I walked past him, through the small, dim living room furnished with his solid oak furniture and the few things Robin had taken with her. An old closet in the hallway had been turned into a passageway between the units. Through the door, I could hear the roar of a table saw.
“Alex?”
I stopped and turned. Tim remained in the doorway. “Please don’t upset her.”
“I wasn’t intending to.”
“I know—look, I’ll be frank with you. The last time she spoke to you she was really upset.”
“The last time she spoke to me was volitional. She dropped in on me.”
He showed me his palms in a pacific gesture. “I know that, Alex. She wanted to talk to you about Baby Boy Lee. I thank you.”
“For what?”
“Listening to her.”
“Yet you think I upset her.”
“No—look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that . . .”
I waited.
He said, “Forget it,” and turned to leave.
I said, “Did you know Baby Boy?”
The sudden change of topic made him flinch. “I knew of him.”
“Ever work with him?”
“Never.”
“What about China Maranga?”
“That name I don’t know.”
“She was a singer,” I said. “More of a screamer, actually. Which is why I figured she might’ve consulted you.”
“The screamers seldom do. Why are you asking about her?”
“She’s dead. Murdered, like Baby Boy.”
“That’s what you’re here for? Alex, I really don’t think Robin should be exposed to any more—”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I continued toward the connecting door.
“Fine,” he called after me. “You’re tough-minded. I concede. Now how about thinking of Robin, this time?”
This time. Dangling the bait. I swam by.
I stepped into the heat of machinery and the smell of hardwood. The floor was coated with sawdust. Several projects—guitars and mandolins in various stages of completion—hung on the wall. Robin’s back was to me as she guided a block of rosewood through the whirring blade. Her hair was gathered under one of those bandanas she collects. She wore goggles, a dust mask, had on a tight, white tank top, loose black cotton yoga pants, white tennis shoes. The dark wood hissed and threw off what looked like chocolate chips. Startling her would be dangerous, so I stood there and watched and waited until she’d flipped the switch and stepped away from the saw and the roar died to a growl.
“Hi,” I said.
She flipped around, stared at me through the goggles, pulled down the mask, laid the trimmed piece of rosewood on the bench.
“Hi.” She wiped her hands on a rag.
“Just saw Tim on the way out. He’s worried I’m going to upset you.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe.”
Flipping the mask over her back, she said, “C’mon, I’m thirsty.”
I followed her into the tiny, old kitchen at the rear of the duplex. Old, white appliances, yellow tiles, several of them mended. The room was one-third the size of the spiffy new kitchen we’d designed together. But as in that room, all was spotless, everything in its place.
She got a pitcher of iced tea and poured two glasses and brought them to the Formica table that barely fit the room. Space for two chairs, only. Guess they didn’t entertain much. Probably busy entertaining each other. . . .
“Cheers,” she said, looking anything but cheerful.
We drank tea. She glanced at her watch.
I said, “If you’re busy—”
“No, I’m tired. Been at it since six, ready for my nap.”
In the old days, I’d have suggested a mutual nap. “I’ll go,” I said.
“No. What’s on your mind, Alex?”
“China Maranga.”
“What about her?”
“I was thinking,” I said. “She and Baby Boy. There could be similarities.”
“China? In what way?”
I told her, added the bare facts of Juliet Kipper’s murder.
She got pale. “I guess—but really, there are so many differences.”
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“You could say China’s career was taking off,” she said. “Her records were selling better than anyone expected. But, still . . . Alex, I hope you’re wrong. That would be hideous.”
“Murdering art?”
“Murdering artists because they’re on the way up.” Her color hadn’t returned.