Someone Always Knows by Marcia Muller

he’s quitting.”
    “He’s quitting ? I just hired him two weeks ago!”
    “Said he got a better offer.”
    “Well, why didn’t he give me the chance to improve on it?”
    “Face it, Shar, he’s not worth any more than you were paying him.”
    I pictured Lionel. Mick was right: a shifty manner and furtive eyes did not make for a good investigator. Now that I considered him, I realized he reminded me of David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble in the old TV series The Fugitive . It was incredible that the fictional Kimble hadn’t been apprehended the first time he wandered around looking furtive as hell.
    “You know, I really didn’t like Lionel much anyway,” I said.
    3:45 p.m.
    Late in the day and I’d finished my paperwork, but I didn’t want to go home. Lonely there, without Hy. Strange—we’d spent a great deal of our relationship apart, but somehow, after moving into the new house, I felt lost there by myself. An adjustment, I thought, to new surroundings. I’d come to terms with it.
    But in the meantime, where to go?
    The ocean. The place I loved best. And the home of two of the people I loved the most.
    4:23 p.m.
    I was walking along China Beach, feeling calmed by the rush of the waves. The fog was rolling in again, blurring the horizon and sweeping away the last faint colors of the setting sun as it tumbled playfully over and under the nearby Golden Gate Bridge. I breathed deeply of the cool, briny air, relished the mist touching my face. No matter how many times I walked along the Bay or the sea, I would never lose my affinity for water. Once I’d listened to a pilot friend describe crossing Lake Michigan—really an inland sea—in her Cessna and resolved to do the same someday. A lot of pilots are afraid of flying over water; if you have to make an emergency landing, it’s like hitting stone. But water has always been kind to me, and someday…
    I’d come to the steps that led up from the cove to Rae’s and Ricky’s house on the bluff. Took them two at a time.
    Rae Kelleher was my former assistant at All Souls and Ricky Savage was my former brother-in-law. Now Rae was a successful crime novelist, and Ricky’s stock as a country-music star was still rising. Their Sea Cliff home on the bluff above China Beach had become a haven for me.
    A haven that offered margaritas, which Rae was mixing in the blender. Mrs. Wellcome, their appropriately named housekeeper, who harbored aspirations of becoming an amateur sleuth, had been given the night off.
    “They’re not in season,” Rae said of the margaritas, “but I feel like it’s still summer.”
    “How come?”
    “Got my latest manuscript off today. I’m now officially on vacation.”
    “Congratulations! Where’s Ricky?”
    “LA. Zenith Records is having a meltdown.”
    “A serious meltdown?”
    “No, minor. But the boss must resolve the problem. Sometimes I feel like I married a traveling salesman—only he travels by private jet.”
    I looked closely at her. No, no signs of any problem. When Ricky had been married to my sister Charlene theirs had been a deeply troubled relationship; now they’d both grown up and found happiness with partners who better suited them. Still, I asked, “You ever think of moving down south?”
    “God, no! Ricky can deal with the Hollywood nonsense, but he loves to escape it. As for me, this city is my inspiration—however ridiculous that sounds.”
    “I know what you mean.”
    “So, how’s your work going?” Rae handed me a margarita, and I savored a sip before replying.
    “Well, let’s see. Gage Renshaw has surfaced.”
    “ What ? I thought he was dead.”
    “So did Hy and I. But he turned up in the office on Monday, looking more seedy than I remembered him.”
    “What does he want?”
    “He won’t say.”
    “What do you think he wants?”
    “A piece of the business, maybe, although he denies it. To make trouble, in any case.”
    “He make any demands?”
    “Not yet. You say you’re not