Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

  “That’s where they kept me, I’m told.” I involuntarily shuddered.

  “I know,” he said, leaning forward and touching my cheek with his hand. He went on, “They would drop off the second group and shuttle them by dinghy to that abandoned restaurant.”

  “Wyler owned that, too, didn’t he?” I broke in.

  “He and Chen, yes. They thought by breaking this up into two separate operations, they would increase their chances of going undetected, which it did for years.”

  “But Chen had to unload everyone in Princeton last time, didn’t he?”

  “The entire group, all fifty-four of them. Chen was afraid to go near the warehouse because of Wyler’s murder. The extra time it took to unload everybody is probably what saved your life. That, plus he felt he needed to get far enough out to sea to feel safe enough to throw you overboard, so your body wouldn’t be found right away, if ever. We think he was within minutes of doing just that when the Coast Guard got to him.”

  “I guess I was pretty lucky.”

  “You were damned lucky,” John said. “After having the warehouse in San Francisco become off-limits, he would really have been out of business if you had blown it wide open for him down the coast. He was a desperate man.”

  “Is the man who helped find me going to go to jail?” I asked, suddenly thinking of the small, unhappy man.

  “Yes, but by turning State’s evidence, it will probably be for much less time. Why, are you interested in being his character witness?” He asked wryly.

  “I don’t know about that, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. What happens to the other people who were on Chen’s ship?”

  “Most of them have already been flown back to China, courtesy of the United States government. No charges have been brought against them.”

  “Grace Wong,” I murmured. “How was she involved in this, and why did you refer to her as one of the indentured slaves?”

  “Grace Wong has a lot of family still in China.”

  “That’s right!” I burst in, slapping the bed with my hand for emphasis. “She has six brothers still in China,” I said, remembering Richard’s report.

  “And that’s not counting her sisters, her cousins, and her aunts, as Gilbert and Sullivan would say. Anyway, you ask about Miss Wong’s affiliation with this. Wyler was forcing her to have sex with him in exchange for bringing members of her family over to the states.”

  I was stunned. Of all the answers I anticipated hearing, this was not one of them. “What?”

  “You may look shocked, but the kind of scum that’s into this business certainly wouldn’t stop at blackmailing a woman into sleeping with him.”

  I thought for a moment. “But she was a successful dancer. I don’t understand.”

  “Even for well paid dancers, twenty-thousand dollars per person is a lot of money. We believe she’s brought two of her brothers illegally into the country just this year. We checked with our sources in China, and they’re having trouble locating those two. They’re probably here.”

  “Poor Grace Wong,” I said, shaking my head. What would I be willing to do for Richard, given the same situation?

  “I’d save my sympathy, if I were you. She’s been arrested for killing Portor Wyler.”

  I was so taken aback I could not utter a word. Finally, after several seconds, I found speech and sputtered, “I don’t believe it. Why do they think it was she? What possible reason could she have? He was helping to bring her family into the country. Why kill him?” I demanded.

  “Whoa,” he said. “I don’t know any of the details on the murder, and it’s not any of my business. I only know we’ve got Captain Chen, his men, and the Feng Shen. Their smuggling days are over, largely due to your efforts. You know, we hadn’t connected Grace Wong with any of this.” He looked at me for a moment. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Naturalmente,” I said with panache, greatly pleased he acknowledged the work I had done.

  “What made you focus on her? What singled her out?”

  “Well,” I began reluctantly, not wanting to drag Richard into it. “I just got lucky. Remember the day you asked me if I had been in the warehouse a half an hour earlier? Well, I hadn’t, but I got Grace on tape getting into her car just beforehand. I had a hunch it was she who had been inside the warehouse, so I went with it.” I smiled.

  When he saw I would say no more, he stood up, ready to leave. “Whatever you say, Lee. I’m glad you’re going to be all right. You had us all worried there for a time.” He looked down at his feet and then back up at me, a little flushed. “Maybe I can call you sometime, and we can get together. You know, have a cup of coffee.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, forgetting about my vow to stay as far away from him as possible. After all, he did have those Paul Newman eyes. “You’re not married, are you?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not, but I do have a dog, so I’m somewhat committed. What about you?”

  “I have a cat, so I’m somewhat committed, too.”

  “Well, then I’ll see you.”

  “Right. You’ll see me.”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  “You’ll see me soon,” I answered, laughing.

  As he walked out of the room, I was very glad I had worn the blue bed jacket with the bright flowers, although I’d never admit it to Mom. I sunk into a kind of depression within minutes of his departure, though. Grace Wong arrested for Portor Wyler’s murder! I had no idea what was going on in the world and was going to remedy that.

  Phoning the hospital gift store, I asked for the two major Bay Area newspapers, and any back issues, to be sent up. I also asked a passing candy striper to have the television turned on in the room, realizing I would have known all of these things days ago if I had been watching TV like most of the other patients.

  The San Francisco Chronicle still headlined the arrest of Grace Wong for the murder of Portor Wyler, I discovered. The San Jose Mercury gave a very sordid description of the beautiful dancer, the older man, and the illegal immigration ring on pages two and three. My name was sprinkled about, as well as D.I.’s. Both papers gave little in the way of real information but offered a great deal of juicy speculation. Yellow journalism at its best. I felt a pang of sadness for Yvette Wyler. What a way to find out about your husband’s secret life! I wondered if she’d regretted asking D.I. to investigate her husband’s indiscretions. It had become a real Pandora’s Box.

  An hour later Richard called, and after our usual banter, I asked if he knew about the circumstances of Grace Wong’s arrest. Richard seemed eager to talk about it and needed little prompting.

  “Oddly enough,” he offered, “it was our tapes of the license plates that made the arrest possible; at least that’s what the cops said. It didn’t help she called in sick to the theatre on the night Wyler was killed. She can’t or won’t say where she was, Lee. She’s completely mum. Can you believe it? Anyway, they say she had the motive and opportunity.”

  “But what motive, Richard?” I wanted to know. “He was the source for bringing her family into the country.”

  “Except…” Richard began grandly. “It seems he refused to bring in any more of her relatives. He felt he had done too much already, bringing in two brothers in one year and her grandmother the year before. After all, she was just another lay,” Richard added and then coughed self-consciously.

  “Good God!” I exclaimed. “Where did you learn all of that?”

  “Well, mostly on the internet. Two of those seamen, who spoke English, said Wyler argued with her, telling her he was finished bringing in her family. Boy, they talked their heads off to the authorities once they got behind bars. Then, the Captain of the ship swore it had to be Grace Wong who shot Wyler, because he heard her voice when he was talking to Wyler on the phone that night. Chen was out at sea at the time, but he swears he heard her. It’s been on in the news and on television for days. Haven’t you been watching?”

  “No, I just read toda
y’s papers, and I’m appalled.”

  “Bad grammar or what? Why are you appalled?”

  “It’s not any newspaper’s bad grammar,” I replied. “It’s the idea of the killer being Grace Wong.”

  “I know. Can you believe it? She struck me like basically a sweet girl, if you know what I mean. Unpredictable, but sweet. At least, that’s the impression I got when I did her dossier for you,” he added.

  Strange, I thought. This was one more person calling Grace Wong a sweet girl. Ed, Maggie, and now Richard. Not only did she appear to be a ‘sweet girl,’ but also she had done a great deal to help her family, albeit illegally, come into this country. So she slept with a man to make that possible. Did that automatically make her a murderer?

  “Do they have a smoking gun? None of the papers say,” I asked.

  “Gun?” Richard said, as if I had asked him if the police had a polar bear on water skis.

  “Literarily, Richard. The murder weapon,” I said pointedly. “Did they find the revolver? Frank told me it was some type of derringer.”

  “No, they didn’t or, at least, they’re not saying,” he said. “But they have three more witnesses who say about a month ago she threatened to kill Wyler after he refused to help her any more. I got that online from the CNN Breaking News.” He paused; I paused, and I guess there was too much still air on his end of the telephone.

  “Lee? You still there?”

  “Yes, Richard. I’m here.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you think she did it?”

  “No, I don’t, Richard, but I base this on practically nothing. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  “Now that I think about it, I don’t think she did it, either.”

  We sat in mutual silence on the phone for the better part of a minute breathing into each other’s ear. Richard broke the silence. “Sister mine, I think I’ll find out exactly what the prosecution has got and let you know.”

  “Can you do that?” I asked, aghast. “I mean, facts, Richard. Not rumors, not innuendos, but hard facts. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can, but it isn’t easy, and if anybody asks you, I can’t. Understand? Now what exactly do we want to know?”

  I felt my heartbeat quicken. “Wait a minute, Richard. Mom says you’re on overload now. I don’t want to add to what you already have.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This strikes me as about two or three hours worth of work, max. Besides, if she’s innocent…” He stopped talking and the thought hung out there over the telephone lines.

  “That’s how I feel. Let’s see what we can do, Richard, to help her. Get a pencil and write this down, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Ready?” I heard him grunt an assent and began organizing my mind. I closed my eyes to help myself concentrate. “Okay. Do they have a murder weapon? If so, to whom is it registered?”

  “Oh, how proper we are,” Richard interjected. “I would have just asked ‘Who’s it registered to?’”

  “Shush! Don’t interrupt me. Where was I? Oh, yes. If they’ve got the weapon, whose fingerprints are on it? Has Grace Wong actually admitted shooting him? I mean, maybe we’re both wrong, and she did do it. What are the exact charges, anyway? Does she have an attorney? If so, who is it? And lastly, Richard, and this is important, is there any way I can see her?”

  “You?” Richard choked on the other side of the phone. “See her? What do you want to see her for? Or should I have said, ‘for what do you want to see her?’ Did it ever occur to you, Liana, that she might feel you are responsible for her downfall? Estas loca!”

  “I’m not crazy, and I don’t think she blames me.” I thought for a moment. “But can you find out?”

  “Listen, Lee, unless she’s said that to someone, or it’s written it down somewhere, I can’t find out if she blames you. I don’t do magic, I just do computer.”

  “I’ve seen you pull magic tricks out of your computer hat all the time. Just the other day...”

  “Besides,” he interrupted, paying no attention to my oily words, “you’ve got to take it easy when you come out of the hospital for a couple of weeks. You know that,” Richard said, with an edge to his voice. “You’re not going to jeopardize your health again.”

  “No, I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize my health or anything else. However...”

  “Uh oh. Here’s the ‘however,’” he replied.

  “However, it might not be necessary to meet her in person,” I reflected. “How about if you see if it’s an option? I promise not to do anything without you knowing about it. How’s that? I promise,” I said again, trying to appease him.

  “All right,” Richard said after a pause. “I’ll do what I can today or tomorrow in between trying to get this stupid merger finished for Our Lady.”

  “Thanks, Richard. I appreciate it.” I was silent for a moment, suddenly filled with a myriad of emotions. “Richard?”

  “Still here, Lee, although I’ve got to go in a minute.”

  “I love you, Richard.” After saying that, I felt suddenly idiotic. “I wanted to say it, because I hardly ever do,” I added.

  “I love you, too, Banana Breath.”

  We both burst out laughing at the memory of the childhood nickname he’d given me when I ate five bananas on a dare and burped into the night.

  “Gotta go, Lee. Our Lady wants some stats by five o’clock tonight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I promise.”

  The next day came, and I got a short phone call in the morning from Richard telling me he hadn’t had time to get on “that” information.

  In the afternoon Tío showed up with snapshots of Tugger taken the day before. I was surprised to see how big he had gotten in less than a week. Rather selfishly, I wondered if the kitten was bonding more with my uncle than me.

  It would only be natural if the cat does. In fact, maybe I should let my uncle have Tugger. He’s becoming more and more attached to the little guy. Maybe Tío needs him even more than I do.

  I felt my throat tighten, as the thought went through my mind that I probably should make the offer. It was the least I could do. The day after tomorrow I would go home and see if Tugger really belonged with Tío or with me. That night I asked for a sleeping pill for the first time since I had been in the hospital.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By A Hair’s Breadth

  I awoke before seven a.m. anticipating a big day. Hospital routine being what it was, I had heard movements in the hallway and knew the hospital had been long awake. I was a little excited but nervous, because Doctor Parsley would tell me whether or not I could go home the following day. He would also be removing the bandages. I was glad for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my scalp itched where the stitches were, and the idea of washing my hair sounded like nirvana.

  I had never met Mom’s hairdresser, Enrico, and wondered what he would be like. I didn’t have long to wonder. He came bouncing in shortly after breakfast carrying a small suitcase. A short, slender young man, he wore an unstructured, black linen suit, beneath that, a black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and matching cufflinks. He wore his own black hair elegantly styled in short, spiked tufts, artfully arranged around his oval face. In one ear, a diamond stud sparkled brightly. I knew immediately why Lila liked him. He was very put together for seven-thirty in the morning. Now, if only he could cut hair.

  Enrico was exceedingly friendly. As he set his case down and began extracting equipment, he chatted nonstop.

  He “was dying to see what these butchers had done,” so he had just “zipped over at the crack of dawn,” because he couldn’t wait any longer. Fortunately, he stopped talking long enough for me to tell him the doctor wasn’t scheduled to remove the bandages until eight a.m.

  I sent Enrico down to the coffee shop to wait and hoped the doctor would show up on time. He did and removed the bandages with absolutely no pomp and circumstance. Doctor Parsley examined each wound saying “Hmmmmm” with
each one. I thought better than to ask him any questions, and he probably wouldn’t have heard me, anyway.

  “Coming along very nicely, Ms. Alvarez, especially the jagged one in the back. Excellent!” I murmured something insignificant, as he picked up the chart lovingly and began scribbling. “I don’t see why you can’t leave tomorrow morning, right? No more headaches, correct? No fever, right? No infections, no, no.” He was, of course, asking the chart and not me, but I felt obliged to shake or nod my head, whatever seemed appropriate.

  “Well, off I go, Ms. Alvarez,” he said to the chart. “The nurse will make an appointment for you to see me next week in my office to remove those stitches. Meanwhile, no alcohol, and if you get a mild headache, take a Tylenol®. If you should get a severe one, give us a call. Oh, and about your scalp,” he added, “there’s a special shampoo you have to use. The nurse will bring it in to you. Be very careful washing around the stitches. We don’t want them opening up and you bleeding on us again!” He smiled, finally looking into my face. I grinned back at him like an idiot. He left the room in a flurry, clutching several files to his bosom.

  I got out of bed and examined my hair closely in the mirror over the sink in the bathroom. Well, Enrico had called it. “Butchered” just about summed it up. What was still three or four inches long had been pushed flat on my scalp by the bandage.

  A few clumps of about a half an inch long stuck out near each one of the sutured areas the doctor examined. A nurse entered the bathroom and together we managed to wash my hair in the shower with a maximum of fuss and bother.

  It surprised me how much it wore me out. I was glad to get back into bed afterward with a towel wrapped around my head. Enrico, finishing up a cheese Danish, returned from the coffee shop a short time later. After several minutes of examining my hair from every angle, he held his hand over his heart and aimed his eyes heavenward.

  “What I do for the scintillating Lila Alvarez,” he muttered and began his task.

  After an hour, just as I thought he would never be done, he stood back and sighed contentedly. “Well, my clients tell me I’m a genius, and now I know they’re right. Voila!” he exclaimed and put a hand mirror in front of my face. I took it hesitantly and braved a look in the mirror. What had begun as something looking like it came straight out of a medieval lunatic asylum, now resembled a stylish do. I had to admit, even though I had worn my hair long all my life, this short style looked good. Sort of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. I thanked Enrico, tipped him profusely, and took a long nap when he left.