Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  “So, responding to your interrogation in order . . .” Paolo held up his hands and touched the pinky of his left hand with the pointer of his right. “Dental hygiene generally comes in lower than food and shelter on a homeless person’s priority list, so your description of a thin man with missing teeth could apply to any number of people. But I’ll ask around. I’ve seen the woman with the braids, but don’t know her name. I can ask some of the patrol officers at the station. Once I’ve got a first and last name for her, I can check to see if she has a record or if we know more of her story.”

  He touched his left ring finger with his right pointer. “Ed Bloom is the florist’s real name. He has a second store in Orchard View that his brother runs for him. We ran a background check on Ed when he volunteered for our after-school program for at-risk kids. We did another when he applied for a concealed weapon permit. He wanted a handgun after there were a series of break-ins downtown last summer.”

  I raised my eyebrows at that one. A handgun? I wondered if it matched the gunshot wound Mr. Xiang had sustained. But I’d asked Paolo enough questions for now and he continued to plow through them, one by one.

  “As far as talking to the store owners goes, I do think it’s worth it,” Paolo said. “Stephen suggested it, which he must have done for good reason. He has military police training and I trust both his judgment and experience. So does Jason. Even if you don’t get any more information, we want to be able to tell Stephen we’re doing everything he asked of us, right?”

  I nodded and Paolo continued. “It’s interesting that you picked up some kind of an undercurrent of... what? Fear? Anxiety?”

  “I’m not sure. It could be that they don’t trust me and are protecting Stephen and Rafi. They certainly know Munchkin well. He’s comfortable with them, so stopping in and talking to the store owners must be a regular part of Stephen’s routine . . .” My voice trailed off. I had the feeling that if I could make my brain work a little harder or if I had a bit more information, I could connect the dots. But not yet.

  Paolo stroked his hairless chin as if he were a wizard with a long beard. “Let me ask around at the station and see if anyone is working with the Mountain View Police on cases that involve those shops or the homeless people. There is so much crossover in our jurisdictions that it’s entirely possible one or more teams are working similar cases in Orchard View.”

  “Can you ask those questions without revealing Stephen’s problem?” I asked. “Stephen’s got friends throughout the department, any one of whom might spill the story to Jason or even get Stephen out of jail before Rafi’s immigration status is finalized.”

  “No, they all still think of me as the new kid, and I have a reputation for asking too many questions.” He smiled as though he’d been caught tasting the cookie dough. “Usually, I try to shake that reputation, but I can make it work for me . . . and for Stephen. Jason’s pretty much out of reach in Texas anyway. I heard another huge storm system barreled through there this morning.”

  “Those poor people . . .” I shook my head, took another Oreo, and passed the plate to Paolo. “I’ll try to get to the rest of the shops tomorrow then. Seems like we’ve both got a plan.”

  Max returned from the dining room. “I got in touch with Forrest. He asked to be remembered to both of you. He’d heard from Stephen a couple of weeks ago about Rafi’s case and passed the information along to an associate, Nell Bevans, who worked immigration cases for the Legal Aid Society while she was in law school. He says she’s more experienced than her career level might suggest, and if anyone can help Rafi and his family, she can. Unfortunately, Nell is camping on some remote US Forest Service land near Yosemite for the long weekend and has no cell service.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Here’s her name and contact information though, in case you want to send her an e-mail. Forrest says she usually gets in early and returns calls quickly. He couldn’t say enough great things about her.”

  I looked at the paper. If Forrest Doucett trusted her, I would too. If only Monday weren’t a holiday.

  Chapter 8

  If you’ve been following along, you’ve made progress, but you’ve still got stuff you don’t know where to store. Sort those items into piles of like items. Where would you buy them? Where would you use them? I store groceries in the kitchen, hardware and tools in the garage or basement, and drugstore items in the bathroom. Items used once a year can be stored with other seasonally used boxes in a less-accessible area.

  When you’ve figured out where items belong, you can determine whether you need fewer things or more drawers, cabinets, and shelving.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, February 19, Morning

  Sunday morning we all slept in. By the time I got up, the rain had ended and sunlight reflected off the dewy surface of every leaf, twig, and blade of grass. I adjusted the mini-blinds in the kitchen windows to cut the glare. On autopilot, I moved through my morning routine.

  I was the cats’ chosen one this morning, the one targeted for an early wake-up call and relentless nose patting. The rest of the house was quiet save for Holmes’s noisy crunching on his kibble. Watson, a speedy eater, had turned her attention to stalking a plastic ring that had escaped from a gallon jug of milk. She crouched with her tail lashing, carefully selecting the perfect moment to deliver the fatal pounce. I’d never felt so well protected from plastic milk jug rings, but I knew better than to laugh or even think about laughing or in any other way insulting the dignity of our beloved investigative pair.

  I chewed the last of my toast, chased it with a swallow of coffee, and checked the time. It was past nine o’clock. All the stores, including the ones near the Golden Dragon, were running promotions for Presidents’ Day. If I dressed quickly, I might get a chance to talk to some of the owners before they became too busy with an influx of customers.

  I left a note for the boys and Max, leashed the dogs, and was on my way. I found a parking spot directly in front of the quilting store and quickly unloaded the dogs and untangled their leashes. Shop hopping with two large canines was not optimal, but per Mr. Bloom’s advice, I needed Munchkin’s endorsement if I hoped to encourage the business owners to trust me with their secrets. And Belle’s pride would have been wounded beyond repair if I’d taken off with Munchkin and left her at home.

  Max still wasn’t comfortable with my investigation and feared that I’d uncover a seething pit of rattlesnakes where I least expected them. His analogy gave me the creeps, but I respected his opinion and his concerns about my safety, especially when he was under so much pressure at work and couldn’t be with me.

  And so we compromised. I’d take the dogs, both dogs, with me. If they hesitated or showed any discomfort, I’d back off, quickly. I’d make sure he and Paolo knew where I was. And I’d investigate on my own only during daylight. After dark, Max would be my designated sidekick. Realistically, I didn’t know what Max might be able to do to protect me in an emergency. But he’d provide a second set of eyes, a second opinion about the investigation, and I enjoyed his company.

  For now, I peered through the front windows of the quilt shop, which featured row after row of brightly colored cotton fabric arranged by color. Hanging from the ceiling were finished samples of various patchwork patterns, each one more gorgeous than the next. A woman I took to be the manager was cutting fabric pieces at a central counter, performing a demonstration of what looked like an intricate design. She saw me peeping in the window and I was relieved when she smiled and waved me in instead of calling the police and reporting me as a stalker.

  I opened the door, smiled, introduced myself, and held up the leashes. “I’d like to ask you a few questions when you have a minute, but I’m quite sure these drooling monsters would add nothing to your demonstration.”

  “That’s fine,” said the manager. “I’m almost done here, and then we’re going to take a break and I’ll have time for a chat. If you like, you can go a
round back. My business partner is there with my own dog, and yours can get to know him as we talk.”

  It took me another moment or two to disentangle the dogs without tripping over either of them or the two quilt shop patrons who wanted to get past us and into the store. I apologized and performed the dance steps required to avoid a collision. Eventually, we made our way to the end of the street and around the corner to the alley. We had a couple of dicey moments when Belle thought it would be a good idea to help a small child finish his ice-cream cone, and again when Munchkin blanched at entering the alley full of dumpsters. Belle licked his ear in what I assumed was encouragement but might have been an effort to clean up a stray bit of drippy ice cream.

  In any case, Munchkin recovered quickly so I didn’t count his behavior as hesitating or exhibiting discomfort. Dumpsters were a known trigger for Munchkin’s PTSD, as Stephen had explained to me when we were all first becoming friends. If there was anything else in the alley that worried him, he didn’t let on and was soon wagging his tail and exchanging polite posterior sniffs with a salt-and-pepper-colored short-haired, pointy-eared dog of nicely blended heritage.

  “His name is Mr. Tweed. I’m Patty,” said a young woman wearing leggings and a shirt that could only be called “wearable art.” If someone other than a gifted artist had tried to duplicate her tunic, it would almost certainly look as if it had been rescued from a junk heap. Instead, it was a stunning combination of at least twenty different fabrics in a wide array of textures and hues that had been pulled together in a way that looked comfortable, flattering, and gorgeous. I immediately wanted one like it, though its composition ensured that a duplicate couldn’t possibly exist. I introduced myself and the dogs and told Patty how much I admired her outfit.

  She glanced down as though she’d forgotten what she was wearing, then drew her head back as if startled. “My sister makes these using scraps from fabric she weaves. I love them because my sister makes them, but they’re a bit bright for me.” She squinted and went back to her project, which was set up on a sheet of plywood balanced on sawhorses.

  “Do you mind if I continue working while we talk?” she asked. “Eileen—sorry, that’s the manager—should be out in a moment.”

  She didn’t wait for a response from me, which was fine, because I was fascinated by what she was doing.

  “I’m making a quilt sandwich,” she said. “Getting the top, batting, and backing smoothly put together prior to the actual quilting process.” Patty smoothed a layer of fabric, then sprayed it lightly with aerosol glue. She wrinkled her nose.

  “Why is it that whenever your hands are all gummy your nose itches? As soon as I’m finished here, I’m headed over to Ed Bloom’s to take a shower and ditch these gummy clothes. This is my third quilt today and I’m ready to be done.”

  I made a mental note that all the shop owners seemed comfortable with Ed Bloom and were at ease running in and out of each other’s stores and even Ed’s apartment. I assumed Patty did not live above her shop or she wouldn’t need to borrow Ed’s shower.

  Eileen came out and helped Patty finish up the quilt top. She then shooed off her younger coworker and invited me back into the store’s work area, dogs and all.

  “So, how can I help you?” she asked.

  I handed her one of my cards and described some of my services. Eileen thought for a moment. “I’ve got my stock pretty well organized,” she said. “We have to work hard and stay on top of it to keep those tiny sewing notions in stock and all the thread easily accessible. They get misplaced so easily by browsing customers. I close about half an hour earlier than any of the other shops to set it all straight.”

  “Sounds like a great system,” I said. “Then, when you arrive in the morning, everything is as it should be.”

  She nodded slowly. Her expression gave me the glimmer of a feeling that she was keeping something from me. Something important.

  “I use an old-fashioned accounting system and do the books myself, but I’m comfortable with it. I don’t want to mess with success.” She sounded confident, but wouldn’t look at me, and I wondered whether she was particularly shy for a shopkeeper or if she was skirting the truth.

  “No problem. I’m just introducing myself to everyone. I’m relatively new to the area. If you change your mind, my e-mail’s there on the card. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about something else?”

  “Not at all. How can I help?”

  I gave her a shortened summary of my investigation into what had happened at the Golden Dragon. I also asked if she recognized Munchkin and if she knew Stephen or Rafi.

  Munchkin wagged his tail at the sound of his name.

  “I thought I recognized Munchkin,” said Patty. “I don’t know Stephen and his dog well, although I know they are regulars around here after hours. As I said, the other shop owners tend to stay open much longer than I do. I’m here late on rare occasions. Patty closes for me most of the time.

  “I’d heard about the murder, and I know that the comic book store has been broken into two or three times since the holidays, but I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you by way of being a witness or anything. I was long gone by the time anything happened in the Chinese restaurant. Probably sound asleep.”

  “What about the homeless people? Do you know a woman with big skirts and gray braids? Or a thin man with no teeth?”

  Eileen bristled. “You can’t be suggesting one of them hurt Mr. Xiang. They have problems of their own to worry about. If anything, they go out of their way to avoid other people and any sort of conflict. I get so tired of people blaming them for everything that goes wrong around here, as if there aren’t all sorts of bad people in the world.”

  I tried to hide my surprise at her vehement reaction and wasn’t sure which part of her statement to address first. I decided I’d get no more information from her unless I reassured her I was on her side.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was trying to get a clearer picture of what might have happened and wondered if you knew any of the homeless people who could have been witnesses. None of them have given any information to the police, but if they saw something that worried them, I wondered if they’d mentioned anything to you. You all seem more comfortable with the street people than I would have imagined. Patty sets up her sawhorses and works alone in the alley, for example.”

  Eileen leaned back, relaxed, and sighed. “She’s not alone. She has Mr. Tweed. And the other business people are in and out of their stores all day. Some of the long-term residents use the alley as a cut-through to avoid traffic. But you’re right; we don’t worry much about the homeless people. The possibility of violent people or greedy people worries me much more, which is another reason I like to leave early when I know that everyone else is still here.”

  “Have you had any recent problems? Mr. Bloom told me about a break-in at his shop. And Ms. Daniel told me she’d been attacked years ago.”

  She frowned and rubbed Mr. Tweed’s ears. “Not for a long time,” she said. “Maybe a year ago our front window was broken and someone spray-painted the front door. But we restored it all quickly. And then we got Mr. Tweed here, our head of security. He looks after Patty and me while we’re at the store. I guess people assume he’s here all the time, but he comes home with me at night.” She ruffled Mr. Tweed’s ears and he looked up at her in adoration. “Dogs don’t like to be on their own, do they, Mr. Tweed?”

  She turned her attention from Mr. Tweed back to me. “We help the homeless people when we can. Patty and I are both single moms. We know what it’s like to be poor and hungry. And what it’s like to have someone offer to help when you have nowhere to turn. I think they call it ‘paying it forward’ now, or ‘giving back.’ But it’s just being kind to someone who desperately needs it. Everyone wants to quilt the cute little blankets for the babies in the hospital. The fabrics are sweet and the babies are adorable. The homeless aren’t cute, so it’s harder for them to get help.”

 
“Like sea otters,” I said. And then I looked up, alarmed at what must have seemed like a total diversion to the conversation.

  Eileen laughed. “I know what you mean. Animals that look like floating teddy bears get lots of money and attention. But if you’re an endangered mud worm or a bad-tempered shark, well, not so much.”

  We chuckled together and I felt I’d made a friend. She must have thought so, too, because she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “There’s another reason we help the homeless, Patty and me. My son was homeless. Came back from the war a drug addict. He’s clean now, but we know better than to take it for granted. Any minute. Any tiny thing”—she snapped her fingers—“and he could be back on the streets. If there are other mothers somewhere, wringing their hands in worry over any of our regulars here, I’d like to do what I can to make sure their children have a chance to get clean and go home.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure how much it helps them, but I do what I can.”

  With that she stood, brushed off her jeans, and rolled up her sandwich wrappings. “I need to get back to the front of the shop,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m delighted you stopped by. I’ll e-mail that link to you, and I’ll let you know if I hear anything about poor Mr. Xiang.”

  And that was all I could ask of her. I shook her hand. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Outside in the alleyway, Patty had nearly finished cleaning up her tools and putting them away. Her arms were full, so I held the door open for her. “Thanks for walking me through your quilting preparations,” I said.

  “No problem. We run classes all the time from beginner to expert. You should take one.”