Anyway, I left a message that I had another option for Elaine’s wedding that sounded great. It was in a Chinese garden that had exotic flowers already so she wouldn’t need to worry about ordering more. Plus, the restaurant could provide the food so everything would be set. The price was reasonable and Elaine’s dress would look good in the night lights. That all didn’t seem like enough so I added that the beads on Elaine’s dress would glimmer in an outdoor setting.
I spend the rest of the afternoon looking happier than a person should look in a mortuary. But, what with Mr. Z in his Hawaiian shirt and Miss Billings walking around unaware she has a gold star stuck to her forehead, no one seems to notice my unnatural cheer.
After I check out of the Big M for the day, I take the Metro bus over to the coffee shop. Now, Los Angeles is the land of gourmet coffee shops with our Starbucks and our Peet’s and our Seattle’s Best. The coffee shop next to Cassie’s floral shop was there long before coffee went gourmet. It does its best to keep up, however, and offers lattes, cappuccinos and, when Asad is working the counter, an espresso stronger than any I’ve ever tasted anywhere. They also have all those bottles of coffee flavors. To tell you the truth, though, the best thing on their menu is a blended orange tea that has just a whiff of nutmeg.
I step inside the coffee shop. There are large windows on all three sides of the shop and light floods the place all day long. There are a couple of women I don’t know sitting at a table in one corner and a man reading a newspaper along the back wall. There is classical music playing softly in the background and discarded newspapers sitting at several empty tables.
From behind the counter, Asad waves at me. “Julie, welcome. I delivered your notes to Doug when he came over at lunch.”
“Thanks,” I say although I’m hard-pressed to drum up any enthusiasm for Doug or my notes.
Asad looks at me as he pulls down a cup from the shelf above his head. Regular clients here all have their own mugs and mine is the white one with Seattle’s space needle traced in gold on the front of it.
“They are love notes, no?” Asad asks. “My English not so good, but I see the love word many times.”
I wince and then walk toward the counter. “It’s not that kind of love.”
Asad looks surprised. “But the notes say love, love, love—all over is love.”
Asad is happily married and thinks everyone else should be, as well.
“That’s love of God.”
“Ah,” Asad says as he fills my cup with hot water. “It’s good to love God, too. That is the blessed life.”
Asad puts the cup of hot water on the counter and pulls out the small wooden box that holds the tea bags. “Here’s your tea.”
I always pick the orange tea, but I like to flip through the rows of tea bags anyway just in case a new flavor has been added. Besides, I like the confusion of smells from the tea.
Asad reaches to the shelf behind him for a wrapped cinnamon biscotti and he puts it on the counter. I always order cinnamon biscotti with my orange tea. Someday I will sit and ponder whether that means I’m in a rut. Today, though, the predictability feels good.
I unwrap the tea bag and set it in my cup of hot water.
Then I pay and take my cup of tea and biscotti to a side table. I take off my suit jacket and hang it on the back of my chair. I wore a short-sleeved pink blouse under the black jacket I wear at the Big M and it feels good to be a little informal now. I didn’t realize until I lost my job at the bank that one of the pleasures of work was getting casual after work. If you were simply not working all day, you would miss that moment.
I look out the window behind me because I can see the side of the floral shop where Cassie works. I see Jerry’s pickup behind the store so I know they’re both there, especially because a huge ficus plant and several smaller ficus plants are loaded into the back of his pickup already.
I like to dunk the biscotti in the orange tea and so I do that. While I’m chewing, I see the florist shop door open and out come Jerry and Cassie. I see a few dirt marks on Cassie’s yellow sweatshirt so I’m guessing they just recently moved the ficus plants. The two of them are laughing about something and I see that Jerry still has his duffel bag in his hands. I don’t even get a chance to take another sip of tea before Jerry opens the door and they both walk in.
I take a good look because I think Jerry has grown taller than I remember.
“Are you wearing some kind of boots?” I say to Jerry when he comes closer. I can see his jeans and they go all the way down to his shoes. The shoes don’t look as though they have a higher than normal heel.
“No, why, you got something you want stomped?” Jerry says in his usual cocky manner as he carries his duffel over and dumps it on the seat of one of the hard-back chairs that goes with my table. “Keep an eye on this, will you?”
I look at that duffel bag. “Isn’t that the bag you got for Christmas when you were ten?”
“I wanted a motorcycle,” he says as if it was somehow my fault.
“Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t even get you anything that year.”
“Yes, you did. You got me a package of red cowboy handkerchiefs.”
“Aunt Inga got you those. She just put my name on the package.”
Cassie follows Jerry over and puts her purse on one of the chairs, as well. “You can still see the motorcycle insignia on that duffel bag if you look close. I’m sure everyone thought a bag would be safer than a motorcycle. Besides—” she looks up at Jerry “—you were only ten.”
“Christmas was never the same after that,” Jerry says, but he’s smiling now as if he’s making a joke of it. Of course, he’s smiling at Cassie and I’m still not sure if I think that’s a good idea.
“I haven’t seen that duffel bag for years,” I say to stop the smiling if I can. “It must bring back memories.”
“He’s kept it in his closet all those years,” Cassie says as though Jerry is very clever to have done that. Doesn’t she know that millions of people keep old Christmas presents in their closets? There’s nothing special about it. It’s called being a pack rat. Most people don’t consider it a sign of genius.
Jerry and Cassie walk over to the counter to order something to drink. I take another look at that duffel bag and shake my head. Jerry used to carry all of his stuff around in that bag when he was a kid.
I wonder what’s in it now. The late-afternoon sun is coming through the window and falling right on that fabric duffel bag. I would guess Jerry is just carrying around his tuxedo so that he’ll be ready in case he actually does find the wedding planner and she wants to go out on a date with him or something. Talk about delusional. As I look at the bag, I can tell that there is more than clothes inside. In fact, it’s obvious that there are some large solid objects in the bag, because I can see their outline in the sunshine. There’s a square something and a round something and—I look again. I can’t be seeing things right.
“Jerry,” I say in what I hope is a normal tone of voice. “Could you come here please?”
Jerry looks over at me as suspiciously as though I had sworn at him, but he comes. He’s carrying a black mug filled with something hot. I can’t believe Asad gave him his own mug already. I had to wait two weeks to get my white space needle cup.
“What’s up?” Jerry says as he sets his cup of coffee on the table and straddles one of the chairs.
I speak slowly. “I know when you left Blythe to come here, people probably told you that it is a scary place—”
Jerry shrugs. “No one knew I was coming. Remember?”
I lower my voice and point to his duffel bag. “Then why did you bring a gun?”
There it is, for all the world to see, the outline of a gun on the side of Jerry’s duffel bag.
“Oh, that,” Jerry says and I swear he’s blushing. “That’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Okay, my voice is rising a little.
Cassie is here now and she sets her cup of coffee on the table.
“What’s wrong?”
I look up at her and whisper, “Jerry has a gun.”
“What?” Cassie sits down. “You mean the kind with bullets?”
“There are no bullets,” Jerry says. “And it’s not a real gun.”
I’m not that gullible and I would hope Jerry knows that by now. I stare at him. “I can see it.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that Cassie sees it, too. She has a little frown on her face that is deepening. “Jerry?”
Jerry sighs. “Look, it’s really nothing, but—”
Jerry reaches over to lift his duffel bag on to the table. “I can tell it’ll just freak you two out if you don’t see.”
Jerry unzips the duffel bag. “Look all you want. Pull it all out.”
Now that the bag is open like that I’m not so sure. “I’m not going to be putting my hands into your dirty socks if I reach in there, am I?”
Jerry shakes his head. “The socks are in a zippered bag at the bottom of the duffel.”
I’m still not eager to go in blind, so I peel the side of the duffel down enough so I can see. There’s enough black plastic down there to start a new landfill somewhere. As I look at it closely, I identify a pair of binoculars, a plastic pencil box with Tracing stamped on it, a pair of black gloves, and the top of a box—
“That’s your Greatest Detectives of the World kit!”
“I forgot it had that toy gun in it,” Jerry says. “That’s why I moved it to the side. So no one would see it when I open the duffel.”
“Well, they can see its outline anyway now. I’d put the toy gun down in that zipped bag with your socks,” I say. “Couldn’t you have emptied the duffel before you grabbed it?”
Okay, so I’m a little slow. I can tell by the sheepish look on Jerry’s face that I’ve missed something. “Don’t tell me you were using that kit, were you?”
“Well, it has directions for things,” Jerry says defensively. “And those binoculars work great. And the instructions have some good ideas for finding people that don’t want to be found.”
“You can find people with that?” Cassie asks.
I need to put this in perspective for Cassie before she gets her hopes up that Jerry could help her find her mother. “It’s a toy kit. He’s never really found anyone.”
“Maybe I can find the wedding planner. Maybe she hasn’t left the country like everyone thinks,” he says. “My kit said to think of what your suspect values and I thought of that 1966 Thunderbird convertible. The way that car was buffed out, someone loves it. She wouldn’t leave her car no matter what so all I have to do is find the car and I’ll find her if she’s anywhere around.”
“Well, I doubt you need the kit for that,” I say. “Besides, a true detective has a client.”
“I have Elaine,” Jerry said stubbornly. “She’s my client.”
“Well, you’re not going to find the wedding planner sitting around Cassie’s place.”
Jerry’s face flushes and he’s quiet for a minute, which isn’t like him. He likes to argue with me.
“Jerry, what did you do?” I ask cautiously. This is the guy who thought it made sense to keep the lizards he’d found on his walk home from school in the back closet at Aunt Ruth’s place. Right now, I can see he knows he’s messed up and that makes me nervous since he never did repent for the lizards. “Jerry?”
“I may have left Cassie’s number for Mona to call.”
“You may have what?” I start and then stop because I am speechless.
“The detective kit says to use any history you have with the person. I thought it made sense so I left a note on Mona’s apartment door saying I have the starter for her car and that she could call me—only I didn’t want to leave a Blythe number. I figured she wouldn’t call anyone in Blythe, because she’d sense a trap.”
“Way to go, Sherlock. Of course she’d sense a trap, only a fool would—” I begin and then I look at Cassie’s face. She’s white now. I take a deep breath and try for a little less panic. “Well, she won’t call you anyway, will she?” See how helpful it is to stop and think before you panic. I feel so much better. “She knows you’re related to Aunt Ruth.”
My comfort gauge keeps going up when I think of the Aunt Ruth connection. The wedding planner might be a thief, but no one has ever accused her of being stupid. If Aunt Ruth even suspected where Mona was, the police would be all over it and, since Mona has worked for Aunt Ruth, Mona knows Aunt Ruth Gets Things Done even if it means badgering officials in the process. Mona might love that Thunderbird of hers, but she probably values her freedom a little bit more.
Jerry looks truly miserable. And a little green around the mouth.
“I sort of didn’t tell her I knew Aunt Ruth that day in the driveway,” Jerry says with a grimace. “No one else was around and I figured why ruin my chances with her. By then Mona had seen how Aunt Ruth can be. I figured I wouldn’t have that many chances to rescue a woman like Mona, and rescuing her seemed like my best shot at a date—you know, if I decided I wanted a date. Which, as it turns out, I didn’t.”
I’m thinking “yeah, right, who didn’t want a date?” but I don’t want to give Jerry the satisfaction of an answer, so I’m quiet.
Jerry is not looking at me anyway. His eyes are all for Cassie. She’s not saying anything, either, so he continues and his voice sounds a little more desperate. “I never was interested in dating her, not really. It was just something to do at the time. And I wouldn’t go out with her now if—well, anyway, that day I figured if I fixed her car, she’d have to go out with me at least once.” Jerry took a deep breath and I reluctantly nod in hopes it will hurry him along. Believe me, Jerry doesn’t need to explain to me why he’d have to do a favor for a woman to get her attention.
“So I told Mona I live in Los Angeles,” Jerry confesses in a rush. “It’s not that much of a lie. I could be living in L.A. if I really wanted to be here. Besides, I couldn’t tell her I live in Blythe. I figure a woman like Mona wouldn’t give the time of day to a guy who lives in Blythe. I was going to say I lived in Palm Springs, but that’s where she lives and I figured that was too close. She might think she should know me.”
Jerry’s voice trails off. “So I told her Los Angeles.”
There’s a long moment of silence. I’m pondering how much Aunt Ruth has rubbed off on all of us cousins. It’s amazing any of us are honest about where we live.
“And you gave her my number?” Cassie doesn’t get sidetracked like me and she gets right to the heart of the matter. “The 323 one? My real number?”
“To a criminal?” I ask because I think that point needs to be clear and because I feel a little guilty about letting my mind wander to Aunt Ruth’s lies about where she lives. I’m beginning to wonder if we have a genetic defect in our family that leads everyone to pretend to be living where we are not. But that’s not our biggest problem so I focus on Jerry again. “What were you thinking?”
Cassie has this stunned look on her face. She doesn’t even give out her real phone number to normal people. Sometimes she gives out her cell number, but that can’t be traced back to her address.
Jerry looks even more uncomfortable. “I guess I didn’t think it all through until last night. That’s why I came here just in case, well, you know something were to happen and you would need protection.”
I can’t even look at Cassie. I’m hoping Jerry isn’t thinking he’s rescuing us by saving us from his own foolishness.
“Besides, what’s Mona going to do?” Jerry says. He’s talking a little fast. “Steal the car part that I’m giving her for free anyway? Mona probably didn’t even get the note—who goes back to their apartment to get notes off their porch when the police are looking for them?”
“Crazy people, that’s who,” I say. “You’ve got to go back and get that note.”
Jerry looks even more miserable. “I already tried. I went back last night when I realized a phone number could be matched to an address.”
> “And?”
“I think a dog got the note. It wasn’t there on the porch anymore and I looked all over the yard and under the porch.”
“Why would a dog take the note?”
Jerry shrugs. “I sort of used the bag I got my hamburgers in at that place by the freeway. I got fries, too, and they really make the bag smell.”
“You’re sure this Mona doesn’t know you’re related to Aunt Ruth?” I say to Jerry. Maybe a dog took the note and maybe one didn’t. One thing that would stop the wedding planner from calling Jerry anywhere, though, is Aunt Ruth. “What if Mona followed you back to your apartment that day? She could have asked about you at the garage where you work.”
I figure this Mona didn’t become a thief without learning to find out things like that before she went around calling people. After all, how many guys who live in Los Angeles drive around the streets of Blythe looking for stalled cars?
“She doesn’t know where I live,” Jerry says. “And, even if she figured out about the garage, no one there knows I’m related to Aunt Ruth.”
Well, this is a side of Jerry I never knew existed. “I can’t believe you’d keep that a secret. Aunt Ruth is family. At least, your family. You don’t keep secrets about something like that.”
Jerry snorts and looks at me. “I’m not the only one with secrets Miss-Don’t-Come-to-My-Work. Makes me wonder what you really do at the place. What is it—that this fancy assistant job you have puts you in charge of the brooms and not the brides?”
I can tell Jerry is relieved to stop talking about the note he left for the wedding planner and, truthfully, so am I.
“Aren’t you the funny one,” I say.
“No, wait,” Jerry says. He’s on a roll now that he thinks he’s off the hook for the note. “Don’t tell me it’s one of those international services where you hook up foreign brides with guys they’ve never met? Aren’t those places illegal?”
“Is this how you do your detective work? Badgering people to death?” I say and wonder what guilty feelings made me pick a sentence with the word death in it.
Going to the Chapel Page 14
