“Oh, dear. I was so hoping...praying...you had. That in his death throes, he managed to say something about his killer before he…”
Mrs. Wyler began to sob. “The police seem so baffled. No one seems to know anything. We may never know who or why...” The woman broke off and blew her nose noisily into an already sodden handkerchief.
So that’s why I was here!
My heart suddenly went out to the woman, she and her four hundred oleanders. I took a chance and reached for her hand again to squeeze it. This time she didn’t pull back.
“I’m truly sorry. I wish I could help you, but I didn’t see or hear anything.”
“He never said anything right before he…passed over?”
“He was over by the time I got there. I mean…” I stammered and stopped talking, trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wyler, but by the time I found him, it was too late. He was gone. I would help you if I could, but I don’t know anything. I’m so very sorry. I wish I could help you.”
“That’s all right, my dear. And I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any more distress," she said, blowing her nose again. She rose from the chair and straightened the creases out of her skirt. “Thank you so much for coming and be sure to give my best to your mother.” Mrs. Wyler dismissed me with a small nod and, holding her head high, left the room.
I stood, picked up my handbag, and walked to the door as fast as I dared without breaking into a dead run. Once in my car, I careened down the driveway toward the imprisoning iron-gate. Fortunately, it was on an automatic eye and opened just in time, or it and I would have been one. I headed toward University Avenue and didn’t actually breathe a sigh of relief until I got back to the office. Frankly, I was a mere shell of my former self.
I had several calls in my voicemail. One from the Palo Alto Police Station letting me know I could pick up my revolver at any time.
Another, from Vets and Pets, instructing me the kitten was due in the following Wednesday to be altered. They included a small lecture on how good it is to fix kittens when they are between nine and twelve weeks old. I made a note on my calendar.
There won’t be any more unwanted kittens in the world because of me, I vowed.
The third call was from Ronald Everett. He had returned mine and left a number in San Jose where he could be reached. I dialed the number and after going through several people was put on the line with him. He was polite but distant, and I was surprised at this change in behavior. When we initially met with him, he had seemed very eager to put an end to a problem jeopardizing his new and flourishing company. Overall, he gave me the impression of a warm and compassionate man. Now he was cold and withdrawn. The more we talked, the more suspicious I became.
After five minutes of my probing, Everett hesitated and then took a deep breath and paused. It was a pause I knew well. I figured he didn’t want to pursue the matter because he now suspected or even knew who the culprit was. His behavior also indicated to me it wasn’t an employee, valued or otherwise. An employee, no matter how loyal or long they are with a company, would elicit outrage and anger for their duplicity. Hang them by their toes or private parts would often be the cry.
But trusted friends, and especially family members, bring on a different reaction. The betrayal, hurt, and humiliation often make the victim feel emotionally impotent. Frequently they do nothing, hoping the problem will resolve itself or go away, and take that person with it.
“Mr. Everett, I think you want to drop this investigation because you have a suspicion as to who it is,” I said.
“I don’t suspect. I know,” Mr. Everett uttered in a hoarse voice, after a moment’s silence.
“Okay, you know. Now the next step is to think about how you want to handle it. It’s not going to go away just because you now know. That’s not how it happens.”
“I’ve spoken with him. He’s going to stop. He understands I'll prosecute if he doesn't.” His voice had lowered and together with the hoarseness made him difficult to understand, “I have proof, irrefutable proof. He wouldn’t dare continue.”
“Mr. Everett, if you have proof, take it to your lawyer,” I said. I didn’t like the way the conversation was going and pressed on, “Let somebody else know what’s going on. If you don’t want to go to the police...”
“Certainly not! The scandal would kill my wife.”
“I understand. Really, I do,” I said. “Please remember, though, you’re dealing with hundreds of thousands of dollars—”
“Try millions,” he interjected.
“Exactly. Some people will do anything for that kind of money. Today someone caught pirating software at the level you’ve indicated is facing a jail sentence of six to ten years. Desperate people commit desperate acts. Protect yourself by giving someone else the information or the evidence.”
“I don’t know that I can do that.”
“At least, think about it. Promise me that.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll…I’ll think about what you’ve said,” he replied hurriedly, as if he couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Then he let out a sigh so loud it sounded like water rushing through the phone. “Thank you, Miss Alvarez. You realize I cannot use the services of your company the way things are.”
“Absolutely. I understand, and that’s not the issue. You need to be careful, Mr. Everett, in whatever you decide to do,” I added.
“I will. Thank you,” he said again and hung up.
Listening to the dial tone, I tried to quell that awful feeling again in my solar plexus. I tried to convince myself he was the CEO and owner of a very large computer company.
He was savvy. He was smart. He was a “wheeler dealer” and could wipe up the floor with simpletons like me. He should be able to take care of himself.
I said that over and over to myself, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
I hung up the phone and began reading the printout Richard had given me, more to occupy my mind than anything else. I was immersed in it within seconds. Yes, he was right about the cars. The only one unaccounted for was Grace Wong’s. That area was strictly for tourists or dockworkers. Not many other people had a reason to be there. I studied the printout of Grace’s purchases of gasoline.
So nice of these businesses, I thought, to give you this much information. Not only do they give you the date and the amount, they also give you the time of the purchase.
Every one of Grace Wong’s gas charges was made in the late evening, usually around midnight. I checked the calendar for dates going back several months and discovered another interesting fact. Her visits were always on a Thursday night at least once, if not twice, a month.
What was that all about?
I tried to reason this out. Grace Wong had to be performing on a Thursday night. The usual day off in the theatre was Monday. I grabbed a newspaper and checked the theatre section to confirm this. I was right. In addition, most performances ended around ten-thirty p.m. In order to be there shortly after midnight, in my judgment, Grace Wong must have ripped off her costume after curtain call and driven like a bat out of hell down to Princeton-by-the-Sea.
Well, tomorrow is Thursday, I mused, and I’m going to have to visit this New England harbor on the Pacific.
I finished the rest of the work on my desk determined to free up the following day. I left a series of voicemail and email messages for Lila and my co-workers explaining I was taking a PTO day, Personal Time Off, and I would return to work and respond to all messages on Friday. Leaving the office shortly before four-thirty, I stopped off at PAPD, where I signed several forms, retrieved my gun and managed to avoid Frank.
When I got home, I took the stairs two at a time in my excitement. Tossing my handbag on the sofa, I picked up the phone before even taking my shoes off. I called Tío with the new name for the kitten. The newly named was in his usual position on the sofa, dead to the world. He didn’t even stir as I threw myself next to him.
“Tío,” I said, eagerly after my uncle answered
the phone. “I’ve got the name for the little guy. It's...”
“Un momento, mi Sobrina,” he interrupted. “Let me call you back after my gordas are out of the oven. I don’t want to have the queso to burn.”
Tío hung up the phone before I could tell him that “to have the cheese to burn” was not grammatically correct. He liked to have us correct his English when called upon, and we all obliged him when necessary. However, that was the least of it. While I didn’t exactly expect to hear applause because I’d finally arrived at a name for the little guy, I did expect a better reaction than what I got. I put down the receiver and leaned over the sleeping kitten, knowing I should leave him alone. He needed his sleep and would probably be conked out for hours. I watched him for a moment, as he breathed in and out. The little guy twitched his whiskers and little white paws, and I could no longer resist. I picked up his limp body, and he dangled from my hand like overdone spaghetti.
“Well, are you interested in knowing your new name, Rum Tum Tugger?” I asked and the kitten moved slightly and opened his eyes part way. “Aha! You’re awake. So, what do you want to be called? Rum or Tum or Tugger?” I faced his little body toward me and cupped his rump with my other hand. His head tilted to one side. Then he gave a big yawn and closed his eyes again.
“Oh, this is great,” I said and returned him to the couch where he promptly fell back to sleep. “Hassling a defenseless kitten. I should be ashamed.” I went into the bathroom and drew a bath, putting in some salts for my aching feet. Dancers’ feet always ache even if they don’t dance for a living.
Tío returned my call before the tub filled up, and I told him the kitten’s name. It was a good thing I was prepared for the letdown.
“This is a name? What kind of a name is this?”
“I told you, Tío. It comes from Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. It’s what cats call themselves.”
“I have known a lot of gatos en mi vida. Not one has called himself Rummytummy, mi Sobrina.”
“It’s not Rummytummy,” I replied, with exasperation. “It's Rum Tum Tugger. We can call him Rum or Tum or Rum Tum or Tugger.”
“Maybe we should call him Thomas,” Tío laughed and then tried to appease me when he sensed hurt feelings on the other end of the line. “I think if you want to call him Tummy you should do so. It’s a fine name.”
I controlled my voice and tried to remain calm. “Not Tummy. Tugger. Tugger.”
“Tugger,” Tío repeated.
The kitten brought his ears to an alert position and raised his head from the sofa focusing sleepy eyes on me. He gave out one of his silent meows.
“Exactly,” I smiled, looking back at the kitten that looked at me contemplatively, before closing his eyes again. “His name is Tugger because he tugs at your heartstrings.”
“I think I am what you call nauseous, mi sobrina,” Tío said, with no small amount of mirth in his voice.
“Well, I still like the name, so Rum Tum Tugger it is. Good night, Tío. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for taking such good care of Tugger.”
Chapter Ten
A Trip To Princeton-by-the-Sea
The next morning I got up before five o’clock. I was much too excited to sleep any later. I did my morning barre and exercises, examined the body from all angles in the full-length mirror, and decided I could have bacon for breakfast. I had my shower, while Tugger followed me around watching my every move. I picked him up and put him in the waist of my tied robe, something that had become a morning ritual for both of us. Every day he felt a little heavier, and I was delighted. After feeding both of us, and not sharing my bacon with Tugger no matter what his tricks, I dressed in dark jeans and a gray pullover sweater I’d borrowed from Richard once and forgot to return. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had something non-descript and non-attention getting. That’s the downside of being ‘colorful.’
By seven o’clock, I was ready to go. I had originally hoped to beat the traffic by leaving at what I thought was an early hour. That, however, was the naiveté of a person who lives several blocks from where she works and has no idea how it really goes in the Bay Area nowadays.
I’ve since found out the fume-infested, bumper-to-bumper commute begins around six in the morning until after ten a.m. and then starts again at three in the afternoon until well past seven p.m. I guess if you really want a trouble free drive, you need to leave at three in the morning.
Yes, it is a small window of opportunity, but your commute should be heaven. In any event, I joined the masses on Freeway 280, went west over the mountainous part of Route 92, and headed north on Highway One.
By the time I reached Princeton-by-the-Sea, it was nearly nine o’clock, and I was a little cranky and stiff. I’m not used to that type of aggressive driving. I needed a stretch and some coffee. Actually, I needed some Valium, but coffee was more accessible. I turned the car into the nearby parking lot of a seaside diner, all silver chrome and kitschy, that sat on the ocean side of the highway. It looked as if it had been stolen off the back lot of “The Diner.” I half expected to see Sylvester Stallone, long before his buffed up days, bop out the door carrying one of those plastic pink flamingos the era seems to be unable to live down.
The sun started coming up about an hour earlier, but the night chill still had its grip on the day. Shivering, I walked across the parking lot toward the metallic diner gleaming in the newly risen sun. I turned around and looked back at the buildings across the highway. Most were plain houses without much style, but there was the occasional business residing in a one-story, inexpensive stucco job. I looked again at the diner, with the California coastline in the background. Princeton-by-the-Sea, or what there was of it, couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be a working town or a tourist town. Regardless, compared to Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel, or even Half Moon Bay, it was tiny and unpretentious.
I might have made a mistake in coming over here. What could possibly be going on in this place? With a deep sigh, I saw a long, boring day ahead of me in a town of less than four hundred people.
After a cup of surprisingly good coffee and a killer view of the surf, I decided to start at one of the local addresses I had for Grace Wong. I went back to the car, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a map of the area.
I chose to walk and leave the car where it was, thinking the gas station might be somewhere nearby. The address wasn’t given on the receipts, but I figured it shouldn’t be too hard to find a Ben’s Gas around here. After asking a passing local who looked like he was old enough to be one of the survivors of the Titanic, I discovered it was two or three blocks off the highway, inside the older section of town. I knew the walk would do me good, so I set out to find it.
I discovered most of the streets are named for famous universities, with Ben’s Gas Station and Auto Repair located on Yale Avenue. It wound up being amidst a plethora of stored fishing boats, all aged and peeling, and stacks of ancient crab pots in a part of town tourists probably never visit. The repair part of the station had six cars, in various stages of decay, scattered here and there. They contributed nicely to the run-down look of the area. The gas pumps were unmanned, but I looked around and saw a pair of booted feet under an older, brown Toyota Celica. I went over and squatted down near the boots.
“Good morning!” I yelled to the bottom of the car in between the banging sounds coming from the underside.
“That you, Sue?” answered a young, male voice somewhere near the exhaust.
“No, it’s not Sue. My name’s Lee, and I wanted to ask you something. You got a minute?”
A young man of about eighteen or nineteen pushed himself out from under the car. He wore a blue uniform covered with grease, and in his dirty right hand, he clutched a wrench. The name “Ed” was embroidered in red on the left side of his chest. He glared at me first and then broke out into a friendly smile.
“Wish I did, miss, but I gotta get this car ready for Sue. She’s gonna be back any minute for it.”
/> “Sure, Ed, I understand, but I was just wondering if you’ve ever seen this woman.” I showed him a printout picture of Grace Wong. It was amazing how clear a picture a computer can produce these days. It almost looked like a studio portrait.
“Oh, Jesus. What are you? A private detective?” He threw the wrench into a nearby toolbox and picked out another tool, ready to go back under the chassis.
I had been unprepared for this kind of reaction and forced a laugh, as I frantically searched my mind for an answer. “Of course not. Do I look like a detective?” I continued before he could answer, “I’m a dancer just like her. Her name is Grace Wong, and she dances with the San Francisco Ballet Company.”
“So?” he started to go under the car, and I grabbed his shoulder.
“So, I just want to meet her. Maybe she could give me some tips. She’s such a wonderful dancer. Have you ever seen her dance?” I gushed.
“Are you puttin’ me on?” he answered pulling his shoulder free. “I don’t have time for this.”
I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. This, I had been prepared for. “I just want to know a little about her. Maybe meet her. She might even help get me an audition. Will you talk to me? That is, if you know anything.” I thrust the bill in his face. His eyes crossed as he looked at it. He licked his lips, and I knew I had him.
He reached out with his grease-covered left hand, grabbed the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. He threw down the tool and sat up leaning against the door of the car. “Five minutes, that’s all I got. And I don’t know her really well, if that’s what you’re looking for. She seems like a nice enough girl, though, the times I seen her.”
I couldn’t believe my good fortune. He actually knew Grace and seemed to like her. “Just tell me anything. Anything you know.”
Ed went on, obviously a little embarrassed, “I don’t always work days except when Ben needs the extra help. I usually do the closing. Gotta have a strong man here for that, you know.” He puffed himself up slightly with self-importance. “After eight p.m., you gotta be prepared for anything. Emergencies, robberies, weirdoes coming in wanting Lord knows what, you know?”
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 11
