Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

hadn’t been at all sure he was well enough to go, but he’d insisted. A doctor at San Francisco General thought the poison probably wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t already been weak from his recent illness.
    “Inspector, how could such a serious accident have happened?”
    “We are currently investigating the circumstances of the incident.”
    “Do the police think the poisonings were deliberate?”
    “That matter is still under investigation.”
    I was glad I’d come. If ever I thought Rob pushy or impatient in his reporter mode, I was once again reminded that he was the soul of gentility compared with his fellows—particularly those of the electronic media. We’d met for the first time at a press conference—one I happened to be giving—and he was the only reporter there who didn’t seem part of a swarm of ants at a picnic. Now he was quiet as his brothers and sisters wore out their vocal cords. Quiet as a mousetrap.
    When everyone else had left, including Martinez, he sauntered out to the hallway, taking me along, and stood waiting for the elevator with the nice inspector. When the three of us were aboard, Rob said, “Caught up with Lou Zimbardo yet?”
    Martinez was shocked into blurting, “What do you know about Zimbardo?”
    “Think he’s the Trapper?”
    “I don’t even know if the Trapper’s for real.”
    “Yeah, but he might be. And if he is, you know about him because I told you. So how about giving
me
a break?”
    “Okay, okay. When the first cops got there, he was gone. Out the back door, probably—who knows? Nobody saw him leave; just all of a sudden no Zimbardo. Anything else?”
    “Um—humm. Anything new on Miranda Warning?”
    “Who?” And Martinez stepped off the elevator.
    Rob didn’t follow. He was silent on the way back down to the first floor and the walk back to the car. When I’d fastened my seat belt and settled back contentedly, just beginning to contemplate the pleasure of the drive north, he said, “I think I’d better not go.”
    “To Calistoga? Why not? Aren’t you feeling well?”
    “It’s not that. I just need some time to myself.”
    “Time to yourself!”
    “What’s wrong with that? You’re always saying it.”
    “But I say it in advance—when declining an invitation; not when we’re already on our way somewhere.”
    He shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t know in advance I was going to feel this way.”
    He was driving me home. We were turning onto Green Street now, which meant he’d most certainly made up his mind. I was so hurt I couldn’t think of anything to say.
    He touched my leg in a placating way. “Are you very upset?”
    “I guess I am. I’m kind of numb, actually.”
    “Rebecca, you’re not taking this personally, are you? Because it has nothing to do with you.”
    “It doesn’t?”
    “Of course not. I just can’t make it this weekend, that’s all. How about next week?” He stopped the car in front of my house.
    I nodded and got out, not even kissing him good-bye. Upstairs, I sank into one of my white sofas, turned toward my aquarium, and watched, as if it were a movie. I had some truly spectacular fish at the moment—some fairy basslets that I hoped were going to make it. I watched them weaving in and out among plants and other fish, more graceful than any dancer in the Bolshoi. The hermit crabs scuttled comically, for once failing to amuse me. The anemones—my favorites—reached, as always, for something just outside their grasp, reminding me rather too vividly of the human condition. I was watching to stay numb, to get my mind off the way Rob had snubbed me; but it wasn’t going to work. He’d said it had nothing to do with me—his sudden need for solitude—but the fact remained that I was the person he’d just said he didn’t want to be with.
    Of course it was true that we all had needs for solitude, but the perfunctory, sudden way he’d brushed me off, as if he’d just come to a decision, made me think this went a lot deeper. I figured he’d only mentioned next weekend to put off telling me the inevitable—that he was dumping me. I wondered what I’d done wrong. But that was no fun; feeling sorry for myself was more satisfying. While I was doing it, really wallowing quite luxuriously in it, I remembered something that made the wound even nastier—Rob and I had a date that night. We were going out with Chris and Bob and a friend of theirs from Los Angeles.
    Rob must have forgotten it in his