Killer Commute by Marlys Millhiser Page B

morning fog had burned off early and the sky was a California blue. Her little lemon tree was in bloom and smelled sweet. You need to notice these things when you’re on vacation, especially the kind of vacation Charlie was having.
    Her flower boxes were a riot of color—lots of pansies and she didn’t know what else. Charlie had finally given in to her neighbor’s pleas and hired a “gardener,” who was a totally different animal from a landscape architect, Jeremy had informed her, to plant the boxes and come around now and then to pick off the dead flowers and clean up plant debris on her patio and front yard.
    He was one of Kate Gonzales’s sons, and his name was Leroy. That was a strange family. He’d rigged up a little timed-drip system that kept things watered. Charlie’d thought it a total waste of money but had grudgingly come to admit that if she was going to be a full-time literary agent and a mommy, too, she had to hire help with the small stuff.
    She looked around her now and made a point to enjoy it. Most days she left for work before daylight and got home at dusk or after dark, and was too tired to notice Leroy’s work.
    The seagull who thought he was a pigeon posed on top of Jeremy’s roof again. Okay, it probably wasn’t the same one, but he did appear to be doing his statue thing in the same place.
    Mrs. Beesom’s sentry palm clattered merrily even though it was only three-fourths of its former self. Charlie must ask Leroy if he could help dispose of the dead fourth. Jeremy would have taken care of that once.
    How could Jeremy have been so indispensable and still such an unknown quantity, and why hadn’t she or Betty or Maggie raised this question while he still lived? Such mysteries can be fun—but not when they happen to you and your neighborhood.
    Officer Mason slid out the back door and slumped into the deck chair across from Charlie. “She’s taking a shower.”
    â€œGood plan.”
    â€œWe’re going to talk afterwards. I’m sticking with dogs.”
    â€œAnother good plan.”
    â€œHow can some young snit with three huge zits make a cop feel like a leper? Even if she is a blond?”
    â€œZits? Oh, there is a God.” Charlie’s buzz hove to and she stood. “Want some breakfast?”
    â€œAlready had my bagel.” But Mary Maggie followed her into the kitchen and watched her poach an egg and heat milk, pour it all over a piece of toast. “I’ve heard of hang-over medicine, but—you’re not going to eat that?”
    Charlie grabbed some leftover orange slices and took her breakfast to her sunken patio to enjoy the birds flitting around Mrs. Beesom’s feeders, the wonderful scents and colors of her own private patio garden, and what promised to be a beautiful day. She was on vacation, and would not obsess over the poor cop who’d stayed in the house to interrogate Libby, or even a murdered friend and neighbor. Not right now. Every minute counts in this crazy world. If you can enjoy one, grab it.
    Even her commute—often two hours each way, if not held up by an accident or construction or whim of the freeway god—offered chances to grab some time to do something or enjoy something, like eat a bagel or dry her hair while sitting in gridlock and talking on the cellular to New York which was three hours ago on the wrong time and maybe already out to lunch.
    The options were endless with her notebook computer and e-mail, her electronic scheduler. Gridlock used to be an ulcerating, unscheduled hassle in an already frantic day. But Charlie had adjusted, and now she was woefully behind in her day and makeup et cetera if there was no grid to use to get ready for the office. She’d been known to arrive without her pantyhose on. No way could you drive a freeway and put on pantyhose.
    It was the return journey at night that was the problem. As she’d increasingly lost any