Praise for Sue Ann Jaffarian’s Odelia Grey Mystery Series “Jaffarian keeps getting better and better at blending humor, suspense, and romance.”—Publishers Weekly “Jaffarian plays the formula with finesse, keeping love problems firmly in the background while giving her heroine room to use her ample wit and grit.”—Kirkus Reviews “Odelia Grey is the perfect take-no-prisoners heroine for today’s woman.”—Camryn Manheim, Emmy awardwinning actress and author of Wake Up, I’m Fat! “[Odelia] is an intriguing character, a true counter against stereotype, who demonstrates that life can be good, even in a world where thin is always in.”—Booklist “Leavened with lively humor, the action builds to a wickedly satisfying windup.”—Publishers Weekly “Balancing her professional skills as a paralegal with her self-doubt as a sleuth, Odelia is one of the most believable amateur detectives in recent fiction. Strongly recommended.”—Library Journal
“Sue Ann Jaffarian does a masterful job in creating the character of a plus-size woman, with different shades of angst, humor, verve, and sensualness. Once you get to know Odelia Grey, you’ll love her. I know I do.”—Naomi Hirahara, Edgar-winning author of Snakeskin Shamisen “Jaffarian offers the perfectly flawed alternative for readers sick and tired of picture-perfect characters.”—Booklist “Jaffarian’s writing is sharp and sassy—like her protagonist—and she knows how to keep the suspense high.”—Mystery Scene “Odelia Grey is a wonderful addition to the mystery genre, a smart, funny, engaging plus-size heroine who takes readers on a plus-size ride. You root for her, laugh with her, and cheer at her ultimate triumph. If I were in trouble, I’d want Odelia on my side.”—Denise Hamilton, Edgar Allen Poe and Willa Cather awards finalist and national best-selling author of Prisoner of Memory
An Odelia Grey Mystery
Innis Casey Photography
about the author Like the character Odelia Grey, Sue Ann Jaffarian is a middle-aged, plus-size paralegal. In addition to the Odelia Grey mystery series, she is the author of the paranormal Ghost of Granny Apples mystery series and the Madison Rose Vampire mystery series. Sue Ann is also nationally sought after as a motivational and humorous speaker. She lives and works in Los Angeles, California. Other titles in the Odelia Grey series include Too Big to Miss (2006), The Curse of the Holy Pail (2007), Thugs and Kisses (2008), Booby Trap (2009), Corpse on the Cob (2010), Twice As Dead (2011), and Hide & Snoop (2012). Visit Sue Ann on the Internet at
www.sueannjaffarian.com and
www.sueannjaffarian.blogspot.com
Sue Ann Jaffarian
An Odelia Grey Mystery
Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Secondhand Stiff: An Odelia Grey Mystery © 2013 by Sue Ann Jaffarian. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Cover design by Ellen Lawson Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jaffarian, Sue Ann, 1952– Secondhand stiff : an Odelia Grey mystery / Sue Ann Jaffarian.—First Edition. pages cm.—(An Odelia Grey mystery) ISBN 978-0-7387-1888-0 1. Grey, Odelia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Legal assistants—California—Fiction. 3. Overweight women—Fiction. I. Title. PS3610.A359S43 2013 813'.6—dc23 2013025591 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
For Cyn Reilley. I can’t thank you enough for all the great friendship and support you have given me and my work. Who knew when you started the Sue Ann Jaffarian Fan Club that it would become as large and as fun as it is today.
acknowledgments To the usual suspects: my agent, Whitney Lee; my editor at Midnight Ink, Terri Bischoff; and everyone else at Midnight Ink/ Llewellyn Worldwide who had a hand in making this book, and all those before it, a reality. Number eight—who’da thunk it!
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“Harpy bitch!” the woman with the bad bleach job shouted. “Excuse me?” Horrified, I leaned away from her, a hand cupped over my fast-beating heart. The words had come with heat, like a furnace blast with extra garlic. It wasn’t uncommon for me to piss people off, but usually they got to know me first. Without getting too close, I peered at the woman, wondering if we had met before. I took in her low-slung jeans and a no-longer-white tank top that showed off buffed arms and shoulders along with a plethora of tattoos. I scanned her face, more than once. She could have been in her late twenties or her forties; the hardness of her face made it difficult to tell. No bells of familiarity went off, though I was sorely tempted to give her some laundry tips and a breath mint. Ina Bruce put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me aside a few inches. “Relax, Odelia. The nasty skank is talking to me.” Ina stepped forward, going almost boob to boob with Ms. Skank.
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My mother and mother-in-law moved up behind me. “What’s going on, Odelia?” Renee Stevens asked. “Some sort of Neanderthal welcome wagon, I think.” “Humph,” my mother, Grace Littlejohn, snorted. “Ina’s no debutante, but next to that one, she’s a Catholic schoolgirl.” “Mom,” I scolded. “Ina’s family.” “Grace is right,” added Renee. “Ina’s a tough cookie—always has been—but that other one looks like she just escaped from prison.” While the three of us watched, Ina and the other woman glared at each other, slowly circling, both looking ready to throw a punch should the other blink an insult. We were standing in the parking lot of Elite Storage in Long Beach, which looked anything but elite. Not that it was a dump, but when I think of the word elite, rows of utilitarian storage lockers painted the color of dry clay do not pop into my mind. The four of us were on a field trip of sorts. Really, the three of us—Mom, Renee, and I—were on an excursion; Ina was working. Ina and her husband, Tom, owned a secondhand and consignment shop in Culver City and attended storage auctions regularly, on the hunt for merchandise to fill their store. And that’s why our little posse was here today. Not that Ina needed help doing her job, but when my mother found out that Ina went to storage auctions, wild horses couldn’t keep her from begging Ina to take her along. It had been embarrassing to watch my eighty-something mom act like a kid hoping to win a ticket to Disneyland, and even more embarrassing watching her nearly wet herself with glee when Ina agreed to let Mom accompany her to an auction being held in Long Beach the Monday after Thanksgiving.
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“That’s very nice of you,” I’d said to Ina as we were all gathered around Renee’s holiday table, “but Mom’s going home on Monday.” My mother looked at me like I’d just farted. “No, I’m not,” she corrected. She turned to my half brother, who was sitting to my left. He continued chewing a mouthful of turkey and oyster dressing, pretending not to hear the exchange. “Isn’t that what you said, Clark?” my mother asked. “That I’m staying longer?” Clark ignored Mom and started shoveling food into his mouth like a starving orphan. I half expected him to start stuffing it into his ears so he could block out Mom’s question entirely. All day I had been waiting for the turkey to hit the fan, giblet gravy and all. Not literally, of course, but figuratively—though literally might be amusing and would certainly liven up this annual clambake or, more to the point, rather tense Thanksgiving gathering. I had expected my mother to be the perpetrator of the chaos, but not in this way. My husband accuses me of being a glass-half-empty kind of gal. I prefer to think of myself as a realist and a firm believer in whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. You’d think, after all the dead bodies I’ve found—through no effort on my own part, I can assure you— my husband would have the same jaded eye, but he doesn’t. Bodies keep turning up, and he keeps hoping they won’t and that the last one was just that—the last one. Like my being a corpse magnet, a nickname given to me by our friend Seth Washington, is just some pesky wart that shows up suddenly on the top of your foot, then disappears a few years later with no warning or goodbye. On this Thanksgiving I not only saw the glass half empty, I saw it full of cracks and ready to explode into sharp, deadly shards. All
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it needed was a little misguided pressure in the wrong spot by the wrong person. Every Thanksgiving since I married Greg, I have spent the holiday at my in-laws’ beautiful home in Pacific Palisades. Usually it’s just the Stevens family and me, with the occasional friend or stray family member tossed in. Earlier this year, Greg’s sister and her husband and their two boys had moved to Northern California. Greg’s brother and his wife had flown to Florida to visit her parents for the holidays. This would be the first Thanksgiving in years without them, and I could see that my mother-in-law was grieving. Many of the chairs around the large dining table would have been empty if not for three of the seats being filled by guests—one from Greg’s family and two from mine. Enter the candidates most likely to shatter the half-empty glass. Looking around the table, I wasn’t sure which family add-on would receive the Turkey of the Year award. The candidates were Ina Bruce, Greg’s second cousin, and my mother, Grace Littlejohn, who was visiting us from New Hampshire. The third family stray was Clark Littlejohn, my half brother. He was keeping a tight rein on our mother and looked like he could use a stiff drink, even though he’d stopped drinking years ago. Having Mom and Clark visit us over Thanksgiving had been my bright idea, so I have no one else to blame, except that Greg could have raised concerns. But he didn’t, and Mom had been hinting that she’d like to come for a visit “before I croak.” When I suggested the Littlejohns travel to California for the holiday, Greg had been behind the idea with full-throttle enthusiasm, even though he knew my mother could be a pill. His family had already met Clark
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on several occasions and seemed to like him a great deal, but Grace Littlejohn was a different drumstick on the same bird. What can I say about my mother that doesn’t come off as snarky or ungrateful or bitter? Not much, I can tell you that, though I have been making progress in sorting out my feelings ever since I located her a couple of years ago. Greg thought having her as a guest in our home might help me along in that endeavor. Maybe, maybe not; it could also end up with me drowning her in the whirlpool tub in the guest bathroom. The installation of the large, multi-jetted tub had been a gift to me from Greg last Christmas, and it was certainly big enough to be a convenient murder scene. Since I outweighed my elderly mother by at least seventy pounds, the odds were in my favor. When I was sixteen, my mother disappeared—poof!—like magic. One day I came home from high school to find that her personal things had been cleared out of our apartment. There was no note or explanation of any kind, nor had she given any indication that this might happen. One day she was there; the next day she was G-ON-E. I had to go live with my father, who is now deceased, and his crazy-ass wife, Gigi. I’m still not sure which I resented more, Mom leaving in general or that her disappearance forced me to live with Gigi until I turned eighteen. When I finally located my mother over thirty years later, she was living in Massachusetts. I also discovered she had two other children. Clark was older than me by a few years. Grady, our half brother, was younger than me by sixteen years. All of us were fathered by different men. Grady is now dead. Soon after Grady’s death, Mom moved to a retirement home in New Hampshire. Clark divides his time between his childhood home in Massachusetts and Phoenix, where he is head of security for a company 5
belonging to our friend Willie Proctor. Well, publicly the company doesn’t belong to Willie, who is wanted by the feds, but we all know who’s behind it. See? Life is complicated. It’s giblet gravy ready to go airborne. As if Renee’s depression and my mother’s crotchety attitude weren’t enough to make the day memorable, there was always Ina to spice things up. She is the only grandchild of Renee Stevens’s brother, Stuart, who passed away about the time Greg and I got engaged. Stu was Greg’s favorite uncle and his sudden death had hit the family hard. Ina’s father had died when she was not much more than a baby. Her mother had remarried a few years later and had more children, making Ina the odd child out, whether by her mother’s hand or by her own emotions. According to Greg, Ina was a troubled teen who eventually went to live with Stu and his wife until she hooked up with Tom Bruce, a slick-talking low-life, right out of high school. Shortly after Stu’s death and against her family’s wishes, she and Tom had married and moved to California. She’d been only nineteen at the time. We’ve seen Ina and Tom a dozen times at most since they moved here, usually at family functions or the occasional holiday. Renee tries to keep in touch with Ina as much as possible and has helped her out financially from time to time. When they first arrived, Greg offered Tom a job in his graphic arts and print shop, Ocean Breeze Graphics. Tom was a surly, lazy worker who quit after a month, claiming he had bigger fish to fry. Greg was relieved, since it saved him the trouble of firing the guy. Ina had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner alone. “Where’s Tom?” Greg had asked his cousin, not at all unhappy by her single status at dinner.
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“Not sure. Don’t care,” Ina had replied as she shrugged off her leather jacket. Ina was of average height and thin. The last time we’d seen her, her mousy, straight brown hair had been halfway down her back. Now it was dyed dark purple and worn close to her head. The severity of her hair made her look waifish and cute in a wood nymphgone-goth sort of way. It brought out her high cheekbones and highlighted her brown eyes, which were heavy with black eyeliner and mascara. Her Aunt Renee took one disapproving look at Ina’s raggedy jeans and snug long-sleeved tee shirt and went back into the kitchen. Renee Stevens didn’t care for sloppiness at her holiday tables. She didn’t require jackets, ties, hose, or high heels, but jeans were definitely a no-no. We all knew that, including Ina. Something told me any lumps in the gravy didn’t stand a chance. My own mother took one look at Ina and sized her up, her lips pursed in disapproval, which didn’t surprise me since my mother disapproves of everything and everyone except Greg. She adores my husband. She probably loves him more than me and Clark combined, something I once brought up to Clark when we were alone. “Be glad, sis,” my big bro had said upon hearing my complaint. “In the long run, the more attention Mom gives Greg, the less fault she can find with us.” It was an excellent point. After making introductions, Greg’s father asked Ina, “You and Tom have a fight?” Without waiting for a reply, Ronald Stevens went to the wet bar in the corner of the family’s den and lifted a bottle of white wine from an ice bucket. “White or red, Ina? Or something else?” “Red, please, Uncle Ron.” In spite of her surliness and sloppy appearance, at least Ina hadn’t forgotten her manners. Ron put 7
down the white wine, picked up an open bottle of red wine, and poured her a glass. Ina casually pushed the sleeves of her shirt up, revealing a tattoo of a decaying rose on her right forearm. “As for Tom,” she answered with a shrug, “we had a difference of opinion about the business, and he’s off sulking somewhere.” “What kind of business are you in?” Clark asked before taking a sip of his sparkling water. “Resale,” Ina answered, viewing Clark through narrowed eyes. In spite of Clark’s frequent visits, it was the first time he and Ina had met. “And I’ll bet you’re a cop.” “Retired,” Clark responded. Ina offered him a tight-lipped smile. “I can always tell a cop—or should I say, smell one.” My brother didn’t seem to take offense, but he did study Ina closer. “Just like I can smell a girl in trouble.” He indicated her tattoo. I leaned forward for a closer look and noticed for the first time that near the rose, just above Ina’s wrist, her skin appeared bruised. Not fresh black and blue, but the pukey green-yellow color of healing. There were marks on her other arm, too. “Is that why your husband isn’t here?” Clark persisted. “None of your freaking business,” Ina shot back, pulling the sleeves of her shirt down to cover her wrists. “I was moving something in the store a few days ago, and it fell across my arms. Hurt like a bitch. Or is being clumsy against the law?” “Behave yourself, Ina,” Ron admonished, handing her the wine. “Clark’s a guest, and your Aunt Renee has gone to a lot of trouble today. She’s kind of blue because the other kids aren’t here. Let’s make the day as nice as possible for her, shall we?”
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At that point, I thought about going into the kitchen to see if I could help Renee but didn’t for two reasons: one, I’d offered earlier and had been gently rebuffed, which didn’t bother me since I knew my mother-in-law was a control freak in the kitchen. And two, I didn’t want to miss anything. Ina had a particularly big and nervous chip on her shoulder today and was just itching for someone to knock it off. I only hoped it wouldn’t be someone in my family who took the swing, so I was relieved to see Clark back down on the subject of the bruises. “What do you mean by resale?” my mother asked, moving the chat along. She still wore a veil of disapproval, as if she were spotless in the sin department. Ina swallowed a mouthful of the expensive wine like it was lemonade on a hot day. “We buy stuff at auctions, clean it up, and sell it in our store.” Mom perked up. “You mean like on those shows on TV where they buy abandoned stuff without knowing what they’re getting?” “Sometimes we buy storage lockers. Other times we go to estate sales or yard sales.” My mother loved those shows where they auctioned off storage units. Since she’d been in town, she’d been glued to our TV watching reruns. Some episodes she’d seen a few times. She’d even asked if we could visit the store owned by one of the buyers featured on the show. Like a rocket, Ina went from disrespectful slob to rock star in my mother’s eyes. By the time we’d started dinner, Mom had wrangled the invitation from Ina and I was questioning Mom’s travel schedule.
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“What does Mom mean, Clark?” I turned in my chair to face my brother, my body language challenging him to ignore me. “I thought her flight left Monday.” When Clark didn’t stop eating, I reached my left hand over and placed it on his right arm, stopping the progression of his fork. The table fell as silent as a box of cotton. Across the table from me, Greg’s fork was suspended halfway to his mouth. From it dripped homemade cranberry sauce seasoned with orange peel. Clark put down his fork and turned to me. “I was going to talk to you and Greg about that after we got home tonight.” He glanced over at Greg, who had lowered his fork and was listening—waiting, no doubt, to see if I would start slinging yams. “I got a call earlier today from work,” Clark continued. “I have to fly out first thing in the morning directly to a job and won’t be back in time to escort Mom home on Monday.” His head swung between me and Greg as if on a loose hinge. “I was hoping you two would let her stay until I come back. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to travel alone. Do you?” There it was: the real choice. We could let Mom stay until Clark finished his job or I could fly back with Mom, get her settled in her retirement home, and then fly home myself. Hmm, fly the unfriendly skies after Thanksgiving, the busiest time to hit the air, or have Mom stay a few days longer. For most, it would be an easy choice; for me, it was a tough call. I looked to my husband, trying to pick up on his vibes. Mom and Clark had already been here for two days, and while Clark was great to have around, Mom’s constant presence and negativity had been trying, even for Greg. Even our animals stayed out of her way most of the time. But what could we say? No! Heave her interfering, 10
selfish ass out on the tarmac and let her take her chances. I’d be tempted to say that if we’d been alone, but around a Thanksgiving table with my delightful in-laws, I was compelled to behave. In silence, I counted my blessings. I had Greg and his family. I’d found my mother and my brother. We were all healthy and relatively happy. What would a few more days matter? I would have preferred not to have been blind-sided over a holiday meal. “Maybe Clark will be back before the auction,” I said, trying to keep hope out of my voice. I looked to Ina. “When is it again?” Ina seemed oblivious to the tension her invitation had caused. “Monday morning in Long Beach.” I turned back to Clark. “Will you be back before then? I’d hate to have Mom all excited for the trip, then you come in and swoop her away.” Clark wiped his mouth with a creamy linen napkin edged with lace. They were Renee’s special linens, used for all holidays except Christmas. For that meal the tablecloth and napkins would be embroidered with poinsettias. “Tell you what, sis. Even if my job is done, why don’t we plan on Mom staying with you and Greg through next week. That way you can plan other outings without worrying about all that swooping.” His face and voice were blank, but his eyes looked at me with mischief. I was tempted to stomp on his foot under the table. “Maybe Mom doesn’t want to be away from home that long. Did you ask her?” Clark turned to Mom. “What about it, Mom? Instead of a few days, would you like to stay a little longer here in sunny California with Odelia and Greg?”
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Without hesitation, Mom responded, “According to the news, it was twenty-seven degrees in New Hampshire this morning. What do you think?” Everyone at the table turned to me. I caught my father-in-law trying to suppress a grin. Not wanting to display the panic bubbling up in side of me, I shrugged instead. “It’s okay by me,” I said with a forced smile. “Although I’m not sure how much time I can get off work next week.” “I’ll be fine on my own at your house,” Mom assured me. “I can walk down to the beach. Can’t do that in November back home, not that I’m even near the beach.” “Renee and I can take her out sightseeing a day or two,” Ron added. “So don’t you worry a bit about Grace.” I looked to Greg, hoping he’d find some excuse and take the pressure off me. “What about you, honey?” “Why not?” Greg answered with his own smile, although I trusted his to be more genuine than mine. “Glad to have you aboard, Grace.” “Wonderful,” said Mom, clasping her hands together with joy. “It will be fun, and I can’t wait to see one of those auctions in person.” “Can I come, too?” We all turned toward the end of the table. The question had come from Renee, who’d been quiet since placing the green bean casserole on the table and sitting down. “I’d like to see one of those,” she added with enthusiasm. “We can make it a fun girls’ day out.” It was the first time all day my mother-in-law had appeared chipper, though I did not share her optimism at spending a day with her and Mom together. It’s not that they didn’t get along. They’d met the day Mom and Clark arrived, and, while they were cordial 12
enough with each other, it was clear Renee had immediately tagged Grace Littlejohn as a blight on motherhood—something that was sacred to Greg’s mother. As for my mother, I think she would have liked Renee better if she were the sort of meddling, overbearing mother-in-law I might bitch about. As it was, I got along famously with Renee, and Mom had picked up on that immediately. In Renee’s presence, Mom tended to bristle like a displaced hedgehog. She might have abandoned me over thirty years ago, but now she was claiming ownership rights. I picked up my wine glass and drained it, wishing I could followup with a face-first plunge into Renee’s amazing pecan pie. If I was lucky, it would rain on Monday and I’d be slammed next week at work. I was only working part-time these days and knew the office would be fairly quiet through the end of the year. Getting extra time off would not be a problem, even though Steele would give me grief just for show. I looked at Mom. She seemed thrilled. I glanced at Renee. She also looked pleased and excited. Ina was oblivious, but the men all appeared amused by the turn of events and entertained by my obvious attempts to wiggle out of them. Bottom line: Mom was staying with us an extra week. I’d just have to pull on my big-girl panties and deal with it.
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two
While Ina and the bleached blond continued to hiss and throw colorful insults at each other, a crowd gathered, circling them as if watching a cockfight. Slung over one of Ina’s shoulders was a backpack. I half expected her to slough it off and turn it into a weapon. “Do something, Odelia,” Renee whispered, still standing behind me. I moved over a few inches, putting myself squarely in front of both mothers, using my bulk as a shield should the conflict expand. I eyed the people watching the spectacle. There were about a dozen, with the group swelling quickly as more cars, vans, and trucks parked and people spilled out into the November sunshine. The crowd was diverse in ethnicity, with both men and women favoring jeans or cargo pants worn with tee shirts or work shirts. Some wore muscle shirts and shorts. A few middle-aged women in nubby polyester and loud prints were sprinkled in the crowd like wildflowers. The group also contained a few couples—possibly husbands and wives running a family business like Ina and Tom. Ages covered every decade from twenty-something to Medicare-eligible. 14
Almost everyone wore sunglasses, except for one short, squat black woman who wore a visor sporting an Indian casino logo. Ina and the blond were the only two young women present. “What do you expect me to do?” I whispered back to Renee. “Turn a fire hose on them?” For the first time, I noticed our own appearances. Renee was dressed in an aqua twin sweater set and pressed khakis, her golden hair meticulously coiffed. My mother wore a prim blue belted shirt dress with a sweater draped over her shoulders. I did have on jeans, but they were loose “mom” jeans paired with a sunny yellow sweater, both clean and without blemish. With our handbags, comfortable walking shoes, and discreet and tasteful jewelry, the three of us looked like we had gotten lost on our way to a ladies’ lunch or a day of shopping at an upscale mall and had stopped to ask for directions in the wrong part of town. Out-of-town tourists, ripe for a scam, might have blended in better. If the crowd hadn’t been so entertained by Ina and her angry little friend, we would have garnered a lot of unwanted curiosity. Ina, in her basic uniform of jeans and snug long-sleeved tee, didn’t look like she knew us, let alone was with us. “Okay, break it up,” ordered a bald, portly man of mixed race. He lumbered out of the office of Elite Storage with authority and purpose and approached the crowd. With him was a young woman holding a clipboard. At first blush she could have been taken for an adolescent boy, but it was a woman, slight and wiry, with shortcropped hair and glasses that gave her a Harry Potterish appearance. “Ina. Linda,” the man said, addressing the combatants. “You know I don’t tolerate scuffles at my auctions.”
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“Aw, come on, Red,” said one of bystanders, “let ’em go at it. A good cat fight might bring in more business.” Everyone in the crowd laughed but us. The man named Red scowled at the crowd and began his pitch. “I’m Redmond Stokes, the auctioneer,” he announced without further ado. He jerked a thumb at his androgynous assistant. “This is Kim Pawlak. When the auction is over, you’ll be paying her.” Red gave us a rundown of the rules. We could not go into any of the storage units up for sale and only had minutes to view it from the opening before the bidding began. Sales were final and cash only. “Just like on TV,” gushed my mother. She was tittering like a excited bird seeing its first worm. “The first unit up today is number fourteen,” continued Red after a glance at Kim’s clipboard. “A 5 x 10.” He turned and started walking through the open gate and down the main road through the compound. I glanced at Renee, but she seemed more interested in what was going on with Ina. The crowd started after Red like a slow-moving herd, going around the two angry women like a patch of nasty cactus in its way. Ina broke away from her fight and rejoined us to follow the crowd to the first auction, but not before launching one last verbal attack: “Stay away from me or you’ll regret you were ever born.” Linda took two aggressive steps forward and gestured like Rocky Balboa urging on his opponent. “Bring it on, you skinny, stupid bitch.” With fire in her eyes and clenched fists, Ina studied her adversary, then turned away. I sighed with relief, knowing she was capable of pulverizing the other woman. “Who is that?” Renee asked, indicating the blond. 16
“Her name is Linda McIntyre, Aunt Renee,” Ina replied through tight lips. “She’s the ho sleeping with my husband.” She got in step behind the crowd, not looking back to see if we were following. I don’t think my mother heard Ina because she was moving with the crowd on Red’s heels, anxious not to miss a moment of the auction activity. Renee and I were rooted to the concrete, staring at the woman named Linda. As she passed by us, she gifted us with a snarl. “Did you know Tom and Ina were having problems?” I asked Renee. She slowly shook her head. “She did say at Thanksgiving that they’d had a fight, but I didn’t know it was this serious.” “Did you see the bruises on her arms that day?” “No, but Ron told me about them after you all left. He said Ina claimed they were from an accident at the store, but we’re quite concerned.” I took my mother-in-law’s arm and guided her after the group. “Maybe when this is over, we can talk to her about it.” “Ina’s not the sharing type,” Renee reminded me. “But it might do the girl good to know her family is here for her.” The Elite Storage compound was clean and orderly, with rows of storage lockers lined up like a battalion of garages without attached houses. As we left the parking and office area, I noted several small roads leading off in different directions like streets in a planned community. The buildings were stucco, with the doors to each locker made of sturdy metal secured by padlocks. The group walked down the main road and turned left, then took another left. Red came to a halt in front of a unit. A man with Elite Storage printed across the back of his work shirt materialized with a small power saw. With a short, high-pitched buzz, he easily 17
cut the padlock from the unit and rolled the door up. The crowd surged forward for a better look. Renee and I joined Ina and Mom up near the front. To my untrained eye, the large storage locker appeared to be stuffed with household junk, including a well-worn box spring and mattress set. Some of it was neatly stacked and wedged into the space in an orderly fashion, while much of the small stuff looked heaved in at the last moment. Several individuals in the crowd moved forward, flashlights in hand. Standing at the doorway, they shined their limited lights on various items in the locker, poking their beams here and there, over and under the furniture and boxes, going where their hands could not pry. All were hoping to spot some treasure no one else would see. Satisfied, they moved back, and several others moved forward. Ina followed suit. There was general low-key chat among the buyers as to individual items and worth. Next to me, the two Latinos in baseball caps held a hushed conference in Spanish. Across from us, two separate pairs of couples had their heads together, plotting strategy. Everyone eyed their competition with jumpy peripheral vision. “You going to bid on this one?” my mother asked Ina. “Maybe,” she whispered just loud enough for the three of us to hear. “It looks like the contents of a small house. See,” she said, pointing the large flashlight she’d produced from her backpack to a spot beyond the mattress. It hit upon a corner of some white enamel. “Behind there might be a washer and dryer or a refrigerator.” She moved her light. “And there’s a table and chairs in the back. You can just make out the legs, and next to it is possibly a sofa. And those plastic bins off to the side are marked kitchen.” She turned off her light. “There might be some good stuff here for the shop if the bidding isn’t too high.” 18
I bent closer. “If you win, how are you going to move it all?” “We have a couple of guys who work for us part-time,” Ina explained. “If I win any of these lockers, I’ll call them and they’ll come with a truck and move it to the shop for sorting. If I find anything small of value right off, I’ll take it back with me.” “What about Tom?” I asked, being the first to verbalize his absence. “Why isn’t he here to help?” Ina turned and looked from me to Renee, ready to identify the elephant in the room and dispatch it quickly with a high-powered hunting rifle. “I have no idea where Tom is.” She glanced over at Linda McIntyre, then raised her eyebrows at us, challenging us to press further. Neither of us did. Mom, thankfully, had inched closer to the auctioneer and missed the exchange. I didn’t need her nosing about in Ina’s touchy business. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, and the auction was off and running. I don’t know how Red kept everything and everyone straight. Words flew out of his mouth like sparrows spooked from a tree. Around us people offered grunts and yips—some loud, others quiet—signaling bids. Other bidders merely moved a hand or a few fingers. Ina’s bids were indicated by a sharp nod of her head. Across from us stood Linda McIntyre. Her bids were noted with a guttural “yeah” reminiscent of a dry smoker’s cough. She bid higher every time Ina was in the lead. Redmond Stokes saw and heard it all and kept the bids climbing. “That locker ain’t gonna be yours,” Linda sneered across the few yards that divided her from Ina. “Any more than Tom is yours.” Next to me I felt Ina tense, ready to spring forward and pummel her adversary. Instead, she volleyed, “Who says I want the loser back?” Around us people laughed, enjoying the free entertainment. 19
Even with the sideshow, the bidding was over in a fast-paced two minutes, with the two chatty Latinos winning the locker. Ina had pulled out of the race just several bids before, and Linda had pulled out shortly after. “Wow,” Mom said, fanning herself, “that was exciting.” She turned to Ina. “Why’d you stop?” “Because the bidding passed my limit,” she explained to us. “Auctions are a lot like gambling. You have to set a limit and stop when it’s reached, otherwise you overspend and lose your shirt. Some people,” she said, shooting her chin in Linda McIntyre’s direction, “even drive the bidding up on purpose, just to stick an overly competitive bidder or someone they don’t like with a higher price. She had no intention of buying that locker.” I was beginning to have a whole new appreciation for Ina and her business sense. Even cloaked in anger, she was displaying an impressive level head. The crowd moved on to another unit about the same size. Once the lock was cut and the door raised, we could see it was a room containing office furniture and equipment. It was full but not jammed to the roof like the locker before it, and the contents were better packed. I noted several basic desks and swivel chairs, along with what appeared to be computer equipment, fax machines, and bookshelves. Off to the side, banker’s boxes were neatly stacked and labeled to indicate they contained receipts and invoices from specific years. While my mother and Ina stepped forward to take their turn viewing the contents, I noted that Renee was having a difficult time keeping her eyes off Linda. “You okay?” I asked her.
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Renee gave me a weak nod. “I’m wondering what Tom sees in that tramp.” Besides huge boobs and loose morals? But I kept that to myself and instead replied, “Who knows? He’s always been kind of a jerk, hasn’t he?” “True, but I still hate to see Ina hurt like this. She’s had a rough life and deserves better.” “You going to bid on this one?” Mom asked Ina like a coconspirator as the two of them rejoined us in the crowd. “Yes,” Ina said quietly. “Office furniture and equipment have good resale value if they’re in decent condition.” A few minutes later, Red was off and running with the auction. A lot of other bidders felt the same as Ina, and the bids were flying around like angry bees. Once again Linda dogged Ina’s bids, outbidding her at every turn. I lifted my arm to readjust a falling bra strap and was shocked to find the auctioneer pointing in my direction. “Is that a bid, princess?” Red asked me. “Huh?” Everyone stared at me. Some were giggling. Most were annoyed by the stop in the action. “Um, no, it wasn’t,” I clarified. “Sorry.” Next to me, a grizzled old guy groused, “Amateurs.” “This ain’t no fancy reality show,” Red admonished. “People are working here. Next time, the bid sticks.” “Sorry,” I said again, putting my arm down straight. I left it there, afraid to move a muscle. The bidding resumed, ending with everyone being outbid by a burly guy in a blue wife-beater shirt.
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Once again we moved en masse through the storage complex on our way to the next auction. According to Red, there were five lockers up for auction today. The third one was a bit larger than the last two and located almost at the far end of the property. I was glad I’d worn sturdy shoes. Both Mom and Renee were holding up great, though I’m sure Mom’s energy was fueled by the excitement and the stories she planned to tell back at her retirement home. When we were all gathered around the third unit, Linda snarled at Ina, “Don’t even bother.” Ina ignored her. Like kids at Christmas, we anxiously awaited for the padlock to be cut and door number three to be flung open to show us its secrets.
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three
One of my least favorable attributes is that dead bodies crop up like persistent acne whenever I’m around. Upon seeing the latest corpse, my first thoughts were purely selfish: Why me? How come I’ve become a middle-aged, two-hundred-plus-pound divining rod who ferrets out stiffs instead of water—a human edition of one of those cadaver-sniffing dogs? My pity party was short-lived as I quickly remembered the people standing with me and stood ready to catch anyone about to faint. My mother-in-law had a hand clasped over her mouth, her blue eyes as large and bright with shock as a full moon, but she seemed steady enough. My own mother appeared less shocked and more curious. Mom leaned forward, squinted through her glasses, and muttered, “Is that thing real?” Ina was the most shaken by the sight of the body. As soon as the door to the storage locker had been unlocked and rolled upward, she had let out a blood-curdling scream that had vibrated the pavement under us like a mild quake. 23
The others let out varying degrees of gasps and cries. A short, wet scream of anguish had come out of tough-girl Linda. Before us was another storage locker of household goods. In the center, just behind the door, was a beat-up lounger covered in ugly plaid fabric. It looked like the chair my father had had for years and adored. The lounge chair had been tilted back, its footrest up. In the chair was a man, his head back, his arms slack and draped over the sides of the chair. He looked like he’d dozed off during halftime while watching football. All he needed was a half-empty beer bottle dangling from one hand and a bag of chips in his lap. The worst part was I knew the corpse. And so did three out of four in my party, as well as many in the crowd. Sitting in the lounge chair with a bloody hole in the left side of his head, taking a final forever nap, was Tom Bruce, Ina’s philandering husband. Red quickly shook off his own shocked stupor. Seeing half the crowd snapping off photos with their phones, he waved his arms at them like an unbalanced windmill, but it only resulted in more phones being produced. Ina lunged forward but was restrained by Red before she could enter the locker. “That’s my husband!” Ina cried, beating her fists against the sturdy auctioneer. “Get that damn door down,” Red yelled at the fellow with the saw. Overcoming his own surprise, the guy grabbed the door and rolled it down. People were still snapping off photos, bending to get the last shot as the door came crashing down. Dollars to donuts, photos and videos of Tom’s final pose would be posted to the Internet in the next sixty seconds and would go viral within five to ten minutes.
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Kim Pawlak had whipped out her own cell phone, but instead of taking macabre photos, she was talking into it, giving hurried orders and details to someone on the other end. Finished, she turned to Red. “I called the front office. They’re calling the police.” “Let me go,” Ina pleaded. “He might still be alive!” Pretty much everyone standing there believed that ship had sailed, but stranger things have happened. And I think that idea crossed Red’s mind the same time it did mine. He turned to the crowd. “Everyone back up, way up, and put away those damn phones. Don’t you have a shred of decency?” The gawkers backed up until they were against the row of units facing the locker. One of the Latino guys who’d won the earlier auction still had his phone aimed at the chaos. “Put that damn thing away,” Red roared at him. The guy’s friend said something to him in Spanish, causing him to pocket his phone quick as a bunny. Glancing at the guy by the door, Red signaled for it to be raised. He let loose of Ina. “You stay put,” he ordered and moved her back several feet. Renee, Mom, and I gathered around Ina. Renee put an arm around her. Ina clung to her but never took her frightened eyes from the door of the storage locker. If Ina decided to make a break for Tom’s body, there was no chance my mother-in-law would ever be able to stop her, so I stayed close. I understood Ina’s desire and need to be with her husband. If that had been Greg in there, I would have crashed through the closed metal door like a charging bull. If by some miracle Tom Bruce was still alive, someone with a clear head would have to do the checking. If he wasn’t, a grieving widow wouldn’t do the crime scene any good. 25
The door raised, displaying Tom in the same place where we’d last seen him. I had half hoped it had been some sick prank staged by Tom to scare the crap out of his wife and auction-seeking colleagues. You know, a little stage blood and the right timing. That when the door was raised again, the lounger would be empty and Tom would be standing off to the side, tall and lanky, healthy and whole, ready to jump out at everyone. But it wasn’t a joke. The body was there just as we’d last seen it, and so was the large hole in his head and the massive bloodstain on the back of the headrest. Everyone stared in silence; the only sound this time was the faint buzzing of flies. Ina stared through her tears as Red checked the body for life. Finding none, he slowly shook his head in our direction. Ina struggled against her aunt. I grabbed her by both arms. “You can’t help Tom, Ina,” I told her, infusing as much comfort as I could into my voice. Ina reared back from me, nearly toppling Renee. When I reached out to stop Renee’s fall, hoping to avoid a broken hip, Ina broke free and ran into the storage locker. I didn’t have the heart to stop her, nor did Red. No matter how much of a jerk Tom Bruce had been, he was Ina’s husband. She reached to touch the gaping wound but stopped herself at the last minute. From where we stood, we could hear stifled whimpers. Assured Renee was stable on her feet, I moved forward to stand with Ina, who had fallen to her knees by the lounger in a sobbing mess. I placing a hand gently on her shoulder. Red started to object to my presence in the locker. “We’re her family,” I told him, indicating myself, Mom, and Renee. He nodded and backed off.
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Through her weeping I thought Ina was saying something to me. I bent closer, but it wasn’t me she was speaking to, it was Tom. She raised her head, stared at the corpse of her husband, and whispered, “You stupid, stupid bastard.” Before I could delicately ask Ina what she meant, we heard sirens. They were still off in the distance but approaching quickly, like a sandstorm. Kim took off at a trot in the direction of the front gate, probably with the intent of guiding them to the crime scene. I looked back at the crowd, scanning it for Linda McIntyre, to see how she was taking Tom’s death. After her initial screech of horror, I half expected her to fight Ina for grieving rights, but she was otherwise occupied. Off by the end of the building, out of earshot, she was having words with the short African American woman with the visor. Their words were animated, but the volume was contained. The woman with the visor was pointing at the storage unit, her face scrunched into red-hot anger. Linda looked pasty and distraught. When she started to leave, the woman grabbed her arm, but Linda easily shook it off and made a beeline for the exit. A few others had quietly drifted away, too, making me wonder if they were avoiding the snarl of time it would take to go through questioning or if they were simply avoiding the police altogether. My experience told me that as soon as the police arrived, the storage facility would be under lockdown, with no one going in or out without clearance from the authorities. And I was right. Just after Linda disappeared, I spotted the two Latinos slinking off, only to be stopped by a pair of uniformed police heading our way. They said something to the men. The English-speaking one put up a small argument. I couldn’t hear the words, but the pleading tone and gestures spoke volumes about 27
the need to be somewhere—anywhere—but here. In the end, the men were forced to turn around and rejoin the group. I wondered if Linda had made it out. When I didn’t see her being herded back to the crowd, I was pretty sure she’d managed to slip out in the nick of time. Renee came up to me. In her hands was her phone. “It’s Greg. I hope you don’t mind, but I called him.” I smiled at my mother-in-law. Greg needed to know about Tom, and hearing it first from his mother was certainly better than hearing it from me. I’m sure his first reaction was about why we had to be the ones to find him, even if we were in a crowd when it happened. I took the phone and turned Ina over to Renee. Leaving the locker, I moved off to the side to take the call, but first I checked on Mom, making sure she was okay. Next to my mother stood the man in the wife-beater shirt holding his phone low, pointing it at the locker. I was about to say something when my mother noticed it. Using her bulky handbag, she knocked the phone out of his hands. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” she snapped at him. Had Mom not been old enough to be his grandma, I’m sure the guy would have thrown a punch or at least given her a powerful shove. Instead, he growled in her direction, then stooped to retrieve his phone from the pavement and promptly pocketed it. He also moved away from Mom and her deadly purse. I put Renee’s phone to my left ear and stuck an index finger into my right ear to block out noise. “Hi, honey. How’s your day going?” “My day’s going just fine; busy but good. It’s yours I’m worried about.”
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“Yeah, I was going to call you in a bit to let you know what’s going on.” “My mother said Tom showed up. Did he cause trouble for Ina?” I glanced over at the storage locker. More police had arrived and were taking charge. Kim was helping them corral the crowd to a new area away from the crime scene while still keeping them together. Soon the investigators would cut them off from the herd, one by one, for questioning. Now that the shock of seeing Tom’s body was wearing off, they were getting restless and starting to voice complaints about delays. I’m sure most were wishing they had disappeared earlier like some of the others—as Linda McIntyre had. “Yes,” I said into the phone, realizing Renee had not filled Greg in on Tom’s death, leaving me with the unsavory task. I glanced over at the locker. Renee was standing with Ina just outside of it, comforting her while a police officer talked to her. My own mother had been rounded up with the crowd and was watching nervously from the sidelines. I could see her fidgeting with the handles of her purse, fussing with the leather on the strap like a string of worry beads. Cut from the comfort of people she knew, she appeared frail and vulnerable—a bird fallen from the security of its nest, hoping a cat didn’t wander by while it waited to be rescued. She spotted me and raised a thin arm to catch my attention. I signaled back, indicating for her to hold on, I’d be there to help shortly. At least if she was in the makeshift holding pen, I knew she wouldn’t be getting into mischief while I brought Greg up to speed. “Tom did show up, and his presence has caused trouble,” I said into the phone, keeping half an eye on Mom, “but not in the way you might think.” I paused. It didn’t matter how many times I had
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to tell Greg about a dead body in my orbit, it didn’t get any easier. “Did you know he was cheating on Ina?” “No, but it doesn’t surprise me.” My husband paused before voicing his next thought. “Please tell me Tom did not bring his mistress to the auction and flaunt her in front of Ina.” “Um, no, not exactly, though said mistress was here and faced off with Ina with some pretty colorful language.” “And Tom just stood by and watched?” “Not exactly, Greg.” I drew out the words, giving them more weight, then just let them sit there like clues in a board game. I was unsure of where to go next and hoped Greg could somehow read my mind and save me the trouble of painting him a whole picture. It was a childish and cowardly way out, but now wasn’t the time to get clever and creative. “What are you not telling me, Odelia?” Through the phone, I heard Greg deliberately inhale, then exhale, giving his breath similar emphasis to my drawn-out wordplay. I could tell he was just as concerned about asking me as I was of telling him. “We have a big problem here, honey.” “Someone’s dead, right?” He asked the question with a bluntness usually reserved for phone solicitors. This was followed by a few seconds of cursing that came through the phone line like stage whispers. “Yes,” I answered without any further dancing. I glanced back at my mother. Somehow she’d caught Renee’s attention, who’d convinced a uniformed cop to spring Mom from the corral. The two elderly women were walking back to rejoin Ina, their heads close together as they chatted.
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After the swearing subsided, Greg said, “Don’t tell me: Tom’s accused of murder, and you want to help him. But why should you if he cheated on my cousin? Let him hang.” “Um, that’s not the problem. The dead body is Tom Bruce, and it could be Ina we’ll be needing to help.” “Tom’s dead?” Greg’s voice got high, as it always did when he was surprised. “As a doornail. He was found in one of the storage lockers up for auction.” I stopped to rethink, then amended my comment. “Well, the locker was up for auction, not Tom. The door of the unit went up right in front of both his wife and his mistress, and at least twenty others.” A long pause, then, “How did the moms take it?” “Both were shocked, but they seem okay now. Your mother is giving Ina a lot of support. Mine seems along for the ride, like it’s part of her vacation adventure. Ina is being questioned right now, but I’m sure she’ll have to go to the station at some point.” “You think she’ll be considered a suspect?” “Yes, I do. She and Linda—that’s Tom’s side squeeze—got into it pretty good, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind about Ina knowing about her husband’s affair.” “Motive.” “Yep. Not to mention, Ina threatened Linda right in front of the crowd.” “I’ll be right there. Tell me exactly where you are.” “That’s okay, Greg. We’ll be fine. There’s really nothing you can do.”
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“I can get my mother and yours the hell out of there, and you can stay with Ina. Or you can drive the moms and I’ll stay with Ina. Either way, we need to get the old girls home.” What he said made sense. The police would take Renee and Mom’s statements, then release them. They might take Ina in or release her. It was difficult to say, but her questioning would take longer. “Should we call Seth?” I asked. “He helped me through questioning last time.” “I’m going to call Seth, but for a referral for an experienced criminal lawyer. Something tells me this might need more legal muscle. Find out if Ina has a lawyer. If not, we can use the referral.” “Oh, crap!” I said into the phone, remembering something. “Seth and Zee are still out of town.” Their daughter, Hannah, had recently moved with her husband to Chicago. Seth and Zee had taken off for a couple of weeks to spend Thanksgiving with them and then see friends who lived in the Midwest. “I can still call him,” said Greg. “If I don’t reach him, I’ll call Steele.” I groaned. Mike Steele was my obnoxious boss. He had a sick love for my stumbling in and out of trouble, but he was a kick-ass attorney, though not in the field of criminal law. “But call Seth first,” I insisted. “We could even call Clark, who could ask Willie. I’m sure Willie knows lots of experienced criminal attorneys. Or even Dev, though I’m not sure I want Dev knowing I stumbled upon another body.” “All good ideas, sweetheart. One way or another, we’ll find Ina an excellent lawyer.”
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I held the phone like a lifeline, worried about my next question. “Greg, do you think Ina might have had something to do with Tom’s death? She did seem genuinely shocked when she saw the body, but you never know.” “Ina’s no angel, and she and Tom have always had problems, but I can’t imagine her killing anyone.” I’m sure the families of most killers thought that. I did not voice my thoughts to Greg. “But either way,” he continued, “she’ll need competent legal help to get through this. If she and Tom were having problems and Tom was cheating, the cops will see it as motive. I sure hope she has a good alibi.” There was a pause, but it wasn’t followed by swearing. “For once, I’m glad you were there when a body was found. I’d hate to think of Ina going through this on her own.” I tapped the phone to make sure I’d heard correctly. “So you’re not going to tell me to keep my nose out of it?” “I think this is the perfect time for both of us to stick our noses into something.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, only if Ina is implicated.” Yeah, right. I know my husband. Even if Ina is totally cleared as a suspect, Greg will want to get to the bottom of who killed Tom Bruce. He may not have liked Tom, but the killing was too close to home for him to stay out of it. I glanced back at the locker to find the police moving everyone out of the area. The group of bystanders, including Ina, Renee, and Mom, was being herded once again, but this time toward the front of the storage compound. “Honey, I have to go. They’re clearing the area.”
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“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stick close to Ina. The moms will probably be okay, but who knows what might come out of Ina’s mouth under the circumstances.” “Aye, aye, captain.” I love it when my hubby exerts his takecharge personality—well, I love it when it doesn’t collide with my own pig-headed streak.
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four
When I caught up to the crowd, they were being held in an area just inside the front gate of Elite Storage. The police were methodically working through everyone, taking names, contact information, and short statements. It looked like we might be here a good long time. Kim Pawlak sensed the same thing and disappeared into the office, returning with two folding chairs for Renee and Mom, for which I thanked her. Ina was off to the side. With her was the big guy in the wifebeater shirt, the guy Mom had attacked with her purse. He was holding Ina while she sobbed. Seeing that Mom and Renee appeared cool and collected, at least for the moment, I scooted over to Ina, curious about her comforter. He had ruthlessly outbid her for a locker earlier and now was providing a shoulder to cry on. “Ina, how are you doing?” I asked as I approached. She pulled away from the man and sniffled. “How do you think I’m doing?” she snapped. “My husband is dead.”
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The man looked me over, his face not nearly as hard as his overall appearance. I placed him in his early forties. When he held out a hand to me in introduction, I took it. “Name’s Clarence Goodwin, but everyone calls me Buck. I’m a colleague of Tom and Ina’s—and their friend.” “Odelia Grey. I’m married to one of Ina’s cousins.” Buck gave me a small smile of recognition. “That would be the guy in the wheelchair, right? Ina’s told me a lot about him.” I nodded. It didn’t surprise me that Ina had mentioned Greg. In spite of her gruff exterior, I knew she adored him. That was also the reason Greg was jumping in to help her. He considered Ina a wayward younger sister more than a second cousin. I turned to face Ina. “In fact, that was Greg on the phone. He’s on his way here.” She looked up with surprise, so I explained. “One of us will take Renee and my mother home, and one of us will stay with you. Greg’s also finding an attorney to help you through the questioning. Or do you have your own lawyer?” “I don’t need a damn lawyer,” Ina hissed through her tears. “I didn’t kill Tom!” “I’m sure you didn’t,” I told her. “But it’s best to have an attorney present during questioning like this. As the spouse, you’ll be scrutinized.” “She’s right, Ina,” Buck added. “Cops can twist your words all around if you don’t have a good mouthpiece.” Ina took a deep breath, and the three of us looked back in the direction of the locker, which, thankfully, we could not see from where we stood. “Have they questioned you?” I asked.
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Ina didn’t respond, but Buck did. “I don’t think they’ve done anything except take her statement of what happened just now, like they’re doing to all of us.” “They might take her to the station for her questioning.” I looked at Ina again. Her heavy eye makeup was dripping like melting licorice. “Do you have an attorney you can call?” I asked again. Ina shook her head. “Greg and I know several attorneys. We’ll find someone to help you.” “But I can’t afford an attorney,” she whined. “Don’t worry about that right now,” I said. “We’ll deal with that later.” I looked around at the people being questioned and those waiting to be questioned. “What happened to Linda McIntyre?” Even though I knew she’d disappeared shortly after Tom was discovered, there was always the possibility she hadn’t gone far. Buck surveyed the parking lot just beyond the front gate. “Her SUV’s gone,” he reported. “It was parked right next to my truck. She drives a red Chevy Tahoe.” He pointed toward a silver Ford pickup. The space next to it was empty. I checked out the parking lot, looking for a red SUV. Nothing. “The police are going to want to talk to her for sure.” “Why?” whined Ina. “Can’t I even be a widow without her coming between me and Tom?” It was Buck who answered her. “For starters, the police will want to talk to Linda because she was here when Tom was found. And considering her personal relationship with him, she could be a suspect.”
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The last part of his comment struck a chord with Ina. “You think maybe she killed him?” Her ink-rimmed eyes went wide—but not with surprise, more with satisfaction. “If she did kill Tom, it serves him right.” “Shh,” I cautioned, looking around to see if anyone had heard her. “You might not want to seem so pleased about the prospect.” Buck also surveyed the area to see if anyone had their ears tuned to us, but it appeared we were pretty much alone. “Odelia’s right. The police will push you to the wall on this; there’s no need to give them fuel for the fire. Keep comments like that to yourself and your lawyer.” “Tell me,” I said to Ina, “can you think of anyone who might have had reason to kill Tom?” Instead of answering, Ina wiped the back of her hand across her face, dragging it over her runny nose and streaks of black makeup. Before I could dig a tissue from my purse, Buck handed her a clean blue cotton handkerchief produced from a pocket of his cargo shorts. While Ina mopped herself up, I checked Buck out, taking in the bulky tat-covered arms, the stubble on his face, and his thinning blond hair. He noticed my unabashed curiosity and gave me a small grin. “In spite of what that old bag with the big purse said about my upbringing, my mother taught me never to leave the house without a clean hankie.” “That old bag is my mother,” I informed him. “Oh. Sorry.” He looked away with embarrassment. Maybe Buck Goodwin didn’t get mad at my mother’s attack because of her age. Maybe it was just years of good upbringing that
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had kept him from ripping her offending purse from her arm and stomping on it, as I might have done. I turned my attention back to the conversation. “We’ll have to make sure the police know that Linda was here and took off.” I looked around. “I think several others took off, too.” “Yeah,” Buck agreed. “Ted Hudsinger and Pedro Serrano are both gone. No surprise there; both have had run-ins with the law over the years.” “Any problems between them and Tom?” I asked. Ina remained mute, but Buck shook his head and answered, “Not that I know of. They both have their issues but pretty much get along with the other buyers. Most of the regulars know each other, even if they’re not drinking buddies.” “I saw the two guys in the baseball hats try to make a break for it, but the police stopped them. What do you know about them?” Buck surveyed the crowd until his eyes settled on the two men I’d mentioned. “The tall one is Roberto Vasquez. He seems to be a cool enough guy—a family man. Sometimes his wife comes to the auctions with him. The guy with him today is his nephew Guillermo. He’s been coming around more lately.” Ina came out of her silent haze to also check out those who were left in the crowd. “Mazie Moore is also gone.” Ina wiped her nose again, this time using Buck’s handkerchief. “I’ll bet she left with Linda. Those two are thick as thieves.” I thought about Linda and the woman with the visor. “I didn’t notice Linda with anyone until after, when she was having words with a short black woman.”
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Ina nodded. “That would be Mazie. They always come separately, but often partner up in the bidding. They like to think the rest of us don’t know they work together, but they do.” “Mazie owns two secondhand shops. One in Inglewood and another in Pico Rivera,” Buck explained. “Where is Linda’s shop?” I asked. “She doesn’t have one,” snorted Ina. “She mostly buys for people who can’t make the auctions. She thinks she’s so high and mighty, strutting around with that Bluetooth in her ear like she’s some highpaid rep at a fancy art auction house.” From the way Buck chuckled, I got the feeling he agreed with Ina about Linda. “The scuttlebutt is,” he added, “Mazie and Linda are looking to partner up and expand Mazie’s stores into a good-size chain.” “And Mazie is the short African American woman with the visor?” I asked to confirm. Ina sneered. “Yeah, Mazie’s the gnarled little gnome. The tall black woman was Dionne Hudsinger, Ted’s wife. She’s pretty nice most of the time. Mazie’s the dumpy mailbox without legs.” Being short and stout myself, I bristled inside at the comment, but kept my personal feelings under wraps. “I remember her. She was bidding on the first locker right along with everyone else, even in competition with Linda. Why would she do that if she’s supposed to be in partnership with Linda?” Ina looked away while Buck answered, “Linda was probably bidding today for one of her clients. As I said, their partnership is rumor, not necessarily fact.” Ina nudged Buck with an elbow. “Guess Mazie didn’t leave. There she is now.” 40
Our eyes turned to watch Mazie Moore coming out of the Elite Storage office. She’d removed her visor and was slowly making her way down the few short steps to the pavement. Okay, I’m short and fat, but even without standing next to her I could tell Mazie Moore’s mahogany head was several inches below mine, putting her well under five feet. Ina’s mailbox comment wasn’t too far off the mark. Mazie wasn’t just short; she was as wide as she was tall, almost literally, reminding me of a brown mini-fridge. As soon as Mazie descended the stairs, I saw Kim Pawlak signal to Renee, who left her seat and climbed the stairs. I also noted that Kim had brought out a few other folding chairs. Mazie moved one of them off to the side by itself and plunked down in it to await her turn for questioning. After making sure Buck could stay with Ina, I scooted over to where my mother sat on the folding chair. “Where did Renee go?” “Bathroom breaks,” Mom answered. “Seems they only have one on the premises, and it’s unisex. I’m next in line.” I sat down on Renee’s chair and leaned toward my mother. “Have the police spoken to you yet?” “They took my name and Renee’s and our information. I gave them your home phone. I hope you don’t mind? Couldn’t see what good it would be giving them my number in New Hampshire when I’m out here.” “Of course that’s fine, but they will also want your home number in case they have questions after you leave. Murder investigations can take a long time.” “I also gave them my cell phone number.”
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Feeling more settled, I noticed Mom watching the crowd like a hawk. I discreetly pointed to Mazie. “Have you had a chance to chat with that woman yet?” Mom tore her eyes away from the crowd and looked at me funny. “Why would I?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe out of curiosity. You know, chitchat to pass the time.” After consideration, Mom shook an index finger in my direction. “You don’t fool me, missy. Those cogs in that head of yours are already working this as if it’s a case to be solved.” “It is a case to be solved, and it involves someone we know. What would have happened if I hadn’t stuck my nose into things back in Massachusetts?” Mom turned away from me. “I would have been fine,” she sniffed. “They knew I didn’t kill that man.” Mom went back to watching the crowd, and we slipped into a loud silence until she said, “That woman—the one you pointed out. Ina doesn’t like her much.” “Did she tell you that?” “Didn’t need to,” Mom explained. “I could tell by the way they eyed each other during the auctions. It’s not the same hatred she has for that other woman—you know, the cheap blond.” I nodded to let her know I knew who she meant. “But Ina doesn’t like her, and that woman doesn’t like Ina. Maybe it’s just a competitive thing, but I don’t think so. Ina’s in competition with a lot of these people, but I didn’t get the same feeling between her and the others.” “What about that man over there?” I tried to indicate Buck Goodwin without being obvious. He was still standing guard over Ina. 42
Mom squinted at Buck almost a full minute before answering. I watched her profile as she concentrated. Although I had my dad’s eyes and short, stocky build, I clearly had my mother’s other features. If I lost weight and my face became less roly-poly, it would almost be like looking in the mirror, minus the silver hair. Greg had pointed this out when Mom first arrived, but I had failed to see it until now, or maybe I didn’t want to admit it. He had also claimed Mom and I were a lot alike in other ways—he almost ended up sleeping on the sofa for that remark. “Could be he’s making an advance on her,” Mom said, making her diagnosis. “A young widow might be easy pickings for a guy like him. If he provides a shoulder to cry on now, it might pay off later.” I looked at my mother with unabashed surprise. “What?” she snorted. “When you’re retired, you read and watch a lot of TV. Wouldn’t be the first time a man showed a grieving woman support to get into her panties. It’s a common theme.” She looked back over at Ina and Buck. “Or maybe he’s just being a comforting friend. Hard to tell.” Mom turned to me. “He was taking pictures of the body. I made him stop.” “I saw you. Good job.” My mother gave me a small smile. My mother didn’t smile often. Usually her lips were set in a concrete slash of disappointment and disapproval, but here she was, giving me a small, tight-lipped ooze of happiness. I was suddenly ashamed of my reluctance in having her extend her stay. “So.” The word came out of Mom’s mouth alone and without any indication if it was a question or a declaration. The hint of smile was gone as she eyed me with expectation. “So, what?” 43
Mom peered at me over the top of her glasses and remained silent. I squirmed in my seat. It didn’t matter that until recently we hadn’t seen each other for over three decades or that she was getting up in years; she was still my mother, and, as such, she had some sort of magical bullshit detector. It made me wonder if she had the same power over Clark. I was relieved when Renee joined us. It not only diluted some of Mom’s voodoo spell, but I wouldn’t have to give the update twice. I stood up and relinquished the chair to Renee. “Greg is finding Ina an attorney to help her with the police questioning,” I explained to the moms. “He’s also on his way here.” Renee put a hand over her heart. “Thank God.” As soon as she said the words, she looked at me with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, Odelia. I know you’re quite capable, but I always feel better when Greg or his father are around in times like these.” I caught my mother rolling her eyes and gave her my own brand of daughterly disapproval. The eye rolling froze. I knew Renee Stevens had a core of steel. The woman had nearly single-handedly pulled Greg through the aftermath of his accident and the resulting paralysis. It was she who showed him his life wasn’t over and that it could be full of love and success even if he was sitting in a wheelchair. And when Greg flirted with destructive drugs in his late teens, it had been Renee who’d reached into the depths of his black, hopeless depression and yanked him back into the light with tough love. Without Renee Stevens, Greg would not be the solid, positive, and accomplished man I love more than life itself. But Renee was of a generation of women that depended on their men for strength, even if they had more than enough on their own. My mother, on the other hand, had a history of hooking 44
up with nice but weak men. She’d been an alcoholic, headstrong manipulator. She’d stopped drinking years ago, but I wasn’t so sure her personality had mellowed with age. “They’re letting some people leave.” My mother pointed in the direction of the gate closest to us. Sure enough, the cop posted by the smaller gate was opening it to let a few of the auction-goers leave. The main gate—the one large enough to admit trucks—remained closed. Among those leaving were the two Latinos who had won the first locker. The one called Roberto was talking with Kim Pawlak, trying to find out when they could get back in to clean out the locker they’d won. I heard him arguing that they were not going to pay any rental fee on the locker because of the mess with Tom. Kim assured him they would let him know when the police cleared the area and that he’d be given ample time, free of charge, to clear out the items. Mollified, he and his nephew started to pass through the gate, but at the last minute a man in a suit called to the cop guarding the gate to stop them. Roberto froze, but his nephew dashed through the gate, only to be stopped on the other side by a cop with his gun drawn. “Is that the killer?” asked my mother. “I don’t know, Mom.” While we watched, the man in the suit strolled over to Guillermo and said something to him we couldn’t hear. Roberto stepped in to translate. After a short exchange, police cuffed Guillermo and stuffed him into the back of a police car while Roberto argued with the guy in the suit that he was making a big mistake. I scooted back over to where Ina and Buck stood watching the drama. “Is he a suspect?”
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Buck shook his head. “Nah, from what I overheard it sounds like Guillermo is an illegal. He almost made it past the cops with his phony ID.” I watched as the police car pulled away. Roberto Vasquez ran for his truck, a cell phone to his ear. “I saw them trying to leave earlier,” I told Ina and Buck. “Guess that’s why.” The man in the suit approached us with two uniforms in tow. “Mrs. Bruce, we need you to come down to the station for further questioning.” Ina said nothing. She stood rooted to the ground in defiance, as if expecting the order and challenging the man to carry it through. It was my guess the man was a detective, and I knew that Ina had a dislike of authority figures that permeated her very bones. “Right this minute?” I asked, hoping to buy time until Greg got here. “Yes,” he answered, keeping his eyes on Ina. “And, Mrs. Bruce, I’ll need to see your backpack.” “Why?” Ina asked him, pulling the backpack close. “Is this legal?” I asked. The man turned to me. He was average in height and slim, with dark eyes and short dark hair. He was young, maybe mid-thirties. “You’re with Mrs. Bruce, correct? Family?” I nodded, and he held out a card to me. “Detective Leon Whitman. Long Beach Homicide.” I took the card. It confirmed the name he’d just given me. “My husband is on his way here,” I told the detective. “One of us would like to go with Ina.” Ignoring me, he nodded to one of the officers, who tried to steer Buck back to what remained of the crowd. Buck protested, saying he 46
wanted to stay with Ina, but a look from Whitman caused the officer at Buck’s side to insist on his departure. “We’ll get to you soon enough, Mr. Goodwin,” Whitman promised. Once Buck was gone, Whitman slipped on latex gloves and held out a hand toward Ina. “Your backpack please, Mrs. Bruce.” Ina held on to it like a life preserver. Her chin was high, and now her eyes were bright with fear more than defiance. “Mrs. Bruce, please.” Whitman said the words like an invitation to a root canal. With great reluctance, Ina handed the bag over to Detective Whitman, who promptly started pawing through it like he was looking for loose change. A few seconds later, he slowly withdrew his hand, bringing with it a handgun, holding it with one gloved finger through the trigger opening. “You have a permit for this?” he asked Ina. She said nothing. “Don’t tell me,” Whitman persisted, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “you’ve never seen this before in your life, and you have no idea how it got in your bag.” “It’s…it’s …,” Ina stammered. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin higher. “The gun is mine, and no, I don’t have a permit for it.” The words shot out of her mouth fast and challenging. “We’d had some trouble at the store recently, so I started carrying it.” “Trouble at the store, huh?” Whitman prodded with a straight, serious face. “And where did you get it?” “We had it in the store. Tom got it. I don’t know where.” The detective sniffed the gun. “Did you use it to kill your husband?” “Of course not!” Ina insisted. “I’ve never fired that thing. Not ever!” 47
“But you admit you don’t have a permit for it.” “Hold on,” I interrupted. “I don’t think Ina should be saying anything else until she has a lawyer present.” A small, tight-lipped smile, cynical and mean in nature, crossed Whitman’s lips. Without looking away from Ina, he called out, “Hey Fehring, look what I found.”
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