Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  An hour later Richard called, and after our usual banter, I asked if he knew about the circumstances of Grace Wong’s arrest. Richard seemed eager to talk about it and needed little prompting.

  “Oddly enough,” he offered, “it was our tapes of the license plates that made the arrest possible; at least that’s what the cops said. It didn’t help she called in sick to the theatre on the night Wyler was killed. She can’t or won’t say where she was, Lee. She’s completely mum. Can you believe it? Anyway, they say she had the motive and opportunity.”

  “But what motive, Richard?” I wanted to know. “He was the source for bringing her family into the country.”

  “Except…” Richard began grandly. “It seems he refused to bring in any more of her relatives. He felt he had done too much already, bringing in two brothers in one year and her grandmother the year before. After all, she was just another lay,” Richard added and then coughed self-consciously.

  “Good God!” I exclaimed. “Where did you learn all of that?”

  “Well, mostly on the internet. Two of those seamen, who spoke English, said Wyler argued with her, telling her he was finished bringing in her family. Boy, they talked their heads off to the authorities once they got behind bars. Then, the Captain of the ship swore it had to be Grace Wong who shot Wyler, because he heard her voice when he was talking to Wyler on the phone that night. Chen was out at sea at the time, but he swears he heard her. It’s been on in the news and on television for days. Haven’t you been watching?”

  “No, I just read today’s papers, and I’m appalled.”

  “Bad grammar or what? Why are you appalled?”

  “It’s not any newspaper’s bad grammar,” I replied. “It’s the idea of the killer being Grace Wong.”

  “I know. Can you believe it? She struck me like basically a sweet girl, if you know what I mean. Unpredictable, but sweet. At least, that’s the impression I got when I did her dossier for you,” he added.

  Strange, I thought. This was one more person calling Grace Wong a sweet girl. Ed, Maggie, and now Richard. Not only did she appear to be a ‘sweet girl,’ but also she had done a great deal to help her family, albeit illegally, come into this country. So she slept with a man to make that possible. Did that automatically make her a murderer?

  “Do they have a smoking gun? None of the papers say,” I asked.

  “Gun?” Richard said, as if I had asked him if the police had a polar bear on water skis.

  “Literarily, Richard. The murder weapon,” I said pointedly. “Did they find the revolver? Frank told me it was some type of derringer.”

  “No, they didn’t or, at least, they’re not saying,” he said. “But they have three more witnesses who say about a month ago she threatened to kill Wyler after he refused to help her any more. I got that online from the CNN Breaking News.”

  He paused; I paused, and I guess there was too much still air on his end of the telephone.

  “Lee? You still there?”

  “Yes, Richard. I’m here.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you think she did it?”

  “No, I don’t, Richard, but I base this on practically nothing. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  “Now that I think about it, I don’t think she did it, either.”

  We sat in mutual silence on the phone for the better part of a minute breathing into each other’s ear. Richard broke the silence.

  “Sister mine, I think I’ll find out exactly what the prosecution has got and let you know.”

  “Can you do that?” I asked, aghast. “I mean, facts, Richard. Not rumors, not innuendos, but hard facts. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can, but it isn’t easy, and if anybody asks you, I can’t. Understand? Now what exactly do we want to know?”

  I felt my heartbeat quicken. “Wait a minute, Richard. Mom says you’re on overload now. I don’t want to add to what you already have.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This strikes me as about two or three hours worth of work, max. Besides, if she’s innocent…”

  He stopped talking and the thought hung out there over the telephone lines.

  “That’s how I feel. Let’s see what we can do, Richard, to help her. Get a pencil and write this down, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Ready?” I heard him grunt an assent and began organizing my mind. I closed my eyes to help myself concentrate. “Okay. Do they have a murder weapon? If so, to whom is it registered?”

  “Oh, how proper we are,” Richard interjected. “I would have just asked ‘Who’s it registered to?’”

  “Shush! Don’t interrupt me. Where was I? Oh, yes. If they’ve got the weapon, whose fingerprints are on it? Has Grace Wong actually admitted shooting him? I mean, maybe we’re both wrong, and she did do it. What are the exact charges, anyway? Does she have an attorney? If so, who is it? And lastly, Richard, and this is important, is there any way I can see her?”

  “You?” Richard choked on the other side of the phone. “See her? What do you want to see her for? Or should I have said, ‘for what do you want to see her?’ Did it ever occur to you, Liana, that she might feel you are responsible for her downfall? Estas loca!”

  “I’m not crazy, and I don’t think she blames me.” I thought for a moment. “But can you find out?”

  “Listen, Lee, unless she’s said that to someone, or it’s written it down somewhere, I can’t find out if she blames you. I don’t do magic, I just do computer.”

  “I’ve seen you pull magic tricks out of your computer hat all the time. Just the other day—”

  “Besides,” he interrupted, paying no attention to my oily words, “you’ve got to take it easy when you come out of the hospital for a couple of weeks. You know that,” Richard said, with an edge to his voice. “You’re not going to jeopardize your health again.”

  “No, I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize my health or anything else. However...”

  “Uh oh. Here’s the however.”

  “However, it might not be necessary to meet her in person,” I reflected. “How about if you see if it’s an option? I promise not to do anything without you knowing about it. How’s that? I promise,” I said again, trying to appease him.

  “All right,” Richard said after a pause. “I’ll do what I can today or tomorrow in between trying to get this stupid merger finished for Our Lady.”

  “Thanks, Richard. I appreciate it.” I was silent for a moment, suddenly filled with a myriad of emotions. “Richard?”

  “Still here, Lee, although I’ve got to go in a minute.”

  “I love you, Richard.” After saying that, I felt suddenly idiotic. “I wanted to say it, because I hardly ever do,” I added.

  “I love you, too, Banana Breath.”

  We both burst out laughing at the memory of the childhood nickname he’d given me when I ate five bananas on a dare and burped into the night.

  “Gotta go, Lee. Our Lady wants some stats by five o’clock tonight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I promise.”

  The next day came, and I got a short phone call in the morning from Richard telling me he hadn’t had time to get on “that” information.

  In the afternoon Tío showed up with snapshots of Tugger taken the day before. I was surprised to see how big he had gotten in less than a week. Rather selfishly, I wondered if the kitten was bonding more with my uncle than me.

  It would only be natural if the cat does. In fact, maybe I should let my uncle have Tugger. He’s becoming more and more attached to the little guy. Maybe Tío needs him even more than I do.

  I felt my throat tighten, as the thought went through my mind that I probably should make the offer. It was the least I could do.

  The day after tomorrow I would go home and see if Tugger really belonged with Tío or with me. That night I asked for a sleeping pill for the first time since I had been in the hospital.

  SIXTEEN

  By A Hair’s Breadth

  I awoke
before seven a.m. anticipating a big day. Hospital routine being what it was, I had heard movements in the hallway and knew the hospital had been long awake. I was a little excited but nervous, because Doctor Parsley would tell me whether or not I could go home the following day. He would also be removing the bandages.

  I was glad for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my scalp itched where the stitches were, and the idea of washing my hair sounded like nirvana.

  I had never met Mom’s hairdresser, Enrico, and wondered what he would be like. I didn’t have long to wonder. He came bouncing in shortly after breakfast carrying a small suitcase.

  A short, slender young man, he wore an unstructured, black linen suit, beneath that, a black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and matching cufflinks. He wore his own black hair elegantly styled in short, spiked tufts, artfully arranged around his oval face. In one ear, a diamond stud sparkled brightly. I knew immediately why Lila liked him. He was very put together for seven-thirty a.m. Now, if only he could cut hair.

  Enrico was exceedingly friendly. As he set his case down and began extracting equipment, he chatted nonstop.

  He “was dying to see what these butchers had done,” so he had just “zipped over at the crack of dawn,” because he couldn’t wait any longer. Fortunately, he stopped talking long enough for me to tell him the doctor wasn’t scheduled to remove the bandages until eight a.m.

  I sent Enrico down to the coffee shop to wait and hoped the doctor would show up on time. He did and removed the bandages with absolutely no pomp and circumstance. Doctor Parsley examined each wound saying “Hmmmmm” with each one. I thought better than to ask him any questions, and he probably wouldn’t have heard me, anyway.

  “Coming along very nicely, Ms. Alvarez, especially the jagged one in the back. Excellent!” I murmured something insignificant, as he picked up the chart lovingly and began scribbling.

  “I don’t see why you can’t leave tomorrow morning, right? No more headaches, correct? No fever, right? No infections, no, no.” He was, of course, asking the chart and not me, but I felt obliged to shake or nod my head, whatever seemed appropriate.

  “Well, off I go, Ms. Alvarez,” he said to the chart.

  “The nurse will make an appointment for you to see me next week in my office to remove those stitches. Meanwhile, no alcohol, and if you get a mild headache, take a Tylenol®. If you should get a severe one, give us a call. Oh, and about your scalp,” he added, “there’s a special shampoo you have to use. The nurse will bring it in to you. Be very careful washing around the stitches. We don’t want them opening up and you bleeding on us again!” He smiled, finally looking into my face. I grinned back at him like an idiot. He left the room in a flurry, clutching several files to his bosom.

  I got out of bed and examined my hair closely in the mirror over the sink in the bathroom. Well, Enrico had called it. “Butchered” just about summed it up. What was still three or four inches long had been pushed flat on my scalp by the bandage.

  A few clumps of about a half an inch long stuck out near each one of the sutured areas the doctor examined. A nurse entered the bathroom and together we managed to wash my hair in the shower with a maximum of fuss and bother.

  It surprised me how much it wore me out. I was glad to get back into bed afterward with a towel wrapped around my head. Enrico, finishing up a cheese Danish, returned from the coffee shop a short time later. After several minutes of examining my hair from every angle, he held his hand over his heart and aimed his eyes heavenward.

  “What I do for the scintillating Lila Alvarez,” he muttered and began his task.

  After an hour, just as I thought he would never be done, he stood back and sighed contentedly. “Well, my clients tell me I’m a genius, and now I know they’re right. Voila!”

  He put a hand mirror in front of my face. I took it hesitantly and braved a look in the mirror. What had begun as something looking like it came straight out of a medieval lunatic asylum, now resembled a stylish do.

  I had to admit, even though I had worn my hair long all my life, this short style looked good. Sort of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. I thanked Enrico, tipped him profusely, and took a long nap when he left.

  The afternoon was less busy. Remembering the fatigue of the morning, I took several walks in the hallway trying to build up my stamina. Other than phone calls from Mom and Tío, I spent the rest of the time thinking and napping.

  Richard didn’t call, and I assumed it meant he didn’t have any information yet. In the evening, I packed the few things I had and fell asleep right after Jeopardy.

  At six a.m., the phone rang waking me from a light slumber. I answered feeling better than I had in days. It was Richard. “Morning, Glory. Qué tal? Sorry if I woke you,” he said anxiously.

  “Richard, what a surprise! No, I was just getting up. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the office. I’ve been here since about two,” he said, his voice a little scratchy.

  “Two? Two o’clock in the morning? You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. It’s the best time to access certain things,” he added with an enigmatic air.

  “How does Vicki feel about you leaving at that hour?” Victoria had moved in with Richard about six months ago.

  “She’s used to it.” I could sense him shrug over the phone. “I have to work weird hours. She knows that.”

  I could hold back no longer in expressing my opinion on the young woman currently in my brother’s life. “Richard, grab this gal. She’s a gem.”

  He laughed lightly. “Don’t worry, I will. Now do you want to know what I have or not?” He heard my sharp intake of breath and went on. “I’ve made notes. Ready?”

  “Ready.” I found a pencil and waited silently. I heard the rustle of papers on his end of the line.

  Richard read from his notes. “Grace Wong has not been officially charged with anything, as of yet, because they are trying to build a good case against her first. Apparently the fact that she, number one, had a nasty fight in front of witnesses with Wyler a month before he died and, number two, will not say where she was the night of the murder, has the State of California convinced it’s her.”

  “But it’s not, Richard.”

  “Please, I’m on a roll. Don’t interrupt me. The scuttlebutt is she will probably be arraigned sometime next week on charges of Murder One. They do not have the smoking gun. Repeat, no smoking gun.

  “The prosecution is saying she probably threw it in the Bay and is making half-hearted attempts at recovery. However, they don’t expect to find it, the currents are very strong, it could be out to sea or buried under tons of silt and blah, blah, woof, woof. My sources say they’re going to try to build a case on circumstantial evidence, and so far what they have is pretty strong. The prosecuting attorney is Warren Thacker. Heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you will. Out to make a name for himself with this case and pushing hard. The police are questioning everyone, and the most damning evidence against Gracie, ironically, is the Captain of the Feng Shen.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “He’s trying to cut a deal. He’s cooperating on the murder of Wyler hoping he can plead to lesser charges for what he did to you. The word out is it won’t get him very far, but he is talking to anyone who will listen. He swears he heard her voice over the phone that night when he was talking to Wyler ship-to-shore. Meanwhile, her lawyer, Jake Feinstein, who has a so-so reputation, is trying to get her released into her own recognizance.”

  “How does that look?”

  “The judge hasn’t made a ruling yet, but she probably won’t get it, because she won’t defend herself. Also, there isn’t anybody else the defense can come up with who could have committed the murder other than ‘person or persons unknown.’ Mrs. Wyler was home all night, her housekeeper swears to that. Captain Chen was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

  “So those two are out,” I said.

  “
Yeah, and I had wondered about Mrs. Wyler. You know what they say, ‘cherchez la femme.’”

  “Who says that?” I demanded.

  “Nobody in particular says it. It’s just a French saying. It means ‘look for the woman.’”

  “Not in this case. She’s been cleared.”

  “I know that, Lee,” Richard said testily. “I was just…”

  “Showing off your French?” I finished for him.

  “Never mind my French. Should I go on?”

  “Please do but let’s stick to English or Spanish, okay?”

  “Boy, are you obnoxious when you’re bored.”

  “I’m listening, Richard.”

  “Okay, to continue, even Ernie Butler…”

  “Who’s Ernie Butler?” I interrupted.

  “Are you ever going to let me get a complete sentence out?” he asked, through what sounded like gritted teeth.

  “Sorry,” I said contritely. “I’ll shut up.”

  “Ernie Butler is or was Wyler’s legit partner. He attended a tailgate party for the Stanford-Cal game that night with about twenty other people. Wyler didn’t have any friends or girlfriends besides Grace Wong—if you can call her a girlfriend—or even a private life from what they can find. Too busy making money. I mean, Lee, they got nobody, no how, but her. Did you know Butler inherits the real estate business, lock, stock and barrel? A right of survivorship will they both signed last year.”

  “So it could be this Butler guy, too,” I mused. Just to make sure I had the cast of characters, I said, “Tell me again about Ernie Butler.”

  “The other half of the real estate development thing Wyler had going in Palo Alto for the past twenty, thirty years. This illegal immigration business with Chen was his real moneymaker, though. Here’s the kicker, Lee, they’ve found over thirty million dollars in a bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

  “Thirty million dollars!”

  “Wyler’s wife practically fainted when she found out about that. I understand she’s been on tranqs for days now. Of course, what can the INS do about that money? They’d have to prove it’s illegally gotten, and from what I understand, Wyler laundered it pretty well. I don’t even think they can bring it back into the country to tax it. It’s just sitting there on an island in the middle of the Caribbean.”