Traci Tyne Hilton - Mitzi Neuhaus 04 - Frozen Assets

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  Mitzy scribbled the number down on her napkin. She stuffed the napkin in her purse.

  “Thank you again for meeting me here.” Karina was staring over Mitzy’s shoulder again. “I’m so exhausted. I think I need to go lie down.” Karina stood up and excused herself from the table.

  Mitzy stood up as well. She scanned the room, checking to see if there was something in particular that had grabbed Karina’s attention.

  The room was empty except for a young woman alone at a table for two, nursing a cup of tea. She had flat brown hair in a bob, and wore a cheap winter coat. She didn’t look like The Portland’s regular customer base.

  Mitzy tried to catch the woman’s eye with a smile and a nod as she passed, but it failed. The woman with the teacup stared ahead of her, in the direction of the table Mitzy had exited, with big, sad eyes.

  7

  It was a quiet morning in Felony Flats. Mitzy stood on the threshold and looked down the street. Gray slush lined the sides of the road with dirty puddles. There were no curbs, no sidewalks, just gravel where the homeowners had laid it down, or muddy, weed-lined strips where people parked their cars. Roofs were mossy, trees were shaggy, and paint was peeling. Here and there, a little gem stood out among the dregs. A little place that still housed the original owners, people who kept plants in their planters year round and kept their house sparkling. For the sake of the people who loved those little homes, Mitzy wanted the neighborhood to perk up. Sadly, she knew that any effort to rejuvenate this neighborhood would merely drive prices higher and send the people with few means out to a city already overpriced in the search for a new home. People needed homes, no matter how little money they made. Mitzy let her screen door shut behind her. The inevitability of Felony Flats made her heart hurt.

  She hopped into her Miata and headed in the direction of a quiet RV park she knew of tucked behind a scrap yard in the shadow of Mt. Scott. She would bet her mystery caravan had passed through the park on its way out of town.

  Mitzy pulled her car into the community parking lot by the rental office. Where to start? Livia’s description of old trailers all kind of looking the same was looking true.

  She knocked on the door of the space rental office anyway.

  A redheaded man with bushy mutton chops and a t-shirt with a wolf on it, opened the door. “Come on in.” He motioned into the office.

  Mitzy took a chair near the desk.

  “I’m Steve. Welcome to Crystal Springs Park.” Steve had jolly, faded blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He was what Mitzy thought Santa might have looked like when Santa was about forty.

  “This is a serious long shot, but I was wondering if a single man in an older trailer may have come and gone in the last few days.”

  Steve laughed. “No one has come and gone this week. And I’d wager that most of the homes here are on the older side. Can you be any more specific? The guy’s age maybe? Or his name?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. See, here’s the thing. My friend said a trailer was parked near her home up until the other morning, and she is trying to get hold of the guy who lived in it.”

  “Oh, is she?” Steve frowned, his bushy red eyebrows pulling together. “I don’t think I can help you.” Steve crossed his arms.

  Mitzy had blown it in some way. Her ‘a friend’ comment had been all wrong, probably. She was going to have to lay it all out on the table if she wanted him to help her out. “Have you heard anything about the death of Arnold English?” Mitzy leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  “Sure.” Steve lifted one eyebrow. “You think the guy in the trailer was involved?”

  “All I know is that there was a trailer, or a caravan, or whatever, parked on the street for a few days before his death, but the morning his body was found, the trailer was gone.”

  Steve looked out his window and then back at her. “I don’t think I can help you.”

  Mitzy imagined that a place that catered to gypsies had to be known for their circumspection. It wasn’t likely Steve was going to out someone who rented space from him. Mitzy followed Steve’s gaze out the window. Right or wrong, in this town, if you got the reputation for working with the gypsies, you would have a difficult time attracting any other business. If you lost the gypsies, you’d have nothing.

  “I don’t think the man in the trailer killed Arnold English, if that’s what you are thinking. I think whoever was staying on the street may have seen something.” Mitzy turned back to Steve. “In fact, what they saw may be why they hit the road again.”

  “I can ask around.” Steve’s face relaxed. He stretched his arms over his head. “I can’t promise anything, though.”

  “Of course not.” Mitzy pulled a business card out of her purse. “If anyone wants to talk, could you have them call me? My friend is under suspicion of the death and any evidence to the contrary is invaluable to us.”

  Steve opened his door for Mitzy. “Murder is tricky business. I’ll ask around, but I doubt anyone here saw anything at all.” His cheerful smile didn’t match his words. She was being sent away empty-handed, but Steve looked as though he would have been happy to help her if only he could.

  Mitzy drove slowly through the Crystal Springs Park, following the five-miles-per-hour speed limit with care. A few of the trailers had the names of mountains with matching logos on the back. Several were in maroon and brown, but only one green. Livia hadn’t been sure what she had seen, and the green one had as little chance of being the same RV as any of the others. Mitzy stopped to write down the plate number just in case, but it didn’t have one. As Mitzy stared at the green mountain silhouette on the back of the RV a small child with thick black hair tumbled out, laughing. Mitzy began to roll slowly to the exit again. She’d just have to wait and see if Steve called her back.

  Mitzy stopped at a red light on 82nd Avenue. A huddle of cold men and women stood at the corner waiting for the bus that was tailgating her. A wet man in spandex bike gear leaned on his bike. Mitzy wondered what fueled such devotion in the nasty, wet winter weather. The biker’s crosswalk light changed. He snapped his feet onto the pegs that acted as peddles and rolled across the street, sending a spray of gray sleet behind him.

  The passenger door of Mitzy’s Miata rattled open and a blast of cold air hit her. She slammed her hand on the lock, but it was way too late.

  A skinny, swarthy man with stringy hair slithered into the seat next to her and pulled the door shut behind him.

  “You asked Steve about me.”

  Mitzy’s heart leapt to her throat. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She wanted to grab her cell phone, but traffic started moving again. She glanced in her side mirror to pull over, but a family of bikers was keeping pace with her. She gave her car a little gas, but traffic in front of her was moving too slowly. The ten-thousand-dollar Birken bag with all of her life and business stored inside sat at the feet of the gypsy man who had jumped into her car. She glanced to her side again. Yes, if she had to bet, she’d guess he was a gypsy.

  “Who are you?” she asked, proud of herself for not screaming in fear.

  “What is it worth to you?” The man leaned back in the seat. A smile spread across his face.

  “It could be life or death for my friend.” Mitzy hit her emergency flashers, not sure how scared she needed to be.

  “How many dollars?” the man asked.

  “For just your name or for what you saw?” Mitzy kept her eye on the bike lane. The family was behind her. She checked her rearview mirror. The bus had its turn signal on. She needed to pull over before it did. She edged to the side of the road.

  The bus followed her and blared its horn.

  Mitzy slammed her breaks in confusion.

  The brakes on the bus squealed behind her.

  She pressed her gas pedal to the ground and jumped forward.

  The bus driver leaned his head out of his window and began to curse.

  Mitzy slowed her car back down and merged into traffic again.

&n
bsp; “Careful, sweetie,” the gypsy said with a quiet lisp.

  “Did you leave the hill before or after Arnold English fell off of the balcony?”

  The gypsy popped his knuckles. “You come see my sister at her shop. She’ll read the cards for you.”

  Traffic was slowing for the next stoplight.

  The gypsy cracked the door open.

  “Wait! Who is your sister?”

  “See the psychic on 72nd and Sandy.” The gypsy jumped out of the car and sauntered down 82nd, his hands in his pockets.

  Mitzy watched his casual retreat until the cars behind her began to honk. She drove forward, her whole body shaking. The psychic on 72nd and Sandy. Mitzy wondered how she’d know which psychic on 72nd and Sandy was the right one.

  8

  Mitzy went across town to check out the psychic scene on Sandy Boulevard before she went back home. As she had expected, there were half a dozen houses and storefronts with palmistry and tarot card readings advertised on signs out front. She’d have to be a psychic herself to know which shop to pop into. If she knew the name of the man who had scared her to death, she could at least start asking, but without even that clue to help her, she just went back home.

  Alonzo was in his recliner again, but he was punching a message into his iPhone with his thumbs, a look of concentration carved on his face.

  The room was gray like the sky outside, so Mitzy flipped the light switch. Mirrors would really help this room. One big mirror on the other side of the window… She turned to assess the view. Steely skies. Dirty snow. Four old cars parked in the yard of the neighbor across the street. Not a mirror, then. Maybe a big painting of a sunny day.

  “Hey, hon.” Mitzy kissed the top of Alonzo’s head as she passed him.

  He grunted, but with a happy note to it.

  Mitzy turned from the blank wall she was hoping to improve to the giant TV.

  It was gone.

  The twenty-year-old, fifty-inch projection big screen had stood for twenty years against the short wall of the small living room. It had been huge, ugly, and inefficient. Now an even bigger screen hung elegantly against the wall, its black plastic frame glinting with newness.

  She frowned. “Something to share with me?”

  Alonzo looked up from his phone, a big grin on his face. “Makes the room feel much bigger, doesn’t it?”

  It didn’t. “How much did that cost?”

  “It doesn’t matter so long as it makes you happy, babe.”

  It didn’t. “I don’t mean to be a pain, but don’t married people talk before they make big purchases?”

  “It’s just a TV.” Alonzo’s smile was fading.

  “It’s a two-thousand dollar TV.”

  “I got it on sale. You like sales.”

  Alonzo looked hurt and confused, like a dog who doesn’t know why he’s in trouble. Her heart melted a little. It was just a TV, after all.

  “I do.” She sat down on the edge of the chair. “For the future, can we set a dollar amount for things we talk about before we buy them?”

  “Like if it is more than X dollars, we have to talk about it?”

  “Yes. Would you mind?”

  Alonzo shrugged. “I guess not. How much are you thinking? Like five, maybe ten-thousand dollars?”

  Mitzy choked. “I was thinking of like five-hundred dollars.”

  “Oh.” Alonzo drummed his fingers on his phone. “Why?”

  Mitzy repeated the question to herself. Why indeed? Was it because she was the major financial contributor to the family and saw the money as basically hers, or was it because she just liked to control things, generally speaking? She felt her cheeks flush. She hoped it was more innocent than either of those things. Perhaps she just wanted to keep a good flow of communication going.

  “I mean, we aren’t short of money, as you pointed out.”

  “I know. We aren’t. Can we find a happy medium? We talk before we spend, um… fifteen hundred?” About half a month’s wages, after taxes, for her future assistant. Any spouse would think it was reasonable to talk before spending a half a month’s worth of money, right?

  “This is just family money, right? Not business expenses?”

  “Of course, of course. It just feels like, you know, we’re married, so we should talk before we make big purchases.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “You know I’m just used to being on my own, right? It’s hard to change a bachelor’s ways.”

  Mitzy kissed his scruffy cheek. “I don’t want to change you, just, you know, figure out how to live with you.”

  “Great TV, though, right?” Alonzo nodded at his new baby, the smile back on his face.

  “Yes, hon, HGTV shows are going to look marvelous on it. Speaking of things we did this afternoon…” Mitzy hesitated. Somehow investigating the mystery gypsy seemed like a worse infraction than buying a huge, expensive TV. “You will never guess what happened while I was driving down 82nd.”

  “Drive-by shooting?”

  “Nope. A gypsy jumped in the car with me.”

  “What?” Alonzo’s face clouded over. “What did he do? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I had been asking some questions about an RV that had been seen on Karina’s street before the murder. I guess he followed me out of the RV park.”

  “That’s it. That is the last time you go digging into things without me. Do you understand?”

  Mitzy leaned away from Alonzo. “You mean I can still investigate this murder?”

  “Obviously you’re going to keep sticking your nose into things. From now on we go together. Do you understand?”

  On the one hand, Mitzy did not appreciate being spoken to like she was a child. On the other hand, she appreciated that he didn’t try to forbid her again. And if she was honest with herself, she appreciated his offer of protection. “I understand.” She glanced at the TV. Negotiating this relationship wasn’t simple, to be sure. “Since you are offering help, we have a trip to take.” She explained the invitation to see the psychic sister. “We just need to figure out which house is the right one.”

  “Nah,” Alonzo said. “By the time we get there, word will have spread. The first house we go to will direct us to the right one.”

  Mitzy moved to the window. The sky was darkening, but there was no rain or snow. “If we go now we can stay relatively dry.”

  Alonzo shoved his phone in his pocket. “Let’s get this done.”

  ***

  Alonzo was right. They parked on a side street and went to the first little house promising palmistry. They were met at the door, and pointed to a small Old Portland house a half a block away. It had a blinking neon sign that said Tarot.

  Mitzy held Alonzo’s hand at the door. Cars whizzed past them on Sandy, and the clouds had begun to spit their demoralizing sleet after all. The door creaked open, and a round face peered up at them.

  A short, thick woman whose black curls were sprayed firmly in place and added a few inches to her height waved them inside. The room was lit by several tall brass table lamps and a scattering of candles on a fireplace mantel. Neither the candles nor the incense that smoked on a side table masked the scent of garlicky dinners past and unwashed humanity.

  “I don’t want to mess around with a card reading or any of that.” Alonzo stood in the doorway, his feet far apart and his arms crossed on his chest. “Just tell us what you know and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  Mitzy jabbed him with her elbow. “Forgive us,” she said.

  The woman nodded. She took Mitzy’s hand and led her to a table.

  “I can read your cards, but I don’t know that I can tell you what you want to hear.” She had a peculiar, round accent with a slight lisp. Mitzy knew it for the local Gypsy accent—as she knew that this community preferred to be called Gypsy rather than Romany.

  “No. You know why we are here. What did you see on Concord Street on the night of December 2nd?” Alonzo did not move an
inch.

  “Al…” Mitzy lifted her eyebrow. She wanted to play along, to massage the situation and ease the information she wanted from this woman.

  The psychic sat down on a threadbare, tan sofa. “I was sleeping when Charlie drove away from that place.”

  “And?” Alonzo said.

  “And he told me to tell you that he didn’t see nothing.” She crossed her arms over her ample bosom.

  Mitzy sat on the same sofa, facing the psychic. She gave Alonzo a warning look. “But maybe the cards could tell us something?”

  The psychic waved her hand. “Bah. That’s not why you are here.”

  “Charlie sent us to talk to you. What did he want you to tell us?” Alonzo’s voice was a growl.

  The psychic simpered. “He said to tell you that Santa’s elf let him down.” She quirked her lip into a sorry kind of smile.

  “Does that mean there were two men at the house?” Mitzy leaned forward, wishing she knew what would speak respect to this woman.

  “Santa’s elf, eh?” Alonzo took a step closer. “So one man was on the roof—er—the balcony, but the other wasn’t?”

  The psychic lifted an eyebrow. “St. Nicholas doesn’t come when you are awake, does he? I was asleep, so how should I know?”

  Mitzy chewed on her bottom lip. “But there were definitely two men there?”

  The psychic shrugged.

  “Don’t mess with us. This was a murder. We want to know what you know.” Alonzo leaned forward.

  The psychic fluttered her eyelashes.

  Mitzy caught Alonzo’s eye and curled her lip, ever so slightly, in disgust.

  He hinted at a smirk.

  “Two men, one up high, but not on the roof. The other down on the ground. The man up high wasn’t on the roof, so he was on the… balcony, of course. Is that right?”

  The psychic simpered again. “You are a very smart man.”

  “And if the elf let Santa down, then Santa was Arnold English.” Alonzo pulled a chair out from the table and straddled it, his arms crossed on the back. “Who was the other man?”