by P. J. Morse
I gave a short wave to Muriel and walked with Dr. Redburn out of the café. We said goodbye quickly, and I walked toward the nearest bus stop on Fillmore, while he jogged toward Myrtle Street. Once he was out of sight, I gave him a few minutes and then headed east. I turned left and went running back up Webster as fast as I could toward Myrtle, which was past Lafayette Park.
My legs began to burn, but I kept Dr. Redburn in my sights, several blocks ahead, and I caught up to the sirens. A crowd had built up around the scene, which was a block away from the Buckner home. Several maids, including those I had seen when I was undercover selling cosmetics, were clustered together, crying and clinging to each other. I saw the maid who had unceremoniously kicked me out of the house, but I didn’t see Rosa.
EMTs had already put a white sheet over the body. One man in a golf shirt was being interviewed by a police officer. He said, “I found her body in my front yard, like she’d been thrown in it.” Other officers were taking pictures of black skids in the street. I saw Dr. Redburn deep in discussion with one of the EMTs.
Giving the maids and Dr. Redburn a wide berth, lest I be recognized, I worked my way toward the Buckner house, and I saw Sabrina Norton Buckner standing in her front doorway. Tears were running down her face. I ducked behind a bush and called out, “Sabrina!”
Sabrina jumped backward and clutched at her neck, where there was no necklace. “How did you get here?”
I stretched out my hand, said, “Come with me,” and pulled Sabrina to the other side of the house, out of sight. “Was it Rosa? Is she dead?”
Sabrina asked, “How did you know?”
“I told you I’d probably be in your house. I met her. She let me in.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Sabrina rubbed tears from her eyes.
“I have no idea,” I said. I meant it.
“She was so sweet! Why would someone just hit her and take off?”
“Did you see anything?”
Sabrina shook her head. “I was taking a nap. And then I heard this screech and all this screaming and the police.” Her face crinkled up.
“Sabrina,” I said. “I need you to calm down. Did Rosa do anything strange today? Anything at all that stuck out to you?”
Taking a deep breath, Sabrina replied, “She doesn’t usually say much, but she became upset. It happened maybe half an hour ago.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“I’m not sure…. She spoke so quickly. She did say ‘very important’ in English. She said that a lot. Then she said ‘husband.’ I thought she was saying my husband was very important. And then she tried to say something else, but she started talking in Spanish.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
Sabrina rubbed her temples. “No! Hardly anything. Then someone called her. She talked to them in Spanish, and she left.”
“Do you remember what she said? At least phonetically,” I asked. “I speak Spanish.” You didn’t go to college in California without taking a few classes.
“On her way out, she kept saying something like ‘low sento.’ ‘Low sento.” Something was low?”
“Lo siento,” I translated. “It means ‘I’m sorry.’ She was trying to tell you that she was sorry about something.”
Rosa tried to tell Sabrina something important. But someone called, and whatever they said made her change her mind, so much so that she apologized to Sabrina for the mistake.
But Rosa made the mistake by leaving the house. Someone was waiting there to mow her down.
Sabrina started crying again. “If only I’d made her stay …”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “Whoever drove the car is responsible, not you.” I peeked around the corner of the house. Dr. Redburn was still talking and even taking a step toward the body. He hadn’t glanced our way, but, once he saw Sabrina, he would attempt to console her. “I should go.”
“I know I hired you for the necklace … and I need it … but I promise I’ll give what I can to her family, I swear …”
“Look, Sabrina, I will do my best to get that necklace and find out what happened to Rosa. You just sit tight. Call her family, take care of things here, give your employees some time off …”
I was about to advise her to let her husband know what had happened, but before I could finish, Sabrina saw Dr. Redburn. “Craig!” she blurted out. “I have to talk to him. I can’t take this.”
I was surprised that Sabrina would say she needed her psychiatrist before she needed her husband, even if her husband wasn’t exactly a pillar of strength. “Take care of yourself. I’m going to do everything I can, and you will see me soon.” I squeezed Sabrina’s arm. “And don’t tell Dr. Redburn you saw me. Promise?”
She nodded. Then I heard an officer calling Sabrina’s name, so I took off toward the back and darted through another person’s backyard to get away.
CHAPTER 22
ON THE INTERNETS
NO ONE HAD EVER DIED during any of my investigations, and I couldn’t get Sabrina’s and the maids’ sobbing out of my head. While maybe Rosa died as the result of an accident, the ice-cream-truck incident was too much of a coincidence. Someone wasn’t happy that I was looking for that necklace. As I walked toward the bus stop, my heart fluttered every time I heard an engine revving up.
But my heart stopped cold when I saw my father, Thomas Clancy Parker the Third himself, sitting uncomfortably on a lawn chair beside Harold, in the dark. They made quite a pair, as my father was in a bespoke suit, and Harold was in plaid flannel pajamas. Harold was blithely ignoring Dad, sipping on a beer and reading Marx’s Das Kapital with a flashlight. Dad was picking at his nails and staring at the book’s cover. He jumped up as soon as he saw me.
“Young lady! What have you gotten yourself into?” He was wagging his finger zealously.
“Hi, Dad. Wanna give me a hug before your finger falls off?”
He hugged me quickly and said, “At least you’re dressing better.”
“That’s funny. I just had someone tell me pink isn’t my color.” I leaned over. “Hi, Harold! Thanks for entertaining Dad!”
“Oh, it was nothing.” He sipped a beer and turned another page of Marx.
“Don’t play dumb! You’re not blowing me off!” Dad bellowed. “You know why I’m here! I saw that ice-cream-truck … thing!”
“Who told you that?” I asked. Mom and Dad weren’t exactly chummy, so it couldn’t have been her.
Dad folded his arms across his chest. “Well, well, young lady, I am now fully online, and one of my suppliers here saw you on the news last night! He sent me a link, and I watched the video on my computer. How about that?”
“Whoop-de-do,” Harold commented. “You’re on the Internets. Good for you.”
“If I want your commentary, I’ll ask for it!” Dad hollered.
“Have you guys been fighting again?” I asked. The last time my father was in town, he and Harold launched a screaming match over the repercussions of NAFTA, and Dad had referred to Harold as “your smelly pinko landlord” ever since. That explained Harold’s sudden interest in the works of Karl Marx. He probably pulled it off his bookshelf solely for Dad’s benefit.
“Yes,” Harold said. “It’s more like a Cold War, though.”
“Ignore him,” Dad said. “I don’t know why you put yourself through this!”
“Hey,” Harold replied. “That ice-cream truck almost hit me, too. Your daughter saved my life. Maybe you should think about it from that angle.”
“Okay, Dad,” I said, “Can you show me the video?” Not only would it separate Dad and Harold, but I might also find something illuminating in the news footage.
“All right, then,” Dad said.
I unlocked my door and waved him in. I was glad that Harold stayed put in his chair.
As we went up the stairs, I asked, “You flew all the way out here just to yell at me about the ice-cream truck?”
Dad pulled off his suit jacket and threw it across my
Barcalounger. “I had some business in San Francisco, too. May as well do both.” He then griped, “I have offered you a real job at the grocery. I think it is about time you took it. I know full well that ice-cream truck business was no accident. You are mixing with a bad element.”
“Would you stop calling my clients—and I know you’re talking about Harold, too, by the way—a ‘bad element’? What I do is a valuable public service. And the last time I was back East, your marketing VP tried to hire me to spy on his wife, remember? Is he a ‘bad element’ for trying to hire me?”
“Oh, please,” he replied, but he knew it was true. “Turn on your computer.”
As the cupcakecity.com laptop booted up, Dad said, “The only friend of yours I like around here is that guy you were dating. It’s too bad you broke up. What was his name? Larry? He seemed like he had an ounce of sense, but no … he had to be totally crazy for him to be good enough for you!”
“May I remind you that he dumped me?” I opened a browser and typed in the Web address of one of the local channels.
“Well, you don’t listen to anyone! You are just like—”
“—your mother,” I finished. It didn’t take me long to find a video about the ice-cream truck crash. I was surprised it even got that much press. “This what you wanted?” I asked.
“Yes! Yes! Push the button! Make it play!” He jabbed his finger at the air.
I hit play on the clip. A new browser window opened, and, after a buffer and a commercial for the Tip-Top Mattress Shop, the video finally started.
“… and so the campaign against freak dancing rages on,” a distinguished, older male anchor said. He turned to his much younger, blonde counterpart. “Roxanne?”
Roxanne, who looked more like a Playboy playmate than a journalist, turned to the screen. “A bizarre scene unfolded at the Brilliant Systems baseball park this afternoon when a rogue ice-cream truck slammed into a donut shop.”
The camera cut to the scene. I was surprised the news crew arrived so quickly after the scene, but it made sense since they were already out for the ball game. I could see shots of myself hugging Anmol and then helping Harold away from the scene. Roxanne’s voice overlaid everything: “Someone must have been screaming for ice cream during today’s Giants-Cardinals game when a man hijacked an ice-cream truck. The truck’s driver described the situation.”
The camera cut to Anmol, who looked horrified and confused. His turban was tilted. “This man … this man, he hit me, he tried to take my turban, and he took my truck!” The station abruptly cut him off, probably before he unleashed a few choice expletives.
Shots of the San Francisco Giants making plays during the game appeared while Roxanne spoke. “Even the members of the San Francisco Giants were interested in the incident.”
The scene cut to a post-game press conference, where Clayton Crespo was behind microphones. “Yeah, we heard about that ice-cream truck. We could smell those donuts burning back in the locker room.” Crespo looked around the room. “Hey, man, I’m hungry! Where can we get some Krispy Kremes around here?”
Then Roxanne wrapped it up. She was trying desperately not to laugh as she said, “No ice cream was reported missing. Though some of it appeared to have melted.”
Dad threw up his hands. “What were you doing there? Why was that truck after you?”
“A case got a little too close to me, that’s all. No one got hurt, and insurance is going to cover the truck, okay? It’s going to be fine.” After seeing the hit-and-run that killed Rosa, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was saying was true, but I had to convince Dad enough to get him on a plane back to Boston.
Then, both of us heard a beeping noise. Each of us instinctively pulled Crackberries from our pockets. I noticed that Dad had a newer, more expensive model than I did. “Oh, you got one of those now, eh? Mr. Technology.”
He held up a finger, as the text that came in was for him. “Those damn Brussels sprouts people. I have to run. I am at the Hyatt, and you will be seeing me again. I am not done with this.”
I shook my head. “Dad, I’m sorry this freaked you out. It freaked me out, too, but I’m not changing anything. I like my life.”
Dad ignored that comment. Instead, he turned his back to me and made a phone call. I heard him say, “If that lying bastard thinks I’m going to pay that much for Brussels sprouts, he’s an idiot.” He punched a button on the Crackberry. “I will see you later, young lady. And I should talk to your mother because I just know she’s in on this.”
I didn’t answer that since Mom helped me at the museum. Then again, I thought the two of them might get a little kick out of fighting with each other. It had been a while for both of them. “Dad, can I get a hug?”
“Okay.” He hugged me, and he hugged me hard. I could tell that I was going to win the battle. Even if Dad was inattentive and generally against anything that I stood for, I would always be his only baby.
When he was finished with the hug, he went for the door. Before he left, he said, “And tell your landlord to take a shower!”
CHAPTER 23
EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS
I SLEPT FOR A LONG TIME, so long that I didn’t wake up until my Crackberry went off the next morning, and Wayne said he was coming to get me in Westy, his roomy 1984 VW Westfalia, for more band auditions at the Echo Chamber.
A quick shower and breakfast bar later, and I was over in Potrero Hill, grateful for the distraction. Filling an open space in the band seemed much simpler than dealing with the Buckners’ case, Rosa’s death and Dad’s spur-of-the-moment visit.
As soon as I arrived and saw Shane and Wayne getting their instruments in fighting condition, I followed through on Muriel’s request to ask Shane what happened between the two of them. “Muriel says you’re a sumbitch with a capital ‘S.’”
Wayne was off tuning in the corner. He chuckled.
Shane held out both his arms. “She still wants to kill me?” he asked.
“Actually, it goes beyond killing,” I replied. “She’s been kind of like a zombie on this one. She’s single-minded. She wants to gnaw on your human flesh. She’s that pissed.”
“What happened there, Shane?” Wayne asked. “I thought you dug her.”
“She’s right. I deserve to be gnawed on,” Shane said. He walked over to his drum kit, planted his behind on his stool and sighed in contentment, “Ah, I feel much better.”
“Oh, no. You’re not hiding behind the drum kit,” I said. “We had girl talk—”
“No, not that!” Wayne interjected.
“—yes, Wayne, that. And Muriel insisted that I ask you what happened. She said you’d know. All I know is that she wanted exclusive rights.”
“I’m sorry she’s still mad. She is big fun. There’s no one else like her. I asked her to take me back, but she wasn’t having it,” Shane tapped his head with a drumstick. “I am an idiot. Do you really want to know what happened? It was bad.”
“Yes, I do. Then I won’t bug her about joining the band anymore,” I replied.
Shane looked contrite. “Technically, we were not committed.”
“That sounds like you two were going to go to the insane asylum,” I said.
“No, no,” Shane said. “She just told me she wanted a commitment talk. And I got scared. So I got drunk and slept with another Thunderpussy.”
Wayne dropped his hand from the neck of his guitar. He bowed low in Shane’s direction. “Sire, I commend thee. You slept with not one, but two Thunderpussies? Which one? Cassie?”
Shane looked a little too proud of himself after Wayne’s admiration. “Nope. Nina.”
“Nina? You rule!” Now Wayne was truly impressed. “She’s a man-eater!” he sang out, to the tune of Hall and Oates.
Shane shrugged. “Eh. I was drunk at the time. I don’t remember it.”
“Dude! I wanted details!” Wayne yelled.
I waved my arms, reminding them to get their brains out of their britches and back into band practice. “Okay,
sorry I asked! No Hall and Oates references during practice!” And then I addressed Shane directly. “I know I messed up with Larry, and I regret it every damn day, but would you mind, Shane, letting us know the next time you plan on mingling fluids with other bands?”
“I’m sorry,” Shane looked like a puppy that had been spanked with a newspaper. I really did feel bad for him.
“Well, it did kind of fuck up our plans, dude,” Wayne said.
“I wish I hadn’t done it. I mean it.” Shane struck a cymbal. “Like I said, I’m an idiot.”
Wayne’s cell phone went off. “OK, let’s put this heartbreak to bed. It’s audition time.” He left the space to let an aspiring bassist into the Echo Chamber.
I turned to Shane. “Have you ever thought of apologizing? Chances are good she might forgive or even take you back. She says she hates you, but then she won’t shut up about you,” I said.
“It’s probably as likely as your getting back together with Larry,” he replied. “Which means it won’t happen.”
“I don’t think Larry is off somewhere talking about me or thinking about me. In fact, his life is much better without me. Your chances are better with Muriel.”
“I would like to see her,” Shane said, tapping his sticks together. “If I could just talk to her for a few minutes … but she’s in the right. I am a Sumbitch. But I play great drums!” And he started banging away.
Wayne brought in an older guy who looked like he rolled out of bed and forgot to take off his mismatched pajamas. I detected a mysterious whiff of asparagus in the air. “I really like the songs of yours I heard,” the hygienically challenged bassist mumbled. His voice was sleepy.
I said, “Well, let’s set up and give it a go. We have the sheet music, too.”
“Yes. But I need to do my chants first.” He pointed at the corner of the room past Wayne. “Can I use that back corner?”
“Uhh … okay.” Wayne stepped aside.
The man placed both hands on either side of the corner and rested his head in the corner itself. “I am focusing my energy in this room!” He then began to speak in what appeared to be tongues, although I caught strands of other languages in there. I thought he was saying something in German about fish being the devil.
