Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) Read Free Book Online

that. I thought of Frank Wilkonson, and the way his dejected, shambling gait as he'd walked through the fog to the newspaper stand had reminded me of Kristofferson's song about lonely Sundays. Then I thought of how I'd wandered dispiritedly along the misty beach on another recent Sunday. No, I wasn't the totally self-sufficient woman my friends and associates believed me to be. I needed someone— but it had to be someone who would let me be myself, give me room to breathe, not try to change me. And a person like that wasn't easy to find.
    I shrugged off the gloomy thoughts and settled on the broken-down couch in the living-and-waiting room. The big front parlor is usually full of clients, but now, during the noon hour, it was deserted. Toys from the chest by the fireplace— provided for the children of clients who must bring their offspring while they consult with their attorneys—were strewn on the worn oriental rug. Chipped pottery mugs and dirty ashtrays stood on the coffee table; I had to clear a space in order to set my own cup down. Then I opened the pink section and paged through it.
    I dismissed such categories as "Nightlife" and "Movies," focusing on the one labeled "Exhibits." There it was—the plant sale at the Hall of Rowers. I went out to Ted's desk and found his Yellow Pages. There were four columns and a number of large ads under "Nurseries—Retail." This was probably the other page Wilkonson had had in his jacket pocket.
    As I replaced the phone book I tried to decide whether to go upstairs and work on the skip-traces or wander down to Mission Street and grab a burrito at my favorite tacqueria. Neither prospect intrigued me.
    The Goldring investigation had to do with the floral industry. But what? And why? And was it really any of my business anymore? I'd finished my report for Rudy Goldring; this afternoon I'd deliver it. If he merely accepted it and declared the case closed, that would be that. If he wanted more information, I could go around to the various nurseries Wilkonson had visited, try to find out what questions he'd asked the clerks. But before I'd go on working for Goldring, we'd have to clear the air about the things he hadn't told me. I would need more information about Wilkonson himself. Perhaps it would be wise to set the wheels in motion before I went to my appointment with Goldring. I had Wilkonson's license plate number; I could check him out through a friend at the DMV. Better yet, I could ask one of the people I knew on the SFPD to run a check through CJIS or CJIC—
    The front door opened, and Rae Kelleher came in.
    Rae is a small woman, around five foot two, with short curly auburn hair, a round, freckled face, and a compact athletic body. That afternoon she was wearing jeans, a mangy-looking brown coat of a style that I could have sworn went out in the early sixties, and a blue and gold-striped scarf like the one I used to wear to the Berkeley football games. She began unwinding it from her neck, then saw me, started, and made a guilty apologetic gesture with her free hand. I looked at my watch; it was quarter to one. Silently I waited for her explanations.
    She said, "I can't explain."
    "Terrific."
    "I mean, I can, but it's unacceptable."
    "Try me."
    The scarf slid to the floor and she began unbuttoning her coat. "I don't think you want to hear this."
    "Let me be the judge of that."
    "Okay, Doug had—"
    "You're right. I
don't
want to hear it."
    "Sharon, he needed—"
    "Save it, Rae."
    This was more or less what I'd expected, and I wasn't mad at her, not really. But I was exasperated at how she was risking her own future by constantly giving in to Doug's demands. Didn't the woman realize that she, as well as her husband, had a way to make in the world? Didn't she know that husbands might stay or go, but a profession that would make use of the talents she seemed to possess would stand her in good stead for a lifetime?
    Rae was watching my face. Hers was pinched now, and her freckles