by Greta Boris
"Thanks." Abby rushed to her bedroom to grab a sweater, and then to the kitchen to pack her laptop into a tote bag. She stopped by the living room to kiss her father on top of his bald head, waggled her fingers at Tallulah and headed to the front hall.
"Don't let that door hit you on the way out." Tallulah's laugh was cut short by the closing of said door.
***
The bench was partially shaded by a bougainvillea. Abby sat on the sunny end, closed her eyes, and immersed herself in sensory luxury. The scents of roses and lavender replaced the manure and sage of her father's front yard. She smiled at the familiar trills and chirps of the birds that had been her roommates for a month. A breeze cooled her warm skin.
For a moment, she was inside her anchorhold in the days before the girl. A ghost of the restless excitement that had been her constant companion then, hovered on the edges of her mind. She willed it to come close, to sit by her on the bench, to revive her desire to write.
The distressed caw of a crow caused her to open her eyes. She watched the large black bird dodge as a mockingbird swooped and dove around it. A squirrel scurried onto the grass in front of her, stopped short and eyed her. "No peanuts, friend," she said. The squirrel flipped around and disappeared into the foliage.
"Who are you talking to?" A voice behind her made her jump. She twisted in her seat, and saw Steven, the garden volunteer.
"A squirrel. He was begging."
"They're bold. We tell the tourists not to feed them, but they do it anyway." Steven made his way around the bench to stand in front of her. "Steven Homestead. I'm a garden volunteer."
Abby suppressed a smile. She'd seen Steven three to five days a week for the entire time she was in the hold. It was a strange feeling, knowing people who didn't know you at all. It was kind of like meeting your favorite soap opera star. "Abby Travers," she said.
"You're Paul's daughter?"
She nodded.
"How's he doing? We all heard about the accident." Steven's handsome face crinkled into concerned lines.
"Better. He's still moving slow, but we've cut back on the pain pills. He's only taking them at night now."
"Wow. Crazy, right? So weird it happened right after that girl died here."
"Yeah. Crazy." Abby scooted closer to the edge of the bench and Steven sat next to her.
"Do you think the accident had anything to do with it? With the girl?"
Abby tensed. "What do you mean? Why would it?"
He shrugged. "Paul was the one who reported seeing the guys who did it. Maybe they found out."
"What makes you think my father saw anything?" She sounded sharp and angry.
Steven glanced at her, surprised. "I saw him at the police station." He paused. Abby waited for him to continue. "I was the one who found the girl, you know." He sounded almost proud. "So I was in and out of there for a couple of days. They kept asking me the same questions, and I kept giving them the same answers."
He paused again, longer this time, like he'd forgotten the original question. "My dad?" Abby prompted him.
"Right. The morning after we found the body, the police asked me to come in to answer a couple more questions. I saw your dad leaving the station. The next day the media said a Mission employee had come forward as a witness. I figured it was Paul."
Anxiety knotted Abby's stomach. "I hope you didn't say anything to anyone. The police were keeping his identity a secret."
He rubbed dirt off a fingernail. "No. I mean, I don't think so." He studied his other nail beds. "I might have mentioned it to one or two of the other volunteers, but they wouldn't. . ."
"Someone did." Abby leaped from her seat, her peace shattered. "Who did you talk to?"
"I don't know. Everyone was talking about your father's accident at the St. Joseph's Day meeting. I might have said something."
"Think. Who was there?"
He stared at his shoes. "A lot of people. Tallulah. She's the—"
Abby's heart fell. "I know Tallulah." And she loved her, but Tallulah was the biggest gossip at the Mission.
"And a bunch of volunteers. I didn't know everybody's names." He looked her in the eye. "I'm serious, I don't remember. I'm not even sure I said anything. I know I thought it."
Abby tried to keep the irritation from her voice. "If you hear anybody talking about it, put out the fire. Okay? Tell them it's just a rumor."
"I'm really sorry." He looked it. "I'd feel awful if I had anything to do with your dad's accident."
"Just don't say anything to anyone else," Abby said and hurried to the exit. Suddenly it didn't seem safe to leave her father with anyone, not even Tallulah.
***
By the time Abby got home, her father was hungry. She hugged Tallulah goodbye, went directly to the kitchen, and threw together a tuna sandwich for him. Then she did the breakfast and snack dishes, cleaned the counters and stove top, and swept the floor. By the time she'd done all that it was 4:30. Since she hadn't gotten anything done at the Mission, she decided to work until it was time to start dinner.
She turned on her computer and opened her journal. Forty-five minutes and only two pages later, there was a knock at the kitchen door. Abby closed her eyes. Her project seemed doomed. Even when she had time to spend on it, she couldn't get anything accomplished.
Mimi and a man Abby assumed was her husband stood at the door, pot in hand. "I brought the chicken soup."
"You're so sweet." Abby ushered them in. "Let me take that."
"This is my husband, Bradley."
Abby set the pot on the stove, turned, and shook his hand. He wasn't a tall man, dark-haired, olive-skinned and older than Mimi by some years. Their boys had inherited Mimi's eyes but had their father's deeper skin tone. "Nice to meet you," Abby said.
"How's your father?" Mimi asked.
"Come and see." Abby led them into the living room. "Dad, the neighbors are here."
She left them together and went to look for a bottle of wine. She'd heard her father's version of the accident too many times. In the kitchen, she riffled through his cupboard looking for a nice red. There wasn't anything as fancy as the bottle she and Carlos had drunk, but she found a decent mid-priced Cabernet. She uncorked it, took three glasses from the cupboard and carried everything to the living room.
"I have better wine than that. There's one called Ravishing Red, or Red Ravish, some crazy name, in the cupboard." Her father turned to Mimi. "Your real estate agent gave it to me."
"Who, Gwen Bishop?" she asked.
"Yeah. I kept an eye on things for her while the place was on the market. Called her when the fliers ran low. Let her know when people came by. She brought me that bottle of wine when the house sold. Nice lady. She said the wine was one of her favorites. I was saving it for a special occasion."
"Ah," Abby said. All three sets of eyes turned to her. "Carlos and I drank it. Sorry, Dad. I didn't know. We'll get you another bottle."
He waved away the suggestion. "Doesn't matter, as long as somebody enjoyed it."
Bradley gestured to the bottle Abby carried. "We drink this at home. Love it."
Bradley and Mimi settled on the couch. Abby took the chair across from her father's. His bruises were livid in the maroon glow of evening light coming through the big picture window. The Jacksons must have noticed this as well, and the conversation flagged. She sipped her wine, using the moment to think of something to say.
But her father spoke first. "So what do you do, Bradley?" The classic male ice-breaker.
"I work for Boeing. I'm in customer relations," Bradley said in cultured tones.
"Interesting work?" her father asked.
"Most of the time. I'm getting a little tired of all the traveling. When I was younger, I thought it was exciting. Now. . ."
"Most of his clients are in the Middle East," Mimi said. "Makes for very long flights."
"And a lot of TSA hoopla," her husband added.
"He misses out on so much with the boys."
; "Only been to one of Chad's basketball games this year." Bradley shook his head.
"I met your boys the other day," Abby said.
"Let me guess," Bradley said. "Evan talked your ear off, and you couldn't get a word out of Chad."
"They were both very polite, but, yes, Evan did do most of the talking."
They chit-chatted about their busy schedules and how everyone was adjusting to life in San Juan Capistrano as the elongated rectangles of sun painted across the carpet dimmed from red to gray. It was past six. Abby was content to sit in the dying light. She'd given up the battle with time in the anchorhold and embraced the changes the hours brought. But she stood and turned on lamps for the others.
Worry nibbled on the edges of her mind. Carlos was going to the Mission that night. For her. What if the police were keeping an eye on things there? What if the night security guard had become more vigilant since the girl had been found? What if he was caught?
"Abby." She jumped. Her father's expression was quizzical.
"Sorry. Thinking." He must have said her name more than once.
"Our guests are leaving. Can you see them out?" He looked at his lap as if to explain why he didn't go himself.
"No need," Mimi said.
"Let's not be so formal," Bradley said. "We're neighbors."
In the doorway, Abby thanked them again for the soup and promised to bring the pot back soon. Mimi said not to hurry and took off across the yard. Bradley followed close behind, his solid silhouette so much stockier than her petite form.
Solid.
Stocky.
A memory of the night the girl was left outside her window paraded through her mind. Two men, builds so similar she guessed they were father and son—the heavier man a preview of what the younger would become in time.
The vision had a soundtrack. Mimi's voice: "Most of his clients are in the Middle East. Makes for very long flights." The police had said the girl appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent.
Chad had exotic eyes and high cheekbones.
Circumstantial. There were probably dozens of families in San Juan Capistrano who had exotic looking sons with stocky fathers and some connection to the Middle East. But she wasn't going to ask Mimi to sit with her father anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21, 3:00 PM
CARLOS FINISHED HIS rounds and headed to the office. He thought about stopping at Starbucks, but he'd seen a delivery box containing a single-serve coffee pot next to Gab's desk that morning. It was a great idea. He'd wait on the coffee to support her initiative.
He stopped at a red light and punched Abby's number into his cell. He wanted to make sure he was still on for the Mission that night. That nothing had changed. And, truthfully, he wanted to hear her voice.
He didn't know how to bring up the problem between them. He was sorry about the things he'd said when they'd fought, but he'd been right, hadn't he? Her obsession with that book had led her to lock herself up at the Mission. He was waiting for her to come to her senses, realize how crazy that was. If he said anything, he'd be rubbing her nose in it. And after everything that had happened, that seemed insensitive. But either way, he was glad they were talking again. It had been a long, lonely month without her.
"Hi." She sounded breathless.
"Just checking in," he said. "How's your Dad?"
"Better. Tallulah came to visit today. I think it cheered him up."
"Good."
Abby lowered her voice. "I'm glad you called. Something happened today. At the Mission."
"You were at the Mission?"
"Yeah," Her voice changed. It became bright and cheerful, too cheerful. "It was a beautiful day."
A beautiful day was code for "I can't talk right now." When they'd started dating, Carlos wasn’t the only one who’d lived at his parent’s home. Abby had lived with Paul, too. Carlos's mother and Abby's dad, they were the best. And because they were good parents, they were very interested in their kid's lives. So interested, Carlos and Abby had to come up with signals to protect their privacy. "Your Dad?" Carlos said.
"Absolutely."
"What happened today, it doesn't change anything, does it? I mean about tonight?"
"Nope. Not at all."
"Good. I'll call you tomorrow then. It'll be too late tonight."
"I'm looking forward to it."
"Me too. Looking forward to having it over with."
He heard Paul's voice in the background. "What are you looking forward to, sweetheart?"
"I gotta go," Abby said and hung up before Carlos could say goodbye.
He opened the office door and smelled coffee. Freshly brewed, if his nose wasn't playing around with him. Gab glanced up from her computer. "You made coffee," he said.
She smiled sweetly, at least as sweetly as Gab knew how to smile. "I was experimenting with the new machine. You can make a cup anytime you want now, thirty seconds."
"Good idea." Her smile got bigger. He walked to the kitchen, made himself a mug, and sniffed it. The color was good, the smell even better.
He heard Armando's voice as soon as he left the kitchen. When he got to the lobby, he saw the creep sitting on the edge of Gab's desk, his bandaged head close to hers. Anger ripped through him. "Hey."
Armando jerked backwards. "Hey, boss." He sounded nervous. "I was just talking to Gab."
"Yeah? Well, we need to talk." Carlos pointed to his office with his chin. Armando got off the desk.
"Wait," Gab said. Both men looked at her. "Carlos, can I talk to you first?"
"What about?" Now he was angry and worried. He was sure Armando had been inappropriate with her, and hoped she wasn't going to say he'd done something else. If he'd touched her again. . .
Gab stood, grabbed his arm, yanked him into his office and closed the door. "What's going on?" he said.
She held up a finger and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. A second later, rap music blared from the Bluetooth speaker on his bookshelf. "I can hear everything you say in here." He was glad she finally admitted it. She moved closer and lowered her voice. "I don't want you to fire Armando."
"Gab. What happened the other day? You can tell me."
She examined a pink fingernail. "He said something that pissed me off."
Carlos relaxed, a little. Saying something wasn't quite as bad as touching her, but he wasn't going to put up with the guy's macho crap either way. "You smashed a coffee pot into the guy's head. Sent him to the hospital."
"I overreact sometimes." She looked into his eyes. "Like remember that time when you and Roddy took my jump rope—"
He didn't wait for her to finish the story. "I could be sued because you overreacted. Did he, or did he not, say something inappropriate?"
"Yes," she said decisively.
"Okay then. He goes."
"No, no wait. Give him one more chance. He's really sorry." She put a hand on his arm. "Besides, if you fire him, he might sue you, right? He wants this job. If you, like, if you don't do anything about the inappropriate thing, then maybe he won't do anything about the head thing."
There were so many "things" in that sentence, Carlos got confused. But he was pretty sure the gist of it was both parties had made mistakes, and both should look the other way. He didn't like it. He wanted to hold Armando responsible for his actions, but he could see Gab's point. "Are you okay working here with him? You're not scared? Intimidated?"
"I don't think he's going to bother me anymore."
If a girl broke a carafe over Carlos's head, he'd leave her alone. "Okay, but I'm going to write him up. He's on probation. If he bothers you again, that's it."
She grinned, popped up on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. "Thanks." She left, disconnecting her phone from the speaker before she went. When the music stopped, it was like having a bad tooth pulled; total relief. Carlos hated rap.
He sank into his chair, and logged onto his desktop. "You got a second chance. But you better behave yourself," he heard Gab sa
y. Armando mumbled a reply. "That's right," Gab said. "You've a lot of making up to do."
***
Carlos parked on El Camino Real, turned off his headlights, and sat for several minutes watching the street. It was 11:10 and a weeknight. There were no cars on the road.
He'd borrowed his mother's old, dark blue, Toyota Camry. His red pickup with the Rojo Landscaping logo on the door didn't seem like a good idea for tonight's job. He popped the trunk and removed a plastic tub of grout he'd mixed at home, a trowel, and a crowbar. He set them in the shadows near the Mission wall. He climbed to its top and scanned the grounds. He stayed there for a long time, waiting, watching, and listening. Abby had said the watchman generally didn't pass the hold again after his 10:30 rounds. Still, night security had been increased since the girl had been found. He had to be careful. When he was satisfied, he dropped onto the sidewalk again.
He picked up the crowbar and the trowel, tossed them over the wall and heard them thud on the other side. He was nervous. It felt like static electricity on his skin.
He set the grout on top of the wall. He couldn't go home without doing what he'd come to do. He'd promised Abby. He stuck the toe of his boot into a groove and reached for the top of the wall. If the police found the anchorhold, knew someone had been living there, this whole thing could blow up in her face.
He shifted his body weight, about to launch himself up and over when light blazed around him. He shrank behind branches that overhung the wall, heart pounding. Was he seen? Was it a security guard's flashlight? But the light flickered away as quick as it had come. It had only been a passing car.
He walked to the curb and looked up and down the street. Nothing but black as far as he could see. He jogged to the wall, and like a kid diving into a cold swimming pool, he vaulted over before he could talk himself out of it. He landed hard on the other side.
Carlos calmed his breathing so he could listen again for footsteps. Everything was quiet. He picked up the tools and the grout and crossed the path to the Swallows Nest exhibit.
The moon was only a sliver. It lit the front of the anchorhold, but the side with the loose stones was dark. He pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket and shined it at the bottom of the wall. Dread hit him like a sucker punch. The stones were laying on the ground three feet away from the exhibit.
