Full Bodied Murder

by Christine E. Blum

  Not good.

  Then he asked me about something in my past that, up until now, I had been very proud to mention.

  “When you were living in New York City, Ms. Hall, did you have occasion to work at Panzavec-chia & Sons?”

  “Yes, the roosters had finally decided to let a hen into the house. What’s this about?” I asked warily.

  “What did you do for them?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  “Well, one of the sons, Frank, was a guest speaker at a cooking seminar I attended one summer. He really admired my knife skills and offered me an apprenticeship at his butcher shop—I see where this is going!”

  He explained that this was just routine, in order to rule me out, blah, blah, blah. He also told me not to leave town.

  Problem was I didn’t see them making any effort to rule someone else in. Had they even talked to this elusive ex-husband? Or the brother? Maybe focus on someone who actually had a motive? Ray is clearly dealing drugs, no doubt assisted by his band of contraband brothers, Ali Baba and Zeke. With Rosa out of the picture, he can sell the house and use the proceeds to expand his operation deeper into the Westside. And he’d need someone to help manage his growing company. A person nobody would suspect and who might need a short-term infusion of cash. It pained me to think about Aimee but desperation does inhuman things to the mind. If there was a connection, hopefully it was just that she sees those two dealers at work, and anything they do away from there is their own business.

  Even though I didn’t trust him either, Augie was the closest thing I had to an open-minded ally. I had his card and would check in with him, but first I needed some fresh air, my mind was about to self-combust.

  * * *

  Sally and I went to the Farmers’ Market. She had said that the produce was great and we liked spending time getting to know one another. She and her husband Joe were both from the East Coast originally, so we had an innate affinity for certain ways of doing things. We wrote thank-you notes, we always brought gifts to each other’s houses when invited, and we loved finding something like an old wooden milking stool at a yard sale. She was like an older, wiser big sister. With balls.

  Which is why I felt comfortable confiding in her about the police accusations.

  “That’s ridiculous, who in the ham-fat would think that you had a reason to kill Rosa? Until you walked into her house by mistake, you didn’t even know she existed.”

  Who in the what?

  “I know, but they’re digging up my past to try and make a case. They don’t seem to have anyone else to blame this on,” I said, exasperated.

  “Well then the Rose Avenue Wine Club will just have to find them some guilty people!”

  As silly as this sounded—what does a group of cork-popping ladies know about solving a murder—it still relaxed me a bit. Although not enough to share with Sally my thoughts on Aimee’s ties to Ray and his minions and Peggy’s seemingly being at ease with death. Those are nefarious thoughts to have about a couple of sweet ladies. No, I needed to drive this bus, after all I had the most to lose.

  “Oh look, squash blossoms,” Sally cooed. “Joe loves those,” she said about her husband. Our baskets were already brimming with early summer bounty.

  I had to smile, thinking back to when I first moved to New York City after college. There was a Korean green grocery on the corner from my apartment, owned by an enterprising young woman named Bong Cha.

  On my meager entry-level salary, writing code at the only start-up to fail in the boom, my money went on rent, clothes, and clubbing. So for sustenance, I discovered that mixing Jell-O with Bong Cha’s fruit did the trick. And if I went just before closing, she would give me the produce that hadn’t sold and wouldn’t be good the next day. In return I helped her network her computer and set up email.

  Cut to the present with Sally and I strolling under the morning sunshine, tasting the first peaches of the season and testing avocados for their ripeness. True, my life was now much tamer, with the exception of the murder, but gone was the constant human interaction day and night, something I never thought I would miss. Oh well, you can’t have everything and I was learning to be happy alone. Hell, people can be overrated.

  Just at the right moment, a farmer with a tray of blueberry juice in little cups came over and brightened our morning. I downed mine in one gulp. Hey, I know what to do when presented with a shot glass....

  “What’s the deal with Rosa’s brother?” I asked.

  “Ray? I actually think that deep down he’s a good egg. I watched he and Rosa grow up, they lived right across the street. Saw him learn to ride his first bike. It’s those damn drugs. Ray is amiable and wears his emotions on his sleeve. But unfortunately when he’s high that emotion often turns to anger.”

  “You think that he could have killed Rosa?”

  “I pray to God no, he tries to act all tough, but with Ray it’s all ‘big hat, no cattle.’ ”

  We were now perusing a baked goods stand with warm boules of sourdough, crusty whole grain loaves, fruit tarts, and the most delicious looking nut bread that I just couldn’t pass up. I had to act fast as I could feel a crowd behind me poised to pounce if I showed even the least bit of indecision. Sally had swooped in like a pro and was now standing at the side with her gluten goodies.

  “All the same, if the cops aren’t going to investigate him then I must,” I said while paying the baker. “Hey, isn’t that Musso’s girlfriend over there?”

  Sally followed my eyes and, sure enough, we spotted Tala, the woman with the fondness for the garden hose. She was negotiating with the mushroom man like she was buying a used car.

  “Time to do a little sleuthing,” Sally suggested and we headed in her direction.

  Hanging behind enough to avoid being noticed, we could now see and hear her clearly.

  “How much for these shiitakes? They don’t look so fresh,” she told the mushroom monger.

  “Check out her bag, that’s a huge Louis Vuitton,” whispered Sally.

  “I’m trying, but the glare from that rock on her finger keeps blinding me. I guess she really is good with hoses.”

  For that comment, Sally elbowed me in the side. “Is that watch Chanel?”

  “Seriously. She is walking around this market with about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of accessories on her. Musso must be selling a lot of cars curbside each night,” I said.

  “Something to definitely throw into the mix.” Sally nodded.

  Chapter 9

  A loud, rumbling noise coming from outside brought me out of the food coma I’d slipped into after gorging on a Farmer’s Market dinner.

  Tomorrow’s trash day.

  I ran out and as I pulled my cans to the curb, I thought about the morning after trash day. It is always a bit of a letdown for the people of Rose Avenue because it marks the end of the once-a-week neighborhood “show and tell” into each other’s private lives. And there are those who work hard to glean as much information as possible.

  Which is partly why I decided to take Bardot for a late postprandial walk on trash day eve. I didn’t know what, but I was hoping to see something that would swing the executioner’s spotlight in another direction.

  Who else would be out at this time of night?

  Marisol.

  We caught her handing over a large paper bag to Inez, our Rose Avenue recycle bin poacher. In return for whatever was in the bag, I have no doubt that Marisol got a rundown of what was in the trash of select neighbors she’s keeping tabs on. A tossed credit card bill or a take-home container from a restaurant fill in pieces of her puzzle and give her a week’s worth of profiling.

  Inez had introduced herself when I moved in, and was a big help when she offered to take the used boxes off my hands. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed to like her, except for Bardot. I don’t know why, maybe she thought that Inez didn’t like dogs, but whenever she’d come around, Bardot would go crazy at the window. She rarely did this and usually only when she s
ensed someone was a threat to me.

  I’d have to ask Jack.

  As predicted, Bardot stopped in her tracks and started growling at Inez. She has a deep belly growl that would have made Godzilla proud, although most often it is accompanied by tail wagging.

  This time it wasn’t. I knew this wasn’t directed at Marisol, she and Bardot were becoming great pals, much to my dismay.

  “Sorry,” I said sheepishly, “she must smell a raccoon or an aardvark or something.”

  What did I know of the animals of the suburban jungle?

  They both looked at me like deer caught in headlights, so we started moving on.

  I wonder what they’re up to....

  I’d found out that another surefire way to learn more about the people who share this quaint street is to take note of the extra items that they lay out on the tree lawn. People assume that “somebody will take it.”

  The random castoffs on the tree lawn of Marisol’s home was a good example. This week she was showcasing a portable hood hair dryer that probably helped finish the girls’ home perms when they were teens. I’d seen their photos hanging in the hallway one rare time that Marisol let me step over the threshold, and they were both sporting ringlets. There was also a Fantasy Island Christmas snow globe the size of a bowling ball. Lastly, I saw a collection of old faucets, which must have had everyone scratching their heads. When Bardot tried to fit the snow globe into her mouth, I quickly pulled her away and we kept walking.

  Moving along and in front of Cassie and Carl’s two-story Tudor house were items that deserved a sit down and a bit of a think. This week’s treasures included neon pink skis, a gravity inversion table, a book of carpet samples, and a five-tray food dehydrator. Knock yourselves out.

  From inside the house, we heard the high-pitched yips I’d known to come from those little lap dogs.

  Before I knew what was happening, Bardot had pulled me clear across their lawn and up to the front door. A chorus of barks and yips ensued from the three that sounded remarkably like counting out the steps in a waltz. “Bark-yip-yip, bark-yip-yip.” Then I heard Cassie on the other side of the door, which she opened a tiny bit, trying to shoo them away.

  “I didn’t know you had dogs, Cassie,” I said through the crack in the door. I’m pretty sure that I saw little fur butts and tails skitter away.

  I heard some whispering that I couldn’t decipher, and then the door slowly opened all the way.

  “Oh, hi, Halsey. What are you doing out so late?”

  “Just enjoying the evening air. Were those Chihuahuas I saw?”

  “What? No. Listen I’d love to invite you in for a glass of wine but Carl is upstairs waiting for me, if you know what I mean.” She winked at me.

  For once Cassie was dressed like anybody else relaxing at home, sweats and a T-shirt. Somehow I doubted that this attire turned Carl into a rabid Casanova.

  Before I could respond, she blew me a kiss and shut the front door.

  I looked at Bardot, and she returned the favor with an expression that said, “What the hell have you gotten me into??”

  Those were clearly dogs, and Bardot agreed. So why was she lying? I remembered the girls saying that Rosa’s Chihuahuas had been missing since the murder. Were those them? If Cassie had rescued the dogs, why wouldn’t she just say so? Course every second person seems to have a Chihuahua in California, and frankly they all look alike to me. Maybe I’m overthinking this, Cassie is impulsive and needs instant gratification, so she could have bought the dogs. And she may be hiding them from Carl so she doesn’t have to bargain with him for anything.

  I saw that by now Inez had made her way down this side of the street and was doing her poaching across the avenue.

  We watched as she approached Peggy’s house, which I guessed looked as pristine outside as it did when it was built in the 1950s. It is always so clean that you can eat off the front porch, and it’s quite possible that the neighborhood cat asleep on the doormat wiped his feet before tucking in. At the curb the trash bins also look like new. And just as neatly sat her two cases of empty wine and liquor bottles.

  Inez made fast work of gathering up the recyclables and then stopped for quite a while, fumbling with them in her cart. When Bardot followed my gaze and saw Inez, a slow growl started to rumble in her belly.

  I had to sit on the curb and let her lick my face and ears in order to distract her.

  Finally finished with her trash machinations, Inez passed poor Rosa’s house and stopped at the next one. I had no idea who lived there and decided it was time to head home.

  I needed to think through what we’d seen tonight: Marisol handing a mysterious bag to Inez, both of them looking guilty of something, and Cassie clearly lying about having those dogs.

  I looked across one last time and was mystified to see that at this particular house Inez was actually putting bottles into the trash cans. All the while trying to be very stealth.

  What the hell?

  Chapter 10

  Miraculously, I found that my newspaper was now being placed in my mailbox right outside my door in the morning, and it wasn’t because the delivery guy who tossed it from a slow moving truck had the arm of a pro baller. It also wasn’t to stop me from parading out in my wifebeater. It was the beginning of my acceptance by Marisol. And I suspected that once you were in the Marisol Club, you were in for life. Like it or not.

  My only question was, why the change of heart? Did I pass some kind of Marisol good neighbor test? Or was she lulling me into trusting her while there was an active murder case to be solved? Maybe she and Augie were trying a new angle to break me.

  As I was coming back from a trip to the store, I heard my name being called. I didn’t see anyone and was about to go in when I heard it again. The sound was coming from Marisol’s house, and I could faintly make out her shadow behind the black, metal security screen door.

  So this was how she did her spying. She must have seen something the day of the murder. Time for me to make nice and ask her about it.

  I approached but she remained behind the screen.

  “A guy came to see me, a detective, he had a book,” she said.

  I felt a bit like I was back in Catholic school, talking to a priest in a confessional.

  “What kind of book?”

  “It had pictures of people in it; he wanted me to look through, see if I’d seen any of them around here visiting Musso.”

  She got right up to the screen and I could see that she was definitely proud of her sudden importance.

  “So he showed you a mug shot book?”

  I’m pretty sure I saw Marisol nod on the other side of the screen. The gray roots were showing when she tipped her head.

  “Wow, well did you recognize any of them?” She was going to drag this out for all it was worth.

  “Some I seen around, they’d come and look at the cars during the day, do a lot of talking and then leave with nothing. You can’t make a living doing that.”

  “Why were they in the book of criminals, did he tell you what they’d done?” I was getting tired of talking to a door.

  “I asked but the detective didn’t say much. Something about taxes. I’ll get the scoop from Augie.”

  Finally she opened the screen door and stepped out.

  At that moment Musso came out of his house and headed to a Mercedes that was parked at the curb. Halfway down the driveway, he stopped and looked at us with a blank face. If that was his death stare, then he needed more time in front of the bathroom mirror.

  “I used to babysit them kids, Rosa and Ray,” Marisol said, watching Musso drive off. “If he had anything to do with her death, I’ll kill him myself!”

  Why is she yelling at me??

  “What exactly do you think Musso is doing with those cars at night? You must see things.”

  “I seen him moving cars in and out during the week. Taking up all the goddamn street parking when he can’t park any more in the back of his house. Then Thursday n
ights they get loaded onto trucks and shipped out. Don’t know where they go from here.”

  “Then I’m going to have to follow them one Thursday night.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “What? No.” I didn’t like where this was heading.

  “I’m going, you’ll see. Now, don’t you have one of them stupid wine club thingies to go to?”

  She may be off her meds. . . .

  “No you won’t, but thanks for bringing my paper up to the door every morning.”

  I still needed information from her so I decided to make nice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I heard from a muffled voice as the screen door slammed.

  * * *

  Monday mornings I make my weekly foray to Trader Joe’s, usually around ten to avoid any sort of crowd, something I abhor now that I don’t have to put up with it. I’d been to one in New York, but it was nothing compared to the wide aisles and interesting and unique items that filled the shelves in my local store.

  Trader Joe’s is like the IKEA of food purveyors. They often set the style for the latest gastronomy while having the buying power to price everything affordably. They’ve also made liars out of a good many patrons, myself included, in at least two scenarios:

  1. Before you can stop yourself, you proudly take credit for a particularly delicious creation of theirs, whether an appetizer, dessert, or cheese tray combination.

  2. You discover a new, tasty treat they just got in, and when your guests ask where you got it you reply, “Just a little shop downtown, but I think I got the last one.”

  I am at least thirty years younger than any of the other patrons shopping at that time. I’m spared the moms with babies and toddlers who give me a peek into the challenge of herding cats, and also make me want to get my tubes tied. I also avoid the folks who just got out of yoga class, just finished three sets of tennis, or made TJ’s the destination after a five-mile jog. I hate everything about those people.