P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental

by P. J. Morse

  I cringed. I thought his type looked familiar because the Bay Area was crawling with Metallica wannabes. Then I realized how I knew him. A few weeks before, I had to tail him as part of my day job. An insurance company wanted me to find out if he really needed that neck brace or not. I didn’t have an answer yet, but so far I hadn’t busted him with it off. I pointed at the brace and asked, “Can you play with that thing?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He took off the brace. “It’s just some bullshit, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Let’s play.”

  “You sure I don’t know you?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I lied. “I just moved here from Boston.”

  Behind his drum kit, Shane rolled his eyes. This was the third time since we had started auditions that I had been recognized for reasons other than my music.

  We jammed with the head banger, who threw his head back and forth with great abandon. If he didn’t have whiplash before he tried to defraud the insurance company that hired me, he was certainly trying to get it. When we were done, I said, “We’ll get back to you. Don’t forget your brace.”

  He left, and I turned to Shane and Wayne. “That was the easiest case I’ve ever solved!” I ran out to the Echo Chamber’s parking lot, hid behind a corner, and took some photos of him loading his gear in the car, without the brace and without any visible struggle.

  When I returned, Shane said, “He wasn’t bad, you know. But it looks like we’re not getting him, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Sorry about that.”

  Shane replied, “A) You need to stop sleeping with the bassists. And B) you need to stop investigating them.”

  Wayne brought in our second audition of the day—a teenager in full face paint who read the post so quickly he thought it said “Monster Idols.” He apologized and left the moment he laid eyes on the face paint-free Marquee Idols.

  The third was a stripper looking to change careers. She actually listened to the songs on our website and seemed enthusiastic about us, earning her points with me. Her cleavage earned her points with Shane and Wayne. Unfortunately, despite her massive breasts, she had tiny hands that she could barely wrap around the bass’ neck, and she couldn’t keep up with the audition song. By that point, I gave up on the day’s bassist hunt and was watching the clock. I had already started thinking about my next move in the Buckner case.

  CHAPTER 12

  DOOR-TO-DOOR DETECTIVE

  THE NEXT DAY, I DROVE Cherry 2000 up to Pacific Heights to stake out the Buckner household. I wanted to find out why Sabrina’s maids were vanishing and if it had anything to do with the necklace. Besides the shrink, Sabrina’s maids seemed to be the next most obvious suspects.

  The Norton-Buckner home on Myrtle Street, with its lush hedges and corner turret, was even more opulent than I expected. If I wasn’t mistaken, I thought the Buckners also enjoyed having Danielle Steel a few blocks away. Perhaps they turned up as characters in her books, although I couldn’t imagine Mr. Buckner being anything more than comic relief.

  I leaned back in the front seat of Cherry 2000. As usual, my car was an embarrassing accessory in a fashionable neighborhood, but people would probably think Cherry 2000 belonged to a maid or a butler. Then I saw a woman who was obviously a maid stomping up the hill. She must’ve gotten off the bus and walked the rest of the way. Suddenly, more women, mostly Mexican, headed up the hill to their stations serving the elite, all of them nearly marching in sync. One of them took a good, long, suspicious look at my car, so I leaned back further.

  Some of the maids were multitasking by munching on pastries as they walked. They all wore sensible shoes, the better to race after their employers. I knew what they had to deal with. Mom had a maid, Esperanza, who was infinitely patient. But, compared to many employers I’d seen, I thought that my mom treated Esperanza well. At least she said “please” and “thank you” and never screamed. I wondered how the Buckners treated their help.

  One woman with legs as thick as tree trunks headed toward the back of the Buckner’s home, bypassing the main gate. Her hair clung to her head in tight waves, and she wore a crocheted poncho with long tassels over her maid’s uniform.

  I waited a little longer. Some of the maids’ female employers emerged from their garages, all of them driving shiny new cars. Many of them appeared to be in jogging suits, and, if they were anything like my mother, they were on their way to body-sculpting classes.

  The Buckner house stayed quiet. Finally, the garage door opened, and Sabrina’s Jaguar pulled out. Despite the tinted windows, I made out only one feminine shape behind the wheel. I started snapping photos with my phone.

  Sabrina drove slowly and carefully, and she executed a perfect turn out of her driveway, avoiding an immaculate bush before heading down the street. In a few moments, she proved herself to be a much better driver than her husband, who couldn’t even remember to turn off his headlights.

  She sure didn’t seem flustered or nervous, or else she’d be driving like her husband and plowing her own lawn. I kept watching as Sabrina drove down the street and switched on her turn signal before driving left, even though hardly anyone was around.

  As soon as Sabrina drove away, I began assembling the props for my disguise. I already knew that Mr. Buckner was long gone since the Web site for the student newspaper of his UC campus said that the chancellor was scheduled to meet with teaching assistants who were agitating for a pay raise. The student writer sarcastically opined, “How generous of our busy chancellor to take fifteen whole minutes out of his schedule to speak with the worker bees who soil their hands with teaching!” Harold Cho couldn’t have written it any better himself.

  I pulled out a pink suitcase, which was full of lipsticks, creams, powders and powder puffs. I hoped I didn’t have to open it because I didn’t know what sort of toxic, scented clouds might float out.

  When I was earning my private investigator’s license and working for a bigger firm, I learned that just about anyone will let a reasonably pretty, well-dressed girl in their homes or offices if she poured on enough charm. Faking a Southern accent never hurt, either. If I threw in a fainting fit, I had a better-than-good chance of getting all the evidence I needed.

  The Fainting Cosmetics Queen trick was the best way to get into any house short of dressing as a Bay Area Gas and Electric meter reader. It was also an easier performance since no one tried to argue with me about overdue utility bills. I bound my hair into a tight bun and smoothed out the pastel-pink cardigan and gray skirt I was wearing, an ensemble carefully calculated to make me totally forgettable. I left the car and embarked upon the majestic path to the Buckner home.

  I pressed the buzzer at the gate several times before the maid with the tree-trunk legs exited the house and met me. The maid looked at me, puzzled. “Hi there!” I said in my best Southern drawl. “I’m here today to present you with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  The maid stepped back. “No hablo inglés, Señorita.”

  I expected that. But I spoke a little Spanish. “Ay! Pero hablo español, Señora. ¿Cómo está Usted? Vendo los cosméticos. Sweet Cheeks Cosmetics! Estos no son muy caros. Con collagen y SPF.”

  The maid shook her head in a way that indicated she didn’t have time to put on makeup in the morning. “Perdóneme, pero necesito trabajar ahora.” She made herself even clearer with an over-enunciated “Have a nice day, miss.”

  While the maid tried to dismiss me, I worked myself into an absolute fainting fit. I began leaning slowly against the bars of the gate. I thought about how Southern women, especially the belles who occasionally wound up at Danforth Academy, my boarding school, fainted. The belles would try to fight it, and then they would give into the pull of gravity suddenly and dramatically. As I descended, I sighed and tilted away from the gate so passers-by would have to step over me as they walked.

  “Señorita? Señorita?” the maid called out.

  I pretended to grasp at the gate’s bars, but I collapsed into a hea
p right in front of the entrance. I gave my performance an “A,” with bonus points for willing myself to sweat. The suitcase full of cosmetics hit the sidewalk with a thud. Luckily for me and the maid, it didn’t pop open.

  “Ay de mi!” Knowing the scene didn’t make her employer look good, the maid raced around a little bit and called up some more Spanish-speaking people, who threw open the gate. I kept my eyes closed and my breathing light. I stayed limp as strong arms picked me up and carried me to a cushiony place. They didn’t even drag my feet along the path to the front door. Someone slapped a wet dishrag on my forehead.

  I waited about five minutes, enough so that I could understand someone asking in Spanish whether or not they should call a doctor. Someone also popped open my suitcase to see what I had in there, and I wondered what they were so suspicious of. Everyone in the room coughed, and I smelled talcum powder. I wanted to stop them from messing in my purse and coming across my Crackberry, so I pretended to regain consciousness. “Oh … oh my goodness!”

  As I opened my eyes, I took stock of the room, which must have been the front parlor judging by the rounded windows that faced out on the street corner. I was on a soft, mint green couch underneath a grand portrait of Sabrina Norton Buckner. The Sabrina of the painting was wearing the same necklace that I saw in the photo she showed me, and she stared straight into the camera without a smile.

  As I scanned the room, I noticed that there wasn’t too much furniture and very few knickknacks. Everything was modern and sparse, with black coffee tables and bookcases without books, just vases. I asked myself what kind of university chancellor would dare live in a home that didn’t have any books. Surely Mr. Buckner had to have books around, at least for display purposes.

  If Sabrina lost her necklace in this kind of room, I wouldn’t have too much trouble finding it. I was resting on the only piece of furniture whose cushions were plump enough to hide a necklace. All the rest of the chairs had minimal padding. I couldn’t imagine any guests actually sitting in them.

  I tried to sit up as multiple maids tried to push me back down. The woman with legs like tree trunks foisted a glass of cold water into my hand. “Drink,” she said in English.

  I turned my Spanish switch back on. I was better at comprehension than speaking, but my simple phrases were perfect for keeping up the fainting routine. “Lo siento. Hace mucho calor. Los cosméticos …” I looked for the suitcase, which the maids had already closed and placed on an end table. “Where am I?”

  “Pacific Heights,” Tree-Trunks answered.

  “Oh, this is the most beautiful home I have ever seen. Who owns it?”

  “Rich people,” Tree-Trunks answered. She was also speaking simply for my benefit. She then aimed a finger toward the portrait of Sabrina Norton Buckner.

  The other maids assumed my Spanish skills stopped with my sales pitch and started arguing in Spanish about whether or not to let me out of the house. One woman who was clearly the head maid in charge thought I was fine and wanted me gone, while the others wanted me to rest. Most of the maids returned to their stations, but Tree-Trunks stayed with me. I said in English, “Thank you so much for your kindness. What is your name?”

  “Rosa,” the maid formerly known as Tree-Trunks replied. She knew more English than she let on. That “no hablo ingles” bit was just a ploy to get me out of the house.

  “My name is Katherine.” That was true. “Katherine” was my first name, and “Clancy” was my middle name, but there were so many “Katherine Parkers” on my father’s side of the family that I had to make a change to distinguish myself. Having two names also made it easier to pretend to be someone else.

  Then I changed the subject. “Boy, the woman in the picture is pretty. Who is that?”

  “Señora Buckner.”

  “She looks so serious in her picture.”

  Rosa shrugged. “She doesn’t smile much.”

  “Well, she sure is beautiful.”

  Without any prompting, Rosa added, “She is lonely.”

  “Does she have a husband?” I stared intently at the portrait, to suggest that Sabrina’s very beauty was helping me snap out of my fog.

  Rosa looked as if she were trying to remember if Sabrina even had a husband. “Yes.”

  The head maid in charge returned to the room with a stern expression. She seemed ready to escort me out, so I figured I needed to start digging. I’d finished my first glass of water, and it was time to swoon again. I attempted to stand and then flopped back down on the couch. “Oh, oh! I am so sorry! May I have another glass of water? I think it’s helping.”

  Rosa said, “I’ll get you something sweet.” Once I heard Rosa’s heavy feet padding toward the back, I sprang from the sofa and started digging in between the cushions. I didn’t feel a necklace. I didn’t feel anything, which surprised me. Even my mother’s sofas had a cracker crumb or two.

  I then tiptoed toward the back and crossed the hall to a study, which was barely more human than the living room other than a stiff leather loveseat and a desk. I spotted a trashcan by the desk and immediately started filling the pockets of my cardigan with whatever was inside. Then I pulled the Crackberry from my purse and started snapping the papers on the desk with the built-in camera.

  Hearing voices from down the hall, I crept forward to find out what was going on. I presumed the maids were talking in the kitchen about the strange red-haired lady passed out in their boss’s home. However, the Spanish conversation was about Sabrina, the boss herself:

  “Ay! She’s crazy! She’s leaving them everywhere!” one maid said.

  Rosa sounded almost hysterical. “I didn’t do this. I don’t touch her jewelry!”

  The head maid in charge hissed, “She did this. He says she does this. Wash it, and put it back!”

  I decided to take a risk. I leaned against the wall, set Crackberry at a wide angle, turned off the flash, and held the camera out just barely out into the kitchen doorway. I ever so gently snapped a photo. Then another. To cover up any possible noises and to see what was causing the problem myself, I tucked the slim Crackberry into one of my shirt pockets and made myself known. Stumbling into the kitchen, I announced, “Rosa! I had to tell you I’m feeling better. Please don’t go to any trouble … Oh!”

  I froze at the sight. Rosa was standing at a granite-covered kitchen island. Before her was a glass with a little yellow powder in it. In her right hand was a jar of lemonade mix that she may have intended to prepare for me. In her other hand was a fistful of glittering necklace, covered with the powder. “Katherine!” Rosa exclaimed.

  My jaw dropped, and this time I wasn’t acting. “Are those diamonds?” I stepped up close to the counter to see if that was in fact the missing necklace. From what I could tell, it wasn’t. The pattern wasn’t right, and I thought I saw sapphires.

  The head maid in charge stood between me and Rosa, blocking the view of the necklace completely. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” she said.

  I ignored her and tried to look over her shoulder at Rosa. “How did that get in your lemonade?”

  Tears welled up in Rosa’s eyes. “Poor lady,” she said. “Poor lady lost her head.”

  The head maid in charge turned toward Rosa and shouted, “Stop crying, you cow! Put them back before we all get fired.” Then she said to me, “I don’t know what you are or why you’re here, but you’re going to have to go home now. Comprendes?”

  I got the message loud and clear, but I told Rosa I’d never forget her kindness. The remaining maids tried to shove me toward the front door. I barely had time to get my cosmetics suitcase. As I walked toward a gardener, who was holding the front gate open, I heard the word “periodista” spat at me.

  I thought to myself, “No, honey. I’m not a journalist. I’m worse.”

  CHAPTER 13

  NOT TO BE HOSTILE

  AFTER RETURNING CHERRY 2000 TO South Park and getting out of my Fainting Cosmetics Queen costume, I fetched my own lawn chair from my apartm
ent and joined Harold on the sidewalk.

  I turned on my Crackberry and looked at the photos I took that morning. I paused on the last, blurry shot of Rosa in the kitchen. The outline of the head maid in charge was coming into the frame, but I caught Rosa’s dismayed “oh-no-not-again” expression. And the yellow-dusted necklace was on full display.

  Rosa the maid had clearly encountered Sabrina’s misplaced diamonds before. If Sabrina were as crazy as her husband and her maids thought, then she must have been leaving her jewels in stranger places than lemonade containers in the pantry.

  Looking down at Harold’s ever-present tub of cheese nibs, I thought Sabrina’s jewels would fit right in. Harold might eat a few diamonds without even noticing. “Hey, Harold, if Sabrina comes by again, you may want to put the lid on your cheese nibs.”

  Harold, too engrossed in his munching and reading about Adlai Stevenson to pay attention, looked into his snack bucket to see how much was left. “Whatever you say, sweetums.”

  I continued to scroll through the rest of the images I took that day. A skewed photo captured the living room layout. Poor Sabrina’s portrait was crooked, and I noticed that her eyes were unusually black and blank. Whoever painted the portrait left out any glimmers of life.

  I then flipped forward to the photos of the desk. On top of the desk were some random household instructions written in a masculine hand. Mr. Buckner liked things tidy. After listing what silverware he wanted polished and how he wanted it polished, he had written in all caps at the bottom, “WATCH THE PANTRY.”

  The trashcan also had some promising items. Aside from some stray tissues, I picked up real-estate leaflets for spacious estates in Sausalito, a phone bill with most of the calls going to the Sacramento area code, and a large medical bill from Dr. Craig Redburn. I gasped. The amount of that bill was more than I would make in a year. I wondered why this psychiatrist needed money for a foundation if he could get away with charging that much for a session.