Death at a Fixer-Upper

by Sarah T. Hobart

  Unable to control her momentum, the woman flew down the dock, arms windmilling the air. She reared back on her dimpled calves in an attempt to put on the brakes. At the last minute, she veered right, hit the log barrier, and went airborne. The crowd gasped collectively as she parted the air like a cannonball, hitting the water in a spectacular belly flop.

  A tsunami of water went up, crashing over the stern of the Crustacean Sensation and almost swamping it. The crew bailed frantically and barely managed to avoid rolling over. Meanwhile, the woman bobbed to the surface and opened her mouth wide enough to swallow half the bay.

  “Help!” she shrieked. “I can’t swim!”

  A few stalwart citizens began to mount a halfhearted rescue, stripping off their cameras and jackets. Then a thin woman in a red kayak reached down into the hull and brought out a lifesaving ring. She tossed it at the floundering woman. I was gratified to see it bounce smartly off her forehead and land in the water.

  I felt a hand on my arm. It was Yellow Vest.

  “You know that lady?”

  “Never met her before in my life.” Not formally, anyway.

  “Stay here.” He turned to hail another race official. I shook off his grasp and melted into the crowd.

  Chapter 20

  I watched the SmithBuilt hammer launch from the back lot of the Grovedale Public Library, using the zoom setting on my camera to very little effect. When the crew was safely in the water and progressing down the bay, I retrieved the bus and drove south five blocks, where the view was much improved, and got a few nice shots of the hammer floating by. Max was spending the night with the team in Grovedale, so I headed home. Time to pick up the pieces of our living situation.

  Harley was glad to see me, if using my shin as a scratching post was a reliable indicator of bounteous kitty joy. He did a few manic laps of our nearly empty apartment, then skidded to a stop by the couch and jumped into my lap.

  “If I haven’t mentioned it already,” I said, scratching him under the chin, “this is all your fault.”

  The phone was at my elbow. I picked up the receiver, which suddenly seemed to weigh ten pounds, and dialed my parents’ number in Phoenix. My dad picked up on the third ring.

  “Sammie, how are you, honey?” he said.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “We got caller ID last month. The phone company threw it in with our high-speed Internet package. Fast? We’ve got more bytes than Bill Gates has millions.”

  “Nice to see you’re rolling with the times. How’s Mom?”

  “She’s fine. You just missed her, as a matter of fact. Three times a week she works with a personal trainer down at the senior center to ward off the osteoporosis. I’m telling you, Sam, the woman’s got some guns. I’m afraid the next time I wake her up with my snoring she’ll hold a pillow over my face and I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

  I laughed uncomfortably, hoping he was joking. “So retirement’s okay? You’re keeping busy?”

  “Honey, I need a spreadsheet just to keep track of our schedule. We took second in the Square Dance Jamboree and Potluck Tuesday night. Frankly, I thought we had first place locked up. No one to blame but myself. I had two helpings of Edna Schlossnick’s three-bean salad at the buffet and had to tread lightly after that. Edna and her new partner took first. She’s a fast one, is Edna. Buried her second husband last March and now this fella’s filling his dance shoes. Her three-bean salad is notorious. I should have known to steer clear.”

  “Maybe that’s why she brought it.”

  “You’re not the first to suggest that. How’s things with you? How’s Max?”

  I told him about Max, and the race, and some, though not all, of the recent developments in the real estate market. “You know we’re scheduled to close on our new house next week.”

  “My little girl, a homeowner. We’d love to see the place.”

  I’d never get a better opportunity, so I drew a deep breath. “Listen, about that—”

  “Just a second, honey. Got a call coming in.” There was a click and he was gone, leaving me with the dead receiver glued to my ear. I used the time to steel my resolve. I needed the money. It was just a loan. Staying on above the hardware store wasn’t an option.

  My father came back on the line. “Sorry about that. Final arrangements for the pairings at the Senior Golf Tourney. I’m partnered with Alan Dorfman again. Last year he was off his game, but he had eight inches of bowel removed over the winter and says he’s swinging the club like Palmer. You were saying now?”

  “Oh. Um, yeah. I wanted to ask you—”

  There was another one of those odd breaks in the connection. “Well, I’ll be darned,” he said. “Hold that thought.” He was gone again.

  I rested my eyes for a moment. Then my father came back on the line.

  “Sammie, I’m going to have to call you back. I have to work out new arrangements for our caravan to the Great Ball of String Museum next Sunday. Doris Wilkerson can’t drive a stick since her hip replacement. Will you be home for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.” We said goodbye and he hung up.

  I leaned back into the couch cushions and tried to organize my thoughts. It was a simple matter—a short-term loan to see us through the closing. My self-esteem could handle it.

  The phone rang and I grabbed it up. “Dad?”

  “Guess again.”

  The receiver nearly slipped from my fingers. “Stacy?”

  My sister, Stacy, was three years older, two inches taller, and one divorce ahead of me. She’d worked for years as a dental hygienist but had also started to make a name for herself as a sculptor, shaping clay and men with the same ruthless attention to perfection and casting aside the projects that didn’t conform to her vision. Two years ago, she and Bernie had divorced, and she’d moved to Marin with her new love to focus on ceramics, along with other arts.

  “You seem surprised,” she said.

  “Sorry. I was just talking to Dad, and he was going to call me back, that’s all. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain. What were you and Dad talking about?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Private stuff, huh? At least give me three guesses. Here goes. You’re pregnant.”

  “Sheesh. I’m not pregnant.” Talk about an impossibility.

  “Had to start with the easy one. Okay, you’ve met someone.”

  A warm flush spread on my cheeks. “Guess again.”

  “Last one, for all the marbles. You’re broke.”

  “I’m always broke. But close enough. I was going to ask Mom and Dad to float me a loan so I can close on my house next week.”

  “How much do you need?”

  I told her. She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Tell me about this place.”

  I described the house on Fickle Court, which had once been the Fickle Hill Market, the scruffy yard backed by a row of redwoods and the little one-bedroom unit at the back of the property. “Once the deal closes, I’ll be all set,” I said. “I’ll use my sales commission to pay back Mom and Dad, and I’ll rent out the studio.”

  “What can you get for one bedroom in Arlinda these days? A thousand a month?”

  “I was thinking more like eight hundred.”

  “Sold,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is perfect. Don’t take a loan from Mom and Dad. I know you. You’d hate yourself in the morning.”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Just listen. I’ll be your tenant. I’ll pay you six months’ rent in advance. That’ll give you the cash to close. And it’s business. Your pride won’t suffer.”

  I shifted my feet. She was right, of course. It was a near-perfect solution. So why did I feel I was selling my soul to the Devil?

  “Sam? What do you say? Is it a deal?”

  I hedged a bit. “Why would you want a place in Arlinda? I thought you were done with the North Coas
t.”

  “I thought so, too. But things change. People evolve. I’d like to have a place of my own where I can crash, no strings attached.”

  “Oh, my God. You and Lars broke up.”

  “Not at all. Just the opposite. He wants to take our relationship to the next level.”

  “He proposed?”

  “He says marriage is an artificial institution invented by the Judeo-Christian patriarchy. He suggested a commitment ceremony on the beach, where we pledge our eternal love under Gaia.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means no fucking diamond,” she said. “And, at the risk of sounding materialistic, I don’t want to hit forty with nothing to show for it but a goddamn union under Gaia. I’m having what Lars would call an existential crisis. Maybe Marin’s the problem. Everyone’s so busy embracing their spiritual side. Lars, for example. He wasn’t like that before. More like one of those coin-operated motel beds—put a quarter in and he’d go for an hour. Now he meditates for an hour, for God’s sake. Every morning, with incense and a candle. It’s a turnoff, frankly.”

  “Must be rough.”

  “You’d better believe it. The other day he couldn’t bring me to…you know. Fruition. Not for lack of trying, I’ll give him that. But the little woman wasn’t exactly giving him a standing ovation. Finally he said he felt I wasn’t responding from my deepest, most authentic place. And I told him, ‘Or maybe you’re just not doing it right.’ Then he pouted the rest of the day. Honestly, Sam, I’ve had it to here with this touchy-feely shit. Sometimes a girl just wants to f—”

  “I get it,” I put in hastily. “But renting a little pied-à-terre seems like a lot of expense. What will you do here?”

  “It can be my studio away from home,” she said. “A place for me to focus on my art. Rediscover myself. Lars will understand.”

  “And what will you really do?”

  She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, there was a softness to her voice I found unsettling. “You see much of Bernie Aguilar these days?”

  I almost blurted out, “What have you heard?” Instead, I took a breath and said, “I run into him every now and then. Arlinda’s a small town. Why?”

  “I suppose you could say I have some regrets in that department. There comes a point when you have to take a hard look at some of the decisions you’ve made. Have you ever felt that?”

  Only every day. “I guess.”

  “I wouldn’t be averse to exploring any, well, possibilities. Maybe I undervalued what I had at the time.”

  “It’s easy to look back and see things in a rosy light.”

  “I don’t think that’s what’s happening. Bernie’s a decent man.” Her voice was dreamy. “A man of action.”

  I couldn’t argue with her there. In fact, I didn’t want to argue at all, since I needed her money. Maybe later I’d tell her Bernie was—that is, we were—

  “Listen, I have to go,” I said. “I’ll send you the paperwork.”

  “If you see him, you’ll tell him, right?”

  “Sure.” No. She’d had her chance.

  “Promise?”

  I crossed my fingers. “Yeah. I promise.”

  “See you soon,” she said.

  I hung up the phone. My stomach felt funny. Maybe I needed a snack. Or maybe I’d just ruined everything. Either way, a snack would help.

  Chapter 21

  I was rummaging through the cupboard and had just come up with a dusty jar of maraschino cherries when there was a knock at the door. Was I expecting someone?

  “Who’s there?” I called out.

  “Sam, it’s Bernie. Open the door.”

  I glanced at my watch. A little early for our belated pizza. I unbolted the door and found him on my welcome mat, dressed for work in navy blue, with a full complement of hardware hanging from his belt. Not a social call, then.

  He made no move to come inside. “You have a minute to talk?” he said.

  “I suppose I do. Why?”

  “Not here.” He rested a hand lightly on my arm. “I’m parked in the lot. Let’s take a drive.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. The atmosphere in my dusty little foyer was almost as chilly as the time I’d missed a utility payment and our heat was cut off. I grabbed my bag from the table. “Ready when you are.”

  Bernie led the way to a black-and-white and opened the passenger door.

  “You sure you don’t want me in the back?” I said.

  “The front will be fine.”

  I climbed inside, squirming to get comfortable on a somewhat sticky bench seat upholstered in black vinyl. The dashboard was bristling with unfamiliar and vaguely alarming instruments. The floor was littered with gum wrappers and a crushed grape soda can.

  “You might consider cleaning out your car once in a while,” I said.

  That earned me the ghost of a smile. “This isn’t my car. Rest assured I’ll be talking to the patrolman who drove it last.”

  Now that I had him in a friendlier frame of mind, it was time for some answers. “So you want to tell me what this is about?”

  He drove slowly and carefully, his eyes moving constantly. “We think we’ve identified the toxin used to kill Richard Ravello.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t be able to get autopsy results for weeks.”

  “That’s right. But we searched his room at the bed-and-breakfast where he was staying. We took samples of several foodstuffs, including the dregs from his coffee mug and a bag of ground coffee we found there.” He looked over at me. “A lab confirmed that both contain taxine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a plant-based toxin usually found in the leaves and seeds of the yew tree.”

  For some reason, I thought of the two yews guarding the main gate at 13 Aster Lane.

  “Yews aren’t all that common on the North Coast,” he went on, “but not rare by any means. You sometimes hear of kids getting sick from chewing on the leaves. Less commonly from ingesting the berries. The fleshy part of the berry doesn’t have the poison, but there’s a little dark seed in the center with a high concentration of taxine. Isolate the seeds, then crush or grind them, and you could easily create a fatal dose.”

  “And you think that’s how it was done?”

  He didn’t answer right away. A gritty mist had settled on the windshield, and he flicked on the wipers until it was cleared. Then he said, “The ground coffee came in a sampler-sized foil pouch from Blue River Roasters. It was delivered to Ravello, or, rather, to the bed-and-breakfast, as one component of an ‘Arlinda’s Best’ gift basket. There were other local products—some chocolate truffles from Sweet Delight, chips and salsa from Casa de Fuego, and a goat cheese from Two Teats Dairy, among other things—but only the coffee had been tampered with. The basket was delivered late yesterday by a dark-haired woman, mid-thirties, wearing a baseball cap. There was a card attached.”

  “That should make your job easy.”

  “It does and it doesn’t. The card read, ‘Thank you for choosing Home Sweet Home Realty for your real estate needs.’ ”

  My mouth went dry.

  “The name on the card was yours,” he added.

  “You think I murdered my own client.”

  “Strangely enough, I don’t.”

  “Because I’m not capable of murder?” I thought of Wayne and wondered if that was true.

  “My job has taught me that’s an assumption I can never afford to make. It’s astonishing what people are capable of, given the right set of circumstances.” He paused. “No, it’s the gift basket that doesn’t add up. You’re not the type to fawn over your clients. You might grab a shovel and fill a low spot next to a foundation, or shore up a sagging fence to get a property past an appraiser, but a gift basket isn’t your style.”

  “So it’s my cheapness that clears me.”

  He smiled a little. “That and the fact that if you’d been the one to deliver the basket you’d have eaten the truf
fles on the trip over.”

  I made as if to protest, but what was the point? Of course, he was right. Instead, I said, “Then why am I in custody?”

  “What custody? We’re just taking a little Sunday drive.”

  Right. I shut up and leaned back against the vinyl seat, watching the scenery go by. We were winding our way through the sprawling campus of Redwood State, an eclectic mix of phony Mission architecture blended with higher-learning cubes built of concrete and steel. The college had grown since I’d graduated with a smile and a handshake in lieu of academic honors: a number of single-family homes that abutted campus had been absorbed, then razed or converted into school offices. We passed the playing fields where the football team practiced and played between keggers, then started switchbacking up the hill toward the Arlinda Community Forest. The trees grew taller and thicker at the trunk. The views bordered on the awe-inspiring.

  “I thought you might want to know a little bit about your client—that is, your ex-client,” Bernie said.

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t in construction at all.”

  “Bingo. Ravello hailed from upstate New York. No fixed address. He was released from the Bare Hill correctional facility in April after completing most of a sixteen-year sentence for grand larceny and felony assault in connection with a bank heist gone wrong in the town of Grover Mills.”

  I groaned. “He and Raymond Carleton-Hughes—Hughes, I mean—knew each other.”

  “They were cousins, as a matter of fact. From what my colleagues in New York tell me, Ravello planned the job—the Grover Mills Savings and Loan—and his cousin went along for the ride. There was a third man involved who was never apprehended. They knew the codes to the vault and had keys to all the doors, and there happened to be a large amount of cash there at the time. But the strip mall where the bank was located had a security guard patrolling the parking lot. There was a confrontation and Ravello struck the guard with a flashlight. He ended up with permanent injuries from the assault and was put on disability. That’s why Ravello served the longer sentence.”