The View from Alameda Island - Robyn Carr Page 0,125

out. She gripped a screwdriver that had some function to driving, pitched it back into the car and took a few seconds to gather up purse, gift and some papers. She kicked the door closed with her foot and called the car “you piece of shit” while her friends looked on. Barbara didn’t immediately see that anything was wrong; she was preoccupied with her own ever-present set of problems. Plus, this was approximately the scene she expected—Sable, Beth and Elly waiting outside while the cleaning lady, who wouldn’t be expected to yell “surprise,” sat in the car.

Barbara’s round cheeks were flushed as she approached the gathering at the planter box. She held a wad of crumpled papers in one hand and a brightly wrapped birthday gift and purse in the other. Without taking any note of the prevailing mood, she put down the gift and purse and began to sift through the papers, her expression irate. “Bobby’s car,” she said. “He’s taking a test for trade school and wanted a reliable car. Look at this. Speeding, failure to yield, failure to stop and discordant behavior. Court date is tomorrow... I wonder if he’ll need a reliable car? And what the hell is discordant behavior?”

“From what you know of that particular young man, what do you imagine that means?” Elly asked, poking her sopping hankie under the rims of her eyeglasses again.

“He probably called the police officer a dickhead,” Barbara Ann admitted. “Elly, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Barbara,” Sable said, grabbing her upper arm as if to keep her from running away. “It’s Gabby. We found her. She’s dead.”

“What?!”

The papers fluttered out of Barbara’s hands.

“I know. It seems impossible, but it’s true. She’s been dead for a while.”

“Several hours at least,” Eleanor said. “Probably since last night.”

“It seems to be natural, if death can be natural on your fiftieth birthday,” Sable added.

Beth had not yet made eye contact with Barbara. A tiny breeze blew through the front yard and one of the tickets tumbled over itself, threatening to get away. Beth pushed herself off the planter box and retrieved them all, muttering, “You’ll probably need these,” in a soft, absent tone.

“This isn’t funny,” Barbara said.

The sound of sirens could be heard. “Damn fools,” Elly muttered.

“It’s not a joke, Barbara. It’s true. Elly called the police.”

“The police?”

“I think it’s what you do,” Elly said. “They might frown on us making a direct call to the mortuary.” She looked up at Sable suddenly. “Jesus, are we going to have to call a funeral parlor?”

“Maybe Don will do that. Or David. Let’s wait and see.”

“I’ve got to see her,” Barbara said, lighting off for the house.

Sable, quick as a fox, had her arm. “Wait a minute. Wait for the police. We’d better not be poking around in there until they’ve had a look. You never know.”

“But you said natural...”

“Yes, well, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious,” Elly said. “Except that Gabby is dead. And Daisy is sitting vigil at her side.”

“But she can’t be,” Barbara said, trying to talk some reason into the rest of them. “She’s in perfect health. She’s never even had the flu.”

They all looked at her, watching the flood of realization slowly wash over her as it had each one of them. Her cheeks grew pale, her nose pink, and her eyes glistened.

“Nonetheless,” Elly said.

“Well, did you try to resuscitate her?” Barbara demanded in an impatient, tear-filled voice.

“Barbara, she’s ice-cold,” Elly said.

“And there’s a smell,” Sable added.

“Well, she can’t be,” Barbara insisted. “There’s been some mistake.” She shook herself free of Sable’s grasp and, with her back straight, stomped toward the opened front door.

“Let her go,” Elly said wearily. “You just don’t tell Barbara Ann she can’t fix it. She has to see for herself.”

* * *

They were a writers’ group, they told the police. Close friends drawn together because of their shared avocation. Eleanor, an academic who wrote nonfiction and reviews, had known Gabby very closely for twenty-two years. It took her a while to count them in her head. Sable, rich and famous for writing women’s fiction, stumbled and hesitated before she claimed to have known Gabby for at least ten years. Barbara Ann, a seasoned series romance writer, reported eight years and Beth, author of mysteries, said six. They gave their home addresses and phone numbers. Gabby had talked to at least one of them every day. Eleanor was the last of the group to speak to her.

Cowards all, they were relieved when the police agreed