by P. J. Morse
Only Anmol Singh’s ice-cream truck didn’t stop turning. Harold was busy peering through the donut-shop window to see if there were any crullers worth his time right as the ice-cream truck took a sharp turn and headed straight for us.
I screamed, “Anmol!” But when I looked into the windows, I saw a man with a black pantyhose leg over his head instead of a turban. It definitely wasn’t Anmol. Given the bad driving, I started to wonder if Mr. Buckner was behind the wheel. Then the ice-cream truck screeched and got hung up on the curb, which gave me the time to evaluate the driver’s shape. He was small, not chubby like Mr. Buckner.
The ice-cream truck broke free of the curb. Grabbing Harold by the arm, I threw both of us to the sidewalk and just started rolling. Harold’s Ice-cream sandwich went flying. The two of us rolled together several feet while the ice-cream truck plowed right through the glass windows of the Rainbow Donuts.
I heard screaming, Harold’s confused grunts, and the chorus of “Centerfield.” I smelled burnt donuts. Then I heard footsteps racing past me and saw a small, dark figure darting toward Third and Brannan.
I hugged Harold. I asked, “Are you all right?”
“My butt hurts!” he said. “Oof. But I’m okay. Did someone just try to kill you?”
“Yes! Yes they did! Son of a bitch!” My adrenaline rushed, and I was furious that the driver had time to take off. If the driver had just a few more seconds, Harold and I would have been squashed.
Police officers who had been on duty for the game rushed over, and I pointed them after where the driver ran off to.
And then I saw poor Anmol, who had run up just in time to see someone drive his beloved truck into the Rainbow Donuts. “My truck! My truck!” He clung to the truck’s bumper and started crying. The officer tried to take his story, which was almost entirely made up of sobs.
I stood upright and helped Harold sit down on the steps of the pub just past the Rainbow Donuts. I rubbed his knees and ankles to make sure he felt them. Other than a sore behind, Harold seemed okay. So I went over and hugged Anmol, who finally let go of the truck’s bumper and cried into my shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “We’ll get this guy. Did you see him?”
Anmol shook his head and pulled back a bit. “No. He had a cap pulled over his face.”
“Is there anything at all you remember? Just tell it in the order it happened.”
Anmol closed his eyes. “No one was around. Crespo was on deck, and the man with a cap walked up. He didn’t say anything. He just pointed at an ice-cream sandwich. I thought he was drunk like everyone else. He sure smelled of something fermented. And then he went for the turban.”
“No!” I gasped. “Oh, honey …”
“Yes!” Anmol declared, patting the top of his head to make sure his turban was on right. “That went too far. So I started punching him, and then he shoved me and went through the truck window. We fought, and he pushed me out the back.”
“Did you hear his voice at all?” I asked. “What about his clothes? His height?”
“Nothing extraordinary. He said nothing, he was short, and he was wearing a Giants cap, a Giants jersey, and jeans.”
I scratched my head. A short man who smelled like booze, fancied ice-cream sandwiches, and wore Giants gear described most of the people at the ball park that day. I said, “Anmol, that may not be much to go on, but I will find the guy who trashed your truck. I consider this personal.”
“Thank you,” Anmol said. “I put all my money in that truck. The sound system, everything …” He started tearing up again.
As Anmol cried, I got angry. I didn’t like it when people messed with me. I didn’t like it when people messed with my friends. And I really didn’t like it when people messed with my neighborhood.
CHAPTER 15
THE SECRET WEAPON
AFTER THE ICE-CREAM-TRUCK INCIDENT, HAROLD and I rested at home. Harold had an ice pack for each knee and sat on a bag of frozen tater tots to soothe his behind. I drank several beers to quell my shaking.
After a while, I went to my apartment upstairs and tried to go to sleep, but a rampaging ice-cream truck barreled through my dreams. So I picked up Dr. Redburn’s book and looked at the image on the back flap. Dr. Redburn was younger than I expected, mid-40s tops. He was handsome, with black hair, even blacker eyes, angular features and a strong jaw. He didn’t seem as cuddly as the pop psychologists who appeared on television.
I alternated between reading and peeking at the back flap, staring at him like his photo would talk back. He seemed like the key to the puzzle. The necklace disappeared in his office. I started investigating the necklace, and then Harold and I nearly get flattened by an ice-cream truck. It wouldn’t hurt for me to get an appointment with Dr. Redburn.
The easiest way for me to make an appointment was to call the office. Or so I thought. I placed an exploratory phone call that morning, at 9:00 am. A snippy male receptionist told me that the doctor was so booked he wasn’t admitting any more patients.
The receptionist’s tone made me feel stupid for even asking. “How was I supposed to know?” I asked.
“Dr. Redburn is a professional,” the receptionist told me. “He doesn’t just take people in off the street.”
I hung up on him. I didn’t need him, anyway. I decided to turn to my secret weapon—my mom. She would launch me into the tight-knit social realm in which the Buckners and Dr. Redburn orbited. And she owed me since she brought me Sabrina in the first place. I thought that Mom would like being more involved. She was always game for something new and was a fun accomplice.
I hopped into Cherry 2000 and drove to Seacliff. Whenever I visited Mom, who resided on a higher plane in more ways than one, I imagined I was a lost marble who tumbled down a hill and who wound up in the little bowl that was South Park.
I parked Cherry 2000 a few blocks away, behind a landscaping truck. Mom’s neighbors tended to grouse over Cherry 2000 and her paint job, but I felt that, if Cherry 2000 had a personality, she’d much rather hang out with a truck from Lopez Landscaping instead of a snotty Bentley.
I strolled up to the gate and punched in the code that would announce me to Mom’s staff. Esperanza, the maid, buzzed open the gate, and I marveled yet again at my mom’s creamy confection of a house. The mansion looked like a sprawling, one-story wedding cake. Since Mom didn’t do stairs after falling down a set when she lived on Cape Cod, the house flowed out rather than up.
Esperanza was already at the front door by the time I walked up the winding driveway. “Your mama says to bring you in. She just finished with Hands.” “Hands” was Esperanza’s attempt to say “Hans,” who was Mom’s fitness instructor.
Mom could not exist without Hans. If he weren’t around, she would probably be in a hospital somewhere. Hans was a massage therapist by trade, but he also developed special exercises for Mom that she could do without acquiring another cast.
I followed Esperanza toward the east wing of the house, past the sitting room’s heavenly view of the Bay. Mom was in the salon, where Esperanza had left a pitcher of cold, sweet tea, a treat Mom always made available for my visits.
Mom rose from a chair, did air-kisses, and raved about what Hans had done for strengthening her core. I didn’t understand a word she said about yoga or pilates or any of the latest exercise trends. Running around after allegedly shady individuals gave me more than enough exercise.
After sitting down again, Mom flapped her hands wildly. “Oh! Oh! I am so sorry for sending Sabrina your way! I had no idea she was so nuts. I have something for you. Consider it an apology!” She whipped out a shopping bag.
Although I preferred jeans and corduroy jackets, I never complained at the prospect of designer clothes, especially ones that might work as disguises. Mom tossed me the shopping bag, and I pulled out a hot-pink jogging suit. The bold shade nearly blinded me. Pulling it out and twisting it around, I saw that the suit pants had the word “JUICY” stitched into the backside.
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I just had to ask, “But what if your butt is dry?”
Mom giggled, “I certainly hope it is! I knew you’d get a kick out of it! No one would recognize you in it.”
I put the jogging suit back in the bag, poured myself some tea, and crossed to the window to savor Mom’s view of the bay. “Thank you,” I said. “And you shouldn’t feel so guilty about Sabrina. At least her case is interesting.”
“Oh, so she gave you some details?” Mom asked. “She was so hysterical, she wouldn’t tell me anything other than that one of her maids is missing. The way she cried, you’d think that woman never had a maid quit on her! Look, I love Esperanza, and I would be heartbroken if she vanished, absolutely heartbroken. But I wouldn’t be paying a detective to find her.”
“I wish more women did that, actually. I’d make a lot more money,” I laughed.
“Just like your father—thinking of the bottom line,” she said.
I know Mom meant it as a compliment, but I never liked being compared to my dad. So I changed the subject. “What do you know about the maids?” I asked.
Mom rolled her neck from side to side and sighed like a kitten. She was always relaxed after an appointment with Hans. “Her maids have been leaving, and she wants to find out why. It’s her nasty husband, if you ask me. He probably propositioned them, and, if I were propositioned by that man, I’d take off, too.”
I weighed what I should tell her and what I shouldn’t. Sabrina didn’t want anyone to know she lost that necklace, but I had to tell Mom just enough to get an introduction to the mysterious Dr. Redburn. “Okay—there’s another side to the story.”
Mom’s eyes flashed, and she coiled up. She wasn’t relaxed anymore. Gossiping about friends was a highlight of her day. “I knew it! It’s that husband, isn’t it?”
“Actually, no. She wants me to check out her psychiatrist.”
Mom looked disappointed and relaxed again. “Well, Sabrina could use a shrink, and a good one. Who is the shrink?”
“Dr. Redburn.”
“Mr. Popular! I thought of seeing him myself.”
“You don’t need a shrink. You have Hans.”
“That’s true,” Mom said, and smiled. “But everyone else has a shrink or an analyst, and many women love that Dr. Redburn.”
“Why?” I asked. “Do you know him?”
“Kind of. I’ve met him once, and I hear he’s fabulous! I can’t even get an appointment with him!”
“What is it that makes him so fabulous?” I asked. “I don’t get it. His book talks about people getting in touch with their emotions or some such crap.”
Mom shrugged. “It’s just a return of that primal scream stuff. It’s like the leggings of psychology. It’s come back with a vengeance.”
“Screaming? How is that going to help anyone?”
Mom said, “Look, a lot of my friends want to scream at their husbands, but they can’t. Or, if they do, their husbands don’t care. They just want someone to listen to them. Dr. Redburn could claim he’s receiving transmissions from Mars, and women would love it as long as he’s a good listener. What woman doesn’t want a pretty face listening to her?”
I was surprised that Mom was speaking about a psychiatrist as if he were a promising blind date. Then again, if Mom’s bones weren’t exactly resilient, her spirit was like a trampoline. She didn’t take anything too seriously. She would tell me how she took a lot of crap for being new money on old-money Cape Cod and how my father’s family never really accepted her. But, when it seemed like she was sad about it, she would just let out this ringing laugh and make herself a drink. A few minutes later, she’d wind up with a sprained ankle, as if her body showed what her heart didn’t.
“Well, Sabrina wants me to check this Redburn guy out.” Then I fibbed and left out the necklace. “She wants me to go undercover as a patient to make sure he’s trustworthy.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “She is so paranoid. I remember when she called me after running out on you. She kept asking, ‘Are you sure she’s legitimate?’ You’re my daughter, for God’s sake! And now you have to vet her shrinks? And her maids?”
“I’m already vetting the maids,” I sighed. I thought of Rosa. While I wasn’t sure about any of the other maids at the Buckner residence, she seemed perfectly innocent.
“I hope she’s paying you well. And people say I’m high-maintenance!”
“Well, Ms. High-Maintenance, I am here to ask you for a favor, since you are the undisputed queen of introductions … and I need to meet this shrink …”
Mom grinned. Her eyes lit up. This was the first time I let her get actively involved in a case beyond a referral. “Say no more, darling! Mama can take care of everything!”
CHAPTER 16
PACKAGE DEAL
TRUE TO HER WORD, MOM set up the perfect opportunity for me to brush up against Dr. Redburn. Kit Parker Whitman never could resist a gallery opening, and she had spotted Dr. Redburn at several of them, sometimes as an escort for his patients. That night, she had plans to attend an elite sneak preview of a career retrospective at the San Jose Museum of Art. All the big donors were invited, and Dr. Redburn was expected to be there.
I felt confident about seeing Dr. Redburn without being called out as a private eye. Mom swore up and down that she could keep any of her pals who used my services at bay. If I was going to get an appointment and look for that necklace, Mom was my only option.
I spent an hour choosing an outfit, doing my makeup, and scenting myself. When I saw myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the pretty redhead in the little black cocktail dress, pearls, and strappy heels. I admitted to myself that I had probably gone overboard, but I decided to have a little fun.
Mom’s driver honked, and I flounced downstairs. Harold leaned out his kitchen door, whistled, then said, “Seducing your prey is one way to do it, huh?”
“Don’t stay up!” I called back as the driver opened the door.
My mom applauded me as I entered. “I should tell your father! You look like a queen!”
I bumped my head as I climbed into the backseat. “I sure wish I had the grace of one. Anyway, please don’t tell Dad. He’ll start expecting me to dress this way all the time.”
“Oh, please. When is the last time I spoke to your father?” Pulling a flask out of her handbag, Mom asked, “Want a little?”
“Don’t mind if I do!” I said. I took a swig, gasped slightly when the bourbon went down my throat, and said, “I forgot to tell you. I almost got killed yesterday.”
Mom took a bigger second swig and patted her hand on her chest. “My god! Are you in trouble?”
“I am if you see any ice-cream trucks lurking outside the San Jose Museum of Art. Some jackass stole my neighbor’s truck, and he tried to wipe me and Harold out.”
“Wait! Who do you think it was? A little hint, a clue? Does it have to do with your latest investigation?” After the initial shock, she seemed excited by the news. Mom definitely wasn’t the type of parent who worried.
I looked out the window at the scenery along Interstate 280. “Be patient. All you need to know is that I want a visit with the good doctor.”
“I thought you just needed to do a background check on him. Has he been a bad boy?” She snickered. “He’s an awfully good-looking man. Have you seen him? Phew!”
“Oh, yeah, I saw the picture on his book. Not bad.”
Mom waved her flask in a toasting gesture. “You’re so lucky! I wish I got paid to flirt, too!” She giggled and patted her legs like a little girl. I thought she saw the driver, a plump, middle-aged man whose Bible was resting on the passenger seat, look back in alarm.
When Mom and I entered the San Jose Museum of Art, the floor of the museum was jammed with potential donors, and the scene was far more crowded than I expected. Everyone was enjoying the abundant free food and wine that would eventually separate said donors from their wallets.
In this atmosphere, Mom bloomed like a flower watered by bourbon
. “Darling!” she exclaimed. “This is what I live for!” She promptly saw a friend from her crowd and began to achieve her apparent goal of exchanging air-kisses with anyone within a one-mile radius.
If Mom had asked me, I would have declared that everyone in the museum’s grand hall—from rich to poor, from old to young, from Botoxed to dewy-skinned—were trying far too hard to see and be seen. I separated from Mom and moved from canvas to canvas at the museum, only slightly interested in the retrospective of a Bay Area figurative artist who liked to paint life-sized silhouettes of curvy women and muscle-bound men running in front of fake advertising billboards. I wasn’t sure if the artist was making a commentary on consumerism or if he just liked to hang around nude models. For a moment, I thought all these massive shadows were running toward me. Then I realized maybe that was Mom’s bourbon at work.
While the painter stood on a dais to thank his audience, I searched for Craig Redburn’s face in the crowd. The painter was a dumpy, pot-bellied, middle-aged man, and most of the other men at the museum who were Dr. Redburn’s age were equally dumpy and pot-bellied. Many of them wore black berets and Cosby sweaters, so, if the good doctor looked half as handsome as his jacket picture and my mom’s praise suggested, he would have stuck out like a blob of neon green on a black canvas. After strolling around the room in search of Dr. Redburn, I caught some of the elderly artistes ogling me, and I began to think of the doctor as a life raft.
Meanwhile, Mom was mingling with the socialites who were listening to the curators with only one ear about how wonderful their names would look stamped into a stair of the San Jose Museum of Art, just one of the possible perks depending on the size of their donation. Dr. Redburn wasn’t among the potential donors, either. I caught Mom’s eyes, and Mom scratched her head and shrugged in response.
My eyes wandered from Mom and the stairway embossed with the names of the most generous donors to a gazebo that had been awkwardly wedged into the courtyard entrance. The gazebo was a recent addition and thoroughly out of place compared to the rest of the sleek museum. The little hut was green and leafy, while everything else was marble and stone, and white plastic sealed off the open spaces one would expect in a gazebo.
