She turned away from the window and, seeing that my eyes were open, she roamed over to the bed, still scrubbing. “… ood oring, arley.”
“And good morning to you too, tiger.”
“O you O eye.”
“What?”
Removed brush. “I said I hope you don’t mind. Me using your toothbrush. I mean invasions of privacy are sort of relative, huh?”
“Like the old joke, it’s been the equivalent of a social introduction.”
When she started brushing again, I reached and caught her by the free wrist, pulled her closer. She removed brush, stared thoughtfully at me. “Really? You’re serious?” She smiled. “Well sure! Let me go rench.” She went into the bathroom. The water ran. The sound of spitting was p-too, p-tooey, like a small child. She came trotting back, beaming, launched herself into the bed, landing solidly, reaching greedily, and saying an anticipatory “Yum” with utmost comfortable satisfaction. In her own special field of expertise she was the least clumsy thing in probably the entire county.
After we were dressed, she began to be increasingly nervous about leaving a motel room at high noon on Saturday. She was almost certain Rick was out there, waiting in murderous patience. Or that a group of her friends would be strolling by the room, for some unknown reason. She put the wig on as a partial disguise. She had me go out and start the motor in the rental, open the door on her side, and tap the horn ring when I was certain the coast was clear.
She came out at a hunched-over half gallop and while scrambling into the car she gave her knee such a hell of a whack on the edge of the door that she spent the first three blocks all scrooched down, hugging her knee and moaning. Then from time to time she would stick her head up just far enough to see where we were and give me directions. She had an apartment in a little garden apartment development called Ridge Lane. After she insisted I drive around two blocks twice to make certain Rick’s red convertible wasn’t parked in the area, I drove into her short, narrow drive behind the redwood privacy fence and stopped a few inches behind the rear bumper of her faded blue Volkswagen in the carport. She spelled Woertz for me and said she was in the book. But I had the feeling she did not want me to call her. I had performed the required service. She did not want to trade one entanglement for another.
I remembered a question I had forgotten to ask. “By the way, what were you people hoping to find on my person, Penny?”
She shrugged. “We didn’t know, really. Anything that would tie you in somehow. Papers or money or letters or notes or something. When you come to a blind alley, you’re ready to try almost anything.”
We sat there and suddenly both yawned at once, great luxurious shuddering jaw-creakers. Then laughed at ourselves. She kissed me, got out, and gave a squeak of pain when she put her weight on her leg. She bent and rubbed her sore knee, then limped to her door. When she had unlocked it and opened it, she smiled and waved and I backed out.
On the way back I stopped at a place as clean as any operating theater and had fresh juice, hot fresh doughnuts, surprisingly good coffee. Then, feeling a little bit ridiculous at being overly prim and fastidious, I walked a half block and bought a toothbrush before driving back to the motel. Yes, there are different degrees of personal privacy, and a toothbrush seems to be on some special level all its own, a notch above a hairbrush.
The room had been made up. Though checkout time was eleven, I was certain they would not clip me for the ensuing night, as they just weren’t that busy.
But I sat and yawned and sighed, feeling too pleasantly wearied to make any decisions. The episode, I told myself, had changed nothing. A dead doctor, no matter how he died, had nothing to do with a damaged young wife who seemed to want to die.