Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

life. He also looked pretty silly sitting on Marty’s terra-cotta sofa in her short pink robe, and I thought he must surely be uncomfortable entertaining guests that way. But Mary Ellen’s voice floated everything else out of my consciousness:
    “Warren wanted to quit, you know—” Julio had found peanuts, and she took a handful “—but I hate a quitter. I said, ‘Warren, you have to make your own opportunity.’” Warren’s face couldn’t have looked more pinched if his nose had been caught in a vise. Mary Ellen swallowed the handful of peanuts, looking as if they satisfied her like a multiple orgasm. “And I was right. Good things happen to people with gumption, people who stick it out no matter what.” She was on her second glass of wine.
    I said, “Warren, I didn’t know you were unhappy at the aquarium.”
    He looked bewildered and a bit rabbity. “I—uh—wasn’t.”
    “Warren, you were! You knew you’d never go to the top with Sadie there. She was just too good.”
    He shrugged, looking apologetic, I thought, though whether for his own sorry self or for his pushy wife, I didn’t know. “I wasn’t really thinking of ‘going to the top.’”
    Mary Ellen snorted.
    “I’ve always wanted to write a book,” he said wistfully.
    Julio stood. “I think I’d better get some clothes on.”
    Warren stood as well. “We won’t keep you any longer. We just wanted to make sure Rebecca and the kids didn’t need anything.” He looked at me, affording Julio an opportunity to slip out. “Is there anything else we can do for you?” He was the perfect picture of an acting director, a person who has achieved seniority taking care of the also-rans—in Marty’s case, more than an also-ran. A possible serious loser.
    “No, thanks.” I started to walk toward the door, hoping he and Mary Ellen would take the hint and follow, but Mary Ellen began to gather up wineglasses, a practice I truly hate in a guest. Rather than take her cue and flutter guiltily about in her wake, I continued toward the door.
    To my surprise, Warren plucked at my sleeve. “Rebecca, I need to talk to you.”
    I’m afraid I stared, more or less speechless. He glanced furtively up the stairs. “I didn’t know you were involved with Julio.”
    “I’m not!” The angry, self-justifying words were out before I could stop them, and I was furious at myself for being manipulated into a defensive posture.
    “You’ve got to be careful.” He was whispering. “He was at the aquarium last night. I was in the parking lot about seven-thirty. I saw him coming out.”
    “Warren! Warren, where are you?” Apparently it was her husband whom Mary Ellen had expected to flutter in her wake. She caught up with us before I could ask him what
he
was doing in the parking lot.

CHAPTER TEN
     
    I put away the ham and washed the damned wineglasses while Julio got dressed. It was getting on toward six o’clock, and I was thinking of having my long-postponed glass of wine with Julio when he returned—and wondering if it would loosen my tongue enough to tell him what Warren had said. I tried Judge Reyes again. No answer.
    Keil and Ava came in, Keil’s step light in his Reeboks, Ava’s heavy not so much with weight as with judgment. She carried it in her aura like a coat of mail.
    “Rebecca! We got the thermometer!” There was triumph in the boy’s voice that had nothing to do with sickroom equipment. Another job well done by Trap Door.
    Ava followed him heavily into the back hall, where I met them, dishtowel in hand. “Thanks so much, you two, but I don’t think we’ll need it. She’s fine now—Libby’s with her.” I could have sworn Ava looked disappointed. Her lips set as she resigned herself to giving up a sick child to nurse. I was trying to handle the implications of that, to deal with the ominous fluttering it made in my gut when Keil hollered, “Rebecca, it’s for you!”
    I realized the phone had rung and been answered. The receiver clattered on the counter, and the refrigerator door clicked open almost simultaneously.
    I was annoyed. The caller, of course, could be only one person, and he’d phoned at an extremely inconvenient time.
    “Hello, Rob,” I said, making my voice cold enough to raise goose bumps back in Cambridge.
    “Rebecca? Is this Rebecca Schwartz? The lawyer?”
    “Sorry. I was expecting someone else.”
    “This is Ricky.”
    “Who?”
    “Ricky Flynn. I met you at Julio’s. You’re Marty’s