A Well-Kept Family Secret

by Marja McGraw

  A Well-Kept Family Secret

  A Sandi Webster Mystery

  by

  Marja McGraw

  A WELL-KEPT FAMILY SECRET, A Sandi Webster Mystery, Copyright 2008, 2013 Marja McGraw

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. For information, email address: hello@marjamcgraw.com.

  First Edition, 2008

  Second Edition, 2013

  Cover Design by Marja McGraw

  Editing by Marja McGraw

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  In Memory of my Mother and Grandmother,

  Who would have enjoyed every word of this story.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to Adrian Praetzellis, Professor of Anthropology at Sonoma State University, for generously sharing information with me about the Headquarters Project involving the old Red Light District in Los Angeles.

  Thank you to Dorothy Bodoin and H. Susan Shaw for their support and encouragement, along with their talent as writers and critiquing friends. Thank you also to Shirley Kennedy, Patti Kohut, Larry Wonderling and Carol Eversole for their continued support and valued suggestions.

  I’m blessed to have such wonderful friends.

  Chapter One

  1898

  It was a moonless night. The old man strolled out of a doorway and turned into The Alley, stopping to sigh over the tiresome fog. Lights filtering through the windows were faint, and when he passed those windows he heard the sounds of a man’s low rolling chuckle and a woman’s responsive soft, seductive coo.

  Frowning, he pulled his collar up and tugged his hat lower on his brow. The old man was slightly stooped and walked with a marked stiffness. The moist fog chilled his aging bones.

  The census records listed him as a rancher. Insurance maps showed the buildings as Ladies Boarding Houses, located on a street named Negro Alley in Chinatown. But he wasn’t a rancher, and the cribs and brothels he passed weren’t boarding houses. They belonged to him and they’d made him rich. He didn’t give a thought to the fallen women, the soiled doves – only to the money they made for him.

  The newspaper had referred to him as a “wizened little old man,” but that hadn’t always been the case. Some of the politicians were still in his hip pocket, even after all the accusations that had been leveled against him. There was no proof, and people could think what they wanted. Maybe the sins of the past, and the present, were coming back to haunt him. Even so, this was his territory – his place. He belonged here.

  Could people really believe that he, Vincente Chavez, had committed such a heinous crime? Yes, and it was his own fault because of his chosen profession. A faint smile touched the corners of his wrinkled lips.

  A young prostitute, sitting on the sill of an open window, saw the man and his self-satisfied smile and froze. As he passed, she glanced at the ground and tried to pretend she hadn’t seen him.

  2003

  I signed my name to the check and turned to Pete.

  “We’re in trouble, Pete.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of trouble?”

  “When I send off this check for the office rent, we’ll be just about broke.”

  “What are you talking about, Sandi? We’ve had three new cases come in just in the last week.”

  “I know. But the insurance companies are taking their own sweet time about paying us.”

  Pete’s brown eyes clouded over. “Why didn’t you say something before now?”

  “I thought the checks would start filtering in. They didn’t.” Had I made a mistake when I opened my private investigating firm?

  “You’ve billed them, right?”

  “Of course. They’re just not on the same schedule we are.”

  “We’re on a schedule?”

  “Yeah. My schedule included going grocery shopping tonight. Theirs didn’t.”

  Pete was quiet for a minute. “I’ve got some savings I could--”

  “No. Don’t worry yet. I have a new client coming in from Chicago. A paying client.”

  “Who?” Pete stood up and walked over to my desk.

  “My mother,” I mumbled.

  “Didn’t hear you. Who?” He leaned closer.

  “My mother.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No.”

  “What does she want us to do?” Pete ran his hands through his dark brown hair, looking like he was ready to laugh.

  “Don’t know.” I tried to concentrate on the silver streaks beginning to pepper his temples.

  “She wants to pay us for a job, but you don’t know what or why?”

  “Yeah.” I turned my head and avoided his gaze.

  “Sandi, look me in the eyes with those big blues of yours and tell me what’s going on. And speak in complete sentences.”

  I stood up so I could look him in the eyes. It didn’t work. He’s almost six feet tall and I’m only five foot three.

  “I don’t know what my mother wants.” I pointed to some library books having to do with Los Angeles history that were sitting on my desk.

  “Sandi, what did she say?” Pete asked.

  I tried to make him understand. “All she said was that she wants me to read up on the Red Light District in Old Los Angeles, and that she wants me to take care of some business for her. The only connection I can think of is that my great-great-great-grandfather was very active in that, shall we say, profession.”

  Pete raised his eyebrow before speaking, and the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth jiggled. “You mean prostitution. The business was, and is, called prostitution.”

  “Yeah, okay. I was trying to be discreet. Anyway, I can’t find very much information on prostitution for that era. I’ll have to continue researching and see if I can come up with more on the subject.”

  Granted, it wasn't the kind of thing I normally researched, but one never knows what a case will involve. The sign in front of my office reads “Webster & Goldberg--Private Investigations.” I’m the Webster part of the sign, and Pete is the Goldberg. He’s my partner and friend. Well, he’s more than a friend, and even though his name is Goldberg, he’s one hundred percent Italian, but that’s another story.

  “So what have you learned about Old L.A.?” Pete asked.

  “Not a whole lot. In those days Chinatown was located in the area where Union Station and its parking lot now sit, and old Chinatown was the Red Light District.”

  I stood up and began to pace while I talked.

  “I found a reference to Negro Alley, which is where my three-greats-grandfather ran his business. It was actually a street, not an alley. Since there were so many Hispanics in Los Angeles, I wonder if the street started out as Negra Alley, since that’s Spanish for black, and maybe it got changed along the way. Anyway, eventually it was abandoned and renamed Los Angeles Street.

  “Yesterday afternoon I located some old street maps, and one of them shows Easy Jeanette Street. Fitting name for the Red Light District, wouldn’t you say?”

  Pete nodded and watched me pace. His eyes weren’t glazing over yet, a good sign.

  “I also found some insurance maps which refer to Ladies Boarding Houses, but those were actually the cribs, or brothels. I’ve found the area referred to not only as Chinatown, but also the Alameda District, Little Paree, and Hell’s Half Acre.” />
  Pete leaned forward. “It sounds to me like you’ve found quite a bit of information. Knowing you though, it’s funny to imagine you had a relative in the business.”

  “Go figure,” I said, my attention returning to my notes. “Okay, here’s where history meets the present. In 1996, during construction of the Metropolitan Water District’s new headquarters, a site was discovered in what would have been part of the old Red Light District and archaeologists began working a four-acre area. I’d like to see if I can find more information about what they found.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “By the way, what do you mean by ‘knowing me’?” I asked.

  “You’re so naïve. Obviously nothing like this grandfather of yours.”

  “I’m not all that naïve.” I stopped pacing and sat down at my desk. Why did everyone think I was so innocent? I’d been around the block a few times. I knew about life. Yeah, right.

  Pete grinned in my direction.

  I frowned. “Well, anyway, he’s several generations back in the gene pool, and there’s no accounting for relatives.”

  “Right. When is your mother arriving from Chicago?”

  “She’s supposed to be here tomorrow morning. She’s flying into Ontario after a two-day stop in San Francisco.”

  “Why is she coming into Ontario? Why didn’t she just fly into L.A.?”

  “I think maybe she likes Ontario because it’s a smaller airport. She doesn’t like flying, along with a lot of other things. She’s an, uh, unusual woman.”

  “Am I going to like her? You’re making her sound like a nut.”

  “I’m giving you the wrong impression. She’s really a wonderful woman, but she has a way of intimidating me. I turn into a different person when I’m around her.”

  My mother is a wonderful woman – who happens to strike terror in my heart. She’s a tiny little thing, about five feet even, but she still manages to make me feel like a little kid. She and her sister, my aunt Martha, can be very intimidating when they want to be. These are no-nonsense women who seldom take prisoners. Too bad I didn’t learn more of their tricks. It would help in my line of work, and at the moment I needed all the help I could get.

  “I’ve talked to your mother on the phone and she sounds perfectly normal to me. In fact, she sounds kind of sweet.”

  “She is sweet. I guess it’s just one of those mother-daughter things. She wants my life to be the way she thinks it should be, rather than the way it is, and I can’t, or won’t, change things. I find myself gritting my teeth when she’s around. I turn into a gibbering, slobbering child.” I could hear the nervousness in my voice.

  “Sandi, get a grip.”

  “Yes, get a grip. I’ll do that. Right after she goes back to Chicago.”

  “I mean it,” Pete said. “Don’t let your mother bully you. Stand up for yourself.”

  “She doesn’t really bully me. I can’t explain it. She’s as sweet as she can be, but I tremble in her presence.”

  “You don’t tremble in my presence. Stand up and be a man.”

  “Easy for you to say.” I grinned.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s different with you. You and I don’t have the history that my mother and I have. And you’re not like my mother. Oh, you’re right. I really do need to pull myself together. After all, how bad can this visit be? She just wants my help with some little thing, and she will be paying us.”

  Pete sighed, giving up. He turned back to his desk and tried to look busy. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye though. He was seeing a new side of me, and I wasn’t sure if he knew how to handle the other me. In fact, I wasn’t sure he’d even like the other me.

  Chapter Two

  1898

  Vincente Chavez was, as always, powerful, but slowing down, and the aging process annoyed him. He didn’t like aging because it made him feel vulnerable. He stiffened more at the thought and walked a little faster, wanting to turn back the clock.

  The old man straightened his shoulders as much as his years would allow and sighed, continuing down The Alley and turning the corner. He anxiously headed for home and to the waiting nurse, the latest of many. The thought crossed his mind that he’d have to deal with this sham of a nurse, and soon. She’d been with him less than a year and she pushed too hard.

  His life had become complicated, thanks to his wife. Merced wanted a divorce and had already filed for a legal separation, but he needed to remain married to her to keep the wolves away. Since they were Catholic, he knew she’d never follow through with the divorce. It was an idle threat.

  2003

  The next morning I was at the airport and waiting for my mother by eight o’clock. Her plane was late, but I finally saw her coming through the door.

  “Mother,” I called, waving at her.

  “Sandi.” She hoisted up her carry-on bag, which had been dragging on the floor.

  “Let me help you,” I said, taking it from her.

  “I need a good look at you.” She stood still, giving me the once over. “You look wonderful. Life must be agreeing with you.” Stepping forward, she gave me a big hug.

  “Mother?” I said, bewildered. She hadn’t said but. Usually a statement like that was followed by a “but you’re too thin,” or “but you need a haircut.” Something like that. And hugs between us were rare.

  “Well, honey, you do look great.”

  “Thank you. How was your trip?”

  “Not bad.”

  A flight attendant saw Mother and turned, obviously trying to avoid her, but it didn’t work. “Oh, Miss, don’t forget what we talked about.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Webster. I’ll remember,” the young woman replied, walking a bit faster. She glanced over her shoulder twice before turning a corner. Presumably, she was hoping that my mother wasn’t following her. Knowing my mother, I was almost surprised she hadn’t been kicked off the plane and blackballed from ever flying again.

  “Nice young lady,” Mother said. “But she needs to slow down and smell the roses. She was a little snooty and not very helpful during the flight.”

  “I’m sure you straightened her out,” I said under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was talking to myself.”

  “Not a good habit, dear.”

  “Are you ready to go?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Yes. As soon as my other bags show up we can get away from this crowd.”

  Bags? Bags? How long was she planning on staying? I didn’t want to ask, but I had to know.

  “How long will you be here, Mother?” I asked, panic welling up in my chest.

  “As long as it takes.”

  “As long as what takes?”

  “Let’s get moving, and we’ll discuss this later.” Her bags were the first to come around on the carousel so we didn’t have long to wait.

  I gave up. There was no pushing my mother until she was ready to be pushed.

  “Do you mind if we stop somewhere and get a bite to eat? I’m famished. They gave us lemon-flavored raisins on the plane, if you can believe that.” There was a note of disgust in her voice.

  “Of course I don’t mind. Actually, I’m sort of hungry myself. Lemon-flavored raisins? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Trust me, you haven’t missed much.”

  “Okay, we’ll make up for it with a good breakfast. I saw a place that looked pretty nice not far from here.” I tend to munch when I’m nervous, and this was definitely a munching moment. My mother and I were communicating and she hadn’t even mentioned my life. This made me nervous.

  “So tell me,” I said over breakfast, “what is this trip all about?”

  “What? I can’t come to visit my favorite daughter?”

  “Your only daughter, but who’s counting? Really, what is this all about?” My curiosity was getting the best of me, and she seemed relaxed.

  “Let’s talk in the car. I don’t want t
o discuss this in such a public place. The subject is a teensy bit touchy, and a bit tawdry.” She had a funny little grin on her face, like she knew a secret that she was dying to tell me.

  I sighed. “Just give me a hint.”

  “Think very old murder, and let it go for now.”

  Murder? I decided she was right. I should let it go. “Are you about ready to leave?” I pulled my wallet out of my backpack. “It’s a long drive back to my place.”

  “Yes, let’s go.” My mother handed me a twenty-dollar bill and motioned for me to put my wallet away.

  I paid the bill and we left the restaurant, strolling out to the car together. There was something different about my mother, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “I’ve met a man,” Mother said, climbing into the car.

  “Oh.” I glanced at her and saw she was smiling.

  “He’s a wonderful man, but you know I never wanted to get involved with anyone after your father died.”

  “Mom, Dad’s been gone a very long time. I think it’s okay to get involved with someone now. And I’m really happy for you.” I couldn’t think of anything better I could wish on my mother than meeting a man and being happy. Besides, it might distract her from my life. “So what does that have to do with this visit?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.” She was still smiling.

  She sat quietly, with her hands folded in her lap, for about the first five miles. All of a sudden she began wildly waving her hand in front of her face. She pulled open the glove compartment, slammed it shut, opened her purse and started pulling everything out.

  “Mother? What’s wrong? Do you want me to pull over? Are you sick?” I didn’t know what to do.

  “Hot flash.” She sounded irritated. “I’m looking for something to use to fan myself. I can’t stand the heat.” She really seemed to be upset.

  “Wait,” I said. I fished a map out of the console and shoved it into her hands.