"It was a gift from someone," she said. "He never touched it. Actually, as far as I know, he never cooked in this apartment."
"I would think he'd always be cooking."
She shrugged. "I don't cook at home either. After I spend all day at the restaurant, a bowl of cherry-vanilla ice cream is the limit of my culinary efforts."
The man nodded. He seemed distracted.
"What is it? You said everything was done. Henry's doctor signed the death certificate. You told me I could have the movers come in and pack everything to send to Helena."
The man nodded. "Right. A simple heart attack caused by obesity and chronic high blood pressure. Just an unfortunate case of natural death. I suppose a man who loved food so much….."
"I know. I told him he needed to lose weight for his health—" She stopped there. It no longer mattered. "But there's something else."
"You're very observant, Ms. Taylor. I noticed that the first time we spoke."
She didn't tell him that dealing with an unpredictable father prone to sudden outbursts had taught her to pay attention to the little signs that gave away people's moods.
"There's something small," he finally said. "It doesn't matter, I'm sure, but maybe you can help me. I just don't like loose ends." He took out a small plastic bag and held it out to her.
She took it from him. Inside the bag was a figurine only a couple of inches long: a stylized fox made of red sandstone, with the tiniest turquoise eyes and a little mother-of-pearl arrowhead attached to his back with sinew.
"You recognize it?"
She nodded. "Of course. It's Henry's. He always carried it with him. But usually in a little pouch, not loose like this."
He held up another plastic bag with the black leather pouch inside.
"This one?"
"Yes. It has cornmeal in it to feed the fetish. That's what it is. A Zuni fetish. He told me the fox was a symbol of family loyalty, something like that. In any case, he always had it with him."
"In the bag."
"Yes. He took it out to show me one time. Foxes had some meaning for him, but I don't know what, exactly. He told me—" there her voice broke, and she had to start again. "He told me he'd explain someday about the foxes." She cleared her throat. "Why? Is it important?"
He shook his head. "No. He was holding the fox in his hand when we found him. As I said, I don't like loose ends, so I just wanted to make sure it didn't mean anything."
"Like a final message?" She thought of the old phrase, a message from the grave, but didn't say it aloud. "I think it probably was. He was very close to his twin sister. She gave the fox to him. I guess he wanted to hold it when he realized... it was the end."
Detective Graham nodded. "I figured it was something like that."
She started to hand the bags back to him, but he raised his hand. "We don't need them. The movers can put them with the rest of his things for his sister."
Bree took the fetish and pouch out of the plastic, and put the little fox back in its bag with its food. She tucked it into her pocket. "I'm driving to meet his sister now. I'll deliver it myself."
CHAPTER TWO
"SO THIS IS IT, MAISY."
The dog looked up expectantly from her spot in the back seat of the car. Waiting for a tortilla chip, probably.
Bree tossed her one from the open bag on the passenger seat. Maisy gobbled it up, then settled back down. At least she had ended her hunger strike.
Bree looked ahead out the windshield. They had taken the right turn off the coast highway at the sign for Pajaro Bay, and after some winding through the redwoods, they had come out from under the tree cover to see the little village spread out below them.
There stood Henry's home town, with the little bay glittering in the sunshine, and the buildings looking just like a picture. The air blowing through the open windows was fresh and cool, with the tang of the ocean in it.
She had assumed Henry's descriptions of the town were colored by the warmth of a happy childhood, and that the reality would be much more mundane. But Pajaro Bay really did look like he'd described it.
She continued down the winding hill until they reached what must be the main street in the village. The GPS on her phone told her that Tejas Street was straight ahead.
To her right was a drab brick building that, according to the sign on it, held the Pajaro Bay Free Clinic. On the opposite side of the street was a large sign for the town's high school, advertising a baseball game tonight (Go Sea Otters!), and a farmer's market in the school parking lot on Saturday.
She took the main drag at a crawl, passing cute little storefronts that seemed to be enticing tourists to spend every last cent on seashell paintings, sunscreen, and even—that couldn't be right?—this season's dog swimsuits. Because of course your dog wouldn't be caught dead in last season's swimsuit.
She glanced in the rearview mirror at Maisy. "I can't picture you in a bikini, pup."
There were a lot of little pedestrian alleys, each more interesting than the last: one with cobblestone paving; the next framed by a redwood arch smothered by a pink-flowered vine dropping petals all over the walkway; and a third with a tiny, turreted cottage on the corner named, apparently, The Owl. A smaller sign said it held the village library.
But there was no street named Tejas. The main street ended at a cliff-front stop sign, with helpful directions to turn left for Cliff Drive, and right for Wharf Road and the Pajaro Bay Amusement Park.
Both sounded like perfectly wonderful directions to go, if you were a tourist looking for fun, but none of this was getting her where she needed to be. She stopped at the sign and, after glancing to make sure no one was behind her, tried the map on her phone again.
There was Tejas Street on the map. In front of her. All she had to do, according to her phone, was to drive straight ahead through the dead-end barrier, over the cliff, and smack into the ocean far below. Wasn't technology wonderful?
She pulled a U-turn and headed back. The town was as cute as it had been five minutes ago, with the little cottages, the darling stores, the mysterious cobblestoned alleys just begging to be explored.
She stopped the car and looked down at the phone. It was a really nice-looking town, but apparently couldn't afford proper street signs.
"Do you need help?" asked a deep voice with just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent.
She looked up. Yes, this was a very nice-looking town. The man wore a gray polo shirt and charcoal Dockers. His hair was black, a bit shaggy, and ruffled slightly in the ocean breeze. He appeared to be watching her with amusement at the moment. Dark-tanned skin, an aquiline nose, and prominent cheekbones in a lean but handsome face gave him an almost Native American look.
"Yes," she finally said, wondering why her voice sounded so breathless.
He bent down to lean in the car window. "How can I help?"
Kiss me, she thought, shocked by her own subconscious. But kind-of pleased, she had to confess. It was the first cheerful thought she'd had in days, even if it was an inappropriate one. She noticed that his eyes were as dark and rich as fine bittersweet chocolate. Yum. She grinned at him. "I'm lost."
"Yeah," he said blandly. "I sensed that from the whole parking sideways in the middle of Calle Principal and staring at your phone thing you're doing."
She looked around. "Oh. Yeah. I should get out of the way."
"Don't worry. No one's behind your car. Just tell me what you're looking for."
"Tejas Street."
"Ah. The old tileworks."
"Tileworks?"
"Tejas. Tiles. Why would you want to go there?"
"I'm looking for Helena Lassiter."
He frowned, then said, "Is that Helena Madrigal?"
"I don't know. She's married, or at least, she's a widow, I think. Madrigal could be her married name. She's around 60 years old, named Helena, and lives on Tejas Street?"
He nodded. "Nobody goes by street names around here, but there's a Helena Madrigal who lives nea
r the tileworks."
"That must be her."
"Okay. She's in Vixen & Kits."
"What on earth is a Vixen & Kits?"
It was his turn to grin. "You'll see." He pointed down the street. "See the big jacaranda up there? The tree covered in purple flowers," he added at her confused expression. "Go past that. You'll see Santos' Market on your left. You can recognize it because there are always three old men sitting on the bench out front—different ones at different times; I think they work in shifts."
She laughed.
"On the next corner you'll see the sign for Hector's Garage," he continued. "Turn left. That's Tejas Street. It's not marked."
"I noticed that."
"But there's a sign in front of Vixen & Kits. You can't miss it."
"Thank you…?"
He held out his hand. "Nico Silva."
She took it. Her subconscious was playing tricks with her again, because taking his hand felt like coming home, and she'd never felt at home like that in her life, outside of Henry's kitchen. She quickly pulled her hand back. "I'm Bree Taylor. Thanks again, Mr. Silva."
"Nico. So, Bree Taylor, how long are you going to be in town?"
That brought her right back down to earth with a thud. "Just until the funeral," she said. She put the car in gear, he stepped back, and she pulled away, leaving him standing there in the street, watching her go.
NICO CONTINUED WALKING down Calle Principal until he came to Mission Drive. He turned and went up the hill.
The wide road under his feet was freshly paved, leading as it did to one of the village's main tourist attractions. Azaleas, salvias, and verbena grew all along the roadway, and the riot of red and purple flowers made the street feel a bit like a Cinco de Mayo parade route.
But he was alone as he walked, since the tourist season hadn't yet started, so he walked right in the middle of the road, and took a few minutes to let go of his worries and try to enjoy the sunshine and the fresh air. Relaxing was not a skill he'd perfected, but he was trying.
The old church's adobe brick bell tower came into view, pale against the vivid blue of the sky. The tower's cap of red barrel tiles marched in wavy rows down the four sides of the square roof, and a special tile made in the shape of a hawk punctuated each corner, giving the solid old building a jaunty air.
The mission bells visible through the arched openings in the tower were green with age, and a seagull perched on one of the sills, unafraid of the clay raptor lurking directly overhead. The gull flew off, back toward the sea, and Nico watched it until it disappeared behind the row of trees to his right.
When he reached the mission, he crossed the parking lot and went in a side door in the long, low building next to the main church.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust after the brightness of outside, but even when they had, it was dim all around him. The old hall, though whitewashed, was narrow and windowless, and whoever had added electricity long ago had been stingy about it, installing only one low-wattage, bare-bulbed light every ten feet or so along the wall. But he knew where he was going.
He passed various closed doors, all made of heavy redwood planks, and each with a carved sign over it, until he came to an open doorway. The sign above the entry called it the New Meeting Room. Given the age of the church, "New" presumably meant some time in the 19th century. A paper sign tacked up on a bulletin board next to the doorway said Village Regulars (Open Meeting).
He went in.
The regulars were all there. He grabbed the regular horrible coffee and the regular excellent doughnut and took a seat in the circle of folding chairs.
The meeting was already underway. Other than the speaker's solemn voice, the only sounds were the creak of the metal chairs and the rattle of a fan in the corner.
He looked around the circle. There was Val DiPietro, the elementary school vice principal. She had earned her 10-year chip last month. She sat next to Fiona O'Keeffe, the receptionist from the medical clinic who had a whopping 27 years.
There was Wade Olson, a parolee who delivered meals to shut-ins and would have to cut out early to go to his job. He was a rough-looking guy who had burst into tears when handed his one-month chip a couple of weeks ago. Next to him sat Hector Peña, a perpetually stoned dude who as far as Nico could tell only attended meetings for the free doughnuts.
Then there was Jazz, Jasmine Winters, a curvy woman with vivid purple hair. She ran the local pet store and had rose tattoos on her wrists to cover the scars from a long-ago suicide attempt. You learned a lot about people in the meetings.
Next came Tom Robles, who managed the amusement park. He was speaking about his recent slip-up and how ashamed he was.
Ron Sierra was listening avidly; he was the local florist. From what Nico had heard, Sierra been an actor in old time radio many years ago, and was good friends with Zelda Potter, the elderly retired movie star who unofficially ran pretty much everything in town. Sierra had started drinking again after losing his partner to cancer.
Finally, there was Father Anselm, Nico's own sponsor, who had been part of the veterans network that had led him from his old problems in L.A. to make a new start in this little village. All of them had lived in this town for all or most of their lives.
Nico himself had only been in Pajaro Bay for two months, and was still figuring out all the names and family connections. Attending the meetings had been a short cut to understanding the town, since the major families in the village were represented here. He had met members of pretty much all the main families now: there were Madrigals and Robles, DiPietros and O'Keeffes. And Lassiters, which brought him back to the pretty brunette sitting in the little white car with her sad-eyed dog.
Tom finished talking and there was a moment's silence.
Nico stood up. "Hi. I'm Nico and I'm an alcoholic and an addict."
"Hi, Nico," they all said. Everyone knew who he was, but it was the way things were done at the meetings.
"I have a question."
"What's your question, Nico?" Father Anselm asked. "We're here to help."
"Who died?"
The question didn't get the reaction he'd expected. If he'd learned one thing in his brief stay in town, it was that there were no secrets. All the regulars knew everything that was going on. But not this, apparently.
"What are you talking about, son?" Father Anselm asked, while the others just looked confused.
"I met someone who said she's in town for the funeral. Those were her words: the funeral. I just wondered whose funeral."
Father Anselm shook his head. "There's nothing on the schedule."
"It could be at the new church," Nico offered. The new church was the little white clapboard community church out past the high school. It was new because it had been built just after the 1906 earthquake.
But Jazz shook her head. "I haven't heard anything, and I'm on the phone committee."
"Maybe the Buddhist retreat up in the hills?" said Father Anselm.
Val DiPietro shook her head at that. "Are you sure the funeral is in town, Nico?"
"She said she's in town for the funeral. It seemed pretty clear she meant the funeral was here."
"It could be just someone from out of town scattering ashes in the ocean," Val suggested. "The Nunes family would know if a charter boat's been hired for that."
They all looked like they wanted that to be the answer, because it meant it was a stranger and not someone local.
Hector offered: "That's terrible, dude. The dead guy must be feeling really bummed right now." None of the others responded to that; they were all used to Hector.
"I imagine so, Hector," Nico said. He turned to the others. "But somebody must know. I mean, this is Pajaro Bay."
Fiona spoke up. "It can't be anyone local. We'd know at the medical clinic if someone passed away."
They all looked bewildered. Then they looked scared. This was a small town. If someone in Pajaro Bay had died, there was a good chance one of his or her relatives, co-
workers, or childhood friends was sitting in this room right now.
"I think we'll break up this meeting early," Father Anselm said. "If everyone agrees."
No one responded, because they were all busy pulling out their phones and calling to find out who was gone.
BREE WAS DOING the same thing again: driving in circles and not finding what she searched for.
She had followed Nico's eccentric but accurate directions, and quickly gotten to Tejas Street. But now she'd driven all the way down it to the end and found nothing.
Not nothing, exactly, but not what she was looking for. The street dead-ended at an overgrown lot blocked by a chain link fence. For Sale: Call Robin's Nest Real Estate, a sign attached to the chain link read. Danger: No Trespassing, a second, rusty notice warned. Beyond the barrier grew nettles reaching up to chin-level, and further back, a huge, blackened chimney rose up over a dilapidated structure. The place looked forlorn and abandoned. It must be the old tileworks Henry had talked about. This was definitely not the sunny cottage of Henry's youth.
She saw a flash of red fabric way back in the nettles. "Hello!" she called out from the car window, but the fabric fluttered away and was gone. Probably just an old cloth carried on the breeze.
She turned the car around and went back, very slowly. "Street" was a generous name for the single lane of crazed, broken pavement, made even narrower by overhanging trees that crowded in on each side. It was only about the length of one city block, though this "block" was lined with maybe only a half-dozen houses hidden behind the encroaching trees.
She glimpsed a Spanish-style house with a red tile roof behind a hedge. This house backed up to the ugly chain link fence enclosing the tileworks. The house looked worn around the edges and there were a lot of weeds in the yard, but the place had been handsome once. A rusted metal sign on a stake in front said Robles. She wasn't sure if that was the name of the cottage, or the people who lived there.
Opposite that was a redwood-sided cottage with neat teal trim and a tidy picket fence in front. That one had a sign that said Bluebird Cottage on the fence.
Little Fox Cottage Page 2
