City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(17)
The day Robin had introduced us, I’d extended my hand. Still fixed on hardwood, Mare Nostrum had barely grazed my fingertips.
I smiled, said “Nice to meet you,” and went to my office. A few minutes later, I heard the front door shut. Robin entered alone, shaking her head.
I said, “Shy.”
“Petrified.”
“Of me?”
“From what I can tell, of life. She could use someone like you.”
“Why’d she name herself after the Mediterranean?”
“Did she?”
“Mare Nostrum,” I said. “?‘Our sea’ in the words of the Romans.”
She laughed. “The stuff you know. I have no idea. She’s not even Italian.”
* * *
—
Now, wondering if Robin had recent contact information, I headed back to the studio, made it as far as the kitchen where she sat at the table drinking orange juice.
I said, “Let’s hear it for vitamin C.”
“Let’s hear it for sugar. Keep me company, handsome.”
I sat next to her. “I was on my way to ask you if you’re still in contact with Mare Nostrum.”
“I’m not, hon. She hasn’t been active in what…three, four years? Why?”
“She’s listed as one of Cordi Gannett’s friends.”
“A real friend or a promo friend?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “She could also have been a client.”
“Because of her issues?”
“She did seem sad and scared.”
“What do you think she could tell you?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. “But Gannett seems to have had no current social life or family. Meaning no one for Milo to talk to, which is the ultimate case-killer. Be nice to find someone who knows anything about her. Not that Mare’s the talkative type but you play the cards you’re dealt.”
She nodded, drank. “So no idea who did it.”
“Nope, just theories.” I told her about the naked man as either a suspect or a victim, the notion of a threesome gone bad.
She said, “In her house. What a terrible way to go.” She finished the juice and stood. “Let’s see if I can find my old address book and if Mare’s number still works. And she’s willing to talk to you.”
“Deeply appreciated, sweetie. No problem if she says no. She did seem thrown by my presence.”
“I remember that.” She squeezed my arm. “Figured it was your overwhelming masculine aura.”
I said, “My hat size is growing.”
“Just the hat? I’m finished with work for the day. Ahem.”
* * *
—
We got out of bed and dressed ourselves. Then I followed her back to the studio where she searched the carved walnut desk that she uses for storage. It’s a dark, heavy, massive hunk of wood, not Robin’s style. Fashioned for her lovingly by her father when she was fifteen. Reward for her mastering power tools.
“Not here…not here…where is it?”
Out came books, catalogs, copies of the Guild of American Luthiers magazine, other periodicals that she stacked neatly on the floor. The pile grew. “Darn, need to be more organized…not that anyone uses a book when you can store the universe in your phone…ah, finally.”
She held up a black leather spiral notebook embossed with the name and address of her dad’s woodworking shop in San Luis Obispo. Flipping pages, she read off an 818 number that she tried.
Six rings. A drowsy “Hello?”
“Mare?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Robin Castagna.”
A beat. “Who?”
“The guitar gal? I worked on your Gibson Melody Maker a few years ago.”
“I sold it.”
“Not out to buy it, Mare. I was wondering—”
“Who are you?”
“Robin. Castagna. You came to my shop off Beverly Glen.”
“You had a dog,” said Mare Nostrum. “A tan pug.”
“French bulldog,” said Robin. “That’s Blanche.”
“You still have the dog?”
“I do.”
“Healthy?”
“Knock on wood.”
“My dog died last year.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s the rhythm of life, Janis was old. Is yours?”
“More like middle-aged.”
“Take care of her.”
“Will do, Mare.”
“My cat also died.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“She was twenty-two.”
“That’s a long life.”
“She seemed okay,” said Mare Nostrum. “Then she didn’t. Cancer.”
“Sorry to hear that—”
“Why did you call me?”
“I don’t know if you recall but the day you came to pick up the Melody Maker my boyfriend was there.”
Silence.
Robin said, “No problem if you don’t remember—”
“I do,” said Mare Nostrum. “Looked like an actor, you said he was a doctor.”