by P. J. Morse
Mom didn’t need accessories. She wore plenty of slings and casts. My poor mother may have been blessed in the looks and money department, but she was a klutz, and she had the most fragile bones of any person alive. There were very few times I remembered her being without a cast, a crutch, or a sling.
This didn’t stop her from leaving the house and mingling with society, though. She had a reputation for wearing the snazziest casts in town. She would hire local painters to dress up her injury of the month—or week—with detailed landscapes. Once, when she broke her collarbone while navigating a wine cellar staircase in perilous pumps, she had a sling custom-made with a copy of Warhol’s Marilyn.
Another time, Mom even braved Slim’s one night when the Marquee Idols opened for an act out of Austin. I left messages with Mom to bring earplugs and to leave the nice clothes at home—not because she wouldn’t fit in, but because she was used to well-lit gallery openings, and a dark, boozy bar might bring out her awkward side.
Alas, I couldn’t save Mom from herself. My mom’s first and last visit to one of my shows ended early and badly when she bumped into a burly barfly while trying to secure a table. Not only did the barfly accidentally spill a glass full of beer all over her and her Louis Vuitton clutch, but he also shattered her wrist. No matter. After a trip to the emergency room, Mom had a cast made that matched the brown-and-gold pattern on her clutch.
Despite her physical limitations, Mom’s one good arm was busy. She gave Sabrina a steady stream of tissues, and Sabrina was slumped over, pressing the tissues into her face and crying.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Sabrina. I’m glad you came back,” I said, tiptoeing in and gently placing my guitar case on the ground. After what I had seen before, I didn’t want to startle Sabrina with any sudden moves.
In the middle of tissue-passing, Mom slowly spun her free index finger around the side of her head, warning me what was to come with the universal sign for crazy. She mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
That reaction wasn’t normal for Mom. Most of the clients Mom sent my way were good ones who paid on time and just wanted to wreak havoc on the lives of their ex-husbands. But Sabrina’s needs were unclear, and I wasn’t sure if her needs were even clear to herself.
I nodded to Mom and flashed a thumbs-up to indicate that I could handle whatever was coming. I pulled my rolling desk chair alongside the Barcalounger. Then I crouched down close, as if I were merely a confidant instead of a hired gun.
“I … I can’t say it …” Sabrina sobbed.
“Detective-client privilege,” I said and looked at Mom. “Mom, thank you for bringing her here. Do you think you can hang out with Harold and Anmol for a while?”
Mom shrugged and stuck out her lower lip. She hated to miss out on the action. She adored nothing more than gossip. “Well, I guess so. Are you sure, Sabrina?”
Sabrina nodded.
Mom patted Sabrina on the leg and left, walking toward the front door, but she kept looking back as if she hoped Sabrina would change her mind and let her listen in.
I wouldn’t put it past Mom to listen in at the door. While Sabrina smothered her face in tissues, I mouthed, “Don’t even think about it.”
She mouthed back, “Love you, too.”
CHAPTER 6
NOT-SO-SMALL POTATOES
ONCE MOM WAS GONE, SABRINA pressed her tissues into her face even harder, muffling the words that followed. “I wanted to give away my necklace for a good cause! Your mother wouldn’t understand!”
I leaned in. We had reached the point where I was going to have to pretend like I knew what she was talking about so I could draw out information. “I just want you to tell me where you left it. I’m not going to judge. And Mom’s lost plenty of jewelry herself. Believe me, compared to what I’ve seen, lost jewelry is small potatoes.”
Then Sabrina lowered her tissues and turned to me with a look of fear that almost made me want to call the police. “Two million dollars worth of small potatoes?”
I gulped. I figured the jewelry she was talking about was expensive and probably had a high sentimental value since she mentioned her husband. I had guessed that Sabrina was mostly concerned with hiding her bungle from her husband and family and kicked Mom out because she was afraid it would get back to them. Knowing Mom, it probably would have. But a two-million-dollar loss wasn’t going to be glossed over easily. I got angry with myself when I lost the little things—a guitar pick, a barrette, a pen, my Crackberry on occasion—but I couldn’t imagine losing something so small, yet so valuable.
“It’s a complicated situation, Ms. Parker, which is why I am absolutely desperate for you to be discreet. And affordable. I am not quite—ahem—liquid right now. If I lose anything else, someone will notice. Of that I am sure.” She reached for the box of Kleenex again. Sabrina had been in my office for a combined total of 15 minutes, and, between Harold’s cheese dust and her tears, she’d already gone through what was in the box. She tapped the bottom of the box on my desk, as if that would make more come out. It didn’t, so Sabrina frowned.
I asked, “Is the necklace insured?”
Sabrina shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t find papers. I don’t know anything about insurance, and, if I go to the family’s lawyers, they will know. The family trust watches all those things. They’re awfully petty. They would notice five hundred dollars leaving an account. I’m not the only Norton, you know.”
I had forgotten that she put a “Norton” in front of “Buckner.” I hadn’t placed the name at first, but the reference to the family trust made me realize that Sabrina was one of those Nortons, a fine old San Francisco family. They were so rich that very few people remembered how they got rich in the first place, but their name seemed to be everywhere: Norton Memorial this, Norton Memorial that.
They actually owned a business that sewed and shipped uniforms—police uniforms, hospital scrubs, fast-food smocks, and such. They even made the Gold Coast BBQ uniforms, which Jamal always complained were too scratchy. The man who ran the empire now wasn’t a Norton, and, as I knew from the papers, he was a big believer in keeping the family on a short leash. Sabrina Norton Buckner also had a few brothers with whom she had to share. Remove two million dollars’ worth of necklace from the family funds, and no wonder she wasn’t “liquid.”
Sabrina seemed to be calming herself, so I passed her the cup of tea I had intended to give her a few hours before. It was cold, but she sipped from the cup slowly and carefully, and she gripped the handle of the teacup as if she were clinging to a life raft. “The necklace isn’t the only problem. The maids keep disappearing. Juanita, Fabiola, Maria … can you deport that many people at once?”
“You’re not running a factory, are you?” I asked. “They’re not making uniforms in a city sweatshop on the side, are they?”
“No.”
“Then I’d call that suspicious,” I replied. “Now, Sabrina. We need to go through the details. I need to know what the jewelry looks like, where you left it, if you think one of the maids took it …”
Sabrina set her teacup on the end table and popped open her clutch. I took a quick glance at the contents. I didn’t see much inside—a compact, a wallet, the glimmer of car keys. No crumpled receipts, random mints, or the detritus commonly seen in most women’s handbags. A woman who kept that kind of tidy handbag surely couldn’t be that likely to lose expensive jewelry. Or, maybe she was so disorganized that her household help had to pack her handbag before sending her out of the house. No wonder she missed them. But, the way she meticulously picked around the bag to find what she needed suggested that wasn’t the case.
Sabrina drew out a photograph that was still shiny and fresh. “You’ll see me in the necklace.” When I took the photo from her, she flinched as if she were worried I would mark it with my fingerprints.
The photo was a close-up shot of Sabrina with a hefty but well-groomed man of about her age. She wore a navy strapless gown that threw the jewelry in question on prominent display.
The necklace was a series of princess-cut diamonds ringing Sabrina’s neck. It wasn’t just one diamond, but many, all packed together with barely a glimpse of chain breaking the sparkle. And then, more diamonds sprang from the original chain in perfectly spaced teardrops. A necklace like that might have made my mother, who had plenty of her own glittering pieces, jealous.
I handed back the photo. “We’ll have to retrace your steps. When did you first realize it was missing?”
Sabrina shook her head. “It wasn’t missing. I didn’t lose it. I don’t lose things. I was going to give it away.” She paused and wailed, “And now it’s gone!” She reached for the teacup and was eventually gripping the photo in one hand and the cup in the other. With her hands occupied, the tears flowed right down her cheeks.
“Give it to who?” Was she going to give it to a lover? A dealer? Her child’s dealer? I had an active imagination that tended to wander in sordid territory. My imagination was usually correct.
“I was going to give it to my psychiatrist.”
That answer was the last one I expected. No wonder she didn’t want my mom to hear about it. Not only did it beat my imagination for the first time ever, but it also made me think that Sabrina really needed a psychiatrist. I swallowed back the words, “Boy, that must be some shrink!” Instead of saying that, I kept my face as blank as possible and asked, “And who is your psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Redburn,” she said.
“Who?” I asked.
Sabrina replied, “You’ve never heard of him? Dr. Craig Redburn has been developing an absolutely revolutionary movement to increase self-esteem. Based on his findings with his study group, including myself, he is ready to market this plan to the rest of the nation. I intended to contribute 500,000 dollars to phase one.” She must have realized most people would be shocked by this donation because she felt the need to justify it. “Really, that amount means nothing to me compared to the help I have had from him. And now it’s gone!”
I immediately assumed that this quack Dr. Redburn with whatever weird cult-ish thing he had going on probably stole the necklace, cashed it out and rode a yacht into the sunset. If that were the case, I knew plenty of people at Gold Rush BBQ who had connections and could get it back with brute force, but I was not a repo woman, and I was not in the business of breaking kneecaps. “If you need muscle -” I started.
Sabrina looked at me as if she had no idea what I was talking about. “Muscle?”
“Uh, you know, getting the necklace back from your doctor. I can refer you to some people who are very good at retrieving objects …”
Sabrina shook her head violently, and the tea in her cup sloshed from side to side. “No. No. Dr. Redburn did not take it. He would never do that, and if you knew anything about him you would know that wasn’t the case.”
I tried not to cringe at how defensive she was of her doctor, so I just uttered the two safest words in the private detective phrasebook, “Go on.”
She continued, “The necklace disappeared before I could give it to Dr. Redburn. He was going to have it auctioned at Sotheby’s because he knows people there. They would pay me, and I would give him a quarter of the proceeds from the sale. The rest I’d save for my husband and future sessions with Dr. Redburn. The trustees would never let me give that much away in cash at once, but that jewelry is mine, all mine to do with what I please.”
“Where do you think the necklace went?” I asked, thinking that if the necklace never passed into Dr. Redburn’s hands, then he maybe didn’t even have the chance to hock it. But that didn’t mean the psychiatrist didn’t have something to do with it.
“I am completely mystified. I told you. I don’t lose things. I was so excited about this decision. I was so happy, resolved in my decision. I had the necklace in a jewelry box, in a satchel with a zipper on top. It wouldn’t have fallen out. I never would have worn it out and about. Not in broad daylight like that. I kept looking in the bag on the way there. I was nervous, but I didn’t pay attention to my feelings. And we know where that goes.” Sabrina shook her head and rolled her eyes upward, lost in some psychiatric principle she clearly picked up from her shrink.
She continued, “I drove to Dr. Redburn’s first thing in the morning, and I made sure I had it before I left. I looked at the necklace right in the waiting room. I had to wait for Dr. Redburn to finish with another patient, so I kept looking at it. It was always in my purse. Then I helped lead potential patients on a tour, just a few people. I had my purse with me then. After the tour, we had a private session. I was ready to give it to him. I was so proud! And when I opened the bag, it was gone! I’ve lost two million dollars!” She set aside the picture and the teacup and went for the Kleenex box again.
“Did you trust Dr. Redburn to sell that necklace for the proper amount?” I asked.
Sabrina seemed shocked that I would dare suggest that Dr. Redburn wouldn’t know how to sell the necklace. “Oh, yes! He’s done this before with several of his patients. He always took his share, and he gave the money back. I know several women who can vouch for his character. I’ll give you the names. There’s Peg—” She cut off abruptly. “Yes, several women.” I handed Sabrina a sheet of paper, and she started writing down names.
“You said the maids were going missing earlier. Do you think any one of them took it?” I asked.
She said, “No. I had it when I left, and none of them know about that necklace. I kept it hidden.”
“So you don’t think a maid took it and then skipped town?”
“No. But they started disappearing around the time this was going on. Several just never showed up for work. I’d like you to look into that because … well, it just can’t be Dr. Redburn.”
“None of the maids know Dr. Redburn?”
“I cannot imagine how. Really, they couldn’t afford him.”
“He never came to your house?”
“Never. I always saw him in his office.”
“Can you write the names of the maids, too?” I asked. “Just in case.”
As she got to work, I returned to my desk and started typing on my computer. To Sabrina, it may have seemed as if I were taking notes, but I was really making a pros and cons list to see if I should take on the case. As Sabrina sniffled, I tapped out the pros: I’d never been involved in a jewelry heist, the client had access to money and might pay in kind, and the job was glamorous. Mom could also help provide information.
The cons: What made the job glamorous was what made it trouble as well. I would be dealing with a high-maintenance heiress who claimed to be an organized, stable person, yet she was enamored with a mysterious shrink who suddenly needed 500,000 smackers. Mom might be inclined to meddle.
But, if Sabrina turned out to be like anyone else my mother referred, the job couldn’t be that difficult, and I’d make some money to tide me over. That way, I could concentrate on the gig at the South of the Slot and spend more time finding a decent bassist.
Once she handed me the list with her maid’s names on it, I decided it was time to explain to Sabrina exactly what she was getting into if she hired me. “Sabrina, your case interests me, and I’d like to help you find that necklace. Have you ever dealt with a private detective?”
Sabrina stiffened. “Of course not!”
I held out my hand in a calming gesture. Sabrina had a pronounced tendency toward huffiness, and I immediately listed that as one of the case’s cons. “I ask that of everyone. People who hire detectives are sometimes upset in the early stages because they feel like they’re the ones being followed,” I explained. “But, if I am going to be your private eye, I have to see the world the way you see it. My method is to find out everything I can about you so then I can see everyone you know with your eyes. Once I am aware of and understand all the relevant relationships, then I may be able to solve your problem. You bet I’m discreet, but you might see me at strange times and at strange locations. Don’t be alarmed.”
“This isn’t going to be easy, is i
t?”
I shook my head. “Not by a long shot. Not if you’re talking about a two million-dollar necklace. For something that valuable, you might find me under your bed!”
I laughed. Sabrina didn’t. After some awkward seconds passed, Sabrina looked like she wanted to say something. I could see words fighting against the socialite’s lips, and I could imagine what Sabrina was asking herself: “Just how private do I want this private eye to get?”
Sabrina’s face went through a series of contortions before she finally blurted, “Then I suppose I should tell you about my husband!”
I was waiting for that. If Sabrina’s husband were already leaving messages with Jamal, then he had to be involved somehow. She stood up and walked across the room. “I am in an even more difficult position because my husband is the chancellor of UC Sacramento. As you can imagine, he is often held to a higher standard than most of us.”
I could see that. Harold was a graduate of Berkeley, and he was always railing about how the suits at Berkeley made wads of cash while cutting benefits for the instructors. As a graduate of UC-Santa Cruz, I had some problems with the chancellors myself. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Seems like there’s always a pay dispute going on over there.”
Sabrina sniffed contemptuously and started sounding more like a chancellor instead of a chancellor’s wife. “Pay dispute. My husband does his work and brings money to the university, and, if it weren’t for those unions -” she spat out the word “-and reporters-” she could have won a spitting contest with that one “-my husband would be just fine. As it stands, right now, he needs my help keeping up appearances with the donors. The university’s salary does nothing to help him. No one understands how money comes into universities.”
I wanted to ask one more question before Mrs. Sabrina Norton Buckner opened her mouth again—what was a woman like that doing married to a university chancellor? The Sabrina Norton Buckners of the world tended to breed with other men who enjoyed independent wealth. That’s why the members of the upper class tended to look like each other, at least on Cape Cod. Being a university administrator was a high-paying gig, but it was one that required a little work.
