Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  I shook my head, thinking of my already limited spare time, but I answered with the exact opposite of what I’d been thinking. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  I followed Patty back into the shop, where she unloaded her supplies into cubbyholes designed and labelled for that purpose. No wonder Eileen hadn’t had much interest in hiring an organizer. Her storage area was as regimented and tidy as that of any professional I’d ever met.

  As I handed Patty the tools I’d brought in, I thought of another question. “Do you know a boy named Rafi Maldonado? A teenager who worked nights at the Golden Dragon?”

  Patty turned away quickly and straightened scissors and other items hanging on a pegboard over the cubbies. “We don’t get too many guys in here,” she said, which didn’t quite answer the question. “I thought Mr. Xiang hired mostly relatives in the restaurant.”

  “Do you know of any reason why Mr. Xiang might have gotten involved with bad guys who would beat him up and shoot him? Were there rumors of any illegal activities going on there or in any of the other businesses?”

  Patty stiffened and her hands froze in the process of straightening a stack of plastic quilt templates. She turned around, red faced, with her hands on her hips. “Of course not. What do you think this is?” She waved her hands to take in the whole shop and maybe even the whole neighborhood. “We’re shopkeepers—small operators trying to keep afloat. There’s barely enough money in these businesses to keep the owners and their families alive. If crooks want to steal something valuable, they’d be much better off breaking into some of those big mansions in the hills.”

  She grabbed a stack of rulers and waved them in the air. “Unless they have some sort of measuring or sewing fetish.” She laughed awkwardly and I did the same. Then I thanked her and left through the alley, closing the shop door behind me.

  Sunshine filled the alley and a dumpster clanged as the metal expanded in the heat of the sun.

  Munchkin and I startled at the sound but Belle pretended not to notice, just looking at me with a What’s next? expression.

  Before I could collect my thoughts and figure out exactly how badly I’d mangled my so-called investigation in the quilt shop, my phone rang. I juggled the dogs’ leashes so I could pull it from my pocket.

  “Hey, Paolo, do you have any news?”

  “News? Yes. Good news? I don’t think so. I wanted to give you the number of Stephen’s court-appointed attorney.”

  “Court-appointed? Can they do that? He has plenty of money. And Forrest Doucett was going to try to reach him.”

  “Stephen still won’t see anyone except you, or take any phone calls. I think the DA’s office assigned him a lawyer when he was arraigned and charged. A trial date has been set.”

  “A trial date? Seriously? I guess I didn’t realize how quickly these processes move . . .”

  “Normally, there are lots of places for attorneys to slow things down until they can examine the evidence and prepare a case or even get the case thrown out. But since Stephen won’t talk to anyone, nothing is happening normally. Theoretically, he could be at trial in six weeks and convicted shortly after that if he’s not going to aid in his own defense. The forensic evidence makes it look an awful lot like he killed Mr. Xiang. The DA’s office is in a bind, which isn’t endearing Stephen to the powers that be.”

  “I get that, but I guess I never thought it would go to trial.”

  “We’re still working to avoid that, have the charges dropped, and get Stephen out of jail. But now that he’s been arraigned, events are moving forward on their own schedule. If the DA deviated from customary procedures, it could be argued that Stephen is getting special privileges because he’s connected to the police and because he’s white and reasonably well off. In the current political climate, I’m sure you can imagine what the headlines would say. And if you put those headlines side-by-side with the ones that say, Chinese-American restaurateur brutally slain . . .”

  I wrinkled my nose and frowned.

  “Well, you get the picture.”

  “I get it, but I don’t have to like it.”

  “And that’s why I’m giving you the lawyer’s name and number. Do you want to write it down or should I text it to you?”

  I rummaged in my bag for a pen and prepared to write the information on my palm. It seemed ridiculously old-school, so I changed my mind and asked Paolo to e-mail the information so I’d have a record of it. While I waited for the information to zip up to a cell tower and back down to my phone, I asked Paolo if he’d learned anything from his sleuthing in the police department records or if he’d found any officers who knew anything about the gray-haired woman or any of the shop owners.

  “Is there any hint of a protection racket putting pressure on the shop owners?” I asked. “Maybe Mr. Xiang didn’t pay and somebody sent the thugs to rough him up. Mr. Xiang was elderly. Maybe he was more fragile than they thought and a warning turned into a homicide.”

  Paolo took a moment to answer. “I’d buy that if they’d beaten him and left it at that. But the knife cuts and the gunshot wound were literally overkill if they were only trying to scare him. This isn’t a screen play, Maggie. This is Orchard View. Or Mountain View, I guess in this case, but that’s nearly the same thing.”

  “Would you check into the possibility of a protection scheme though? For me? We need something to break open this case. Some clue that will lead to the rest of the information we need to prove that Stephen is innocent.”

  “You still sound like you walked out of a late 1940s film noir, but I understand, and I’ll work on it. It’s more difficult on the weekends. Not so many people are here.”

  “Maybe you can get the more informal atmosphere to work for you,” I suggested. “Ask questions of people who might be more willing to speculate.”

  “I’ll try. But what’s your next step?”

  “Coffee first, I think. Then I’ll stop by the comic book store. One of the other shop owners said it had been broken into more than once. And then maybe the Golden Dragon.”

  “Be careful, Maggie. Max will skewer me if anything happens to you.”

  “And Stephen will do the same to me if I lead Munchkin into any danger. I’ll be fine.”

  I was about to hang up, but didn’t. “Paolo?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was distracted, as though he’d already moved on to his next task or problem.

  “Find something. Today. Please?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then I heard Paolo clear his throat.

  “You too, Maggie.”

  It was only after Paolo disconnected the call that I remembered what Detective Smith had said: that the DA wanted to try Stephen for murder. California was still a death penalty state and murder committed in combination with a robbery was a capital offense. Stephen’s noble gesture to protect Rafi could not only risk his mental health but put him on trial for his life. I gulped. The stakes were high and getting higher.

  Chapter 9

  Your goal is to minimize confusion about where items belong. I recommend my clients keep one easily accessible small open container. We label it “Odd things that might be important.” After a year, they sort through the box and either re-home the items within or throw them out.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, February 19, Late morning

  I phoned the public defender and tried to leave a message but his voice mailbox was full. When I checked my own phone, I discovered that Max had left a voice mail to say that he and the boys had filled in some of the worst potholes in the driveway, called and made arrangements to get a quote on having it paved next week, and were off for a hike in the hills behind the house. A muddy hike.

  I was tempted to call Jason, but I knew that if I did I’d spill Stephen’s secret. To be honest with myself, that was the reason I wanted to call him. Keeping secrets was difficult work and it wasn’t my strong suit. In fact, my career depended
upon uncovering my clients’ secrets so that we could find ways to work around them and construct an organizational plan to help.

  Belle whined quietly and tugged on my leash. I looked at her, smiled, and she wagged her tail.

  “Coffee shop?” I asked. She wagged harder until her entire body was awiggle and she bounced a bit on her front legs. My favorite among Mountain View’s many independent coffee shops offered an order window for dog owners that included biscuits and a bowl of water with every order. Outdoor seating abounded.

  But once I’d ordered coffee and a cookie, and settled the dogs with their complementary biscuits, the manager refused to talk with me. She was wiping down tables outside and gathering up stray plates and mugs. I handed her my card and asked if I could talk to her for just a few moments. She took the card, but shook her head. “It’s so busy today. Come back next week?”

  “I just have some quick questions about Mr. Xiang and the Golden Dragon,” I said. “It will only take a moment. Please?” The owner took a half-step back and widened her eyes in what looked like alarm. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk now.” She walked away as I was telling her I’d stop in again.

  I wasn’t sure what had spooked her. Was she, like some of the other merchants, nervous or hiding something about Mr. Xiang’s death and recent events? Did she think I was a newspaper reporter prying for a lurid story? Or had she, like the other business owners, cut her staff to lower her overhead and had she, as a result of those cutbacks, become too busy to talk to customers? I had no way of knowing for sure, but her refusal to talk to me increased my anxiety about the state of my investigation. I left without finishing my coffee.

  “On to the next interview,” I told Belle and Munchkin and we strode down the street to the comic book store. It was closed, with a hand-lettered sign that said, SORRY, DUDES. HITTING SOME GNARLY WAVES. I laughed out loud. I happened to have met the owner previously, as I’d designed a storage and inventory system for him. He was nearing fifty with a conservative short haircut. He wore cotton sweaters, button-down shirts, jeans or khakis, and tennis shoes or loafers. Reading the sign, I’d have assumed he wore board shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, and had long sun-streaked hair that fell across a tanned face.

  “We’ll stop in here next week when we talk to the coffee shop owner,” I told the dogs, though I hoped that by then all our problems would be solved. Munchkin woofed. It was the first positive communication that I’d heard from him in the past few days and I took it as a sign that his usually sunny disposition might reappear. Or maybe I’d misunderstood, and his woof was intended to prod me into kicking my investigation into a higher gear. I looked at Belle to see what she thought. She scratched her ear with a hind leg.

  “Okay, then, Munchkin, I’m in your paws. What do you think we should do next?” Munchkin engaged in a full-body shake, looking for all the world like a sprinter getting loose before a heat in the hundred-yard dash. Without looking back to see if we were keeping up, he headed deliberately down the street and around the corner to the last place I thought he’d ever lead me: the dumpster-filled alleyway behind the Golden Dragon.

  Munchkin’s pace slowed as we entered the alley, and he looked at me over his shoulder several times for reassurance. A bit of yellow crime-scene tape still adhered to the framework of the restaurant’s back door. White candles and flowers had been placed on the loading dock.

  “I guess this is the crime scene.” Munchkin tugged me up the steps of the loading dock and then slowly down again, giving me plenty of time to examine what looked like the faint outlines of bloody shoe prints that someone had tried hard to wash away.

  Indistinct brown finger smudges marked the board fence that separated the alley from the properties beyond. I doubted I would have been able to spot them let alone identified them if I hadn’t already had some idea of what I was looking for, but I was sure they were evidence someone had unsuccessfully attempted to clean up.

  I assumed that the entire scene had already been well-photographed and blood samples had been collected, but I pulled out my phone and took pictures anyway. The images might not help get Stephen out of jail, but taking them it made me feel like I was doing something, anything, to rescue Stephen.

  The dogs sniffed around the dumpsters and at the base of the fence. Munchkin took particular interest in one of the drains. I didn’t want to think about the animals that might choose to make their homes down there, or why it might be of particular interest to Munchkin. I gave it a quick glance, just in case, but then I heard a squeak and rustle from deep in the dark of the drainpipe, and I jumped back, trying to find something else on which to focus my attention.

  The back door of the restaurant opened quickly, slamming against the wall of the building with an echoing bang. I stepped backward and covered my mouth with my hand, trying not to yelp in fear. My heart pounded. Belle barked and pressed herself against my leg. Munchkin strained at the leash and wagged his tail.

  It was Munchkin’s demeanor that helped me relax as a group of teens and young adults trooped down the concrete steps of the loading dock carrying buckets, mops, brooms, and other cleaning supplies. The moment it took them to realize I was there gave me a chance to slow my heart rate and compose myself.

  First down the steps was a young woman with shining straight black hair pulled into a ponytail. She stopped suddenly when she saw me, and the other members of the group jostled each other until they all halted behind her. A tall, thin young man in an orange Princeton hoodie stepped forward protectively. “Can we help you? The restaurant is closed.”

  I hesitated a moment, scanning the group, all of whom appeared to know one another. Each wore a sweatshirt or jacket with collegiate insignias. Some I recognized as Stanford, UCLA, Santa Clara University, or UC Berkeley, others were unfamiliar to me.

  “It’s okay, Daniel. I recognize this guy.” The young woman at the front of the group knelt in front of Munchkin and rubbed his ears while he slobbered on her gray Santa Clara University sweatshirt.

  “I’m Maggie McDonald,” I told them. “I’m a friend of Munchkin and his owner, Stephen Laird.” Belle abandoned protecting me, butted her head against Daniel’s hand, and sat on his foot. “Are you helping to clean up? Have the police finished their investigation?”

  I was certain the group, whoever they were, had meant well, but I feared they might have eliminated evidence or endangered themselves by tromping around the restaurant. I knew from experience that the police generally required a hazmat-certified clean-up team to sign off on a crime scene before they allowed owners or members of the public back inside.

  The young woman stood and held out her hand. “I’m Becca Hsu,” she said. “This is Daniel Chiang and, well, everyone.” She waved her hand in an arc to take in the whole group. “I guess you know what happened here.”

  I nodded. “I was very sorry to hear about Mr. Xiang. Were you friends of his? Did you work here?”

  “I worked here all through high school,” Becca said. “We all did. We heard about Mr. X and thought we all needed to get together and talk about it. To be sad together. But then we thought it would be better to accomplish something and contribute.” Her voice broke and then trailed off. She knelt next to Munchkin and hugged him, seeking a comfort that Munchkin looked more than happy to provide.

  Daniel continued. “He helped with our college applications and with tuition, books, and fees. He’d either give us money directly, help us apply for scholarships, or hire us to work catered events when we were home on school breaks.” He looked over his shoulder at the door to the restaurant. “The police were finished, and Becca still had a key, so we went in to do a last clean, and then close and lock up. We cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes, and threw out all the spoiled food from the cold-storage locker.” He shuddered. “It was eerie being in there where he died. His overcoat was still on the hook by the door. The one we all wore if we had to spend any length of time in there. It was too cold to work in the refrigerate
d room without it. The police had left the door propped open, and today it was warm. And that’s just so wrong.” He looked up with tears in his eyes. “I mean . . . well, Mr. Xiang being killed was worse, of course, but the warm room brought home how much everything has changed. I don’t know what will happen to the restaurant now.”

  “Do you know when the restaurant will reopen?”

  They all looked at one another before Becca answered. “It may be permanently closed. As far as anyone knows Mr. X had no family. We’d all talked about seeing if we could buy it and run it, but we don’t have any money and we know nothing about running a restaurant.”

  They weren’t much older than Brian and Daniel, and I felt compelled to reassure them. “I’m sure Mr. Xiang wouldn’t want that for any of you. He helped you with your education and I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you going ahead with your plans. If there’s no obvious heir to inherit, Mr. Xiang surely had a will. It’s a confusing time, but it will all get sorted out.”

  “But what are you doing here, Mrs. McDonald? Why is Munchkin with you instead of Mr. Laird?”

  “I’m taking care of Munchkin for a few days while Stephen is away. He and Belle here are having a play date.”

  The kids laughed and accepted my explanation, which told me they probably didn’t know that Stephen had been arrested. Daniel confirmed that by asking, “Have you heard anything about the murder? Do they know who did it? I keep looking at the police blotter online, but there’s nothing. Not in the papers, either. It’s strange.”

  “The local paper will probably have something next week. But you all probably knew Mr. Xiang as well or better than anyone. Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill him? Was anyone jealous of his success? Did anyone threaten him? Were there any routine visitors that he tried to hide from you? Anything that seemed strange or you didn’t understand?”