Grace Cries Uncle

by Julie Hyzy

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Frances interrupted. “Sure, beautiful. All that snow, the cold, the slush, the lack of sunshine. Yeah, I see it.” When she rolled her eyes, I got the impression that Flynn was tempted to high-five her.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” I asked as we settled ourselves.

  Frances waved a hand in the air. “Coffee all around, I assume,” she said, and was out the door before any of us could respond. From the other room she shouted, “Don’t discuss anything interesting. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Flynn sat on the edge of his chair, hands clasped. “Sorry to disappoint your sidekick,” he said, “but we do have news and we plan to get right into it.”

  “About the man who was killed in the neighbor’s yard?”

  “The same,” he said.

  “First though,” Rodriguez said, interrupting his partner, “we couldn’t find anything on that woman who visited your house. Ran her name. Nothing popped.”

  “No record, then?”

  “Or it’s an alias. Most likely she simply had bad information. If she shows up again, let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  Frances bustled back in carrying a silver tray laden with four cups of coffee and an assortment of cookies and treats. Her breath rasped with effort and the ceramic mugs jiggled against each other as she hurried to lay the tray on my desk before us.

  “No way, Frances,” I said. “No way you poured coffee and arranged snacks that quickly. It’s not humanly possible.”

  Flynn had already brought a steaming mug to his lips, but grinned before he took a sip. “Who says she’s human?”

  Frances narrowed her eyes at him. “Next time maybe I’ll find something special to add to yours.” She turned to me with a self-satisfied expression. “When I found these two downstairs, I called to the kitchen to send this up.” Again to Flynn, she said, “Of course I don’t know why I bother when my efforts go unappreciated.”

  “I appreciate you, Frances,” I said. When she turned back, clearly smug, I thought about the unwavering support she’d shown less than an hour earlier. “I really do.”

  She took up a perch on the nearby sofa, her favorite spot for listening in when the local detectives came to call. She wiggled backward into the cushions, lifted her chin, and blinked expectantly. “You can go ahead now.”

  Chapter 12

  Flynn twisted in his chair to glower at Frances. “How kind of you to grant us permission to do our jobs.”

  Rodriguez leaned forward to tap two fingers on my desk, thereby reclaiming everyone’s attention. “Our victim,” he began, “the man who came to your door—”

  “The FBI agent,” I prompted.

  Flynn shook his head. “Not.”

  “The dead man in my neighbor’s yard wasn’t the guy who came to my door?” I asked. “But I saw him. It was the same man. I’m sure of it.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  Rodriguez stopped Flynn with a look. “Slow down, amigo. One step at a time.” The older detective’s eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. Although his mood had dampened a bit since they first walked in, he still maintained a cheerful demeanor. “I believe that the victim is the same man who came to your door. What we are here to tell you is that he was not part of the FBI.”

  Frances gasped.

  “And his name wasn’t Alvin Clark, either,” Flynn interjected. “It’s Emilio Ochoa.”

  “I . . .” Wracking my brain, I tried to conjure up a memory. “That name means nothing to me. What was he doing at my house? What did he want?”

  “That, Miz Wheaton, is what we’re here to find out.” Rodriguez had already pulled out his notebook. “Let’s go over your conversation with him one more time, okay?”

  I repeated what I’d already told them, trying my best to remember any details that I may have forgotten to mention the first time. I came up empty.

  “It was a really short conversation, mostly consisting of me trying to get him to leave so I wouldn’t be late for the blood test.” I held my hands up and shrugged. “Did you talk with my neighbors? Maybe they have more to add.”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “You seem to be the only person he visited.”

  “Why my house?” I asked. “Why me?”

  “Isn’t that the big question?” Flynn said. “Have you ever lived in Los Angeles?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve visited there?”

  “Sure,” I said. “A couple of times. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Reading from his notes, Rodriguez said, “Emilio Ochoa, age forty-two, multiple arrests for fraud, embezzlement, and international trafficking.” He gave me a sympathetic glance before continuing, “You had no reason to doubt him. Seems like he’s an old hand at these games. Served a couple of stints in his late twenties but then disappeared.”

  “Until now,” Flynn said.

  “Meaning he went straight for a while?” Frances asked from the sidelines.

  “Meaning he probably got smarter and flew under the radar,” Flynn said with a little snap in his voice. “No sign of him in LA, nor anywhere in the state. His last parole officer recorded that Ochoa planned to relocate to Idaho to be closer to family.”

  “What we need to find out,” Rodriguez said, “is what brought him out in the open and why.”

  Their mention of Los Angeles set me on edge. “My sister was living in San Francisco for a while,” I said, repeating what Aunt Belinda had told me. “She showed up here, today, at Marshfield. Do you think that may be connected?”

  In my peripheral vision I noticed Frances sit up straighter, but Rodriguez had already begun to shake his head. “I don’t understand. What would your sister have to do with our victim?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  Flynn’s mouth had curled up at one corner. “San Francisco is not exactly next door to Los Angeles. It’s a big state.”

  “I know that, but I also know that my sister gets into trouble.”

  “Runs in the family then,” Flynn said.

  I ignored him, directing my words to Rodriguez. “I know it sounds wacky, but she showed up here today, out of the blue. I haven’t talked with her in years but she turned up two days after a stranger—another person from California—was killed in a nearby backyard.”

  “It’s a little thin,” Rodriguez said. “But I’m not willing to dismiss your hunches, either. We know better than that, don’t we, amigo?” He elbowed Flynn. “Is your sister staying with you?”

  I gave a terse nod. Frances snorted.

  “Ask her about this guy,” he said. “Give her both names. See if she recognizes either one. If she does, let us know. We’ll come talk with her.”

  “You seem awfully eager to throw your sister under the bus,” Flynn said.

  Not willing to go there, I continued to address Rodriguez. “What else can you tell me about the victim?”

  “He never married. Parents still alive, in Idaho. They swear he turned his life around and went straight. But they lost touch with him again about ten years ago.”

  “This news has to be devastating for them,” I said.

  Flynn piped up, “They also said that Ochoa was a fortune chaser. Took shortcuts. Thought that easy street was right around the corner, and wealth waited for him with the next big deal.”

  This was sounding more like Liza every minute. “I’ll check with my sister,” I said.

  When they left, Frances sat across from me. “You don’t really believe this murder is connected to your sister, do you?”

  “I’m not ruling it out.”

  Frances’s fleshy face froze in horror. “You don’t think she shot the guy? In cold blood?”

  “No, no. She’s not a nice person, but she’s not a murderer,” I said.
“Liza will do almost anything to further her own interests, but she’s never physically harmed me, or anyone I can think of.”

  Frances worked her mouth to one side, as though literally chewing on that information. “The Marshfield Hotel is booked up, isn’t it?” she asked. “You’re stuck with her at your house.”

  “I suppose I could make a few phone calls around town to see if there are any open rooms this week,” I said. “The FAAC convention has eaten up all the good places.”

  Frances adopted a singsong voice. “And you’re too much of a soft touch to force your sister to stay in one of the seedy hotels.”

  “It’s not that, not this time at least,” I said. “Did you ever hear the famous saying? I think it comes from Sun Tzu, in The Art of War. He says, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”

  Frances smirked. “Words I live by every day of my life.”

  I didn’t quite know how to take that.

  Chapter 13

  Before leaving work, I called Scott and Bruce to alert them to the Liza situation. They had both met her, briefly, before my mom died, and were as happy to hear of her return as I’d been. “Hang in there, Grace,” Bruce said before we hung up, adding, “Thanks for the forewarning.”

  Liza wasn’t at the house when I arrived. I wasn’t surprised; she’d never been particularly prompt, especially when she had it in her power to make another person wait. The difference was this time it didn’t bother me. If she’d changed her mind and taken off again for parts unknown—whether she bothered to notify me or not—I could live with it.

  I parked on the driveway and let myself in the back door, cheered by the sound of Bootsie scampering down the stairs. Her paws slid on the floor as she spun around the corner to greet me. “How are you, baby?” I deactivated my alarm system then scooped her up and nuzzled her neck. Though she’d grown a great deal since she’d first arrived, she still held tight to kitten behaviors and now batted soft paws against my face, wanting to play.

  When she bounded to the ground, I washed my hands. Though I’d dunked them under running water less than thirty seconds after I’d freed the little furball, it still hadn’t been quick enough. My eyes began to water and I sneezed four times in a row. “Totally worth it,” I said aloud.

  On my drive home I’d had time to think about Liza’s stay here, time to come up with a few ground rules. I jotted them down on a notepad and dug out an extra key to the front door. If she needed to come and go, as I suspected she would, she’d require the means to get in. One key. Just one. That way as soon as she was gone for good I could call my buddy Larry the Locksmith to re-key one set of doors.

  Moments later, as I was pulling out ingredients for ratatouille, Liza showed up. Keeping vigilant and watching for Bootsie, I opened the door.

  “I’m back,” Liza said, extending her hands up, on either side of her head. “Party time.”

  “I thought you might change your mind.”

  “Not a chance, sister.”

  “Come in.” I closed the door behind her.

  She stomped her feet on the small braided rug we kept just inside the house, shaking the snow off her cotton flats. “Cold out there.”

  She wore the orange trench and carried the filled-to-bursting saddle purse. “Your coat is too flimsy for this weather. Your shoes, too. Where’s your luggage?” I asked.

  “This is it.” She patted the bag’s curled leather straps. “I left in a hurry.”

  One second later, her eyes went wide as she focused on the floor behind me. “What is that?”

  I turned. “I took in another roommate,” I said, scooping her up. “This is Bootsie.”

  Liza recoiled. “You have a cat?” She reacted as though she’d spotted raw sewage running through my kitchen. “Mom hated cats.”

  “Mom did not hate cats. She was allergic.” I sniffled. “Seems I inherited that.”

  Putting her hands out as though to say, “Keep it away from me,” she continued to stare at Bootsie as though she’d never encountered a feline before. “Does it have the run of the house?”

  “I’ll keep her out of your room,” I said, “but remember, you’re the guest here. She’s not.”

  “I’m probably allergic, too,” she said.

  “Probably. I suggest keeping your distance.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  Bootsie, for her part, seemed content to study our visitor from the safety of my arms. She was usually eager to flirt with a new person. Not this time.

  “One more thing—when you come in and out of the house, you need to make sure Bootsie doesn’t get out. She’s an indoor cat and wouldn’t stand a chance against the feral ones, not to mention the coyotes and other hungry critters we have out here.”

  “Fine,” she said as she pulled her coat off. “Any other surprises I ought to know about?”

  I pulled up the list I’d compiled. “Basic stuff. Housekeeping. I reserve the right to add new rules as I see fit.”

  “What’s happened to you, Grace?” she asked. “I haven’t been back here in years and you don’t seem to be the least bit concerned about what I’ve been through.”

  I bit my tongue before rising to the bait, before jumping down her throat over her “all about me,” question.

  Instead, I turned away, letting Bootsie go. As she ran into the dining room, I washed my hands again. “I’m about to make dinner. It’ll take a while.”

  She dropped her coat and bag on one chair and lowered herself into another. “I knew you were finally home because your car was on the driveway. How come you don’t use the garage? Is it still chock-full of garbage?”

  “Mom’s papers and a lot of her belongings are still out there, yes,” I said. “I’d hardly call it garbage.”

  “You knew what I meant.”

  I began slicing zucchini and peeling eggplant, watching Liza out of the corner of my eye. She kept her head bent, quietly reading my list of rules. Every so often, over the sound of my knife hitting the cutting board, I heard her grunt. With amusement or disapproval, I didn’t know.

  Eventually, she raised her head. “Seems fair,” she said.

  I’d expected pushback on a few of the items. “Good. Now that we have that settled, I need a few answers.”

  “What if you don’t like what you hear?”

  I turned to face her, unable to prevent myself from sighing. “I don’t care, Liza. I don’t care what you did, what you didn’t do. I don’t care who you are, or where you plan to go next. All I do care about is the truth. On a couple of very simple matters.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  My big chef’s knife in my hand, I gestured. “First, and most important, who is Alvin Clark?”

  That was clearly not the first question she’d been expecting. “Who?” The look on her face told me that she wasn’t faking bewilderment. That much I knew I’d be able to tell. Over the years I’d grown adept at recognizing when she was lying. The name didn’t register with her.

  “All right,” I said, still watching her. “What about Emilio Ochoa?”

  She shook her head slowly. Again, I could detect no prevarication. “Where are you coming up with these names? Who are these people?”

  “Is there any reason that a man from Los Angeles might be looking for you?”

  She blinked. Surprised again? Yes, but this time there was something more behind her eyes. Fear? “No, I can’t imagine . . . Why are you asking? What’s going on?”

  I fixed my gaze on her. “Let’s try this again. Can you think of any reason why someone would track you here? Are you in trouble again?”

  “So high and mighty, aren’t you?” She twisted her mouth to one side.

  Remaining silent, I waited.

  Liza stared up at me. “I left Eric.”

  “So you said.”


  “Maybe he sent someone here to find me.” She shrugged. “That’s the best guess I can come up with.”

  “Trouble in paradise?” It wasn’t kind, but I needed to cut through Liza’s stalling to find out what had really brought her back to my doorstep.

  “I got tired of him.” She began making fingertip circles on the kitchen table.

  That was an out-and-out lie. “Tired of him?” I repeated. “How so?”

  “He’s boring; you know that.” She made eye contact again with that truthful statement. Eric had been boring. I’d just been too busy with dealing with my sick and then dying mother to notice.

  “Let’s leave the ‘why’ alone for now,” I said. “Why would he send a scout here to look for you? Why not simply call?”

  “These men . . . they came here? Looking for me? What did you tell them?”

  “One man. Two names,” I said. “And he never mentioned you. He didn’t have the chance.”

  “An alias?” Liza seemed genuinely confused. “Why would you think this has anything to do with me?”

  I was about to answer when the house phone rang. Wiping my hands, I reached for it. “It’s Aunt Belinda.”

  Liza jerked in her chair. “Don’t let her know I’m here.”

  My hand hovered over the receiver. “Why not? She’s forever calling me, worried about you. Asking for news.”

  “Just . . . don’t. Please? Not yet.”

  The fleeting fear I’d glimpsed in Liza’s eyes a moment ago had returned with intensity, whitening her lips as she sat ramrod straight. She gripped the handles of the saddlebag purse on her lap, her knuckles pale as her face.

  “Hello, Aunt Belinda,” I said when I picked up the phone. “So nice to talk with you again.”

  She skipped right over niceties. “Have you heard from Liza?”

  Aunt Belinda’s voice was loud enough for my sister to hear halfway across the room. Liza shook her head, begging me with her eyes.