by Mary Feliz
“But—” I was starting to think I’d made a terrible mistake offering to help Liz.
“Oh, I don’t mean revenge, but it’s just more proof that she’s making life miserable and dangerous for everyone around her. She doesn’t care so much about me, but she won’t want any harm to come to Patty or Mr. Tweed.”
“But—”
Liz looked down at her hands, which gripped each other tightly. She sighed and began rolling a stray piece of yarn into a coil. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but I’m so tired of keeping secrets and covering for her, enabling her.” She straightened out the coil and began winding it again. “I’ve been waiting too long for her to come to her senses, realize what a mess she is and what trouble she’s causing. That may never happen.”
She pushed back her chair, stood up, and threw the piece of yarn into a scrap bin, then looked wide-eyed around the store as though she was desperate for a project to occupy her hands. She picked up four small containers of stitch markers and dumped them on the table, separating them and organizing them by color and size.
“I’ve known Eileen forever,” she said as she worked. “We’re friends. Almost like family. But I can’t keep her secrets anymore. It’s eating away at me and damaging my business, like you saw this morning. It’s not doing her any good either, I don’t think. I love her, but I also need to look after myself and my own life.”
She spread her hands on the table and looked at them. I had the sense that she was seeing something there other than just her hands. Something that wasn’t visible to me, but that represented her history with Eileen.
The silence dragged, but I said nothing. Liz was struggling with a decision. Nothing I could say or do would sway her one way or another. Interrupting her thought process might remind her that I was here and she was about to unburden herself to a virtual stranger.
Liz let out a long breath and then said in a rush, “She gambles. High-stakes poker. And like many compulsive card players, she owes money to people who aren’t very nice when you owe them money.” She waved her hand in an arc. “All this was a warning meant for her.”
I still stared at her in disbelief, unable to think of a word to say.
“Look, I’ll show you.”
She took me to the back of the store, where the wet floor had nearly dried. She opened the outside door and stepped out into the alley. I followed her and she closed the door again. Badly faded letters arced across the top panel spelling out PORTER’S SEWING MACHINES AND NOTIONS.
“This was a dry-goods store some thirty years ago. It was a fly-fishing place and a saddlery in a more robust economy, but then I took it on. The landlord won’t repaint the back, and I saw no need to do it. I just tell delivery people the address and to look for the sign that says ‘Porter’s.’ But those nitwit goons the loan sharks sent must have seen ‘Sewing’ and assumed this was Eileen’s shop. Did she tell you they broke her front window and spray-painted her storefront last year?”
“She didn’t mention why it happened,” I said. “Are you sure it was the same people?”
“Of course it was the same people,” Liz said impatiently. She opened the door and invited me to enter the store before her. We reclaimed our seats at the table, and she resumed the story.
“Everyone else around here leads an exceptionally boring life. It’s work, eat, and sleep, and sometimes we skip the eat and sleep part.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at the ceiling, then back at me. “It’s gotten so much worse so quickly for Eileen. In the past, she’s always been able to win enough to pay back what she owes. But Mr. Xiang told me last month that she was in debt up to her neck and about to lose the store. He told her to keep away from his restaurant, and he asked me to try to keep her away, too.”
“Mr. Xiang? But why was he involved? Did she owe him money? And why you?”
“Me, because I was once as bad as Eileen. I haven’t picked up a card or a chip in twenty years but back then we all played friendly games in Mr. Xiang’s back room after work. Then we started gambling more heavily. We were all pretty good, so we decided to make a little extra cash by inviting other players and, well, playing them for our own benefit.”
“You rigged the games?” I asked.
“Sometimes, when money was tight, but mostly it was just fun to play with new people. One day we played the wrong people, and they figured out we were working together. They came back and roughed up Mr. Xiang to get him to tell them how to find the rest of us. But he wouldn’t tell them anything.”
“Did he go to the police?”
“Of course not. We were running an illegal game and he didn’t want the kids he hires to know he was skirting the law. He tries to set a good example. He finds at-risk kids, employs them for a few years, and then sends them to college. Great schools, like UCLA, Berkeley, Smith, MIT, Stanford, and Northwestern. He’d do anything for those kids.” She shook her head. “I have no idea what will happen to them now. I hope he left provisions for them in a will or something. And that the funds won’t be tied up for long.”
“Was Rafi one of those kids?”
“Rafi Maldonado? Great kid. Mr. Xiang saw something in him. We all did. He helps me with inventory every year.” Liz had answered my question, but then returned to the main thread of her story about Eileen’s role in the neighborhood’s latest crisis.
“They sent goons one day to destroy the inside of the restaurant. Threatening Mr. Xiang hadn’t worked, so they started in on the kids who worked there. Almost broke someone’s arm before Mr. Xiang said he’d do what they wanted.”
“Which was?”
“They run the games now in the back of the store and have for twenty years. The day they took over was the day I quit gambling. Mr. Xiang did too. We pay the goons a hundred dollars a month not to play, and they let us. It’s worth it.”
I was speechless and flabbergasted. I came from a town that was rough around the edges, but I’d never expected to uncover something like this in Orchard View or Mountain View. Both towns seemed so tame. I couldn’t figure out why Liz was telling me all this either. Had the mess someone had made of the dumpster been the last straw? Did she want something from me? Or was she spinning a story to cover up what had really happened to Mr. Xiang? I didn’t know and wasn’t sure how to find out. Instead, I plowed forward with my questions, planning to follow wherever the answers led.
“But who are they? And why does Eileen still play?”
“I don’t know who they are, except that they’re bad news. They have no ethnic mobster identity, they don’t wear gang colors, and I’m not about to ask them for IDs. As for Eileen?” Liz shrugged. “An addiction is an addiction. Until she decides she needs to change, she’ll go on gambling until it kills her or someone else does her in.”
“But why would they target Mr. Xiang now if he was cooperating and they were still successfully running the games out of his place?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe they found out he was trying to get Eileen to stop. Maybe they were trying to expand or were ‘under new management.’ It could be anything. They don’t think like we do. And I’ve avoided any mention of them for years. If Mr. Xiang had gotten in deeper with them or they were delving into other rackets, I’d have no way of knowing.”
“But, Liz, who is behind all this?”
“I have no idea. Maybe Mr. Xiang found out. The goons they send are different every time. It keeps them from becoming too sympathetic, I think. But they’re just hired hands. I doubt even they know who is behind it.” She leaned her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands. “If they’re the ones who killed Mr. Xiang and made this attempt with the dumpster to destroy Eileen’s store and inventory, who knows what they’ll do next. I’m afraid for Eileen. And for all of us, since these guys are apparently too stupid to even get the store right.”
“Do the police know? Why don’t they stop it?”
“I’m sure they have some idea. But you’ve got to understand, Maggie—th
e person behind all this, that kind of person doesn’t make mistakes. And it’s mistakes that get crooks and killers caught.”
“So, did Mr. Xiang have gold at the restaurant?”
“Gold? Where’d you hear that? Because it’s called the Golden Dragon?” She shook her head and traced a line in the grain of the table with her finger. “No, if he had any gold, or even any significant wealth, he would have spent it on the kids who worked for him or paid off the goons long ago.”
Liz’s front door chimed, and I let her go to her customers, a young mom and two little girls. One had a pink cast on her leg, which explained why they weren’t skiing.
I left quietly out the back and ran to the car. Partly, I felt guilty for leaving the dogs alone for so long. But I was also victim to a surge of adrenaline that kicked my fight-or-flight response into overdrive. I chose flight, hoping to outrun what I’d learned from Liz.
By the time I reached the car and realized the dogs were fine, I’d half convinced myself that Liz was a compulsive storyteller who’d gotten a kick out of the fact that I was so gullible. I speed-dialed Paolo anyway.
Chapter 12
If your children’s rooms are cluttered and they have trouble letting go of items they no longer play with, get some large cardboard boxes. Label each one with the child’s name and the year and have them put in it the belongings that no longer interest them but that they aren’t ready to part with. Place the box with your off-season or longer-term storage items. If they haven’t sorted the boxes by the time they are married or have a mortgage, ship the package to their new home. It’s a time capsule from their childhood.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Presidents’ Day, Monday, February 20, Afternoon
Paolo’s phone went to voice mail, so I told him I’d discovered a key that could unlock clues to the mysteries surrounding the Golden Dragon. I suggested he come to dinner again or call me back soon.
I headed home and was nearly halfway up our long driveway before I realized the car wasn’t lurching from side to side and the dogs weren’t scrambling to keep their footing. Max and the boys had done an amazing job filling in the pot holes. It was a job that had been on our to-do lists since we’d moved in, but that I’d despaired of ever getting around to. I hoped we could get it paved before the pot holes formed again.
I entered the house, hung up my coat, backpack, and the dogs’ leashes, then called out loudly enough to reach the upstairs den where I assumed my spouse and offspring would be ensconced in cut-throat video games. “Great job on the driveway, guys. No danger of breaking an axle out there anymore.”
I turned to grab a cup of coffee, planning on a few contemplative moments enjoying a dose of caffeine—my version of Sherlock Holmes’s clay pipe. My family sat at the table, trying unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter over my gaff.
“Sorry, I assumed you were all upstairs.” I blushed, lowered my voice, and grabbed my own seat at the table where Max and the boys were consuming our family’s version of afternoon tea.
“We figured,” said David, passing me a mug, and the teapot. From the remains of cracker boxes, cheese rinds, grape stems and tangerine peels, they’d had a relatively healthy snack, and there was no rush to plan or cook a meal.
“Looks like you all did a good job cleaning out the fridge.” I poured myself some well-stewed black tea and added milk. I nodded to David and Brian. “Can you two please grab the grocery bags from the car and unpack them?”
They frowned, but before they could protest, I reminded them what I’d bought. “I can’t make cookies until you do.”
They took off for the car.
Max gave me a kiss and put his hand on mine. “It seems like I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said. “Want to tell me what’s wrong? You look shaken. Did one of those homeless people bother you?”
“No, not at all.”
“But something happened.”
I sighed and the boys clattered in with the groceries and began unpacking the bags, putting the cookie ingredients next to the mixer and adding baby carrots, hummus, apples, and peanut butter to the mixture of food on the table. They were about to sit down, but I asked them to get the refrigerator and freezer items put away first.
Brian looked from me to Max and his forehead wrinkled. “What’s going on in here?” he asked. “Something’s up.”
David stopped in the process of putting away a carton of milk, closed the refrigerator door, returned to the table, refilled his cup, and sat. “Did you get Stephen out of jail?”
“I was just about to tell Dad, but you two might as well hear.” I filled them in on everything that Liz had told me, including how dangerous she considered the people who ran the gambling racket out of the Golden Dragon.
“But why did she tell you if she was so frightened?” David asked. “Are you sure she isn’t still in business with them and was just trying to scare you off? Or pinning the blame on this Eileen person to deflect your attention?”
“I’d half convinced myself that she was a part-time screenwriter fleshing out the plot for a new nighttime drama,” I said, grabbing a piece of cold cinnamon toast. “But that was just wishful thinking. Unless she’s an award-winning actress when she’s not selling wool, she was truly afraid.”
Max, the shameless punster, muttered something about her pulling the wool over my eyes, and the boys cracked up. The break in the tension helped me relax. I was glad to be back with my family and wondered why I fancied myself a detective anyway. There was nothing in the world more wonderful than having all four of us at the table with dogs and cats underfoot.
Then Brian reminded me. “I get that there is something bad going on in Mountain View and you want it to stop, but what does it have to do with getting Stephen out of jail or finding out who hurt Munchkin?”
“Good question. I’m not sure it does help get Stephen out of jail. Nor does it help me find his friend Rafi. But part of convincing the police that Stephen did not kill Mr. Xiang is finding a motive for someone else to have done it. And Liz has certainly provided enough information to establish a motive for someone.”
“But who?” Max asked.
“That’s the problem. No one seems to know who is behind any of this. Just that someone is pulling the strings. I wonder what it would take to bring them out of the shadows.”
Max stood up and started clearing the table of empty boxes and cartons. “No way. This is really not safe. You’re talking about someone who solves problems with guns and knives, Maggie. Leave it to the police. They’re trained. They’re armed. They wear Kevlar. And most important, they approach dangerous people and situations with backup. Munchkin and Belle are great, but Munchkin almost got killed protecting Stephen, and neither dog is going to stop a bullet, no matter how hard they might try to defend you. You might not care about deliberately putting yourself at risk, but what about Belle? And what about us? We’d be devastated if anything happened to you. And what’s to stop the bad guys, whoever they are, from coming after the boys?”
I grabbed his hand, held it tight, and urged him to sit back down. “I’m taking everyone’s safety very seriously,” I said, making eye contact with each of the boys. “After some of the other things that have happened here, I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t put anyone’s health or welfare at risk. I don’t have a death wish. I’m only going to public spaces where there are lots of people. And none of them have any idea where we live.”
“But what about the stores?” Max asked. “It doesn’t sound like any of them were teeming with customers when you visited.”
“But anyone could have walked in at any moment,” I said. “And you and Paolo always knew exactly where I was. Mr. Xiang was killed in the dead of night. This killer or killers—or whoever is the architect behind this scheme—is someone who has dodged the police with his illegal activities for nearly twenty years. He’s not about to make a mistake now by attacking me during business hours.”
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Max didn’t look convinced, but he sat down. I looked at the boys.
David spoke first. “Mom, the Internet. Anyone can learn where you live in three seconds. No one is anonymous anymore.”
“He’s right, Mom,” Brian added, but then he looked around the table and his expression turned grave. “But what about Stephen? The bad guys went after him, someone who’d never hurt anyone. And they hurt Munchkin. Mom has no choice. Neither do we. We have to get Stephen out of jail and the crooks need to be caught.” He stopped talking, scanned our faces, then left the table. He sighed and made a noise filled with the sounds of frustration. Then he rejoined us and leaned on the table. “No matter what Mom does, are any of us really safe if we live in a town where a murderer walks free? Where cruelty to animals goes unpunished?” He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as if waiting for a response from us. But I was too full of emotion to speak. I’d never been so proud of him.
Max grabbed Brian’s hand. “You’re right. And your mom and I will figure this out. But now . . .” He smiled and paused for effect, then spoke with false cheerfulness. “Vacation’s almost over. You have school tomorrow. Is everything ready to go? Homework, forms, clothes laid out, PE clothes washed, lunches made, instruments and backpacks by the door?”
Both kids moaned dramatically for appearances’ sake but left the table to begin getting ready for a busy week. The dogs followed them.
I glanced at my watch. Max covered it with one hand, and touched my face with the other. “Be careful, Maggie. Just be careful. And let the police take care of tracking down Mr. Xiang’s killer. I love you and would be lost if anything happened to you. We all would.”
“I will,” I promised. “But I’m not in much danger tonight. I’ve got a list of Maldonado families to call in my search for Rafi and his grandmother. Do you want to help with that? Or with Mrs. Bostwick’s file folders? I’ve got the labels all made up, but I still need to attach them to the new folders and make the tabs for her hanging files.”
