Read Online The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online
Authors: Marcia Muller
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sister—because she’s successful.”
What kind of woman, I wondered, hates her children for both their flaws and their assets?
“What about asking Cat?”
“I can’t. Cat would want payback.”
“Of what sort?”
“She’d tell me to get my act together, take care of my kids, get some education, a job…all that shit.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
“To you, maybe. You look like somebody who’s had a pretty good life. But when you’re like me, beaten up by my own husband, then it’s a whole different story.”
Melinda was watching me, assessing my reaction. I kept my voice neutral as I said, “Okay, I understand. But maybe somebody wanted information from your father? Classified information?”
“Nah. That forum doesn’t keep secrets; they publish their reports. My dad isn’t important to anybody.”
“I’ve heard he’s not home a lot, sometimes stays out all night.”
“He’s got a woman. I’ve met her. Who cares? At least he’s not around to give Mom and Suzy grief.”
“What kind of grief?”
“Threats, tantrums. Once he broke Mom’s wrist, and another time he slammed Suzy against a wall.”
Yet another conflicting report. How much credence should I give it—or any of the others? If it was true Suzy was there to protect her aunt Jane from her uncle Van, why hadn’t she confided that to me?
“Did either of them report the incidents to the police?”
Melinda turned her head to one side, but I could see the flush rising across her neck and cheek. “That doesn’t help. The cops come out, they’re nice, sometimes they throw the guy—like my Tony—in jail and you can take out a restraining order. But a piece of paper isn’t gonna keep somebody who wants to hurt you away for long. Tony was back, and back, and back. Especially on my paydays.”
“Where’s Tony now?”
“I don’t know. After a while he probably found somebody else who had a bigger paycheck than me.”
“And this woman your dad has—who is she?”
“Her name’s Pamela. I met her once. They were sitting at an outdoor café in Palo Alto, and I saw them and went over to say hello. Dad was embarrassed—no, horrified. I guess I’m not fit to be his daughter. But he introduced us, although he didn’t ask me to sit down. She was nice. He doesn’t deserve her.”
“Did you catch her last name?”
She scrunched her eyes closed, then shook her head.
“What did she look like?”
“Long black hair, pretty.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?”
“…She looked expensive. Nice clothes, nice fingernails. She looked like I could never look.” Her face crumpled and tears began to flow. “He doesn’t deserve her, but he thinks I don’t deserve him.”
There was nothing I could say to comfort her.
Melinda said, “I think I’d like to be alone now.”
I put my card on the table beside her and left.
4:38 p.m.
When I arrived at the RI building, I first e-mailed the report on the Hoffman situation that I’d promised Hy, emphasizing the conflicting stories on the man’s life and character that I’d received from his family members. Then I went to speak with Mick. He was on the phone, scribbling notes in the self-developed shorthand only he could read. He held up a hand, pointed to a chair.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Duck confit. Isn’t that a little passé? I mean, they’re eating it in the burbs now.”
On my time, on a company phone line, the food snob was talking to a restaurant! I stepped forward, pressed the disconnect button.
Mick turned wounded eyes to me. “Shar, do you know how long it takes to get through to Clos Bob, much less to make a reservation?”
“It’s a stupid name for a restaurant. Besides, I read a review of it; they’ll probably close within the year.” I flopped into the chair, added, “I can remember when McDonald’s suited you just fine.”
He hesitated, then grinned. “Still does.”
“You have anything to tell me besides that duck
What kind of woman, I wondered, hates her children for both their flaws and their assets?
“What about asking Cat?”
“I can’t. Cat would want payback.”
“Of what sort?”
“She’d tell me to get my act together, take care of my kids, get some education, a job…all that shit.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
“To you, maybe. You look like somebody who’s had a pretty good life. But when you’re like me, beaten up by my own husband, then it’s a whole different story.”
Melinda was watching me, assessing my reaction. I kept my voice neutral as I said, “Okay, I understand. But maybe somebody wanted information from your father? Classified information?”
“Nah. That forum doesn’t keep secrets; they publish their reports. My dad isn’t important to anybody.”
“I’ve heard he’s not home a lot, sometimes stays out all night.”
“He’s got a woman. I’ve met her. Who cares? At least he’s not around to give Mom and Suzy grief.”
“What kind of grief?”
“Threats, tantrums. Once he broke Mom’s wrist, and another time he slammed Suzy against a wall.”
Yet another conflicting report. How much credence should I give it—or any of the others? If it was true Suzy was there to protect her aunt Jane from her uncle Van, why hadn’t she confided that to me?
“Did either of them report the incidents to the police?”
Melinda turned her head to one side, but I could see the flush rising across her neck and cheek. “That doesn’t help. The cops come out, they’re nice, sometimes they throw the guy—like my Tony—in jail and you can take out a restraining order. But a piece of paper isn’t gonna keep somebody who wants to hurt you away for long. Tony was back, and back, and back. Especially on my paydays.”
“Where’s Tony now?”
“I don’t know. After a while he probably found somebody else who had a bigger paycheck than me.”
“And this woman your dad has—who is she?”
“Her name’s Pamela. I met her once. They were sitting at an outdoor café in Palo Alto, and I saw them and went over to say hello. Dad was embarrassed—no, horrified. I guess I’m not fit to be his daughter. But he introduced us, although he didn’t ask me to sit down. She was nice. He doesn’t deserve her.”
“Did you catch her last name?”
She scrunched her eyes closed, then shook her head.
“What did she look like?”
“Long black hair, pretty.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?”
“…She looked expensive. Nice clothes, nice fingernails. She looked like I could never look.” Her face crumpled and tears began to flow. “He doesn’t deserve her, but he thinks I don’t deserve him.”
There was nothing I could say to comfort her.
Melinda said, “I think I’d like to be alone now.”
I put my card on the table beside her and left.
4:38 p.m.
When I arrived at the RI building, I first e-mailed the report on the Hoffman situation that I’d promised Hy, emphasizing the conflicting stories on the man’s life and character that I’d received from his family members. Then I went to speak with Mick. He was on the phone, scribbling notes in the self-developed shorthand only he could read. He held up a hand, pointed to a chair.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Duck confit. Isn’t that a little passé? I mean, they’re eating it in the burbs now.”
On my time, on a company phone line, the food snob was talking to a restaurant! I stepped forward, pressed the disconnect button.
Mick turned wounded eyes to me. “Shar, do you know how long it takes to get through to Clos Bob, much less to make a reservation?”
“It’s a stupid name for a restaurant. Besides, I read a review of it; they’ll probably close within the year.” I flopped into the chair, added, “I can remember when McDonald’s suited you just fine.”
He hesitated, then grinned. “Still does.”
“You have anything to tell me besides that duck
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