Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  On the other side of the building was another paved parking lot, which served the marina, as well as the ex-restaurant patrons. There were no cars parked in it at the time.

  The pier off the lot appeared to be nearly deserted with the exception of a couple of men, probably fishermen, busy doing what fisherman do with their boats.

  I climbed the five wooden steps at the front of the restaurant for a closer inspection. It looked like it had been built decades ago and must have been kept up until fairly recently. In some places, peeling white paint exposed bare wood and a few of the glass panes were broken.

  I glanced around, saw no one, and attempted to turn a door handle. Surprise, surprise, it was locked.

  I trotted along a narrow walkway under an overhang, toward the side of the building and had to jump over several folding metal chairs left out in the elements and rusting nicely. I continued to the back end of the restaurant and onto a deck with a lovely view of the marina and the sea beyond.

  The deck joined the public pier but was separated by three-foot high pilings roped together. Several battered buckets sat near the restaurant wall, for what purpose I couldn’t fathom, and were filled with water, probably from the recent rains. Leaning against a bare flagpole was a shade umbrella, broken and rusty, with the tattered remnants of red fabric flapping in the breeze.

  Wow, this looks pretty dismal. Why does this just sit here unused like this? It’s prime location.

  I crossed to the back entrance consisting of two glass doors, soaped up with a vengeance. Obviously, this was where patrons would have come out to the deck from inside the restaurant.

  The deck was over one hundred feet long and nearly fifty feet wide, if I calculated right, so it could accommodate a pretty large crowd. An outdoor bar, disintegrating right before my eyes, was near the far end.

  I tried the back doors, and they, too, were locked. I leaned in, put my hand over my eyes to cut the glare of the sun and tried to peer in between soapy swirls.

  As I pressed my nose against the glass, I caught the smell. I pulled back, somewhat shocked, and then began sniffing at the crack of the door. As I bent down closer to the door jam, the smell was stronger. Urine.

  Odd, I’ve been smelling that a lot lately.

  Maybe vagrants had broken in and were using it periodically, but upon closer inspection, nothing actually looked broken into. The more I studied it, the more it looked as if someone had deliberately broken one or two of the windows to make the place look abandoned. I inspected the windows more carefully now and found a humdinger of an alarm system, with wiring strategically placed out of sight.

  Before I got carried away, I tried to convince myself the system could have been left over from when the restaurant was open. Except the wiring looked very new and well kept up.

  Naturally, the outside would take more of a battering from the elements than the inside, but still, I told myself, this doesn’t smell right, no pun intended.

  How long had this restaurant been closed, anyway? I was pondering, as my phone rang. It was Richard.

  There was nothing new to add to the report he gave me yesterday. He had an impatient tone, as brothers are wont to have when you push them too hard.

  Regardless, I told him the name and address of the Dew-Drop-Inn and asked him to find out anything he could. In particular, were they still paying any bills for any type of security system? Richard tried to beg off, telling me of his tight schedule, but I insisted.

  He finally relented and said he’d get back to me as soon as he could. I said to make it fifteen minutes or less, and as we hung up, he was swearing. Brothers.

  I sat down on the deck with my back against the doors and faced the water. I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my head against them. It was peaceful and I had gotten very little sleep. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the briny air. I listened to the cry of seagulls overhead and the soft lapping of the waves on the pilings beneath me.

  When I lifted my head and opened my eyes a few minutes later, one of the men from the closest slip across the water was staring at me. He was a small Asian dressed incongruously in dress slacks, black loafers and a button down blue shirt. He looked away when I caught his eye and continued to scrub down a small dinghy.

  I leaned my head back down again and must have drifted off because I was startled when my cellphone rang some twenty minutes later. It was Richard, and he was in a hurry.

  “All hell is breaking loose here, let me tell you,” and he proceeded to do so.

  “Our Lady is demanding all the pertinent data for the past ten years on two companies proposing a merger. However, each one thinks the other is up to no good,” Richard explained.

  “The CFO of both companies called today to have the other company investigated for any illegal activities before they’ll go through with the merger. Before we can take this on and get caught in the middle, Lila says we have to know what each one is really up to, not what they’re telling us. They could just be using us as an excuse to kill the other guy off.

  “And if that’s what it’s about, we won’t touch the job with a ten-foot pole, no matter how much money they’re offering. Talk about doing some fast research,” Richard finished with exasperation.

  “Richard, stop whining, and tell me if you’ve found out anything for me,” I said with annoyance.

  “Whining?” he replied, shocked at the accusation.

  “I never whine.”

  “Sure you do. So do I.”

  “I am attempting to explain why I’m going to be on caffeine and rock music for the next three days. Our Lady has told me to put everything else aside. Everything. And that is why, sister mine, this is my last phone call to you today if you want to see me at dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, Richard. I am sorry,” I said, laughing. “You’re being wonderful, and I couldn’t possibly do anything in this world without you and your computer. Thank you, thank you, and thank you.”

  Sensing I had somewhat appeased him, I got back to business. “Now what do you know about the Dew-Drop-Inn in the illustrious town of Princeton-by-the-Sea?”

  “Not much,” he answered, somewhat mollified. “The restaurant was owned by the same family, Cardozo is the name, for twenty years. Got bought out six years ago by some organization I haven’t been able to run a check on called P period Y period. And don’t ask me to run a check, ‘cause I don’t have the time,” he added testily. I didn’t open my mouth.

  Richard went on, “Anyway, five years ago the new owners filed bankruptcy and closed. The end. Oh, yes. P period Y period pays for a monthly alarm system, and it’s a pretty deluxe package. It’s with Bay Area Alarms, and it’s a lot more than the average person, such as me, would carry. Same deal as the warehouse, if that means anything. Does that help?”

  “That helps, Richard.”

  “I got to go now, Lee. Andy just came in and is standing over my shoulder saying Lila is breathing fire and wanting to know where you are. We could use all the hands we can get today. Do I know where you are?”

  “You do not,” I answered and hung up.

  ELEVEN

  Elvis Has Left The Building

  I leaned back against the double doors again and looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and I was famished. Cramming the phone in my jeans, I decided to return to the diner. If the food was half as good as the coffee, I’d be happy.

  Crossing the threshold, I felt once again I had stepped back in time. Earlier that morning, I had vaguely noticed all the red vinyl and shiny chrome. Now Elvis Presley’s “Blue Suede Shoes” blared over miniature jukeboxes at each booth, as well as strategically placed ones on the shiny, red countertop.

  I gazed at the panoramic view of the sparkling, sun-drenched ocean through the long row of windows at the rear of the diner. It looked as if you could reach right out and touch forever.

  This was a “fun” diner, I realized, and that’s why I returned. Heading for the counter, I noted business was brisk for just one wai
tress and a short order cook. I sat down on a stool that had the least amount of cracked red vinyl and picked up the menu.

  “No use you looking at that, honey,” said the large, gregarious waitress costumed in a Pepto-Bismol pink uniform, as she meandered over to me.

  Above her abundant right breast was a pocket holding a starched green and white embroidered hanky that flopped out in every direction. Dyed carrot red hair, somewhat contained by a beaded, jet-black hairnet, was topped with a matching pink cap. She added the final blast of ambiance to the place. She was perfect.

  “Half of it we don’t have,” the woman continued from behind the counter. “I don’t know why we keep those around,” she gestured to the menu and then took it out of my hands. “It’s much faster if I tell you.”

  She leaned a calloused elbow, which was connected to a flabby upper arm, onto the counter and began her recitation.

  “The meatloaf with gravy and cranberry-apple pie are the stars today. Other than that, it’s sandwiches. They’re okay but not great. The best is the turkey. Let me recommend the meatloaf. Nobody makes it better than Hank. And the mashed potatoes are good, too.”

  Dropping her voice she said, “But stay away from the vegetables, if you know what’s good for you. Hank likes to cook them six to seven hours beforehand, so they’re pretty awful.”

  Her voice went back to its normal volume. “We don’t do fish. Hank doesn’t like fish. You want fish, go over to Barbara’s Fish Trap. She’ll do ya.”

  She smiled at me, and her whole face lit up. Her green-grey eyes twinkled when she spoke, and her face was unlined and youthful. I liked her instantly, despite the nauseating pink uniform.

  “Whatever you say...” I leaned closer to the name embroidered on the pocket right below her maverick hanky. “...Maggie.”

  I smiled back at her. I watched her write and throw my order onto a Lazy Susan set up half in and half out of the kitchen, in the opening of a pass through. Instantly, a meaty, red hand spun the contraption around, reached up and snatched the paper.

  With nothing better to do, I studied my surroundings. I noticed everyone was eating the meatloaf and potatoes or the pie. I also noticed people got up and helped themselves to cups of coffee, utensils or whatever else they needed. It was a real family-style restaurant.

  No wonder one waitress can handle such a crowd.

  Two minutes later a steaming plate loaded down with food was set before me. I dug in, and it was delicious. Fat and grease will do it every time.

  While I was eating, I looked into the pass through and saw what had been connected to the meaty hand. A middle-aged, gum-chewing man, tattooed on nearly every part of his body except his nose, was busily slicing portions from several meatloaves and pouring gravy onto plates. He had the ruddy complexion usually associated with living on the sea or being in front of a stove all your life. This was Hank; I was sure.

  “You was in here this morning, weren’t you, honey?” Maggie beamed at me as she filled the sugar bowls on the counter and took cash from customers. “You visiting with us for awhile or just passing through?”

  I took a sip of water, as I gave myself a moment to think and looked back at Maggie.

  “Well, I’m actually looking for someone. A friend of mine.”

  “Really?”

  She counted out some singles and change to a family of five anxious to pay the bill and leave. When they exited, she came over and stood across the counter from me.

  “Everybody’s in such a rush these days,” she commented on the departing family. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Grace Wong. Here, I have her picture.”

  I reached inside my pocket and drew out the photocopy, as I continued with the latest lie that had just come into my head.

  “You see, she was my neighbor, but she moved away last week. The day before she moved, her cat disappeared. Last night it came back, and I want to let her know I’ve got the cat in my apartment. She told me she was moving here to Princeton-by-the-Sea, but didn’t tell me where or leave a phone number.”

  I made a face and raised my shoulders as if to say, ‘If only we had known.’ I felt the story was much more believable than the one I fed Ed. I was getting better at this.

  “Oh, what a shame. I like cats. Got three of them, myself,” Maggie said shaking her head and taking the picture from me.

  “Oh, what a sweet looking girl. Chinese isn’t she? Such a friendly, sweet face. I’ll bet her mother’s proud of her. You can tell she’s a good girl.”

  Mesmerized by the appraisal, I studied the picture Maggie set down on the counter. Grace Wong was a sweet looking girl, I observed, once you got past all the sexiness of her.

  Maggie took a couple of dirty plates off the counter and threw them into black plastic bins.

  ““I can tell a lot by looking in people’s eyes you know. Like yours. You’re a nice girl, too.”

  “Am I?”

  “Sure you are. Just like her.”

  “Thanks.” I think.

  She gestured with a nod in the direction of the picture, which lay on the counter between us. Her voice became far away, all knowing.

  “I got six kids, four of them girls. Five of my kids, good as the day is long. Sweet-natured, good to their husbands, wives, kids, me, Hank, everybody in the world. But my Darlene, I knew when I took her home from the hospital she was never going to do anybody any good in the world and she hasn’t.”

  The people nearby stopped whatever they were doing and listened intently to the waitress’s assessment of her sadly lacking child. Maggie came over and leaned into my face.

  “I saw it in her eyes. The day I took her home from the hospital. It didn’t matter what Hank and me did. We tried everything with her. Ran off when she was sixteen after taking all the cash from the register and my good opal earrings. Haven’t heard from her since.”

  Maggie sighed deeply, and I felt as if everyone nearby was torn between going back to eating lunch or applauding.

  It occurred to me this might not be going quite the way I had intended. I tried to bring Maggie back to the subject of Grace Wong.

  “Well, that is too bad. I’m sure you’ll hear from her someday but...”

  “Good God, I hope not.” Maggie interrupted and raised her eyes to heaven.

  “But my friend, Grace Wong. Have you seen her?” I insisted.

  Maggie wiped down the counter as old customers left and new ones came in.

  “No but it’s odd you should show me a picture of a Chinese girl.”

  I held my breath, unsure if Maggie might not be starting on another long, loud and non sequitur story. Not that they weren’t interesting, but I wanted to get out of this diner sometime before I applied for Social Security.

  “We don’t have a lot of Asian people around here,” she said finally. “That’s too bad because I love the food. Hank’s style of cooking leaves a lot to be desired. I mean, he does a couple of things okay, but I’d love to have a good cook back there.”

  She gestured over her shoulder to the kitchen with her thumb.

  Oh, no, she’s off on a tangent again.

  “Anyway, it can’t be your friend I’ve been hearing if she just moved here last week. But sometimes...” Maggie leaned in again and said in a stage whisper,“Sometimes in the middle of the night, I hear things. Our apartment’s right upstairs. I’m a light sleeper. Hank’s not. But I can hear a traffic light change color. Just a minute, honey,” she interrupted herself, as she heard a small bell ringing in the kitchen.

  Maggie went to the pass through and got four more steaming plates of meatloaf and potatoes and brought them to a table in the rear. Her audience, meanwhile, once again resumed their eating or conversations. The Asian man I had seen earlier at the marina got up from one of the tables he’d been eating at alone and left the diner.

  Maggie returned. “Anyway, Hank says I’m losing it, but I swear every now and then, in the middle of the night, I hear people walking underneath our wi
ndow speaking Chinese or Vietnamese or one of those. I keep waiting to see a new Asian family living here, but I don’t. It seems they’re just passing through. Now, isn’t that strange?” she asked the world at large.

  “You’re strange, Maggie,” said an old man sitting at the counter nearby who was hunched over his plate and shoveling food in his mouth.

  “Didn’t you see aliens once?”

  His challenge of her might have had more credibility if his mouth hadn’t been full. The man had a worn out plaid cap on his head that went up and down on his forehead as he chewed.

  “Shut up, Mel,” Maggie replied amiably. She looked down at my empty plate and beamed. “Glad you liked the meatloaf.”

  “Nobody likes the damn meatloaf or anything else here. There’s no other place to eat something around here that ain’t fish,” complained Mel, shoveling in another mouthful of potatoes.

  “Are you still carrying on about the Dew-Drop-Inn closing down? Mel, that was five years ago,” Maggie said, and rolled her eyes toward me.

  Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar, and the subject has been broached.

  “Are you talking about the closed restaurant on the harbor?”

  “We are,” Mel spat out. His mouth being full, bits of meatloaf landed on the counter. It was enough to turn you into a vegetarian.

  “Best damn food for miles around, too,” he added belligerently, looking at Maggie who was filling salt and pepper shakers and shaking her head.

  “Well, then why did it close?” I asked. “Bad management?”

  Maggie cut in before Mel could answer, so he went back to chowing down.

  “We don’t know why. They did a lot of business and had good, honest food, too. Better than ours,” she added, lowering her voice again and looking in her husband’s direction.

  “At better prices, too,” interjected Mel in a loud, hostile tone of voice.

  Maggie went on as if she had not been interrupted. “The Cardozos owned it for years. Nice people. Portuguese, you know. They sold out at a good price, I’m told, and then wham! It goes bankrupt and closes down in less than a year.”