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

you were running away—aren’t you a free agent?”
    Her face brightened. “I know! I could have frozen yogurt.”
    Oh, boy. A real tough cookie, this one. To Marty she was “difficult”; to Ava she was “bad”; and she was so brainwashed she wouldn’t even eat butterfat.
    She got chocolate chips on her strawberry yogurt swirled with white chocolate. And then, perhaps regretting the healthful strawberry influence, she decided on Oreo crumbles as well. I had a Diet Coke.
    I was curious. “Would you have run away if you’d been at your dad’s house today?”
    She colored. “I don’t think so. At least Daddy’d be home.”
    “Your mom isn’t?”
    “She drove Grandma home. I wanted to go; I thought I’d keep her company after she’d been in jail and all—but she wouldn’t let me. She just left Keil to boss me.” She covered her mouth with her hands and closed her eyes—she’d shoveled in such a big spoonful her mouth was freezing.
    Her mouth still full, she said, “Do you know how much I hate that?”
    It was all I could do not to snap, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Chocolate dribbled from the comers.
    “How much do you hate it?” I said, absently. I was thinking about Marty’s refusal to let the kids stay with Don on a day she declined to spend with them.
    “A barrelful.”
    “How about a truckload?”
    “A boatload.”
    “A planeload.”
    She looked around before she spoke, mindful that the other customers didn’t hear. “A shitload.”
    “Not so loud. Your grandma will hear.”
    She had a giggle fit like the ones kids get in
Three Men and a Baby
when the baby wets her diaper. As this is not humor adults can readily share, there was nothing to do but wait till it passed. “You’re fun, Rebecca.”
    “Well, sort of fun. I’ve got bad news.”
    “I know. I have to go home.” She didn’t seem to mind at all.
    “Eventually, anyhow. Why don’t you call Keil and tell him where you are—and then we’ll go to a movie. Want to?”
    “Can I have popcorn?”
    Born for business, most kids. Always making deals. When I took her home, finally, I went in with her—or to the threshold, as it turned out—to make sure she didn’t get in any hot water.
    Marty met us at the door, dressed to go out, California casual in a snug-fitting knit pants outfit. She’d even been at her hair with a curling iron. She wore a squash blossom necklace, and she was preoccupied with fitting matching silver earrings into her ears.
    Libby spoke as if nothing had happened. “Hi, Mom. Can Esperanza sleep over?”
    “You’re grounded tonight, young lady. Keil told me what you did—taking off without even telling him.”
    “Oh, Mom.”
    Marty relented a little. “You’re going to your dad’s tomorrow, but you’ll be home Tuesday night. She can sleep over then. How’s that?”
    “Okay.” She smiled as brightly as if her mom had said they were going to Disneyland, and slipped inside. “’Bye, Rebecca. I had fun.”
    Marty said, “Thanks for taking care of her. Sorry I can’t ask you in—I’m in a hurry.”
    I wondered if this meant she was no longer angry with me. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but maybe that was as close as Marty got to making one.
    “Another time,” I said.
    I’d had to park about halfway up the block from Marty’s, on the opposite side of the street. I hadn’t yet reached my car when I heard a door slam, heels click. I turned automatically and saw Marty practically flying to her car—apparently she was late. As I got in my car, I saw her pull out. Another car, a dark one, a Chrysler, I thought, pulled out behind her and began to follow at a discreet distance. Or was it my imagination?
    It could be, I reasoned, but if it wasn’t, I couldn’t leave her alone—not with the Monterey murder rate rapidly climbing. I followed the car following Marty.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
    It was only about seven-thirty, nowhere close to dark, but somehow I never could seem to get close enough to see the Chrysler’s license plate. It was a short ride, only as far as a fairly large, fairly impersonal motel where Marty didn’t register.
    Instead, she pulled into the parking lot, next to a silver compact of some sort, jumped out quickly, and rushed up the stairs, apparently to a room on the second floor. At this point I lost sight of her. I kept a good distance away, because the car that had followed her parked behind hers, perpendicular to it. The driver simply sat there a few