Before Miranda’s lonely heart and raging hormones made an offer her brain might regret, her handyman Michael walked in. This godsend had been referred by Pauline Thurston, the friendly woman, who’d agreed to supply fresh eggs for the B & B’s guests. “Michael Wright built my chicken coop, dry-walled our attic, and painted our kitchen. He’s Indian, but I never let that bother me. He’s a serious young fellow, a good worker, a great fisherman. He used to bring me a salmon once in a while, but now he’s studying at Heritage U, so he doesn’t fish as much. Here’s his number.”
The skinny, long-limbed nineteen-year-old’s wire-rimmed old man’s eyeglasses seemed out of sync with his black ponytail, jeans, and sneakers as he nodded at Vanessa and ruffled the fur on Rusty’s neck. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words measured. He sounded like a much older person. “I have a class in an hour, so I’m quitting for today, but that last bedroom’s done. I left the windows open, so don’t forget to close ‘em when you go to sleep.” He was at the door before Miranda could introduce him to her visitor.
He issued another directive over his shoulder. “Check it out! The Jews are back!” She went to the window, tailed by Vanessa and Rusty. They watched the young men in black hats and suits and white shirts file out of the factory like a procession of penguins in a documentary she’d watched with her mother.
That night Vanessa slept on an air mattress in one of the B & B’s unfurnished guestrooms with Rusty at her side. Miranda had carefully considered and worded her invitation to this odd sleepover. “Vanessa, you two can stay here tonight. I won’t call the cops. Get a good night’s rest.” She resisted a powerful urge to lean down and kiss the girl’s cheek as her mother had kissed hers each night of her childhood and as she had kissed sweet little Timmy’s cheek whenever she babysat. So distracting were the conflicting feelings Vanessa inspired that until Miranda turned out the light and left the room it hadn’t dawned on her that later on Vanessa just might sneak up the stairs, open the lockless door to the attic apartment, help herself to her sleeping hostess’s laptop, smart phone, and wallet, and flee with them and her dog into the night. Or worse.
To ease her mind, once upstairs in the lonely privacy of her unpainted and barely furnished quarters, Miranda poured a glass of wine, went online, and did a search for “guns Seattle school.” Vanessa had not fabricated a word of her improbable story. In late spring an unnamed female juvenile had been arrested for bringing two loaded handguns she took from her gang-affiliated parents to the magnet middle school for gifted tweens her guidance counselor had arranged for her to attend. This gun-toting juvenile claimed she planned to turn in her arsenal at the upcoming police-sponsored gun exchange. Nevertheless, bringing firearms to school is a felony in Washington State. She was sentenced to six months in Green Hollow. Her escape from the juvenile detention center was referenced in a small article in The Seattle Times and made headlines in a newspaper in the little town in the foothills of the Cascades where Green Hollow is located.
After much soul-searching and another glass of wine, Miranda repeated over and over to herself the speech she planned to deliver to Vanessa at breakfast the next morning: Vanessa, I promised I wouldn’t turn you in to the police, and I won’t, but I can’t harbor a fugitive either. You set out to rescue Rusty, which you did. Now you both should go back to Green Hollow. Turn yourself in and tell the people who run the rescue dog program how Rusty was being treated, and they’ll find a better home for him. After you serve the rest of your sentence and any new time they give you, I promise I’ll give you a job. Right now, I’ll give you enough money for a ticket on the bus back across the mountains and a few meals. And I’ll drive you to the depot. This was the least she could do. It was all she should do. She wanted to offer to let Vanessa stay but she knew she couldn’t. And she also knew that if she slept at all that night, she’d relive in a vivid nightmare the events that had changed her own young life.
It’s an especially wet Saturday evening in February and she, then named Meryl Weintraub, is babysitting for Timmy Schwartz. Things go badly from the start. A dimpled nineteen-month-old cherub with rolls of fat for thighs, Timmy usually grins at the sight of her. But tonight he’s whimpering when she arrives and he doesn’t stop when she kneels to play with him. His mom Kathy says, “No worries, Meryl. He’s been that way all day. He’s probably getting another tooth” and takes off with her boyfriend Charles. Says she’ll call if she’s going to be getting home after one. Meryl’s relieved to have them gone because Charles, who has to be at least thirty, always ogles her as if she’s the last M & M in the bag whenever Kathy turns her back.
She immediately changes Timmy’s ripe Pamper and finds no trace of diaper rash. Next she examines his gums and sees and feels no emerging teeth. His forehead isn’t warm to her touch. Maybe he’s hungry. But Timmy ignores the fish sticks and mac ‘n’ cheese she arrays on his highchair tray. During his bath, he remains glum and whimpers, even when she gives him his precious rubber frog. Probably he’s tired. She heaves Timmy out of the tub, swaddles him in a bath towel, and rocks him gently for a moment or two. Then she dries, powders, and diapers him and eases him into a blue onesie. She reads him Brown Bear, Brown Bear, lowers him into his crib, kisses his forehead, and croons “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” five times. Timmy always falls asleep by the third time, but that night he doesn’t fall asleep at all. Instead his whimpers become moans. Timmy isn’t tired. He’s sick, and she doesn’t know what else to do for him. Her own parents are at a concert. She dials 911. When the EMTs come and take Timmy to the hospital, she leaves a note for Kathy and goes along.
Much later Timmy’s mom and Charles join her in the waiting room at Virginia Mason Medical Center’s ER…
Miranda struggled free of this recurring nightmare only when she felt something rough scraping the sweat and tears off her face. At first she thought this sensation was a new and grim addendum to the nightmare, but when she opened her eyes she recognized Rusty, who was licking her cheek. With a start, she remembered her other unexpected guest. She figured Rusty probably wanted to go out, and Vanessa, poor kid, was still asleep. Miranda jumped up, peed, dressed quickly, and followed the big dog downstairs. Her eye fell on a still-life on the counter, a white paper napkin wedged between two of the red apples in the yellow bowl. She snatched the napkin and read the careful printing: “Take good care of Rusty. His leash is on a hook by the door. Thank you. Vanessa Vargas. He had his shots. He eats mostly Purina One.”
CHAPTER 3
Toppenish Murals Tagged!
Gangs Deface Local Treasures!
When Pauline Thurston stormed into the B & B a few mornings after Rusty took up residence, Miranda was startled. It wasn’t one of Pauline’s regular egg delivery days, and a scowl distorted her usually serene features. By way of greeting, Miranda’s first new friend in a long, long time shoved a copy of Yakima Herald-Republic across the counter. The outsize headline screamed news of the desecration of the famed murals in the neighboring valley town of Toppenish. “I can’t believe it! Miranda, tell me you’ve already seen these incredible paintings because now they’re ruined!” Pauline pointed at a photo of one of the old town’s celebrated historical murals, the one depicting a pioneer woman hanging laundry. The housewife and her wash were partly obscured by a menacing black hieroglyphic scrawled over the once-white sheets ballooning on the clothesline.
Miranda poured Pauline a cup of coffee and gestured to a stool at the counter. “Yes. I saw them when I was house hunting in the Valley. My realtor insisted. They’re amazing. Who would mess them up? Does it say who did this?”
Pauline’s tone was derisive. “Who do you think? It says some wannabe gang member—a Sureño, probably—had to do it for his initiation.” She patted Rusty while sipping her coffee. “I see you got a dog. Good idea.” As if soothed by Rusty’s presence, Pauline’s scorn seemed tempered when she spoke next. “It’s odd though. Those criminals are murderous, but they never touched the painting
s before. Not in the twenty-something years those murals have been there. You know, Miranda, they were painted by real artists, western artists. They’re works of art, and God always kept them safe. Why would He let this happen?” Pauline hesitated, perhaps searching for either a rationale or an excuse for the Divine’s slip-up.
Miranda waited. She’d always been a good listener. It wasn’t long before her patience was rewarded.
“Maybe it’s a warning. Like the writing on the wall in the Bible.”
“Could be. But the words on that wall were a warning to a tyrant. Is there a tyrant in this valley?”
“The gangs are the tyrants.”
Miranda drew on her considerable familiarity with TV crime shows for another interpretation. “Or maybe this warning isn’t from God. Maybe Gang A is warning Gang B about what’ll happen if Gang B moves in on Gang A’s turf.”
Pauline didn’t look really happy with this godless interpretation of the graffiti, but she calmed down enough to enjoy a cranberry scone with her coffee and to apologize for her intrusion. “I know you’ve got enough on your plate trying to get this place going. So thanks for letting me barge in and rant. Some mornings after Nelson leaves for work I need somebody besides my chickens to talk to.” She looked at Miranda and then directed her eyes to the ceiling. “I feel blessed to have you nearby. See you tomorrow.”
Having recently lost her mother, Miranda was moved by the older woman’s affection and approval and intrigued by her faith. She just wished her new friend’s spontaneous visit hadn’t been prompted by the desecration of important public art.
Pauline wasn’t the only one troubled by the mutilated murals. They were very much on Michael’s mind when he came to work a few minutes later. Like many citizens of the Yakama Nation, Michael was born in Toppenish, and Miranda figured that was why he took this tagging personally. “Our murals are trashed! We finally got something besides the casino to bring in tourists, the type who walk around, have lunch, maybe even buy a few things. They go to our museums. They hike our hills. Hire our guides. They hunt and fish or go to our wildlife center and take photos. And now those sick Mexican assholes, they cover those paintings with their stupid tags. Those stinkin’ foreigners don’t even speak English. My ancestors were born here but they had to learn English, weren’t allowed to speak our own language. Those lowlife gangbangers should go back where they came from and stay there.” Before Miranda could respond to this usually soft-spoken young man’s disturbing tirade, the floor sander arrived and his machine made further conversation impossible.
It wasn’t until the next day that Miranda thought again about the vandalized paintings. The land-line phone reserved for bookings and power outages rang, and she took the call. “Breitner’s B & B. Miranda Breitner, speaking. May I help you?”
“I’m Caroline Evans, President of the Toppenish Public Art Association’s Board of Directors. I’d like to book a room. But first, welcome to the Valley, Miranda. And good luck with your new business.”
“Thanks. Caroline. And I’m so sorry about what happened to Toppenish’s murals.”
“What ‘happened’ to our murals is that those ignorant goons desecrated them. They created another black cloud darkening a valley that prides itself on sunshine. There are over seventy fantastic paintings on buildings all over Toppenish illustrating our town’s history! These art works promote civic pride, patriotism, tourism, and art itself. And they’re so bright! They give new meaning to the term local color.”
Miranda wasn’t just being polite when she said she was sorry about the murals. They certainly did relieve the beigeness of the old desert settlement that is Toppenish. And with images of cowboys, hops farmers, Indians, and horses all over town, it was possible to credit Toppenish’s claim to be a place “Where the West Still Lives.” Even so, she was relieved when Caroline got down to business. “Actually, the murals are why I’m calling. I want to book a room for Stephen Galen, an art restorer.” Caroline’s voice brightened. “If you can accommodate him, he’ll stay on at Breitner’s at your weekly rate, to be billed to the Toppenish Public Art Association. I don’t care if we have to fundraise until we drop. He’ll stay until he gets the job done.”
After e-mailing the reservation confirmation, Miranda had to acknowledge that, for her at least, the dark cloud Caroline conjured up had a silver lining. Breitner’s was getting an extended booking out of it. For a moment she wondered why this guy wasn’t staying at the motel near the Casino in Toppenish. It seemed odd that Toppenish’s Public Art Association was putting him up in Sunnyvale. But she soon dismissed her curiosity to indulge her pleasure in being fully booked opening night. She looked down at her new companion stretched out at her feet, stroked his head, and told him, “This art restorer will repair the paintings. Like the lady said, ‘That’s his job.’” She caressed one of Rusty’s silken ears and smiled at herself for talking to her dog.
Miranda had been dismayed both by Vanessa’s abrupt parting and by her parting gift. At odd moments during the few days since the penniless girl had vanished into the dark—headed who knew where—Miranda had found herself looking up the road, hoping for a glimpse of her. She scanned news websites for any word about her. Vanessa was at risk from pimps, other traffickers, vengeful gang members, critters, hunger, and the cold autumn night air. And the poor kid had to face all these horrors without her precious dog.
As for Rusty, Miranda hadn’t planned on having a dog at the B & B. In fact, she’d considered it and opted against the idea so as to avoid the additional responsibility and expense. She’d also worried that her guests might bring their own pets or have allergies. Or her dog might not take to meeting new people all the time. She’d figured that if she needed more security, she’d alarm the place. You don’t have to walk, feed, or pick up after an alarm. Or take it to the vet. No, she hadn’t wanted a dog. But Vanessa had entrusted Rusty to her, and Miranda vowed to deserve that trust.
She spent a couple of nights reading about dogs online. Vanessa had trained Rusty well. With the exception of mistaking toilet bowls for drinking vessels, he was really well behaved. In just a few days, Miranda and her new pet who had a survivor’s honed ability to transfer allegiance from one benevolent owner to another, had become inseparable.
“Rusty, do we have time for a run?” At the word run Rusty bounded for the door where his leash hung. According to what she’d read about dogs of Rusty’s exalted lineage, he required exercise. So, sloughing off the warnings of Pauline, Miranda ran with him through the supposedly gang-occupied streets of Sunnyvale whenever she could fit it into her frenetic countdown to opening. She slipped out of her Crocs and into her running shoes. “Let’s do this, Rusty!”
Running just a couple of miles through the quiet tree-lined streets of small homes and the occasional field helped relieve her anxiety which was increasing as Breitner’s opening approached. She imagined a series of scenarios that played out over and over in her head. In one, the B & B opens and nobody comes. All those with reservations have canceled at the last minute in spite of her carefully constructed cancellation policies. In another, a guest complains that her cranberry muffins are dry and her coffee weak. In other fantasies, a disgruntled guest criticizes his memory foam mattress and a woman insists she is kept awake by the efforts of a “rodent trapped in the wall behind the bed.” In a particularly crushing vision, Miranda pictures columns of negative reviews posted online by these dissatisfied guests and scores of others.
But when opening day actually arrived and she looked around, Miranda was pleased with how the place had shaped up. She loved the refurbished oak counter and cabinet that doubled as reception desk and breakfast bar she’d found at an auction Rosemarie had steered her to. A new sink and range top were embedded in one end alongside a fridge and dishwasher. On the other side were barstools. A pair of cushy but faded red easy chairs flanked the defunct fireplace which Miranda had repurposed to frame a battered metal pitcher ablaze with orange dahlias, a g
ift from Pauline who’d stopped by to wish her luck. Beneath the front window, a few weathered wooden fruit crates stacked on the gleaming pine floor served as bookcases. Atop them her mother’s plants, a flamboyant wandering Jew and a prolific spider plant, held court in the sunlight. Miranda was eager to show off her cozy lobby that also served as breakfast area and lounge.
She’d dressed for the big day, too, in good black jeans and a long-sleeved tee of green jersey that, her mom had said showed off her green eyes. She’d made sure to touch up her red roots and pencil over her red eyebrows to match her black curls. She took a selfie and then one of her and Rusty. Check-in time was at two, but it wasn’t until a bit later that the first guest actually crossed the threshold. He was a tall lean man with a long sharp nose at home between his angular cheekbones. His face was weathered, his hair a pepper and salt stubble, and his drawl decidedly southern. “Steve Galen.” A grin softened the sharp contours of his face.
“Welcome, Mr. Galen.” She recognized the name as that of the art restorer.
“Steve. It’s Steve. Thanks.”
“And I’m Miranda. Mandy.” She blinked when the unscripted nickname tripped off her tongue. She’d always wanted a zippy nickname. Now it was her turn to smile, because her mom had been right. She could do this. She could be an innkeeper. And she could have a cool-sounding nickname. She pushed the registration form across the counter as if she’d done it a thousand times.
Murder in the Melting Pot Page 3