poor Wolf. Anyway”—she drummed her fingers on her desk— “I really don’t think any of this has any significance. It’s all years and years ago.”
“You say Gracie would have been perfect for him,” I said. “How?” All she had ever said about Gracie before was that she was a good employee and was “sweet,” whatever that means.
“Oh, you know. Feminine in a traditional way. She would have let him take the lead, make the decisions. She wasn’t assertive at all as far as I could tell. Don’t misunderstand— I liked her.”
“But you weren’t friends,” Rosie said.
The phone rang. She picked it up, asked the party on the other end to hold on, covered the mouthpiece, and said, “Listen, guys, I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. Could we pick this up again later?”
We said good-bye.
I was thinking about those “years and years” since she and Wolf had been together. It didn’t mean much. A man can carry a heartache around for decades. A relationship that should have worked and didn’t— because you were too young and stupid, maybe— can leave you looking for that person for the rest of your life. I had one like that. It has been years and years, and a lot of women, including one marriage, in between. And if I knew where she was, I’d go and get her. If she was still the person I remembered.
It was early. I figured we should go look for Marty Spiegel, Gracie’s friend, and that the place to look for him was probably the house he’d been so worried about.
The road out along the spit was still slick with mud now half-dried. A birch tree had fallen onto the road, but it was passable. The big trees sheltering the houses didn’t look much the worse for wear, all in all, but there were branches scattered on the road and in what we could see of the yards.
In daylight, without blinding wind and rain, the spit was a beautiful place. The ocean was as quiet as it ever gets up here, and the air was fresh and salty. The glimpses of wealth between the trees didn’t spoil the effect one bit, although, on the way out to Marty’s, I noticed a couple of houses that didn’t look so great. One was modest. One was even humble, with plywood still covering the windows from the night before.
We stopped at the bottom of the driveway where, the night before, Gracie’s car had been parked. In its place now was an old red Jaguar. We didn’t doubt for a second that we’d found the right driveway. The Jaguar’s license plate said MOVIES. We left Alice sleeping in the car and walked up to the door.
It was quite a door.
One of those big double jobs, about ten feet tall, but not the kind you’d expect a butler to answer. Eric the Red, maybe, but not a butler. It was made of thick rough redwood slabs with monstrous black iron strap hinges. The small round windows on either side of the door were heavy leaded glass pictures of sailing vessels of some ancient and
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