Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (10 page)

Trevor suddenly stood beside him, set the beer down and the chit, grinned, said, “Eat shit, tit-face.” He walked away before Peter could say anything.

O'Hara marched to the door and out. Larry's cheeks and brow had gone a shade of dark red, a color Peter had never before seen on his friend's face.

Larry stood, walked in front of the large fireplace and across to a small door that led to the washrooms. Okay, what that was all about? He breathed deeply and took a sip of beer. He drew his wallet from his trouser pocket and located Noel's professional card. He found the phone and poked in Noel's number. Noel picked up. “Hey Noel, it's Peter . . . Good. And your conversation with Jordan? . . . You're right, we should meet, which is partly why I'm calling.” Noel said something and Peter laughed. “Well I thought I'd grill some scampi, you can join me and can catch me up . . . Oh of course, you told me she was coming in today.” Damn. But nothing to be done. “Bring her along . . . Around 6:30?” He gave Noel his address and directions. “See you then.” He added Noel to his contacts and put away the phone. And realized he felt a disappointment that shouldn't be there.

Larry came out of the washroom and pointed to his table, his glass, and headed toward it.

Peter waved an okay, wishing he had a few seconds to mull over this now complicated invitation to Noel.

Larry sat beside Peter, raised the one-third-full glass, finished it and scowled. “I need another. That tasted just terrible.”

“I can imagine.”

“You've been here a while.”

“Only ten minutes. Enough.”

“You saw.” Not quite a question.

“Hard not to.”

Larry picked up the house phone, said “Another Gilligan's, Trevor. Just a glass.” He listened. “And your mother is double.” He set the phone down.

Peter looked at him. His color was better, but he looked worn. “What about O'Hara?”

“Don't ask.”

“Come on, give.”

“It was personal.”

Peter doubted it. The finger waggling and Larry's shouted
No!
were clearly segments of professional power relations. “Part of the problem you've got?”

Larry rubbed his chin, his cheeks. “You insist I have a problem?”

“You look like you need some sleep.”

Larry's shoulders slumped a little. “It shows, does it?”

“Like on a movie marquee.”

Trevor arrived, beer on tray. He set the beer down, dropped the chit on the table, said, “Enjoy the bull-piss, piss-head.” He walked off, his arm twitching.

“Thanks, Trevor,” Larry called. To Peter he said, “It's true. I am a bit out of sorts.” He raised his glass. “Our healths, and the health of all those we care about.” He took a large swallow.

“It helps to talk, Larry. And I'm an oubliette of a listener.”

“O'Hara's such a bureaucrat. Sometimes he gets right to me.”

“I could see. But something's gotten to you before your talk with O'Hara. Can you tell me, or is that personal too?” He sipped from his stein.

Larry too took a swallow. After a silence he said, “It's personal, yes.” He stared into space over Peter's shoulder. Then he sighed, leaned forward and said, “I'm not usually like this, you know that.”

“That's why I'm worried about you. Want to tell me?”

“This has to stay between you and me, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I'm worried about Susanna.”

Peter didn't know Rossini's daughter well, had conversed with her a few times. A pretty, animated young woman. He watched Larry's face, and let the silence lie between them.

“She's so distant. I can't seem to reach her. She'll say one thing with complete sincerity; the next day with equal feeling she'll say the opposite.”

“Like?”

“Like.” He remained silent again.

Peter had a strange thought: Larry isn't thinking or remembering. He's pretending to be thinking. Faking remembering. In a moment he'll give an example of Susanna's bad behavior that will be minor but he'll use it to lead me away from what he's really worried about. “Like,” said Peter.

“All summer she's been complaining she doesn't have enough time to get all her books read before her courses begin. You know she's supposed to be starting her master's in English at UW in a few weeks. But then two weeks ago, she decides she's going off to see friends from Reed. Things like that, big and small.”

It rang false. Larry had just made up a story. Molecular engineers shouldn't tell stories. Leave that to graduate students in creative writing. “Is that it?”

“Weird enough. And I admit, I'm worried.”

Yes, Larry Rossini was worried. But not about Susanna. Or at least not about her going to visit friends. “Anything else worrying you?”

Larry screwed up his face. “What d'you mean?”

“About Susanna? About anything else?”

Larry's shoulder's dropped, as if a new weight had been added to his worries. “It's enough for me.”

More amateur theatricality. “Everything about your body's telling me there's a lot more you aren't telling me.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Larry, I'm only trying to help.”

“I understand, Peter, I truly do. And you are. You're making me formulate my problem.” He shook his head, and added, “With Susanna.”

“I think there's more you aren't saying.”

Larry smiled sadly. “I'm sure there is. But whatever it is, I don't know how to explain it.”

“When you do, I'll listen.”

“I thank you for that.” Larry now sounded only weary. He finished his beer. “Should've had the full pint.”

Over the years, Peter had found it advantageous, when he tried to get a student to talk about his or her difficulties with his course, to share a personal story, hoping to get her or him to talk more easily. Worth a try now.

Larry reached for the phone. “Another beer?”

Peter said, “Leave the phone. I've done something and I want you to tell me if I've misstepped.”

“We can talk with mug in hand, no?”

“I'd rather not here. Let's go for a walk.”

Larry shrugged. “Okay. I've probably had enough anyway.”

They walked to the door and out. Peter turned them toward the woods. He said, “Nice afternoon.” Which it was, warm and sunny.

“You want my advice about the weather, is that it?”

Peter chuckled. “About a problem I have. I wonder if you've dealt with anything like this in your field. I have a student. I think he may have plagiarized an assignment. Something he wrote.”

“Harder to plagiarize in what I do. We've got a lot of cheating, though. Go on.”

Peter then laid out for Larry the Jordan Beck problem, without mentioning his name. “It's got me stumped. Two such different styles of writing.”

“But you said the assignments were different. Couldn't that account for it?”

“It could. But it doesn't feel right.”

“Have you confronted this student?”

“No.” Peter could tell confrontation would be Larry's way. “But I've taken some steps. You may think they're overdone, and I've gone off in the wrong direction.” He stopped walking. Larry stopped as well. “I've hired a private investigator. To see if he can find out the truth. Delicately.”

“Has he confronted the student?”

“He's talked to him this morning. He's coming to my place this evening to report.”

“He any good, this investigator?”

“I find him sympathetic. He used to be a journalist. He knows a lot about writing styles. He's an expert on crimes on islands.”

“Hnnhh. You can plagiarize anywhere.”

“Well, Islands Investigations International seemed to be the organization that could be most helpful. Their slogan is,
Discretion is our calling card.
Which is what I wanted.”

Larry nodded slowly. “Yes. Important to be discreet.” He started to walk again, Peter following. “It must be a talent, poking around, asking questions without causing a fuss. Circumspect in all ways.” He turned. “No, I don't think you misstepped. It's tricky. You can't accuse a student if you don't have proof. Luckily I've never had to face that one. Cheaters are easier to rout out.”

“Well, thanks. I feel better, you hearing me out.”

“Good. And when the time comes, I'll tell you some stories too.” He grinned impishly at Peter. “But now is not that time.”

Peter glanced at his watch. “Yeah, but time for me to rush to the market. Thanks, Larry.” Larry walked away. Peter knew Larry heard the plagiarism story for the ruse it was.

Fredric despised himself. How could he have let Raoul convince him to participate in this escapade? He seethed with fury at Raoul, but more at himself. He'd been only a little stoned when they'd captured her, drugged her, hauled her into that dingy room—Raoul had bought the door, attached the deadbolt, built the peephole—but he, Fredric, had no excuse. He was as guilty as Raoul, and Raoul wouldn't let him forget this. Raoul would hold it over him. As he always did.

The ferry had pulled out of Anacortes so slowly he wondered if anything was wrong with it. At least he'd caught the early departure from Friday Harbor. The last thirty miles into Seattle had been bumper to bumper. A long day.

Raoul started this—prank, he'd called it—as a dare, or so Fredric had thought. “Think you're man enough to snatch a girl?” Raoul gave Fredric his endearing toothy grin.

“Sure. But why?”

“Leverage.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Don't worry about it. Twenty minutes. We grab her and hide her.”

Bizarre to try that, but Fredric was game. Half-stoned, anything seemed possible. Mostly Raoul's notions intrigued Fredric, had since they were kids. They'd taken some wild rides together. So when Raoul came to visit, Fredric figured there'd be all kinds of schemes they'd find themselves in the middle of. Stoned together, their imaginations burbled with ideas, from parachute surfing to drag racing to skydiving. They'd done all three, each a blast. Then this. Now
man enough to snatch
meant
man enough to look after
. Guard. Lock up. Keep prisoner. Fredric alone was the warden. Raoul had taken off the next morning.

Fredric's job would be over in less than a week. Why they had to hold her for three weeks he didn't know. All he knew, this wasn't a prank or a dare. This was kidnapping for someone else. Who? Did Raoul know? He was elsewhere. Possibly with whoever had ordered the snatch. Damn Raoul.

The ferry passed Lummi Island to starboard. Luckily it wouldn't stop at Orcas or Shaw or Lopez this evening. He'd be back late enough. He hoped she wasn't worried he'd forgotten her. He'd given her a lunch sandwich, ham and cheese on rye bread he'd baked himself. It'd just be takeout pizza this evening. Tomorrow he'd cook, maybe roast chicken and vegetables.

He expected she'd be happier when he gave her the books. Two days ago she'd gone into a panic—she had to have these texts; classes started in less than a month. The books were of course at her father's house. But Fredric wasn't about to break in and steal them. He told her to wait, she'd have them in six or seven days. But still she'd panicked. Nothing to do but drive down to UW and buy a new set.

He wanted to release her. But that would mean not only the end of his friendship with Raoul, but also an encounter with Raoul's viciousness. Fredric had seen Raoul explode; people ended up in the hospital.

The real trouble with guarding Susanna, Fredric was finding he liked her. A great deal. She was lovely to see, despite the baggy clothes he'd bought her. She was lovely to talk to as well. She asked him questions about himself and he wanted to answer them honestly. Not possible.

She had a fine face, good cheekbones, small ears. She didn't use makeup because she didn't have any, and Fredric wasn't about to buy any of that. Talk about drawing attention to himself. Purchasing her clothes at the Sally Ann was bad enough. Rifling through women's blouses and pants had made him feel like a weirdo, and he knew everyone in the store was watching him. In actuality only one clerk seemed to have noticed him, and she came over. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, uh, no, I'm just looking for some clothes. To use as costumes. In a play. I was given the job of finding them.”

“Do you have the women's sizes?”

“Uhm, one's kind of short and the other one's middle size.”

“Looking for anything special?”

“Well, sort of sporty.” Damn, why hadn't he prepared this better!

“Would you like suggestions?”

Why wouldn't she go away! “I'll know what we need when I see it.”

“Please yourself. There are sizes marked on each rack.” She left him alone at last.

He bought everything larger than looked right for her—better too big than too small. Then a real department store for the underwear. The panties—just plain white cotton, a three-pack, but god, getting into line and handing them to the clerk and her grinning at him, awful. He got so flustered, he dropped his wallet. And the woman behind him was staring at his purchase. Yes, of course he wanted a bag!