More important, serious blank spaces in a relationship don’t work.
Anyone who meets Robin finds her charming but at her core she’s a sensitive introvert who’s chosen to spend her life with inanimate materials. I’ve seen her eyes mist up when coming across roadkill.
Horror doesn’t play well with a mind like that. But things needed to change so we worked out a system of sorts. When cases begin, I offer the basics. After that, she sets the pace.
So far, what Robin knew about Sophie Barlow and Martha Matthias were the basics plus. Two women strangled, no mention of dismembering, though I had told her about the deep-freeze and the hoarding palace.
Before I’d left for the meeting with Milo and Villalobos, I’d placed a note on the kitchen table letting her know “Big Guy” had called me away. When I got back home, I was pretty sure she’d be curious.
She was in the kitchen, hair pinned up, wearing her go-to black overalls over a red T-shirt, drinking orange juice, nibbling on a cookie, and readingAcoustic Guitar.
Curled at her feet, Blanche snored like a steam compressor. Dogs sleep easily and extensively but not deeply, and my footsteps brought her upright and shaking off canine dreams. She waddled forward for a neck rub and a mutual smile-fest.
Robin put the magazine down. “Hi, handsome. Progress?”
“Not sure how to categorize it.” I told her about the discovery of Lynne Gutierrez’s body, left out the dumpster, the landfill, and the shattered skull.
She said, “Oh no. Where was she found?”
“Irwindale.”
“All the way out there? Near the racetrack?”
I hesitated.
“Alex?”
Sitting down, I recited the ugly details.
As she listened, she bit her lip, tugged at her hair, played with her hands. When I finished, she said, “Repugnant. The poor, poor thing, so vulnerable. You’re figuring the same person did it.”
I said, “Hard to see it otherwise.”
“Was she strangled like her mom?”
“Hit over the head.”
She grimaced.
I picked up her hand. Her skin was cool and tight, her fingers unyielding.
She said, “Admire your ability to deal with it.”
Standing suddenly, she kissed me hard on the lips and announced, “Back to work.” Without looking back, she headed for the service porch door that leads to the garden and her studio at the far end.
Blanche remained in place for a second, debating her options. Then she left, too.
I washed Robin’s glass. Brushed away cookie crumbs and tossed them in the trash.
It wasn’t like her not to clear. She’s organized and neat, snips loose ends reflexively. Good quality when you work with power tools.
Shaken by what I’d just told her.
An imperfect system.
—
My stomach was growling so I downed two glasses of juice and demolished three cookies. If my blood sugar skyrocketed, I wasn’t feeling it. Just a cold, hollow sadness at the fate of three women. A trio of cases that, so far, had defied comprehension.
