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

Mathison wasn’t lying when she said there was a lot of love in that home and that Les knew it. I’d be willing to believe he was a perfectly sincere, if somewhat confused Boy Scout and Future Farmer. But suppose he became severely disillusioned, convinced God wasn’t quite the benign shepherd He’s cracked up to be.”
    “He might get cranky and nail someone to a cross on Easter Sunday.”
    Dad sighed. “He might if he were
messhuge
. But nothing Mrs. M. said really indicated that. I wonder about those animals.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Suppose I wanted you to kill Noah.”
    Noah had been my childhood cat. “And suppose I forced you to do it by beating you.” I nodded, trying to take it in.
    “Then when you actually killed Noah, do you think you might still be angry?”
    I was beginning to get the hang of it. “Angry enough to kill, you mean? You mean in some weird way, I might be so mad at you I’d actually enjoy killing Noah?”
    He nodded. “I’ll have to talk to one of my shrink friends. It might possibly work that way.”
    “The only problem is, it’s just a theory. The only way we’d ever find out is if Les told us.”
    “Hold your horses, babe. I’m just kicking it around, trying to figure out if I can believe in Les as the Trapper.”
    “And?”
    “Well, let’s put it this way—your client’s going to the green room if you don’t come up with some better defense than you’ve currently got.”
    “Dad!” It hurt, hearing it put so bluntly.
    “Don’t get upset, Beck. You’ve got to be practical about this. What if you do lose him? You have to be prepared for it. You can’t get too emotionally involved.”
    “I like the way you said, ‘lose him,’ not ‘lose the case.’ That’s keeping a healthy distance.”
    “You also have to remember that if you lose the case, he’s a goner. And I’ve got to tell you, I think there’s a good chance you’ll lose.”
    “You don’t like the Les Mathison theory.”
    “I think it’s worth pursuing.” He gave me one of his famous smiles, the kind that showed off all the cute crinkles around the blue eyes.
    At least he didn’t think I was completely off my nut. And he and Chris were in agreement—they both thought it was my only chance. That made three of us.

12
     
    “You’ve got two choices,” Chris said when I brought her up to date the next morning. “Hire an investigator or get Rob to help.”
    Without hesitation, I picked up the Yellow Pages and turned to Private Investigators. I knew who I wanted, a guy who’d done some good work for some people I knew. I’d even met him a couple of times—a big Italian guy—but try as I might I couldn’t get his name to come to me. I ran my finger down the lists, turning the pages, but nothing jarred my memory. I’d have to call one of my friends who’d used him. I picked up the phone, held the receiver so long I lost the dial tone, punched the button to get it back, and dialed Rob’s number. Deep down, I must have been looking for an excuse to call him.
    I was sure of it later when I walked into John’s Grill and saw him waiting for me on a barstool. When he saw me, he smiled, and his face looked as if somebody’d plugged him in and flipped a switch. If I’d been worried that I was wearing nothing nicer than a lawyerly black suit, I forgot about it. “You look terrific,” he said, and I knew he’d have said it if I’d had a stocking over my face; he didn’t really care how I looked at all, he just wanted to be with me, and I loved him for it.
    “So do you.” To my unmitigated horror, tears popped into my eyes.
    “Awww. Where does it hurt? I’ll kiss it.” For the next couple of minutes we must have looked like a standing tangle of black linen and tan corduroy. I couldn’t imagine what had made me stay away.
    “I must have been crazy,” I said.
    He looked alarmed. “To see me?”
    “Not to see you.”
    Relief flooded his face. “Certifiable.”
    “I was hurt.”
    “I know. I’m sorry.”
    “I’m
sorry.”
    The drunk at the next table leaned over. “You two belong on daytime TV.”
    “We
are
getting a little sudsy,” said Rob.
    “I’m enjoying it.”
    “Wallow in it, baby. Cry me a river.”
    “Oh, can it.”
    “Speaking of cans… and suds—”
    “Beer’s for journalists.”
    He hailed the bartender: “One beer and one insipid white wine.”
    “Please, no Yuppie jokes.”
    “I like Yup women. They have money.”
    “Same old