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

“If anyone wants me, I’ll be at the Pelican Inn.” And I was outta there.
    Thinking about the restful vacation I’d planned, I wondered briefly if I could get away with simply getting in the Volvo and driving. Driving home to my finny friends in their tiny little watery habitat without a strand of kelp in it.
    But I couldn’t, of course. I had my clients, Ricky and Esperanza, though not Marty anymore, I supposed. That fiery little chili pepper. The phrase made me laugh now. It wasn’t the worst epithet I’d ever heard, but it was the thought that counted, and the thought was revolting. How dare she speak that way in front of Libby?
    I was in deep. Whose daughter was Libby, anyway, Marty’s or mine? Marty’s, of course—I wasn’t going to kidnap her—but why couldn’t people with children treat them any better? And how could Don let Marty get away with that garbage? The wimp.
    Well, anyway, I’d found out one thing. Put her in jail a couple of days, confront her with her ex-husband, threaten to steal her boyfriend, and she no longer resembled a cucumber.
    * * *
     
    There could have been a problem at the Pelican Inn. It was tourist season and I had no reservation. Even if I had, there could have been another problem. Check-in time was hours away.
    However, luck was on my side. Someone had phoned me—someone so insistent I must be there that the clerk had decided the caller was right and earmarked a room for me, one that was already made up—presumably the extra one you suspect every hotel of saving in case the governor drops by.
    I found all this out by asking without much hope if they had any vacancies. One clerk raised an eyebrow at another. “Uh-uh,” was the answer. “We have to save it for that Rebecca Schwartz person.”
    An interesting five minutes ensued while things were sorted out, but once I’d found out they were saving a room for me, they could hardly take it back. In another five minutes, I was relaxing on my own pillow, contemplating my unwitting benefactor—Mr. Ricky Flynn, who, I surmised, had phoned Marty’s house and been summarily referred.
    I was grateful, I was hungry, and I was nostalgic for Sunday morning brunch with Rob. I phoned my client and offered to treat him to a meal. Did Ricky Flynn decline? Not likely.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
    He knew a lovely place quite near Cannery Row—a coffeehouse sort of place that reminded me of spots in Berkeley, because it had a courtyard, something we Fogville denizens consider a rare treat. They offered the obligatory champagne-for-Sunday that Rob maintained had been invented for the ease and comfort of afternoon delighters, but which I’m quite sure is intended to ensure women a sound snooze while their men are engrossed in television sporting events. I felt a need to keep a clear head, so there was twice as much for Ricky.
    Today he was wearing jeans, running shoes, a Hussong’s T-shirt, and his baseball cap. I got the impression this was his habitual fashion statement. It suited him.
    “Esperanza called this morning.”
    I nodded, trying not to look smug. “Thought she would.”
    “In fact, Amber’s over at her house now. Boy, am I going to have to work hard to make it up to the kid—grounding her and all that for no reason. I really feel bad about not believing her.”
    He was sounding oddly like a father and a grownup. I almost didn’t recognize him. “She did a pretty amazing thing, I thought. Taking the heat to protect her friend.”
    And I was a little worried about that kind of self-sacrifice, but I was probably being a yenta. It was straight out of childhood fantasies. If Amber and Esperanza were anything like me and my little friend Maya, they’d probably sworn blood oaths with lipstick to be best friends forever and ever, and always, always come to the other one’s rescue, and never, never let the other one down. Of course, when Maya and I had become blood sisters, I’d imagined the trouble would come from evil magicians who might hold one of us captive in a stone castle, but I suppose that’s just a metaphor for your dad saying you’re grounded.
    “She’s a stand-up kid,” Ricky said. “I’m really proud of her.” He carefully selected a comer of his omelet, cut it, chewed, and swallowed before he said, “I haven’t called the police yet.”
    “You can let them know about the pearl as soon as we’re done here. But do me a favor—promise you don’t wait any longer than that.” I looked at my