Warning Signs

CHAPTER 19

Saturday morning brought Lauren, Grace, and me back to our weekend routine. We left the house early, met our friends Diane and Raoul for breakfast, and did the usual round of errands on North Broadway. During breakfast I tried to maintain a conversation with Raoul, pretending I gave a whit about his newfound passion for fly-fishing while I was simultaneously eavesdropping as Lauren responded to a question about her health from Diane. Raoul was rambling about feathers and string and tying flies; Lauren was saying that she was in less pain and that her brain mud had eased, but that her vertigo was still giving her fits, and, fearing that she might fall, she wouldn't carry Grace more than a few feet. Lauren usually didn't go into such detail about her health with friends.

Or with husbands, for that matter.

When I said "Yes" in answer to a question I didn't really hear from Raoul, he seemed pleased. He said, "Diane didn't think you'd come with me. I told her I thought you would."

I was afraid I'd just agreed to go fly-fishing.

Although April had been warmer and dryer than usual along the Front Range, the weatherpeople were predicting the midday arrival of a cold front from the north preceded by strong winds. It turned out that the meteorologists were wrong by at least a couple of hours. As we were driving home from our errands the winds began to sluice down from Cheyenne with a force that would cause alarm in most places on the North American continent. But not in Boulder. Winds in the fifty- to one-hundred-miles-an-hour range were frequent events in the winter and spring seasons. Only in the upper reaches of the range did the populace seek shelter. In the moderate, fifty- to seventy-five-miles-an-hour range, the primary impact of the winds was inconvenience.

Lauren and I agreed that although these gusts were no stronger than sixty miles an hour, my hopes for a late-morning bicycle ride were shot. As I pulled the car into the garage, Lauren suggested a trip up the turnpike to Flatiron Crossing to buy Grace her first pair of shoes.

"They sell baby shoes in Boulder, don't they?" I asked naively.

"I'd rather go to Flatirons," she replied. Lauren, like many Boulderites, said "Flatirons," not "Flatiron," when referring to the new mall, intentionally refuting all efforts of the huge facility's marketing people to modify the local vernacular. "I want to check out Nordstrom's baby department."

As we entered the house, I was still struggling mightily to find a reason not to go to a suburban shopping mall on a windy weekend morning when everyone else in Boulder County would be looking for an indoor haven to escape the gales. I was actually considering offering to clean the garage when I heard the telephone ringing as we walked in the door.

"I'll get it," I said.

"You're too eager," Lauren said. "If you don't want to go to the mall, just say so."

I didn't want to go to the mall. But what I said was "Hello."

"Alan, Sam. Something's come up about Lucy and the bombs. Can you meet me?"

"Now?" I tried to keep the glee out of my voice.

"Yeah, now."

"Sure, where?"

During my drive back downtown to meet Sam, I counted three resounding whacks as the wind lifted rocks and launched them into my windshield. It was one of the reliable melodies of springtime in the Rockies.

The only problem with Sam's plan was that at ten-thirty on Saturday morning the restaurant where we were supposed to meet, the Fourteenth Street Grill on the eastern end of the outdoor Downtown Mall, was closed. I stood for a minute cursing my friend, and had just pulled my cell phone from my pocket to call him when I heard a silky smooth, slightly husky "Thanks for coming."

The voice had no trace of Sam's Minnesota Iron Range accent.

I turned and found myself looking directly into Lucy Tanner's amber eyes. With whatever she was wearing on her feet, she was almost exactly my height. "Lucy," I said, "what a surprise."

"I thought if I called, you'd refuse to meet me, or you'd argue with me or something. Sam said he loved to play around with your head, and he volunteered to make the call."

I was wondering why she thought I would be so resistant to talking with her, when a gust of wind strong enough to cause us both to lean erupted from the north. "Want to get in my car?" I asked. "It's right across the street."

"How about we go someplace and sit down. There's a juice place a couple of doors down from here-it's kind of funky-and there's a Starbucks around the corner. You choose, Alan."

I noted that she hadn't included The Cheesecake Factory, which was right across the street, on her list of possible destinations. I did recall that the Starbucks near the east end of the Mall was the one where Paul Bigg was a barista.

"Starbucks," I said. I hoped there would be someone named Paul behind the counter. I wanted to see if Paul Bigg fit my mental image of the Boulder adolescent Starbucks tender.

Lucy hooked her arm in mine and led me down Pearl Street. Before we made it into the canyon created by the buildings, the wind almost lifted us off our feet. In between gusts, she said, "I'd like a seat that lets me sit with my back to the room, okay? People have been recognizing me."

I led Lucy to a table by the fireplace. She chose the chair facing the wall. "What can I get you?" I asked.

"Chai."

Sometimes I thought I was the last person in Boulder to taste chai-or, considering that Sam Purdy lived in Boulder, too, maybe the second to last. So, although I had no real interest in buying one for myself, I was intrigued at the prospect of at least getting to order one and watch it made. But I was disappointed to see that the baristas at the counter were both young women. One pierced eyebrow and three visible tattoos between the two of them. Impossibly filthy green aprons. No Paul Bigg in sight.

Chai looked to me to be a lot like hot tea and milk. The menu mentioned spices, too. I withheld judgment.

After I paid, I returned to the table with our drinks.

Lucy was staring at her hands. Her fingers were long but her nails were trimmed short, and if they were polished, the polish was clear. She looked up and mouthed, "Thank you."

"Why did you think I'd be reluctant to meet with you?" I asked.

She glanced at the occupants of the adjacent tables and leaned into the space between us before she answered. "Sam told me that you were the one who knew about the bomb at Royal's house."

I said, "Shit."

"That's why I thought you'd be reluctant to meet with me."

I shook my head to express my disappointment with Sam. "He shouldn't have told you."

She sat back, narrowed her eyes a little, and she shrugged. "That's one point of view."

"It's mine," I said.

"Is it? You made a decision to tell Sam about the explosives. Are you suggesting that telling one person is okay, but telling two people makes you unprofessional? Sorry, I'm not sure it's a point of view that you can easily defend."

She was right, of course. Pushing Humpty-Dumpty off the wall a second time doesn't make a whole lot of difference to Humpty. It's the first plop that does the irrevocable damage.

"As you can probably guess, Lucy, I can't talk to you about how I suspected that there might be explosives."

Without hesitation she said, "I can help you."

I was taken aback. I expected Lucy to ask for my assistance, not the other way around. "What do you mean? How can you help me?"

"Sam thinks you've painted yourself into a corner. You know something you'd rather not know. But he says you're someone who can't walk away from what you know. He called it a 'character defect,' by the way." She smiled at me and sipped some of her milky tea. "But he also knows that your problem and my problem may be able to be resolved simultaneously."

"Go ahead."

She lowered her voice to a bedroom whisper. "Whoever planted that bomb probably killed Royal, right?"

"It's likely," I acknowledged.

"I don't think you know who that is. Sam doesn't either. He says you wouldn't leave somebody like that on the street. To me that means only one thing: that you know somebody who may know who planted that bomb. Well, I can help you find the bomber. That's how I can help. Don't forget, I'm a detective, Alan, and right now I have lots and lots of free time on my hands."

"It won't work, Lucy. For you to help me, I'd have to tell you things that I'm not permitted to tell you."

She was prepared for my argument. "And if you don't tell me? Are you ready to live with the consequences of that? People who build explosives don't usually build just one and stop. So what if the one at Royal's house isn't the only bomb? What about that? And what about my situation? Are you ready to sit back and watch me go to jail? Cozy thinks that I'll be arrested within the week."

I didn't answer.

Lucy sat back on her chair and said, "I think you're going to let me help you. Want to know why that is?"

"Sure."

"Because, besides Sam, you're the only one who doesn't look at me like they're wondering whether or not I really did it. Even Cozy's not convinced I didn't kill Royal. Your wife-she's very sweet, Alan-but she's not sure about me, either. I can tell. But you seem to be confident that I didn't do it. And that's why I think you're going to let me help you."

I shifted my gaze outside. A plastic trash can was whistling down the Mall, doing, I guessed, about thirty. Way over the speed limit for rubbish containers.

My espresso cup was empty. I tilted it up to my lips anyway and pondered ordering myself a chai. I said, "Let's go someplace else, Lucy. We shouldn't be talking about this here."