I nodded and made a sound, as if I really knew what it was like.
He continued, “So when she starts coming in every now and then, especially right before closing, it’s something a man notices.” He waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Well, what’s she like?” I asked, and Ed gaped at me. “I mean, did she seem friendly? Standoffish? In a hurry? Have a lot of time on her hands? I only ask because I want to know how to approach her,” I offered, still pushing the idea I only wanted to meet her for career purposes.
Ed went into some kind of deep thinking for a moment and pursed his lips. “Friendly enough, but usually in a fair hurry. Once she got gas all over her shoes. It’s self-service here, you know, but I brought her a couple of wet towels to wipe them off. She was real grateful.”
“Did she ever have anybody with her, or did she always come by herself?”
Ed stared at me as if I had lost my mind, but looked like he remembered the fifty dollars and went into his deep thinking routine again.
“Well, once in awhile she’s got her family with her, if that’s what you mean. A bunch of Asians huddled in the back seat of that little car. Oh, yeah, and once she came in a beat-up pickup truck with some big oriental guy driving. She was just sitting there.” He stroked his chin then went on.
“Her car broke down, I think, needed a new fan belt. We always keep stuff like that on hand. I sold him one, and they went on their way. She waved at me, though. She’s a nice girl. If she can, I’ll bet you she gets you an audition,” he added. Apparently, he believed my idiotic story. I was amazed.
He went on, “She gave me a real nice tip when I helped her clean off her shoes, but I think she’s like that. Kinda sweet, you know?”
“I’m so glad. When did they come in for the fan belt? The time you said they were in the pickup truck. Do you remember?”
“I don’t know, maybe a couple of weeks ago. No, more like a month. I remember now because it was Christmas Eve. I wished her a Merry Christmas. That’s what made her wave to me. I don’t think she knew I saw her until then. Pretty girl. Hard to miss.” He waggled his eyebrows again.
I wasn’t sure if I liked being one of the boys where Grace Wong was concerned, but let it pass. “When she came in by herself most of those times, did she ever say where she was coming from or going to? I mean, I might want to meet her at one of those other places rather than here.”
Ed nodded, as to the wisdom of that idea, but then shook his head. “Naw, sorry, she never did. I didn’t ask, either. I gotta get back to work.” He glanced at the clock at the top of the garage door, picked up the previously discarded tool, and rolled himself back under the car.
“Well, thanks,” I shouted to his disappearing body.
“Sure thing, and hey, good luck,” he added.
I stood up to leave and had another thought. “Hey, Ed, this pickup truck. What color was it?”
“Jesus, lady,” he growled in annoyance. Obviously my fifty bucks was up. “White, maybe. Some real light color, like that, but I can’t say for sure. It was nighttime. It looked white to me.”
I turned away and passed a woman of about forty who would be forever “cute.” She was headed for either Ed or the Toyota. She was probably Sue. She looked like a Sue, I decided. All Sues were cute.
I returned to the car and sat in the front seat thinking. By now it was around ten-thirty, and the sun was taking some
of the chill off the day. I took the cellphone from under the front seat, and placed a call to Richard. He didn’t answer, which didn’t mean he wasn’t there; it only meant he didn’t answer. I left a voice mail message for him to call me as soon as he could. Maybe he had some more information. I left the cell phone on and tucked it into my jeans pocket. I also decided to carry the camcorder, plus another eight-hour battery, and put those into the other pocket. This way I wouldn’t have to jot down notes with a pad and pencil. Between the camera, phone, car keys and cash, it was a tight fit, especially as they were pretty tight to begin with. No more bacon for me, I decided, if I was going to be carrying half my purse in my pockets.
I had the rest of the day to explore Princeton-by-the-Sea. I figured I might as well find the place where Grace got the parking ticket. This address was easy. According to the map, it was near the harbor. Grace had been parked in front of a fire hydrant on Capistrano Street at twelve thirty-seven a.m. Even though it was late at night, some enterprising cop had given her a ticket. I guess you never know when a fire might break out.
Address in hand, I strolled back in the direction of the marina. The setting is unique. Princeton-by-the-Sea sits on the north end of a perfectly shaped crescent bay, appropriately named Half Moon Bay. At this end of the curve, a high cliff rises and drops off abruptly into deeper water.
At one time, the navy maintained a tracking station on the apex of the cliff, still protected by chain fences. Huge satellite dishes tilt up to the sky beckoning to no one and nothing, save flocks of brown pelicans flying overhead. Below the cliff, an artificial breakwater made out of large rocks creates an inner harbor. There is only one entrance from the harbor to the sea, and it’s on the smallish side. I assumed this is because the waters inside the harbor are too shallow to support the larger craft, so they are not invited in.
The marina itself is fairly large and looks to be the hub of the town. The surrounding sidewalk and road go up on a slight incline around the marina, about ten or fifteen feet above sea level at the highest point. Steps lead down periodically to the pier and the docks. The pier is wide, sturdy looking and well maintained. That day the surf was calm and shimmered under the sun’s rays, while trim boats slowly bobbed up and down like some giant kid’s plastic toys. When there was no wind, it was almost balmy, and the air smelled salty and clean. All in all, the effect was quite picturesque.
I spotted the hydrant at the end of a squared parking lot near the harbor portion of the marina.
That must be where Grace parked her ticketed car.
I looked around for a possible restaurant or bar Grace might have gone to at that hour and saw no likely candidate. Like most small towns, they probably pull in the sidewalks around eight or nine o’clock at night, possibly ten at the latest. I made a mental note to check that out.
Still, it’s a pretty safe bet. Even in Palo Alto, it’s a rare restaurant or bar that’s open past midnight.
That brought me back to the marina and its inhabitants. I became aware of the fact there were perhaps seventy-five or eighty boats of varying types moored in numbered slips off the main pier. Several dozen larger boats were anchored outside in the deeper waters of the ocean.
Speaking of deep, I’m in it if Grace was doing something on one of those boats. If that’s the case, I’ll have a hell of a time finding out which one it is, although I’ll bet Richard can.
My spirits picked up a little, and I made another mental note to ask him, if I didn’t find anything out on my own. With all the mental notes wandering around inside my mind, I decided to take advantage of modern science and store them on the camcorder. After all, that’s what it’s for.
After I took care of that, I noticed an abandoned building at the other side of the marina, on a portion that was at zero sea level. Looking sad and forlorn, the building was actually half on land and half over the water. The glass of the windows and doors was covered with soap in large, swirling patterns. This was a practice some people used with closed buildings that always intrigued me.
What exactly are they trying to hide behind all that Ivory soap? Curiosity killed the cat — no offence, Tugger — and all soaping up does is make me want to break down the doors to see what’s hidden behind the swirls.
I hurried down the wooden steps toward it trying to figure out what kind of a business it was in its heyday. As I closed in, the sign over one of the doors, faded and weatherworn, was finally readable. “Dew-Drop-Inn Restaurant and Bar” it stated. Not an original name, I admitted, but one with a certain, homey appeal.
“Must have been a gorgeous view while you were eating,” I remarked aloud, as I strode nearer to the now defunct restaurant. “I wonder why it closed.”
On the other side of the building was another paved parking lot, which served the marina, as well as the ex-restaurant patrons. There were no cars parked in it at the time. The pier off the lot appeared to be nearly deserted with the exception of a couple of men, probably fishermen, busy doing what fisherman do with their boats.
I climbed the five wooden steps at the front of the restaurant for a closer inspection. It looked like it had been built decades ago and must have been kept up until fairly recently. In some places, peeling white paint exposed bare wood and a few of the glass panes were broken. I glanced around, saw no one, and attempted to turn a door handle. Surprise, surprise, it was locked.
I trotted along a narrow walkway under an overhang, toward the side of the building and had to jump over several folding metal chairs left out in the elements and rusting nicely. I continued to the back end of the restaurant and onto a deck with a lovely view of the marina and the sea beyond. The deck joined the public pier but was separated by three-foot high pilings roped together. Several battered buckets sat near the restaurant wall, for what purpose I couldn’t fathom, and were filled with water, probably from the recent rains. Leaning against a bare flagpole was a shade umbrella, broken and rusty, with the tattered remnants of red fabric flapping in the breeze.
“Wow, this looks pretty dismal. Why does this just sit here unused like this? This is a prime location.”
I crossed to the back entrance consisting of two glass doors, soaped up with a vengeance. Obviously, this was where patrons would have come out to the deck from inside the restaurant. The deck was over one hundred feet long and nearly fifty feet wide, if I calculated right, so it could accommodate a pretty large crowd. An outdoor bar, disintegrating right before my eyes, was near the far end.
I tried the back doors, and they, too, were locked. I leaned in, put my hand over my eyes to cut the glare of the sun and tried to peer in between soapy swirls. As I pressed my nose against the glass, I caught the smell. I pulled back, somewhat shocked, and then began sniffing at the crack of the door. As I bent down closer to the door jam, the smell was stronger. Urine.
Odd, I’ve been smelling that a lot lately.
Maybe vagrants had broken in and were using it periodically, but upon closer inspection, nothing actually looked broken into. The more I studied it, the more it looked as if someone had deliberately broken one or two of the windows to make the place look abandoned. I inspected the windows more carefully now and found a humdinger of an alarm system, with wiring strategically placed out of sight.
Before I got carried away, I tried to convince myself the system could have been left over from when the restaurant was open, except the wiring looked very new and well kept up. Naturally, the outside would take more of a battering from the elements than the inside, but still, I told myself, this doesn’t smell right, no pun intended. How long had this restaurant been closed, anyway? I was pondering, as my phone rang. It was Richard.
There was nothing new to add to the report he gave me yesterday, he said, in an impatient tone, as brothers are wont to do when you push them too hard. Regardless, I told him the name and address of the Dew-Drop-Inn and asked him to find out anything he could. In particular, were they still paying any bills for any type of security system? Richard tried to beg off, telling me of his tight schedule, but I insisted. He finally relented and said he’d get back to me as soon as he could. I said to make it fifteen minutes or less, and as we hung up, he was swearing. Brothers.
I sat down on the deck with my back against the doors and faced the water. I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my head against them. It was peaceful and I had gotten very little sleep. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the briny air. I listened to the cry of seagulls overhead and the soft lapping of the waves on the pilings beneath me.
When I lifted my head and opened my eyes a few minutes later, one of the men from the closest slip across the water was staring at me. He was a small Asian dressed incongruously in dress slacks, black loafers and a button down blue shirt. He looked away when I caught his eye and continued to scrub down a small dinghy. I leaned my head back down again and must have drifted off because I was startled when my cellphone rang some twenty minutes later.
It was Richard, and he was in a hurry. “All hell is breaking loose here, let me tell you,” and he proceeded to do so. “Our Lady is demanding all the pertinent data for the past ten years on two companies proposing a merger. However, each one thinks the other is up to no good,” Richard explained.
“And the CFO of both companies called today to have the other company investigated for any illegal activities before they’ll go through with the merger. Before we can take this on and get caught in the middle, Lila says we have to know what each one is really up to, not what they’re telling us, ‘cause they could just be using us as an excuse to kill the other guy off. And if that’s what it’s about, we won’t touch the job with a ten-foot pole, no matter how much money they’re offering. Talk about doing some fast research,” Richard finished with exasperation.
“Richard, stop whining, and tell me if you’ve found out anything for me,” I said with annoyance.
“Whining?” he replied, shocked at the accusation. “I never whine. I am explaining why I’m going to be on caffeine and rock music for the next three days. Our Lady has told me to put everything else aside. Everything. And that is why, sister mine, this is my last phone call to you today if you want to see me at dinner tonight.”
“Oh, Richard. I am sorry,” I said, laughing. “You’re being wonderful, and I couldn’t possibly do anything in this world without you and your computer. Thank you, thank you, and thank you.” Sensing I had somewhat appeased him, I got back to business. “Now what do you know about the Dew-Drop-Inn in the illustrious town of Princeton-by-the-Sea?”
“Not much,” he answered, somewhat mollified. “The restaurant was owned by the same family, Cardozo is the name, for twenty years. Got bought out six years ago by some organization I haven’t been able to run a check on called P period Y period. And don’t ask me to run a check, ‘cause I don’t have the time,” he added testily. I didn’t open my mouth.
Richard went on, “Anyway, five years ago the new owners filed bankruptcy and closed. The end. Oh, yes. P period Y period pays for a monthly alarm system, and it’s a pretty deluxe package. It’s with Bay Area Alarms, and it’s a lot more than the average person, such as me, would carry. Same deal as the warehouse, if that means anything. Does that help?”
“That helps, Richard.”
“I got to go now, Lee. Andy just came in and is standing over my shoulder saying Lila is breathing fire and wanting to know where you are. We could use all the hands we can get today. Do I know where you are?”
“You do not,” I answered and hung up.
Chapter Eleven
Elvis Has Left The Building
I leaned back against the double doors again and looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and I was famished. Cramming the phone in my jeans, I decided to return to the diner. If the food was half as good as the coffee, I’d be happy.
Crossing the threshold, I felt once again I had stepped back in time. Earlier that morning, I had vaguely noticed all the red vinyl and shiny chrome. Now Elvis Presley’s “Blue Suede Shoes” blared over miniature jukeboxes at each booth, as well as strategically placed ones on the shiny, red countertop. I gazed at the panoramic view of the sparkling, sun-drenched ocean through the long row of windows at the rear of the diner. It looked as if you could reach right out and touch forever.
This was a “fun” diner, I realized, and that’s why I returned. Heading for the counter, I noted business was brisk for just one waitress and a short order cook. I sat down on a stool that had the least amount of cracked red vinyl and picked up the menu.
“No use you looking at that, honey,�
� said the large, gregarious waitress costumed in a Pepto-Bismol pink uniform, as she meandered over to me.
Above her abundant right breast was a pocket holding a starched green and white embroidered hanky that flopped out in every direction. Dyed carrot red hair, somewhat contained by a beaded, jet-black hairnet, was topped with a matching pink cap. She added the final blast of ambiance to the place. She was perfect.
“Half of it we don’t have,” the woman continued from behind the counter. “I don’t know why we keep those around,” she gestured to the menu and then took it out of my hands. “It’s much faster if I tell you.” She leaned a calloused elbow, which was connected to a flabby upper arm, onto the counter and began her recitation.
“The meatloaf with gravy and cranberry-apple pie are the stars today. Other than that, it’s sandwiches. They’re okay but not great. The best is the turkey. Let me recommend the meatloaf. Nobody makes it better than Hank. And the mashed potatoes are good, too.” She leaned in and dropped her voice, “Stay away from the vegetables. Hank likes to cook them six to seven hours beforehand, so they’re pretty awful.” Her voice went back to its normal volume. “We don’t do fish. Hank doesn’t like fish. You want fish, go over to Barbara’s Fish Trap. She’ll do ya.” She smiled at me, and her whole face lit up. Her green-grey eyes twinkled when she spoke, and her face was unlined and youthful. I liked her instantly, despite the nauseatingly pink uniform.
“Whatever you say...” I leaned closer to the name embroidered on the pocket right below her maverick hanky. “...Maggie.” I smiled back at her. I watched her write and throw my order onto a Lazy Susan set up half in and half out of the kitchen, in the opening of a pass through. Instantly, a meaty, red hand spun the contraption around, reached up and snatched the paper.
With nothing better to do, I studied my surroundings. I noticed everyone was eating the meatloaf and potatoes or the pie. I also noticed people got up and helped themselves to cups of coffee, utensils or whatever else they needed. It was a real family-style restaurant.
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 12
