Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

“You and Sam are the heart of the neighborhood, it seems to me.”

“We try to be good neighbors.”

“You might know something that would help our client, Wish Whitefeather.”

“Danny’s friend? I think I saw him with Danny once.”

“If Danny’s innocent, then Wish will be released,” Nina said. “You liked Danny, didn’t you?”

Nina sensed a certain amount of discomfort in Debbie’s hesitation. “Pretty much. He was about the age of my younger son, Jared. Jared is at Chico State. I always felt sorry for Danny. I’d like to think he didn’t do it.”

Britta, for once listening intently, sucked fast on her icy margarita.

“Unfortunately, someone else from Siesta Court might be involved,” Paul said. In the still air, Nina could hear the two women breathing, hanging on his words. “I can’t go into details, but someone from the neighborhood may have paid a friend of Danny’s over six thousand dollars to set the fires.” Debbie set her glass down carefully while Britta drained hers.

“A friend of Danny’s?” Britta said.

“Now, who would that be?” Debbie asked.

“I can’t say right now.”

“What did this friend tell you?” Debbie asked.

“Nothing. He has disappeared.”

“Really,” said Britta. She turned the empty glass in her hand. “So you don’t really know anything.”

“A young man has provided some information,” Nina said. “A boy named Nate. His, uh, caretaker had shackled him to a tree to prevent him escaping and talking about some things he overheard.”

Debbie said, “How awful. How old is this boy?”

“Thirteen. He’s disabled.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m no expert,” Nina said. “He has mental problems.”

“So he can’t tell you anything either,” said Britta. “That must be frustrating.” Nina had the distinct impression Britta was laughing, but her face was dead serious.

“You didn’t leave him tied to a tree, I’m sure. What happened to him?” Debbie asked.

“He’s at Juvenile Hall in Salinas while the county looks for temporary housing for him.”

“That’s terrible.”

“There’s nowhere else to put him.”

“She can’t stay on topic,” Britta said, “but I’m curious. You say somebody on the block took out six thousand some odd dollars and paid it to this guy and he set a bunch of wildfires.”

“Right,” Paul said.

“Who? Any idea?”

“We’d like to narrow it down.”

“You really believe it’s one of us, one of the Siesta Court Bunch that hired an arsonist and got Danny killed?” Debbie said. “Why would one of our neighbors do that?”

“There’s a lot of animosity about the Green River development. It’s possible that’s the real focus of these fires.”

“Well, of course there is. That doesn’t mean we killed people because of it!” Debbie said, her eyes welling. “It’s just too much. Now you’re accusing my friends-my family-of doing these things, when we’re all scared to death ourselves. Just last night Sam thought he saw a prowler and the men went out back and looked for him. I was so frightened.”

“No, now, Debbie, sweetie, let’s stay with this. Look at us! The bunch of us. Who’s got a chunk of money that big to burn?” Britta said, giggling at her joke, as if playing a game. “Count Ben out. I doubt he could put a down payment on a bicycle on what he makes. And it can’t be George and Jolene. The Hills shop at the Wal-Mart and George’s too cheap to spend that much money just to set a couple of fires and off some people.”

“So, in your opinion, we should take them right off the list,” Paul said.

Britta smirked. “I’m not sure you should take anyone off the list. What do I know, after all? Maybe George keeps a stash of big bills under potting soil in a locked barrel, like that gangster on TV. Maybe Ben won the lottery and didn’t tell anyone. He’s a dark horse. He has secrets.”

“He’s not the only one,” Debbie said, glaring at Britta.

“What do you think, Debbie?” Nina said.

“About who might have six grand on this street? Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t know.”

“Aw, come on, Deb,” Britta said. “Every single person on this block has cried on your shoulder. You know. Tell them, go ahead.” What could have been a compliment from someone else had a sharp edge to it coming from Britta.

“Well, you and David come to mind,” Debbie said. Nina thought, So there’s some life in her yet.

Britta wasn’t bothered by this sally. She said, “Absolutely. Except David has the money, not me. I get my allowance and I get my paycheck. But now David, he’s got a trust fund from his parents that would knock your socks off, Paul. Yes, maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s gone political and decided to be the closet savior of the neighborhood. It’s completely out of character, him being heroic or spending that kind of money on anything that doesn’t have the syllables optic in it somewhere, I have to say.”

“You say those things about your own husband?” Debbie broke in.

“Maybe I did it,” Britta said. “Broke into the trust funds.” She was busy pouring herself another margarita.

“Why would you?” Nina asked.

“Same reason as everyone else on this block. Because I don’t want my view wrecked. To save the neighborhood, you could say. I’m a real nature lover.” She had added salt to the rim of the glass this time. She licked it off.

“Who else might have money?” Paul said.

“Ted and Megan have some money socked away, I’d guess,” Debbie said, clearly unhappy with the whole line of speculation. “I don’t really know. I really don’t see how Darryl and Tory could have that much money with four kids on the money Darryl takes home.”

“How about you and Sam?” said Britta. “Sam makes good money, enough so you don’t even have to work.”

“You know, Britta, maybe you better watch yourself,” Debbie said, “making those kinds of accusations while you’re sitting on our deck drinking our booze.” She had become increasingly uneasy. Nina couldn’t understand why she didn’t throw Britta, who had leapt upon her husband with the abandon of a wild animal a few nights before, out. Here she was letting Britta get homey on her deck, acting unreasonably civil. Evidently, Debbie worked to keep the social peace at all costs.

The kitchen door opened with a crash. Sam Puglia looked out at them, thick eyebrows drawing together like dark storm clouds. “You should have waited for me,” he told Debbie.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Hi, Sammy,” Britta said. “I just dropped by.”

“You dropped by, now you go home,” Sam said. “I mean it.”

“Sure you do.” Steadying herself with a hand on the back of the chair, Britta stood up. “See you later, everybody.” She passed close by Sam, brushing him.

After Britta left, Sam said, “What’ve you been telling them, Debbie?”

“That we had nothing to do with it.”

He relaxed slightly. “’Course we didn’t. What’s in the pitcher?”

“You know.”

Debbie poured him a margarita. Victims of a common marital curse, Sam and Debbie no longer looked the same age. After twenty years these partners now represented different generations. Debbie’s hair, almost gray, blew in a frizz cloud around her head. She bore a worried air and tired look around the eyes when she wasn’t acting the hearty hostess. Sam’s hair remained black and plentiful. The cracks time had etched into his face gave him vigor and character. A deceptive look of character, Nina thought, correcting herself. She would never forgive Sam for letting Britta-letting Britta sit on him! All right, as awful as it was, it was funny too. The two participants might not even remember the event, but Nina would swear Debbie had heard all about it.