Mayhem in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  Linda and I stood a respectful distance outside the door to Sofia Muniz’s room. We heard her granddaughter’s voice, stressed and frightened. “Nana, Nana, can you hear me?” Dolores sat on the edge of Sofia’s bed. A much cleaned-up Sofia, with no sign of blood where it shouldn’t be. Fast work, I thought, unless Sofia had spent the whole morning here while we were searching her rooms.

  We turned to leave and nearly bumped into an attractive young man in hospital whites with a large silver hoop earring on his eyebrow. I was surprised that the Mary Todd, which required conservative dress of its staff, allowed such avant-garde ornamentation.

  “Hey, Gus,” Linda said. “Good job finding Sofia.”

  “Where was she exactly?” I asked him, not loudly enough for Dolores to hear.

  “Kind of slouched near a Dumpster in her old neighborhood,” Gus whispered back. “Where they always are.” He brushed his straw-blond hair from his forehead, just missing getting his finger caught in his eyebrow ring, and pointed down the hall to what looked like a nurses’ station. “Sorry, I’ve been paged. Gotta go.”

  “Did you catch the earring?” Linda asked. I raised my eyebrows: How could I miss it? “Gus is a good guy, in spite of the earring. He works part time at Video Jeff’s arcade. He’s the one who got Jason the job there. The jewelry fits in a little better with their image than it does here.” Linda paused. “Uh-oh, I hope Jason doesn’t come home with a ring in his nose or something.”

  Linda had told me Jason had a job after school and on breaks, but I hadn’t paid attention to where it was. I tried to sound interested. “What does he do there?”

  “Jason? Or Gus?”

  I really didn’t care. I was trying to focus on the conversation between Dolores and Sofia. I couldn’t hear anything. “Both,” I said.

  “I guess he works the retail end and helps with the machinery,” Linda said. “For Jason, it’s under the table since he’s not sixteen yet. He cleans up mostly, and gets a big discount on DVDs and software.”

  For whatever reason I allowed my gaze to follow the bejeweled Gus as he took long strides down the corridor. About halfway down, he took a left, away from the desk. Just as I thought. Anything not to talk to patients’ relatives.

  Sofia appeared to be sleeping, a thin smile on her face. Dolores tucked the sheet under her grandmother’s chin again, smoothed out the blanket one more time, and straightened the items on the tray beside the bed (this was new). Then she took a seat on the chair and settled in. She seemed to have forgotten about Linda and me.

  We slipped out.

  All was well. There was nothing more for me to do for the Muniz family.

  I knew an hour and a half with Lourdes and a review of the rules of grammar would be enough to clear my head of the ordeal of the morning. Not my personal trauma, but intense nonetheless.

  Sequence of tenses made a nice diversion. Never mind that I met my literacy students at a table in a small, airless library storeroom. Our last fund-raiser, for which my crafts group had made and piled hundreds of miniature books into a room-box library, bought us a new table at least. This one had four legs the same size—a luxury. The funds had also provided updated study guides for all standardized tests.

  “ ‘After she graduated from high school, Katie could have went on to college,’ ” Lourdes read. She looked at me with the countenance of a student who knows the right answer and is about to get an A. “It should be gone. Katie could have gone to college.”

  “Excellent, Lourdes.”

  “That one was so easy, Mrs. Porter.”

  Lourdes and I were not that far apart in age, but before Ken died I would have passed for much younger. Two years caring for him and worrying about him took its toll, however, and now Lourdes and I looked more like the peers we were, one on the heavy side (her) and the other struggling to gain back weight lost during her husband’s long illness (me).

  I patted her shoulder. “Would you have thought it was easy a few weeks ago?”

  Lourdes blushed. “I guess not.”

  Halfway through our session, we took a break to eat tuna sandwiches that Lourdes had thoughtfully prepared for us. Wheat bread, red-leaf lettuce, and lots of mayonnaise.

  “Just the way I like them,” I told Lourdes, who always insistedthat her providing lunch or treats was only fair since I was giving her my time.

  I was sometimes ashamed of my impure motives in tutoring literacy students. I was sure I got more out of the sessions than they did. What could be more satisfying than providing an opportunity to learn, watching a student move from “I’ll never pass the test” to “this is too easy”?

  We drank from small plastic cups we’d taken from a dispenser next to the water cooler. I’d stopped at home between the Mary Todd and the library (both time- and geography-wise) and swept a plastic bag full of my famous ginger cookies into my tote. Always thinking of dessert first.

  I thought of Linda. “And still you stay skinny,” she’d say every time I ordered a regular sundae with extra whipped cream at Sadie’s, while she ordered the junior size with no whipped cream or nuts.

  Lourdes was well on her way to achieving her goal, a common one among my older female students: a high school diploma before she turned fifty. She and her husband had worked several jobs between them to keep two children in college, also a common phenomenon in my students’ families. I’d occasionally hired Lourdes’s younger son, Kyle (an American name for an American boy, Lourdes had told me), to do odd jobs around my home. Lourdes carried her children’s photos in her wallet, happy to tell everyone at Bagels by Willie, where she worked, about her very bright boys, two in college and one in high school.

  Funny how “bright” was often paired with “opportunity,” I thought.

  Many conjugations, past participles, and complex sentences later, Lourdes and I left our little alcove and entered the main library, fairly empty at a little after one o’clock on a weekday. I wasn’t surprised to see rain pelting the tall, narrow windows of the building. Lourdes pulled a navy blue parka over her short, stocky body and I helped her as the fake fur collar became entwined with her neat dark bun, low on her neck.

  I was glad I’d picked up a raincoat as well as the cookies at my house. I was getting weather soft, I told myself as I did it. What happened to the Bronx girl who walked to school two miles in the snow?

  I talked Lourdes into letting me give her a ride home, pointing out that in spite of her parka, she’d be drenched if she either walked or waited for a bus.

  “No, no, no,” she’d said at first, as one word.

  Her eventual acquiescence was a milestone in the six months that I’d been working with her. She’d always made some excuse for me not to drive her home, and I suspected she wasn’t especially proud of her neighborhood.

  She lowered her eyes to zip her jacket, and to avoid mine, I thought. “It’s not far. I live in Nolin Creek Pines,” she said.

  Well, well.

  Nolin Creek Pines (there was neither a creek nor pines) was on the south side of town, behind our civic center. I always thought it ironic that the neighborhoods around government complexes were often the worst parts of town, and Lincoln Point fit that pattern.

  I drove along New Salem Circle (yes, we were obsessed with references to our sixteenth president) until Lourdes pointed out one of the multilevel structures with riser-free concrete steps and orange metal hand railings.

  The parking lot was dotted with embattled pickups and older model vehicles. On the street side was a row of battered newspaper vending machines and a poorly maintained bus stop shelter, within which several adults waited. Their umbrellas were open against the inevitable leaks from inadequate maintenance of the shelter.

  I dropped Lourdes off in front of a building with a large blue numeral six painted on the dull gray wall. At the same time, another car pulled up and Kyle and a couple of other boys exited the backseat. Delinquent from school? Probably not, since this close to the holidays, classes were spotty. Maddi
e was already on vacation, for example. I noted how tall Kyle was, compared to Lourdes, and I was very pleased when he gave a quick wave in my direction.

  I wondered which number building Dolores and her familyhad lived in. Other questions ran through my mind. Was Lourdes likely to live her whole life here? Or would her three sons become doctors or lawyers and eventually move her to the Mary Todd?

  The contrast between Nolin Creek Pines and my own pristine neighborhood, with neatly trimmed Eichler homes—each with its own well-kept indoor atrium and large backyard—was striking. But one thing I was pretty sure of was that inside that decrepit building, Lourdes’s apartment was spotless. From her own neat appearance, to the orderly way she kept her school files, to the pride she took in her counter work at Bagels by Willie, I could tell that she could turn any living space into a pleasant, comfortable home.

  “Gracias, Señora,” Lourdes had said. I doubted she realized she’d reverted to her native tongue once she was home. “Do you want a cup of coffee?” I sensed the tension in her voice, afraid I might accept.

  “Thank you, Lourdes, I wish I could, but I have a lot to do this afternoon. Another time?”

  “Sí, sí, another time.” And she hurried off.

  Time for me to get busy on the miniature projects waiting for me at home. I pictured the mostly done freestanding scene now on my crafts table, destined for the window of the Toy Box on Springfield Boulevard. I wondered if I had time to add working lamps. I’d created a playroom, its pieces glued to a ten-inch-square tile left over from my sister-in-law Beverly’s kitchen remodel. The colorful “room” had an overflowing toy box (originally a small gift box, like the kind earrings might come in, covered with stickers), stuffed animals, board games, a plate of cookies (the easiest part), and an easel surrounded by art supplies (toothpicks were a great start to fashioning paintbrushes). Maybe it didn’t need lighting. Kids went to bed before dark, I reasoned.

  I’d reached the bus stop when my cell phone rang. For a change I was able to pull it out of my purse and catch the call before it went to voice mail.

  “Geraldine, it’s Dolores. I need your help.”

  It dawned on me that I’d left Dolores stranded at the Mary Todd. And now it was pouring. What had I been thinking? “I’m so sorry. I forgot you didn’t have a car there. Shall I come and get you?”

  “No, I’m already at my office. I grabbed a cab as soon as my grandmother woke up. There was something I absolutely had to have in the FedEx pouch this afternoon.” Of course Dolores would be resourceful enough to find her way back to city hall, and guilt-ridden enough to regret having left Sofia’s side for the sake of her career. “It’s my grandmother,” Dolores said.

  Déjà vu? I’d heard that same anxious voice this morning. I imagined Sofia now in a coma or dead. Or maybe Dolores, prone to overreaction, was simply frantic about something more serious than scratches on her grandmother’s body.

  One of my first thoughts, after poor Sofia, was a question: Why had Dolores chosen me to be her confidante (rescuer? supporter?) in this crisis? For the second time. This was not my dear friend, Linda Reed, calling. Or Ken’s wonderful sister, Beverly. Or any of my crafter friends with whom I spent at least one night a week wallpapering tiny rooms and polishing three-inch mahogany nightstands. Though I did feel a certain gratitude toward Sofia, I doubted that was the reason. I’m not sure Dolores ever saw the Lady of Guadalupe altar Sofia gave me, since it was created and passed on to me during crafts classes.

  I didn’t remember any particular condolences from Dolores herself when Ken died. Dolores and I weren’t even close to being let’s-do-lunch or girls’-night-out buddies. I hoped she had such friends and wondered where they were in her hour of need.

  Not that I wasn’t sympathetic, or worried about Sofia. But why me? Maybe because my nephew was a cop? I knew what Ken would say: Because you’re easy, Gerry. You can’t say no, and everybody knows it.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Dolores now. (Halfhearted, to be truthful.)

  “I got a call from the police about an hour ago. My grandmother is being questioned in connection with a murder.”

  I must have heard wrong. “Wha—?”

  Dolores’s voice cracked. “Can you meet me at the Pines, number eight, in fifteen minutes?”

  I thought about my plans for a productive afternoon at the party store and my crafts table. I saw all the little items on my list waft through the air and fly out the window of my Saturn Ion like so many miniature butterflies.

  At least I was already at the meeting site. Dolores must have thought I was home, allowing me fifteen minutes to get across town.

  The rain had stopped. I drove my car back into the parking lot and pulled into a slot facing the street. I picked up my latest issue of Miniature News from where it had slid to the floor and flipped through the pages. I knew one of my crafter friends, Karen Striker, had a how-to article in the magazine this month. She’d written a piece on constructing a jail from the days of the old West. How timely, I thought.

  A few paragraphs into Karen’s instructions (such as: the bars of the jail are made from the long metal sticks that sometimes come in flower arrangements) I realized I had no time for the luxury of pleasure reading. I had to tap my sources for information on Sofia’s predicament and start delegating some of my afternoon chores.

  My first call, to my nephew, Detective Skip Gowen, was quick but most enlightening.

  “Remember that missing old woman I wanted you to check on?” I began.

  “Yes, and do you remember that homicide I was working on when you called about her? Well, your friend’s grandmother was walking around in the same neighborhood as the crime scene, with blood all over her. We’re pretty sure it’s the victim’s.”

  “Who was murdered?” I whispered.

  “You’ll be hearing it soon enough so I can tell you. It was probably no one you knew. A gardener over at the Nancy Hanks Home. His body was found in the old Nolin Creek Pines neighborhood, near Arbor Road.”

  I locked my car doors. I wasn’t that far from Arbor Road. If I strained my neck, I could probably see the crime scene tape. “And Sofia Muniz was found also wandering here.” The word was out before I knew it.

  “What do you mean here? Where are you? Don’t tell me you’re already investigating.”

  I heard a mixture of joking and warning in my nephew’s voice. I pictured his dropping down from his usual feet-on-the-desk position to full upright. Skip had reason to be concerned since I’d been building a reputation for giving unsolicited aid to the Lincoln Point PD.

  “I just happen to be here. I gave my student a ride home.” No need to fill in the rest of the facts—that I was now waiting for the suspect’s granddaughter for who knew what purpose.

  “Do you have anything else to tell me?” Skip asked.

  “You’re the homicide detective,” I said. “Oops. Call-waiting. I’ll talk to you later.”

  There really was a call waiting. Call number two was incoming, from Linda, out of breath again (still?).

  “Gerry, you’ll never guess what’s going on here.”

  “I heard.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “But I don’t know any details. I was going to call you in the next two minutes.” (This was true.)

  My car was stuffy, but I was inordinately fearful of opening the windows or (worse) getting out and walking around in what must have been nice, fresh air after the rain. I hated that I was afraid in this neighborhood. After all, the alleged murder suspect that the police found wandering here was an octogenarian. I saw nothing threatening, unless you counted the garbage spilled here and there along the walls of the building and in the parking lot. I hadn’t seen a single other person after dropping Lourdes off except a few respectable-looking people waiting for, and then boarding, a bus. Still, I kept a watchful eye on my surroundings.

  The Nolin Creek Pines neighborhood was extensive, I remindedmyself, comprised of many buildings bordered by st
reets of low-end shops. Some parts were better than others. The worker from the Nancy Hanks (a lower-end retirement home) had been found blocks from where I was now parked. There was no reason to think I was in any danger.

  Still, I chose not to exit my car. With great difficulty, I took off my raincoat, moving forward on the seat to loosen the back from under me, then inching one sleeve at a time slowly down my arm. I did all this without losing phone contact with Linda. I could now count myself among the cell-phone literate.

  “The police came and carted Sofia off around noon,” Linda said. “I would have called Dolores, but I didn’t find out until later. It was quite a scene in the care center, I’ll tell you. Sofia didn’t want to go. She kept saying, ‘Don’t take me to jail again, don’t take me to jail again.’ ”

  “Funny. I didn’t know she was ever in jail.”

  “Who knows?”

  I pictured Linda making a looping motion near her head, something she did often when referring to her patients who had trouble keeping contact with reality. I had to remind myself that she was very good with them, but needed to joke or vent now and then for her own sanity.

  “What about the victim?” I asked. Fortunately, Skip wasn’t my only source of information.

  “I just heard, like, a minute ago. He works for this big company that hires the gardeners and maintenance people for all the homes in Lincoln Point. Carl something. He’s worked here now and then, but mostly at the Nancy Hanks. I hated that place when I was assigned there, by the way. Very depressing. The murdered guy lived in the Nolin Creek projects. Thank goodness.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean thank goodness he wasn’t a doctor or a nurse. Do you know what a scandal that would be? I can see the headlines: ‘Elderly patient kills doctor at upscale retirement home.’ ” A shudder, then a pause, but no response from me, so Linda kept going. “So, are you on the case?”

  “Of course not, Linda.”

  “Then you don’t want me to see what else I can find out?”