by Mary Marks
“Well, what about the four a.m. to six a.m. shift?” I pointed to the logbook. “Anything?”
Ron shook his head until his jowls waggled. “Nope. That’s all she wrote.”
Darn! I hoped to discover a clue in the logbook. The kidnappers knew what they were doing. If they’d returned in the wee hours of Monday morning, they’d have to turn on lights to search the house. A light might’ve aroused the curiosity of any witness who happened to be awake then. But arriving after daybreak helped them appear to be visitors or workers parking on the street. By being bold enough to be seen, they became invisible.
“Thanks for your help, Ron. I guess we’ll have to interview the neighbors individually. Can you tell me which Eye took the last shift of the night? I know it’s a long shot, but maybe he saw something that seemed so insignificant he didn’t bother to log it.”
Giselle clicked open her pen and held it poised over the notepad. “Anytime you’re ready, Sherlock.”
Ron flipped the sheets of the logbook all the way back to the beginning. I peeked over his shoulder and saw the first two pages contained the names and contact info for each watchman. He moved his forefinger over the names until he found what we needed. Giselle noted the information and we left.
On the short walk back to my house, Fanya suddenly veered ninety degrees to the right. She waved her hand at Giselle, Sonia, and me. “Quick! Follow me.” She crossed the street, mumbling and spitting.
We glanced at each other and crossed the street, trotting right behind her.
“What’s wrong? Where are you going?” I asked.
Fanya stopped and pointed back across the street. Sauntering slowly toward the spot where we once walked was Hucklebee, a neighbor’s black cat. Fanya let out a big puff of air. “Phew. That was a close call. You should never let a black cat cross your pathway. You’re only asking for something terrible to happen.”
Three doors away from mine we stopped.
Giselle looked at her notes. “This is the address Ron gave us.”
Built in the mid-1950s, my housing tract boasted four different floor plans to choose from. The person we were about to interview lived in the “Rancho” model. It was five-hundred-square-feet larger than my own model, the “Cottage.” Over the decades, many of the houses had been remodeled, obscuring the original floor plan.
Melroy Briggs lived in the house his parents purchased new in 1956, before he was born. He continued to live with them even after earning a degree in animal husbandry from the local community college. After the death of his parents, Melroy was the sole inheritor of all their earthly goods. He now owned the mortgage-free house and, it was rumored, a large amount of money from a trust—freeing him from having to work for a living. He answered the door today and stood almost at eye level with me, about five feet three inches. His thin gray hair was parted on the left side and carefully combed over his bare skull. Creases had been ironed into his brown plaid shirt and khaki trousers.
He scanned our faces as if looking for a clue to our visit. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested. If you want to tell me about your religion, I’m definitely not interested. However, if you’ve come from the Publishers Clearing House to award me five thousand dollars in cash every week for the rest of my life, I’m listening.” He grinned and winked at Sonia.
She chuckled and pointed to me. “Hi, Melroy. You remember Martha, right? Lives on the corner?”
I wiggled my fingers in a wave.
“Sure thing. I see you’ve been busy at your house with visitors coming and going.”
I introduced Crusher’s sister, Fanya, and my sister, Giselle.
Melroy shifted his attention to Fanya. “I saw you and another lady arrive with suitcases on Saturday. Are you from out of state?”
Wow! I guess Sonia isn’t the only yenta in the neighborhood.
“New York. I’m here to visit Martha and my brother, Yossi.”
“Welcome to Encino.” He turned his attention back to me. “What were the police doing at your house on Sunday and Monday? Is everything okay?”
“We had a break-in on Sunday and another one on Monday.” I decided to give him only the barest information and not tell him about the abduction. The police told us not to talk about it. “And since you were on patrol Monday morning from four to six, I wanted to know if you saw anything out of place when you made your rounds.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you see any movement or lights in my house? Maybe a strange vehicle parked nearby? With or without occupants?”
“I know every car in our neighborhood. There was nothing unusual.”
“What about the day before? Sunday?”
“There was something.” He rolled his eyes to the right and looked toward the sky as if searching the data files written in the air above his head. “Let me see. On Sunday morning around eleven, I planted some pink dianthus in my garden. I saw you, your boyfriend, and this lady here leave the house.” He gestured toward Fanya. “About an hour later, I opened the door to accept a delivery from Amazon. Did you know they deliver on Sundays? Anyways, I looked up and down the street to see who else was around. You know. To say ‘hi’ and stuff. The street was empty and quiet. I did notice a blue SUV in front of your house but I assumed there were more visitors. Then I saw two men and a woman leave your house and walk to the car. One of the men carried a suitcase, and it looked like the other two were arguing.”
My heart began to flutter. “Are you sure the woman was walking?”
“More or less. I couldn’t see much detail at this distance, but I recognized her as one of your guests. And I got the distinct impression she was quite a handsome woman. It’s a shame, someone like her. It was barely past noon, but I think she was drunk because she stumbled a couple of times. She appeared to be reluctant to get in the SUV.”
She wasn’t drunk. She’d been drugged with chloroform. And those were no companions, they were her kidnappers. “What about the men with her? What did they look like?”
His eyes opened wide. “Oh dear. You didn’t know them?”
I ignored his question. “What about race? Black, white, brown, Asian? Young? Old?”
“They were too far away to see much detail.”
“One last thing and we’ll leave you alone. Have the police been around to question you yet?”
“No. And I’ve been waiting for them to knock on my door so I could tell them what I saw.”
It’s a good thing I decided to do some investigating of my own. The police never got as far as three houses away from the scene of the crime. Beavers needed to know someone on his team dropped the ball when he was supposed to be conducting a house-to-house.
I gave him my phone number. “Please call if you think of anything else. Anything at all. Big or small.”
He waved goodbye and closed the front door.
“Can you believe he didn’t have the courtesy to ask us to go in his house?” Giselle’s face carried a dark frown.
Fanya’s voice became almost a whisper. “I think I know why he didn’t ask us in.” She waited until she had our full attention. “I saw a black lace garter belt and a pair of red high heels on the living room floor behind him. I’m thinking there’s a lady friend waiting for him inside.”
“Or,” Sonia snarked, “the garter belt and shoes belong to Melroy.”
Giselle gasped. “Holy mother of God. I’d like to wipe that image from my mind.”
CHAPTER 11
We left Melroy and his black lace garter belt and stopped at the next house, two doors away from mine. Catalina Muñoz, an eighty-year-old widow, opened her door. She wore her long gray hair pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her face displayed the kind of wrinkles testifying to a life fully lived. Her eyes were compassionate and her smile gentle. She peered at me through thick glasses. “Martha? What’s been going on at your house? The whole neighborhood is worried.” She inspected the other faces. “Hello, Sonia.”
/> I quickly introduced Fanya and Giselle. “That’s what we’ve come to discuss. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions if you’re not too busy.”
“Come in. Come in.” She beckoned with a graceful hand to follow her inside.
A miniature poodle yapped a greeting as soon as we entered the house. Catalina ushered us to the living room, where the four of us sat on a sofa and matching chairs upholstered in shiny gold damask. Each piece was covered in heavy-gauge see-through plastic slipcovers that crinkled when we sat down.
Giselle ran her hand over the clear, stiff plastic. “I didn’t know they still made this awful stuff. You must have a lot of visitors to go to this length to protect your furniture. I’ll bet you have a lot of children and grandchildren, am I right?”
Catalina gestured toward the walls. “I can see why you would think so.” Almost every square inch was covered with family photos—birthdays, graduations, marriages, baptisms—all neatly framed. “Family is a blessing, but a clean house is also a blessing.” She sat in what was obviously her favorite spot, a dark green leather recliner with a white cable-knit afghan folded over the back and no plastic cover. “Now, then. Tell me what’s going on.”
I told her only about the break-ins. “I honestly don’t think anyone else needs to worry. My house was a specific target.”
“Whatever for? Do you hang priceless paintings on your walls?” Catalina sighed. “I think we could use some tea.” The older woman moved toward the kitchen on confident legs.
Sonia stood and joined her. “Let me help.”
Giselle leaned back. “Okay, Fanya, what kind of wallpaper would you hang on these walls?”
Fanya didn’t miss a beat. “Stripes. Pale cream-colored tone-on-tone.”
Five minutes later, Catalina returned to the living room, carrying a plate of homemade sugar cookies with multicolored sprinkles on top and placed them on the coffee table. Sonia followed behind her, carrying a wooden tray laden with an earthenware teapot and five mismatched mugs, which she also placed on the coffee table. Catalina poured the tea and handed a cup to each of us.
I reached for a cookie. “Can you remember seeing or hearing anything around the time of the break-ins? Even the smallest detail could help us.”
Catalina frowned and closed her eyes. “Sunday noon I took Chickee for a walk, like I do every day. We walked past your house and around the corner and ended at the soccer fields.”
To the north of our street bordered federal land divided into a number of Little League and softball league fields. To the east, our street stopped at the boundary of Balboa Park, home to tennis courts, a recreation center, a children’s play area, and several AYSO soccer fields.
“Did you notice a blue SUV parked at my place?”
“Hmm. I don’t recall seeing one, no. But I do remember hearing shouting as I rounded the corner. At first, I didn’t know where it was coming from. But then I saw your windows were open and realized the yelling came from inside your house.”
My heart sped at the promise of finding a real clue. “What did they say? Could you tell if it was a male or female voice?”
“It was both. She said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How should I know?’”
“And the male voice?”
Catalina tugged at her earlobe. “Something about money. She said something back like ‘Just like Ziv.’ ”
I looked at Fanya to see if she was thinking the same thing I was. “Could she have said ‘Just like Ze’ev?’ ”
The older woman raised a blue mug and sipped. “It could’ve been. Did I help you at all?”
“It’s a start. One last thing: Did the police come to question you?”
She placed her cup on the table. “Yes. They came around on Sunday late afternoon, and I told them the same thing I told you. I asked them what was going on, and they said they were investigating a break-in.”
“What about yesterday? Did the police come to your house again?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t help. I didn’t see or hear anything on Monday.”
“If you do remember something else, would you please call me?”
The five of us chatted about the changing climate in California. Sonia helped clean and a half hour after we arrived, we left Catalina Muñoz.
Once we were outside, Giselle reached toward me and brushed some cookie crumbs off my chest. “One more house to go. Who’s your next-door neighbor, Sissy?”
“Sister Mae Slocum. She’s an assistant camera operator in the TV industry. What they call a number two.”
Giselle stopped walking and frowned. “Really? I didn’t know they allowed nuns to be cinematographers. And I’m Catholic.”
“No, G. Sister is her first name, not a title. Sister Mae. A Southern girl.”
“I love odd names,” Sonia said. “I once met a National Guardsman named Soldier. You’ll like Sister Mae. She’s an entrepreneur, like you, Giselle. She has a photography business in addition to her job at ABC TV. Doing quite well.”
We pushed our way past the little swinging gate into Sister Mae’s fenced yard. Building codes limited the fence height to three feet in the front of the house. The white picket enclosure was more decorative than functional. It certainly wouldn’t keep Sister Mae’s Great Dane from escaping. I knocked and heard the deep baritone bark of King Solomon on the other side of the door.
“Hush up, King.” The dead bolt clicked and the door opened about three inches, enough for Sister Mae to talk. “Oh, hi Martha. I was going to ask you about the police . . .”
Toenails scraped across the hardwood floor.
“Oof.” Sister Mae slid sideways and disappeared. In her place a gray creature stood over three feet high at the shoulder and weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds. His tail whipped from side to side and ropy saliva dripped from his mouth. His hair was short and stiff, the opposite of my fluffy cat Bumper’s. He nuzzled my hand for attention, so I patted his gigantic head. He leaned into me in response and almost knocked me down.
“Now, King, I told you to behave!” Sister Mae appeared once more. She barely reached five feet tall and looked like her Dane outweighed her by fifty pounds. However, she was stronger than she looked. She had to be, because her job required her to lift heavy equipment. She shoved the dog out of the way. “Sorry. He’s a big mama’s boy. Always lookin’ for attention. I’d invite y’all in, but you’d be taking a big chance. He’s not fully trained yet.”
I told her about the break-ins.
“Holy moly!”
“Did you notice anything on Sunday? Hear something? See something unusual at my house?”
“Well, you know the police stopped by here and asked me the same questions. I don’t mind saying they put the fear of the Lord into me. What if those same people tried to break into my house? Of course, King Solomon would probably lick them to death.”
“Can you tell me what you told the police?”
“I said I heard shouting. I thought it was highly unusual since I never heard anything like yelling coming from your house before. I mean, you and your boyfriend are great neighbors.”
“Thanks. Could you tell if it was a man or a woman shouting?”
“Both.”
She reinforced what Catalina told us.
“Could you make out what they said?”
“Only a little bit.” Sister Mae frowned, bit her lip, and closed her eyes. “They were arguing. Then I heard her say, ‘Shut up.’ ”
“Did you get an actual look at any of them?”
“I sure did. About fifteen minutes later, I heard them still arguing, only this time the voices came from the outside of the house. I looked through my front window, and it was the strangest thing. I’ve probably worked behind the camera way too long, because one of them looked like someone I’ve seen before.”
“Even so, it would help us to have a description. Like age, race, or any identifying details.”
“Well, like I told the police, one of them was very military looking. You know,
tall, lots of muscle, short haircut. Blond or white—I couldn’t tell which. He had a thick neck. The other one was shorter. Thinner. Dark, but not African American. Black hair.”
I asked my sister, “Are you writing this down?”
“Yup.”
“Go ahead,” I urged Sister Mae.
“The woman was gorgeous. She resembled Penélope Cruz. Two men escorted her to the car. The one who looked familiar gripped her upper arm. He looked like one of the minor players on Grey’s Anatomy. Name of Peter-something. The smaller man didn’t look familiar. He carried a suitcase to their blue SUV and stowed it in back while the big one hauled her to the car.”
“Did they say anything?”
She squinted and focused on a spot behind my shoulder. “Hmm. She seemed really angry. She said something I couldn’t make out. But I clearly heard the big one say, ‘All the world’s a stage, Hadas.’ They seemed anxious to leave, and they drove away fast.”
Giselle gasped. “What a bizarre thing to say. ‘All the world’s a stage’ sounds familiar. What’s that from?”
“We’ll Google it when we get home. Did you hear anything else?” I asked.
“No.”
“What about Monday morning? Did you see or hear anything then?”
“Nope. I’m awful sorry, Martha. I wish I could help you more.”
“You did great, Sister Mae. Thanks for talking to us. Will you call me if you remember something? Any little thing, no matter how insignificant, might be what we need to know.”
“We? Are you working with the police?”
“Sort of. Let’s say I’m double-checking the facts as we know them.”
We walked slowly out of Sister Mae Slocum’s yard.
Sonia looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get ready for an appointment now. Keep me posted.” She waved goodbye and crossed the street to her own home.
Fanya kissed the mezuzah by my front door before entering the house.
Giselle sat next to her and pulled out her smartphone. “I’m going to Google All the world’s a stage.”
