With this new possibility, I’d forgotten about the search to see where Comfort Foodies was dishing up food. I pulled my smartphone out of my purse and started running the search. “Let’s see where Comfort Foodies is right now.”
I was checking out the truck’s web page when my phone rang. The display said it was Cruz calling. When I answered, Cruz was in hysterics. I got a cold rush of worry that something had happened to Mom.
It took almost thirty seconds before I could calm Cruz down enough for her to speak clearly. When she was done, I turned to Greg. “Head home,” I ordered. “And step on it.”
nineteen
I sat on our sofa and stared at the wall. Muffin hopped up next to me and nudged my hand for attention, but I couldn’t lift it to pet her. I felt dead, emotionally paralyzed. Greg wheeled over to the sofa and gently pushed Muffin out of the way before lifting himself from his chair and transferring his body to the sofa so he could sit next to me. Without a word, he bundled me into his arms. I wrapped an arm around him and laid my head on his sturdy chest. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. I took comfort in the sound.
And then I cried.
I sobbed without consolation, soaking the front of Greg’s sweatshirt. Cruz quietly brought me a cup of tea and set it on the table next to the sofa. I didn’t need to look at her to know she was crying too. I could hear it—a soft, wet sniffle. She’d been the first to cry, even before it was over. She disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a box of tissues. Plucking a couple out, she tried to hand them to me, but I wouldn’t let go of Greg long enough to grab them. He took the tissue and thanked her for me.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” Cruz asked in her comforting voice with the soft accent.
“No, thank you, Cruz,” Greg quietly told her. “Why don’t you go home. It’s been a hard day for you too.”
On the way out, she laid a work-worn hand on my head and patted it softly and with affection. “I am so sorry. Please call if you need anything.”
The good news was the call from Cruz hadn’t been about Mom. The bad news was there had been an illness.
The trip from Long Beach to Seal Beach had been short but seemed to take forever. Before the van came to a complete stop in our driveway, I was hopping out and running for the gate to the patio and through to the back door. Cruz met me, tears running down her face. Wainwright was agitated. Muffin peeked out from under the buffet. I’d told Greg to wait in the van and keep the motor running.
I returned to the van with a large bundle wrapped in a blanket. Tucked inside was Seamus. He was breathing, but barely. On our way home from Long Beach, I’d told Greg what Cruz had said: that Seamus was ill and not responding to anything. Greg had called our vet while I was in the house.
According to the vet, Seamus, our old codger of a cat, had had a stroke—a bad one. There was nothing that could be done, and putting him down was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make. During his last few minutes on earth, the animal, unable to move, had stared at me with big, frightened eyes, not understanding what was happening to him. But there was also trust in those eyes. Trust that I would do the right thing. Trust that I would ease his suffering. Trust that I loved him enough to let him go.
I spent several of those minutes stroking his champagne fur, still soft and fluffy, and cooing to him. When he stuck out his little pink tongue and licked my hand, I almost lost my mind to overwhelming grief. Our paths had first crossed years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, when some kids had tied him up and colored his fur green with food coloring. I had come to his rescue, and after that he never left my side, adopting me and winning me over. In a final gesture, I thanked the cat for his years of faithful company and love and kissed the top of his furry head, then I nodded to the vet to proceed. Greg and I were with Seamus until the very end.
I don’t know how long our little family sat locked in a dark, heavy sorrow. Greg and I stayed huddled together on the sofa. Muffin was on Greg’s lap. Wainwright was curled up on the floor in front of us. Even the animals seemed to sense what had happened. They were feeling the loss too. We didn’t move from our respective spots until Mom and Renee walked through the door, chattering and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. Only Wainwright stirred to welcome them.
When Mom saw us, she said, “What’s the matter? You two look like someone died.”
“Is it Ina?” a worried Renee asked.
“Sit down, ladies,” Greg said, not moving from my side. Both turned pale at the tone in his voice but sat as directed. “Seamus had a stroke today.” Greg tightened his grip on me. “We had to put him to sleep.”
“Oh, no!” Renee’s hand went to her mouth.
Mom sat rigid, gripping the handles of her purse with white knuckles. She said nothing, but after a few moments she slowly got to her feet and shuffled down the hall to her room.
“I’ll make sure she’s all right,” said Renee, standing. “She was chattering about that cat a good part of the day. This is going to hit her hard.”
“No, Mom,” Greg told her. “I think it’s best to let Grace be for now.”
“Yes, Renee,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Mom likes to be left alone at times like these. I’ll check on her in a little bit.”
“Do you two need anything?”
“No, Mom,” answered Greg, “but thanks.”
“Then I’ll go, but call if you do need something.” She got to her feet, then hesitated, the mother in her not wanting to leave until she’d made everything bad go away or at the very least slayed a few dragons on behalf of her offspring and his family. It didn’t matter that we were middle-aged. She was a mother-warrior. “Are you sure I can’t make you something to eat?” she offered as a last attempt to be helpful.
“We’re good, Mom,” Greg answered for the both of us. “We’ll call you later.”
Renee approached the couch, leaned forward, and stroked Greg’s face before kissing his forehead. He kissed her cheek in return. She turned her attention to me and did the same, her hand lingering against my face, still warm from crying. “Oh, Odelia,” she said in a trembling voice, “I know you must be absolutely heartbroken.” Before leaving, Renee stroked Muffin’s head and patted the faithful Wainwright.
Dinner that night was quiet and early since we’d skipped lunch. While Greg puttered in the kitchen, heating up the Chinese food from the night before, I went to check on Mom. She wasn’t in bed, as I had expected, but was sitting in the upholstered chair we kept next to the window. Beside the chair a soft reading lamp glowed, but Mom wasn’t reading. She was just sitting there, staring at the wall, her glasses folded in her lap.
“You okay, Mom?”
“I should have been here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I should have been here. Seamus would be alive if I’d been here.”
I moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed closest to her. “That’s not true, Mom, so don’t blame yourself. The stroke hit Seamus hard and fast. None of us could have done anything. Even the vet said that.”
“Where’s the cat now?”
“Still at the pet hospital. At our request, they are cremating the body. We’ll pick up the ashes next week. Greg and I thought we might scatter them under the bougainvillea in the back. That was one of his favorite hiding spots.”
Mom continued staring at the wall. “I should have been here all along.”
“You couldn’t have done anything,” I repeated. “And Seamus wasn’t alone when the stroke happened. Cruz was here, and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. Greg and I were with him until the very end. He died knowing he was loved.”
“No,” Mom said, without looking at me. “I should have been here, with you, all those years. I shouldn’t have left you when I got pregnant with Grady. But I was a coward.”
Whoa. Where was this coming from?
I reached over and placed a hand on her knee. “You’re here now, and I’m very glad y
ou are. So is Greg.”
“I want to die like the cat, knowing I was loved.”
“You are loved, Mom. Clark and I love you very much. So do Greg and his parents. Clark’s children love you. Didn’t Lorraine visit you and help set up your iPad?”
If she heard me, she gave no indication. My grief over the loss of Seamus was battling with worry about my mother. Was she selfishly making the death of my beloved pet about her, or was there something else going on with her?
“Mom, are you okay? Are you ill and not telling us?”
She closed her eyes. She was so still, for a second I thought she’d nodded off or possibly died in the chair right in front of me. I’m not much on praying, but I sent up a quick petition to whoever or whatever might be in charge that Mom was just taking a snooze.
A few seconds later she said, without opening her eyes, “I am sick, Odelia. I’m absolutely heartsick.”
“Do you mean you have heart trouble?”
She shook her head. “No, I mean I’m heartsick with regret.”
I patted her knee. “I know you and Seamus bonded during your visit. Losing him will be difficult for all of us, even the other animals, but, trust me, you couldn’t have stopped it from happening.”
Her hand covered mine, but her eyes remained closed. “I’m not talking about the damn cat now, Odelia. Please try to keep up.”
Annoyed, I started to pull my hand away, but Mom’s closed over it like a claw in one of those stuffed-animal vending machines. She opened her eyes and looked directly at me. Her eyes were wet, and without her glasses they looked small and weak. “I’m talking about you. Do you remember what I said to you when you found me in Massachusetts?”
I eased my hand away. This time she let me. “Yes, I do.” I sat up straight and squared my shoulders. “You said you had no regrets about leaving me behind when I was sixteen, and you had no intention of apologizing for your actions.”
“I lied, Odelia. I have regrets—mountains of them. I had them when I left, when you found me, and all the years in between and after. I have them right now, this very second.”
I was speechless. Did Seamus’s death unlock my mother’s cold, selfish heart?
“I’d been wanting to visit,” she continued, “to clear the air. I came here to apologize to you but couldn’t find the words until now. You didn’t deserve to be abandoned like an old, worn shoe. You were my daughter, and I tossed you aside. I failed you. And in spite of everything, you turned out so lovely and wonderful.” She plucked a hankie from a pocket and held it to her eyes as she softly cried. “You’ve opened your heart and your home to me, and I don’t deserve it.”
I sat on the edge of the bed in stunned silence. These were the words I’d been hungering to hear since I was sixteen years old. There were times I was sure if I ever came face to face with my mother, I’d beat the apology out of her. Then, when I did finally find her, all I could do was tell her how I felt. I’d beaten her with my words, and she’d taken the pounding and thrown insults back at me.
I heard a light jingle and recognized the sound as Wainwright’s collar tags. Turning, I saw Greg in the doorway of the guest bedroom, Wainwright at his side. I don’t know how long he’d been there, but from the look on his face and the tears in his eyes, it had been long enough. He blew me a soft kiss and rolled away, taking the dog with him, leaving me alone again with Mom.
Getting off the bed, I knelt in front of my mother and put both of my hands on her knees. “Thank you, Mom. I accept your apology.”
She raised her head. Cupping my chin in one of her hands, she stared into my face a long time, memorizing every line and large pore, perhaps searching for the teenage girl she’d left behind. We stayed that way until my knees ached and I had to get up. I took my place on the bed again.
“What happened to your face, Odelia?”
“I bumped into Linda McIntyre’s fist.” I didn’t say more, and she didn’t ask. We fell back into a soft silence.
“Your hair looks wonderful, Mom.” And it did. The old permed ends had been clipped into a short, feathery silver bob. The new hairdo highlighted her bone structure and took several years off her lined face. Her lipstick looked new, too.
“Thank you, Odelia. We did have fun today.” She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief. “Can I still come live here in California? If you don’t want me, I’ll understand.”
“Do you want to live here?”
She blew her nose and nodded. “Very much.”
“Then consider it done.” I smiled at her. “Did you girls look at retirement communities today?”
“We saw two in the morning, then went to lunch—my treat. After lunch we went to the hair salon.” Mom bent close as if telling a secret. I expected her to say something about the salon, but instead she dropped a bomb. “By the way, I think we found that Buck person.”
twenty
Mom wasn’t happy about being left behind, but she was so tired, emotionally and physically, from the day before that she didn’t put up much of a fight when I suggested she stick around the house and relax.
Over leftover Chinese food the night before, we had compared our findings for the day. It wasn’t with much enthusiasm, but it helped to keep our minds off of Seamus and our terrible loss. Mom had tracked down Comfort Foodies, and she and Renee had gone there for lunch. When I asked Mom why she didn’t call me on my cell phone when she located Buck Goodwin, she said she had. I checked my phone and, sure enough, there was a message. It had been left during the rush to get Seamus to the animal hospital.
“I thought I saw Buck working inside the truck,” she told us while spearing a shrimp, “but I wasn’t sure.”
“Were Paul and Eric there, too?”
“Heide’s sons? I didn’t see them. I just saw Heide and someone I thought was Buck. I was worried he’d recognize me if I got too close, so I sent Renee up to the window to order for us. They had crab cakes today, and they were excellent.” Mom went to her room and returned with her cell phone. “Renee took these photos from the side while they were helping customers. It was very busy and I don’t think anyone saw her, but she only got a couple.”
“My mother is now taking surveillance photos?” Greg’s tone sounded like a cocktail of annoyance with a garnish of amusement.
“Just a few,” Mom assured him. “And it is for Ina.” Mom leaned toward me. “Renee is a good sport, but I don’t think she has real talent for this like you and me.”
“Now there’s a blessing.” Greg stuffed some sweet and sour pork into his mouth.
I took Mom’s phone and looked at the photos. They weren’t very clear, but the man helping a customer at the window in one did look kind of like Buck Goodwin. The next photo was a bit clearer. The man handing a drink through the window to a woman did look a lot like Buck.
“Pairing this with the info we got from Tiffany,” I said, still studying the photos, “it’s likely this is Buck.”
“Makes sense,” added Greg. “He helped her out when she needed it, and she’s returning the favor.”
“Honey,” I said to Greg as a thought crossed my mind. “If Paul is Bob Y, as we think, do you think he might have planted the bomb in Buck’s store?”
Greg shrugged. “Seems kind of sophisticated for a kid who doesn’t like his mother’s friends, but you never know.” He took the phone and checked out the photos. “That adds another suspect to the blast. It could be whoever killed Tom and Red or it could be the kid. But I doubt Paul van den Akker killed Tom and Red. What would be his motive?”
I swallowed the rice in my mouth. “I can’t think of a single one. Maybe we’re looking at two unrelated things here. Buck could have been spooked by Tom’s death and think maybe the blast was done by the same people.”
“I think,” said Mom, tapping a finger on the table to make her point, “that some people know exactly who killed Tom and Red and aren’t talking. Maybe because they’re afraid. And I’ll bet Ina knows, too.”
“C
ould be,” I said, putting down my fork, “that Ina is worried someone else will die if she talks. She might not have been leaving town to get away from Tom, but maybe away from whatever and whomever Tom might have been involved with. That could be why she called him a stupid bastard.”
“You may be right, sweetheart. Didn’t Ina say at Thanksgiving that she and Tom were fighting about the business?”
“She sure did,” I confirmed. “And if she wasn’t leaving to avoid Tom, then it makes sense for her to go to the auction to say goodbye. I don’t think it’s normal for abused wives to say goodbye to their abusers when they hit the road.”
I pushed my plate away, too busy thinking to eat, which is very abnormal for me. I closed my eyes and ran the possibilities like flashcards on the inside of my eyelids. It wasn’t working, so I got up and retrieved a legal notepad from our home office. Back at the table, I started jotting down information and people’s names, and tried to link them.
“Okay,” I began, “say Tom is involved with something bad or illegal, and Ina doesn’t like it. That could have caused the fight they had before Thanksgiving.”
“And it’s so bad she’s frightened enough to take off,” added Mom. She tapped the legal pad. “Write that down.”
With a small huff, I noted that beside Ina’s name.
“And the money,” added Mom. “What if that three hundred thousand came from something illegal, and Ina was taking off with it?”
“But,” I pointed out, “the cops said she didn’t have the money on her, just that she withdrew it. And there’s no record of where it went. The cops are thinking maybe she used it to pay someone to kill Tom. But if that’s the case, why would she have been so distraught over his death? I don’t think she was acting that day.” I looked up from the pad to Greg and Mom. “What other reasons could there be?”
Greg stopped eating. “Payoff, maybe?”
I tapped my pen on the notepad directly under Ina’s name. “Tom’s in trouble. Ina pulls ill-gotten cash from their bank account and hands it over to the bad guys. They kill Tom anyway. Maybe as a warning?”
Secondhand Stiff (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) Page 18
