Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 34

"No you won't!" he called and I could hear him moving down the hallway. He stopped in the doorway and looked at me. "A woman!" he grinned, "That's great! Just what I need! What happened to your face? Oh, never mind, that's a rude thing to ask."

He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, but in good shape. Having heard that he was an inventor who needed to have his meals delivered, I suppose I had expected someone who would be frail and pale. He was tanned and fit and seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Or anyone else, for that matter.

His hair was white, his eyes blue under snowy brows. He waved his hand to me in a "hurry up" motion and took off back down the hallway. "Come on," he called over his shoulder, "I want to show you an invention that is going to save marriages all across America."

What the h.e.l.l, I thought, and cautiously followed, keeping my distance.

He walked into the bathroom and moved to the toilet. I was just about to turn right back around when he said, "Watch the toilet seat."

As he stood there, facing the toilet in the cla.s.sic standing male position, the seat slowly but steadily lifted. He turned to me, beaming. "Now watch!"

He moved away from it with a jaunty step and it flushed.

"Now you try it," he said.

"Uh, no thanks," I said.

He gave me a sly smile and said, "Okay, you big chicken. Watch this!"

He approached the toilet, turned his back on it-as if he were about to take a seat-and slowly but surely, the seat came back down. He lowered himself onto it, grinned at me, and got off. Again the jaunty step, and the toilet flushed.

"You see?" he said excitedly.

"Yes. Amazing."

His grin faded. "What's the problem?"

"What's what problem?"

"What's the problem that is preventing you from being enthusiastic about a product that could revolutionize the sleeping habits of millions?"

"Sleeping habits?"

"Of course!" he exclaimed, as if I were the biggest dunderhead he had ever laid eyes on. "Every night, all across America, millions of women fall onto wet, cold porcelain surfaces. And why? Because some man has forgotten to put the seat back down! Now how is any poor gal going to get back to sleep after something like that happens to her?"

"It's very thoughtful of you to try to be of help-"

"I hear a but coming!" he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A b-u-t. You like it, but-" He stretched the last word out.

"But it needs to rise and lower faster. By the time that seat was starting on its way down, most women would have already hit the porcelain. And I don't even want to think about what will happen while a half-asleep man waits for that seat to rise all the way up."

"Well, he better not rush it," DeMont said, "'cause this thing is operated on an electrical pressure-sensitive mat and if he hits the mat instead of the toilet, he just might get electrocuted."

"Some women might consider that a fitting punishment," I said, "but I don't think Consumer Product Safety is going to give it the old green light. Maybe you need to work a few of those little bugs out."

He seemed so dejected at this, I added, "But I like your front-door setup. How did you know I was there?"

"I didn't know it was you, exactly," he said, reanimated. "But that's a pressure-sensitive mat, too."

"How does it work?"

"Anybody steps on it, it sends a signal to my recorder, which plays a little tape and that's what you hear over the speaker.

"'Comein'?"

"Yes."

"It greets everyone by saying, 'Come in'?" I asked.

"Sure."

"But what if you don't want someone to come in?"

"Why, you just lock the door," he said. "That's all."

Unwilling to argue the possible shortcomings of that system, I said, "Maybe you should eat dinner in another room."

"Okay," he said cheerfully, and led the way to the kitchen.

The kitchen was far less cluttered than the rest of the house, but I had a feeling his sister and Laurie were responsible for its relative state of cleanliness. I set the bag down on the table as he went to a cupboard. I was wondering what story I should tell him to get him talking to me on subjects other than toilet seats and doormats when he said, "Sit down, Irene, I'll get you a gla.s.s of my special power drink."

But I stayed standing, and didn't loosen my grip on the bag. "How do you know my name?"

He laughed, but didn't answer right away. I watched him warily as he set two tumblers on the table and moved to the refrigerator. "Let's see," he said, pulling out a pitcher of something that had settled into several layers that were various shades of red. He walked over to a blender, poured the contents of the pitcher into it, put the lid on the blender, then stood back and clapped his hands. The blender began whirring.

"I put one of those doodads on its power supply," he said, speaking up over the whine of the blender, "so you could start and stop it from anywhere in the room."

I didn't bother to point out that remote control of a blender was not worth much if you were already forced to stand next to it to fill it and empty it. I just nodded, watching the liquid in the blender turn a single shade of bright red.

But when he clapped a second time, the blender kept going. "Dag nab it!" he said. Given his father's virtuoso swearing, it surprised me. He tried clapping again, and still it whined on. Finally he went over and pushed a b.u.t.ton on the machine. That stopped it. He clapped again, and nothing happened. He pushed a b.u.t.ton, and nothing happened. He took the lid off and peered down into it. "Wonder if the dang thing's jammed?" he said, reaching for a knife.

"Uh, shouldn't you unplug it first?" I said.

He turned and smiled at me-a big, immensely pleased smile. "That's it!" he said, banging his hand on the counter.

The blender started up again. I quickly ducked beneath the table, while Mr. DeMont received an object lesson in the power of centrifugal force as the blender sprayed red juice everywhere. He fumbled blindly with the machine, finally turning it off. There was an eerie silence.

I crept up from my sheltered position. Other than a few spots here and there on my clothing I was, for the most part, unscathed. But Robert DeMont looked like he had been doing surgery in a MASH unit.

He reached for a dish towel and wiped the red liquid from his face. He looked over at me, grinned, and then began laughing. It was contagious. When we had brought ourselves back under control, he quickly made me lose it again by asking, quite innocently, "What happened?"

Once I had calmed myself, I said, "I don't think the device could pick up the sound of your clapping while the blender was on. So you turned the blender off at the machine itself. The power to the blender was still on, the machine was off. You clapped again, and this time, without the noise of the machine to interfere, the power was turned off, too. You pushed a b.u.t.ton, then, but without power, the blender wouldn't start. That's when you took the lid off. The b.u.t.ton was still depressed. You smacked the counter-"

"And turned the power back on! Yes, yes! Now I remember! I smacked the counter because when you said, 'Unplug it,' I realized what the problem was. I just chose an unfortunate way to express my excitement."

He gathered a handful of paper towels and wet them down, I grabbed a sponge and together we managed to wipe up the worst of it. I looked up at the ceiling and winced.

"Don't bother," he said, following my gaze. "I'll bring the ladder in and work on it later. Or maybe I'll leave it as it is. It's more interesting this way." He looked down at himself and laughed again. "I'd better clean myself up a little, though. This stuff is a little sticky. I'll be right back, Irene."

"Not so fast! How do you know my name?"

The sly smile was back. "Over there, by the phone," he said, pointing. Then he hurried out of the room.

I looked through the papers near the phone, and was nearly certain that he was simply stalling again, when I saw an envelope that made me feel a sharp sense of disappointment in a man who only moments ago seemed to be nothing more than a hapless gadgeteer.

It was a stiff nine-by-twelve manila envelope, the name "Robert DeMont" handwritten across its face in large block letters. But it was the return address that caught my eye: Richmond and a.s.sociates. There were no stamps.

Walking slowly back to the table, I opened the already unsealed envelope and pulled out a good-sized stack of eight-by-ten color photos. There was a page of text, but for the moment, I ignored it. My attention was fully concentrated on the first photo; Briana, leaving her apartment in San Pedro.

Disappointment gave way to anger. There was no longer any doubt in my mind as to who had hired Harold Richmond. Robert DeMont had a lot to answer for.

I stared at the image of my aunt. I saw her as I had not seen her in life. In photo after photo, here was Briana: Briana walking down the street, cane in hand; Briana coming out of the Reyeses' small grocery store; Briana going into St. Anthony's Church; Briana getting out of a cab in front of St. Mary's Hospital in Las Piernas. My fury rose with each piece of evidence that my aunt had been followed, spied upon. A lonely, shy old woman, vulnerable to the likes of Harold Richmond. Then came the worst of them all, the most intrusive-a photo of her weeping, leaning on Father Chris's arm at a graveside. I heard myself make a strange little choking sound; my eyes blurred. I moved the heel of my hand across them and went on.

The next group were all taken outside my home. Rachel, Travis and me, getting out of Travis's truck. There were photos of the camper, the house and the street, taken from different angles.

The camper-which was only in front of my house for a few hours before it was destroyed.

An odd set of noises I couldn't quite make out seemed to come from several parts of the house all at once. I waited, but heard nothing more. I suddenly realized that I didn't want to sit around chatting with Robert DeMont. I could look at the other photos later. For my own safety, I needed to get the h.e.l.l away from him-and as fast as I could. What insane notion had led him to reveal the existence of the photos, I'd never guess, but I gathered them together now, stuffed them into the envelope and, taking it with me, hurried to the front door.

No sign of DeMont. I counted my blessings. I reached for the doork.n.o.b, turned and pulled. Nothing. Repeated the action, twice again, in the way of a person whose world isn't working the way it should. I looked for some sort of deadbolt. Nothing.

Having once spent a few days having the tar beat out of me while being held captive in a small room, I don't do well with locked doors. Claustrophobia and I have since had an ongoing unpleasant relations.h.i.+p, and DeMont's locked door brought it on in a hurry.

I felt a kind of hysteria rising within me, and fought hard to keep it in check. I turned, telling myself to calm down, to try to find a back door, even as I heard my breath coming in short, quick gasps, as if I been running a race.

Blocking the hallway door was Robert DeMont. He was smiling.

I had an urge to tackle him, but instead I ran through the maze of tables to the kitchen door, hearing him shout, "Stop!"

I found the back door, yanked at it. It wouldn't budge.

"They're all locked," I heard him say from behind me, "but there's nothing to be upset about. I just want to talk to you, find out what you know."

My heart was pounding in my chest.

"Let me out of here," I said, hating how my voice shook. "Let me out!"

"It's one of my inventions," he said. "One b.u.t.ton locks all the doors and windows of the house. Once it's activated, I have to enter the secret code to turn it off."

Christ. Trust this to be his one invention that worked. I was sweating. "I have a problem with enclosed s.p.a.ces," I tried, moving slowly back toward the kitchen.

He frowned, not making any attempt to block my way, but following me. "Are you sure? Richmond didn't mention it in his report."

I didn't answer. I was trembling. My throat was closing up. I began moving toward the front of the house again, my steps shaky, but picking up speed.

"Where are you going?" he said, still following. "Let's talk."

"Open the G.o.dd.a.m.ned doors!" I shouted. I stumbled past worktables, knocking two of them to the floor behind me. I heard DeMont shout something about his work, but paid no attention. My goal, straight ahead, was a set of closed, cream-colored drapes. There was light coming from behind those drapes. A large picture window. I set the envelope down, picked up a metal folding chair.

"Stop!" he shouted. "I'll unlock the door!"

Too late. I had a good grip on the chair and was swinging that son of a b.i.t.c.h at that window as if I wouldn't settle for anything short of a home run. There was a satisfying crash of gla.s.s-better yet, a rush of fresh air. Almost immediately I felt myself grow calmer. I yanked the drapes back and, turning my face away, took another couple of whacks at the gla.s.s. Now the opening was wide enough for me-I could get through without cutting myself.

I turned to pick up the envelope and saw Robert DeMont looking at me with the same sort of uncomprehending look he had on his face when the blender went wild. "Why did you do that?" he said. "I told you I would open the door."

"First," I said, stepping through the window, hearing the crackle of gla.s.s breaking beneath my shoes, "I don't trust you." Once outside the house, I took a deep breath. "Second, you paid someone to spy on my family. That would have been bad enough, but you probably paid for far more than that."

"But I won't harm you!" he said angrily. "Why break my window?"

I looked across the street. Laurie was coming out of Leda's house. She stopped on the sidewalk, looking wide-eyed at the damage.

I looked back at him. "You destroyed our privacy, and now I've done a little damage to yours."

I walked away, not waiting to hear his reply. I wish it would have been in purposeful strides, but it wasn't. I felt sick to my stomach, and my knees were suddenly going rubbery on me. I managed to get to my car, yank the door open and plop myself into the driver's seat. I wanted to start the car and drive off, but I was shaking. Thanking G.o.d that I hadn't put the top back up, I just sat there, taking deep breaths, trying to slow down.

I glanced up to see Laurie crossing the street to his house. I folded my arms across the steering wheel and rested my head against them. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, every part of my body that had hit that wall the day before was complaining-but that wasn't what kept me sitting at the curb.

Better not to drive, I knew, when I was feeling like this. When I was feeling like this, my ghosts would rise-the memories would come to me, and I would lose my way in them. I waited.

But while one or two images of my days in captivity quickly crossed my mind, I did not fall prey to them. I wanted to hope that this was some sign that I was making progress, but settled for being grateful that I got off easy this time. I straightened up, felt the warm ocean breeze on my face and was just about to start the car when I heard a voice say, "Are you okay?"

I turned to see Laurie standing next to the car.

"Yes," I said. "Thanks."

"I hope he didn't scare you too bad. You don't look so great."

"I'll be all right in a minute."

"He told me that he had used his locking invention. What a jerk! I'm so glad you broke his window."

"You are?"

"Yeah. He needs to learn that he can't have things his way all the time. He's just an overgrown spoiled brat! He can't go around locking strangers inside his house for no good reason. No wonder it scared you." She suddenly blushed and said, "It's my fault. I should have warned you about the locks. He told me about that invention, but I have to admit ..."

"You didn't think it would work?"

"No," she said. "It's a first, I think."

I laughed. "I can't blame you. Did he show you the ceiling of his kitchen?"

She shook her head. I told her the story of the blender.

She laughed and said, "Oh, G.o.d, that's so like him. He doesn't think about the consequences of his actions. It's all 'I want this,' and 'I want that.' Sometimes he's just a younger version of great-grandfather, only Uncle Bobby doesn't swear. Grandma is stuck taking care of two very selfish old men."