by Mary Feliz
“Was it an accident? Or do the police suspect someone hit him deliberately?” Max asked.
Harry and I stared at Max. Although I’d been about to ask a similar question, it was a shock to hear the eternally positive Max immediately suspect foul play.
“What?” Max said in response to our unspoken question. “You weren’t thinking the same thing? That someone killed Freddie, making it look like an accident, to keep him from telling anyone about what he saw at the restaurant?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But it’s a bit of a jump at this point. We don’t know for sure that Freddie saw anything at all that night, or that he had anything to tell us. All we know is that at some point, he’d met Munchkin and Stephen. He could have met them anywhere.”
“But now we’ll never know,” said Max, glumly. “Poor old guy.”
Harry bowed his head. “You’ve got that right. As far as we know, he has no one to mourn him. No family and no friends.”
“Will there be a service?” I asked, promising myself I’d go, if only to thank Freddie for the friendship I assumed he shared with Stephen and Munchkin, and show respect for the passing of a human life.
But Harry shook his head. “There isn’t anyone to plan it. And Freddie probably wouldn’t have wanted one anyway. He avoided any kind of gathering and kept to himself except when he needed money and was panhandling.”
Max grabbed my hand. “We can make a donation to the homeless shelter in his honor. Unless Harry knows of another cause that would have been special to Freddie, that is.”
Harry shook his head again. “I’m afraid I can’t help. I just don’t know.”
“Munchkin obviously knew and liked him. I’ll ask Stephen to recommend something,” I said. Munchkin’s ears perked up at the mention of Stephen’s name but my spirits drooped lower. Everything, it seemed, hinged on getting Stephen out of jail. But I felt no closer to that goal than I’d been days earlier.
Freddie’s violent and tragic death brought Mr. Xiang’s freshly to mind. How similar they were in that both men had no family and no one to plan a service and help the rest of the world say good-bye. At my stage of life I hadn’t been to very many funerals or memorial services, and I took them largely for granted. Everyone I knew who had died left people behind to mourn their loss—family or friends close enough to organize a traditional ceremony to honor their life, along with a host of people who would attend. Freddie and Mr. Xiang may not have had family, but even Max and Harry and I, who didn’t know them well, felt the need to mark their passing. I wished now that I had some way to reach Becca Hsu, the young woman who hoped to plan a service for Mr. Xiang and create a memorial scholarship for him. I’d told her to contact the funeral home and given her my card. Perhaps, if I didn’t hear from her later, I could get her contact information from the funeral director myself.
* * *
The following morning, I decided I needed to go back and press Marjorie for information about the night of the murder, especially since there would be no evidence from Freddie. But first, I needed to see Rafi’s grandmother, Mrs. Maldonado.
I found the neighborhood easily following Marjorie’s instructions, but parking was another matter.
The small houses, close to downtown and the train station, had been built in the 1920s with either very small garages or no garage at all. Residents parked on the street, as did commuters catching either the train or the private buses that shuttled workers to various high-tech headquarters. I found what was almost big enough to be called a parking spot a few blocks away, and parked my car so the front bumper infringed only a tiny bit on the driveway of one of the homes.
I made my way back to the Maldonados’ bungalow, admiring early-blooming flowers in the tidy gardens I walked passed. But when I knocked on the door at the address Marjorie had described to me, no one answered.
I was about to move on to the neighbor’s house when the door creaked open, just a crack.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Maggie McDonald. My friend Stephen Laird asked me to come see you. He needs your help. He thinks your grandson may need a hand, too. Maybe we can pool our resources?”
The door inched open, and I lowered my gaze. Mrs. Maldonado was wrapped in a pink striped comforter and held a cloth handkerchief to her nose.
“Hola . . .” she said, tilting her head to look up at me. Then she coughed. It was the type of nasty, bone-rattling raspy noise that terrifies parents in the middle of the night. I frowned and introduced myself again, more slowly this time.
Mrs. Maldonado smiled when she heard Stephen’s name. She opened the door wider and welcomed me in. “Please, sit,” she said, pointing to a worn but spotless sofa in an extremely tidy and comfortable living room. Before she could join me, she coughed again, leaning forward from the waist, covering her mouth with the handkerchief, and leaning against the wall.
“Have you seen a doctor?” I asked. “El médico?”
She stood up straighter and walked slowly to a small upholstered chair that swiveled slightly and rocked as she sat down. She took a moment to collect herself after she was seated, almost as though she’d entered a small boat and was hoping it wouldn’t tip. The woman was very sick, with the flushed skin of the feverish.
But then she smiled. Her face, while still looking ill, erupted in wrinkle-enhanced laugh lines. “La médica,” she said.
“Sí? La médica? I thought it was masculine. But it’s been a while since I’ve taken a Spanish class.”
“Sí,” she said. “It must have been many years ago if you learned that all doctors are men. My doctor is most certainly a woman.”
I laughed and she joined me until her laugh turned into a cough. “I am sorry for teasing you,” she said. “Your Spanish is not too bad.”
“But not too good, either, I think.”
“Sí,” she said, making an artificially sad face.
I looked her over with the eyes of a mother who has spent too many sleepless nights treating coughs. Brian has asthma and can rattle the rafters when he’s ill.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Tea or soup? I’d like to ask you some questions, but you’re not going to be able to answer them with that cough.”
She shook her head, leaning forward to catch her breath. I headed into the kitchen without asking permission. I wanted to give her time to recover and she needed someone to bring her tea. And probably someone to make dinner for her grandchildren so she could rest. I wondered how much she might allow me, a perfect stranger, to do for her.
The kitchen, like the living room, was spotless. Antiseptically clean. Gleaming like a commercial for some new and improved kitchen cleaner. Either this woman had been working much harder than she should have for someone so ill, or she had her grandchildren trained well.
I glanced in the cupboards. They were nearly empty, with none of the staples and canned goods that many people keep on hand. I found a tea bag, dunked it into a mug full of water, and heated it in the microwave. While it spun on the turntable, I hunted for sugar or honey or something to add calories. If I could find bread for toast, I’d make that too, and heavily butter it. I located the sugar bowl before the microwave beeped, but the refrigerator was empty save for some tired Chinese leftovers and about a quarter cup of milk in a gallon jug. Mrs. Maldonado was long overdue for a trip to the store.
I took the tea to the living room. Mrs. Maldonado took a grateful sip, but waved at me to place it on the side table when she began coughing again.
I needed to get bossy. Or neighborly. Or both. “Mrs. Maldonado, I know we’ve just met and it probably makes you feel a little strange to have me bringing you tea. No, don’t answer. Every time you open your mouth you cough, and that’s not going to get us anywhere. I’m going to go to the store and get you some things to help you with your cough and some other food that I can cook up for your grandchildren so you can rest. No, please. Don’t answer.”
I smiled then. “Look, you need help. I need answers if I’m going to
assist my friend Stephen and your grandson. We’re in this together. Nod yes, or I’m going to have to get tough and mean and I don’t want to do that.”
Mrs. Maldonado frowned. But then she sighed and dropped her hands in her lap in resignation.
“I take it that’s a yes?”
She nodded.
“Let me help you get into bed and maybe you can sleep while I shop.” I checked my watch. “I have hours before I need to pick up my own children.”
She pointed to the sofa and said, “Bed is for nighttime.” I got her settled and she was asleep before I could leave. There was no point in making a list. They needed everything.
* * *
At the store, I put every item I could think of in the cart. Liquids that would be good for a cold, fresh fruit that might be helpful in preventing colds in the little girls, and soup and frozen meals that would be easy for the girls to make. I bought some canned chicken soup, but also picked up a rotisserie chicken, a premade salad, plenty of vegetables, and some broth for making chicken soup that could simmer on the stove. Eggs, milk, bread for toast and lunches, sandwich fixings, cold cereal, and other basics. I threw in a package of cookies to cheer everyone up, and several varieties of tea.
In my freezer at home I had frozen quarts of homemade soups that would do for my own family for an easy dinner tonight. On a whim, I grabbed a spiral-bound notebook and a pen. The girls could help make a grocery list for tomorrow, and if Mrs. Maldonado still couldn’t speak without coughing, she and I could write notes to one another.
As I waited at the cash register, I had time to think about all the people I’d spoken to so far and how little useful information I’d gleaned. I grew discouraged and feared I wouldn’t be able to spring Stephen from jail before he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. I took a deep breath and let it out, loudly enough for the checker to look at me strangely.
“Sorry,” I said. “Pilates breathing practice. How much did you say it was?”
After I paid, I tried to focus on one tiny piece of the puzzle at a time. In this case, getting Mrs. Maldonado taken care of so that she’d be able to answer my questions.
When I returned to the house with the groceries, there was a note on Mrs. Maldonado’s door telling me to knock at the neighbor’s. An arrow pointed to the left.
I knocked as instructed, and a tall woman with long, dark straight hair answered the door and introduced herself as Alejandra.
“I work nights as a nurse,” she said. “I often check on Señora Maldonado y las niñas during the day. I saw Gabriela earlier and she mentioned you’d be coming back. I wanted her to sleep, so I told her to lock the door and I’d let you in when you got back. Just a moment.”
She grabbed a key with a red ribbon on it from a table in the little front hall, but took a key ring from her pocket to lock her own door. She took one of the bags of groceries from me and we walked together across the front lawn to the Maldonados’s.
She thanked me for helping her friend, but I suspected she didn’t trust me quite as much as Mrs. Maldonado had. She unlocked the door and asked me to wait outside for a moment. I could hear her inside speaking in Spanish that flew past too quickly for me to translate, but I got the gist. Alejandra didn’t want me to bring more trouble to the Maldonado family.
I must have received the proper endorsement, because Alejandra returned to the door, let me in, and glided past me on her way out with the ease and poise of a dancer.
“Alejandra, wait. Is there any chance that you could stay for a bit and ask Mrs. Maldonado some questions for me? I sense that speaking Spanish might be less tiring for her, and I know she’s ill.”
Alejandra frowned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. We’ve been swamped at work and I’m working extra shifts. You’re right to avoid overtaxing her, though.” She started to leave, then leaned her head back in before she closed the door. “Maggie, I have my phone.” She held it up to prove it. “We have a police lieutenant who lives on our street and the patrol officers respond quickly. You take good care of my friend, sí?” She spoke seriously but winked before closing the door. I got the message. She mostly trusted me, but wanted me to know two things. First, that Señora Maldonado had friends in the neighborhood who loved and cared for her. Second, that if I hurt her friend, there would be swift and serious consequences. I had no problem with either message. Feeling loved, protected, and cared for was what neighbors, friends, and family were all about. And, as Marjorie had shown me when she offered to pass out the food and socks I’d brought, neighborliness wasn’t restricted to streets with single-family homes and gardens. Apartment buildings, parks, and anywhere that people came together could provide community too.
Chapter 14
Store things where you use them. For example, place plastic garbage bags in the bottom of the bin before you line it with a new bag. This method prevents the need for additional storage, makes it easy to replace the bag when the bin is full, and you’ll always know when you need to put more bags on your grocery list.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Tuesday, February 21, Afternoon
Once I was back inside her home, Mrs. Maldonado insisted I call her Gabriela. I made her another cup of tea and some toast and she supervised while I put away the groceries, started some soup, and packed up lunches for the little girls, whose names I’d learned were Sofía and Isabella.
Gabriela’s cough had quieted, but I handed her the packages of over-the-counter pain reliever, decongestant, and expectorant that I’d bought. She examined the package of cough drops I’d purchased, nodded, and set them aside.
I unpacked the spiral notebook and pen. “I thought if you were still having trouble talking, I could ask you questions and you could write down the answers.”
She pulled a small tablet from the pocket of her skirt and held it up. “I had the same idea. I wrote down everything I knew that I thought might help, and I pulled out a box I’ve used to store pictures and papers connected with Rafi’s parents.”
“Where is Rafi?” I asked before I looked at her notes. “Is he safe?”
“Yes. He is visiting his uncle, my little brother Julio, outside Sacramento. The phone number is in the little book.”
“Would you like me to call?”
She nodded. “I don’t want to start coughing again.”
While she sipped at her tea, I called the number. It was answered by a man speaking Spanish and my high school skills weren’t up to the task of explaining who I was or what I needed. I said what I thought was “Please ask him to phone his sister Gabriela, thank you.” But it could have been “Your squash has feet like a rose bud” for all I knew. Languages can be tricky.
Gabriela held out her hand for the phone, an old-fashioned avocado-colored landline with buttons in the handset. She punched in the numbers, cleared her throat, and asked politely for Julio. She waited a moment, and then started speaking so sharply and loudly that I was glad I wasn’t on the other end of the phone. I heard my name before she slammed down the receiver and muttered some words under her breath that she wouldn’t have wanted her grandchildren to overhear.
“My brother has moved and did not tell me,” she said. “The phone number I have for him is old. But the man who answered the phone will get a message to Julio.” She made a tsking sound and sipped her tea. “He should be ashamed of himself. His English is fine. He was making trouble for you. Idiot.”
“But if your brother’s phone number has changed, how will Rafi find him?” I asked.
“Rafi is a teenager. He has my brother’s e-mail address, his Twitter handle, and his Facebook account. And he has e-mailed me to say he arrived safely. He does not make his old abuela worry. If I do not hear from my brother later this evening, I will e-mail him.”
I blushed, smiled, and apologized.
Gabriela patted my hand. “Pobrecita, do not worry. I see your heart. Let me tell you as much as I can about my family. You have th
e notes I made in case I forget anything.”
I opened the small notebook. Gabriela’s handwriting was gorgeous: small, uniform, and easy to read, but I closed the book so that I could pay close attention to what she was saying.
“Rafi, my grandson, is a legal American citizen,” Gabriela said. “He was born right here in this house. And his father, my son Rafael Ernesto Maldonado, is also a citizen, as am I. The problem is that we have no proof that Rafi was born here. No birth certificate. Years ago, it wasn’t a problem. Everyone knew our family had lived here for generations—since before California was even a state. But now there are so many new people here and there is so much suspicion of anyone with a name that sounds too Latin. As Rafi has grown older, we’ve been asked to provide documentation more often for him. Documentation we don’t have.” Gabriela began to cough again and stopped talking to take a few more sips of her tea. I got up and put the kettle on for more hot water. “He can’t get a job or a driver’s license and could only register for high school because I could prove I owned this house and he had records that showed he’d gone to school here since he started kindergarten.” She stared into her tea cup as though she’d become lost in her memories or was reading nonexistent tea leaves.
I was about to prompt her when she resumed speaking. “Stephen was helping us with the paperwork and procedures, but then poor Mr. Xiang was killed. Rafi came home that night with Stephen’s car. He packed some clothes and said Stephen had told him to go away for a while. As Rafi explained it, Stephen feared that the evidence would point toward Rafi. With no documentation, he thought there was a chance Rafi could be turned over to immigration authorities and disappear into the system before anyone could prove he was born here and had nothing to do with Mr. Xiang’s death.”
