The Name of the Rosé

by Christine E. Blum

  I waved to our server and asked for a menu.

  “You still hungry? I don’t know where you put it!”

  “I’d like to order a cheeseburger and fries to go, please.”

  He nodded, wrote it down and headed back to the kitchen.

  “For Marisol?”

  “For Trevor. Even if he ate his cold tacos, I bet he’ll find a way to enjoy a warm serving of the major food groups, fat, potatoes and onions.”

  “You are very thoughtful, Halsey.”

  Jack was getting that faraway look again.

  “What I said earlier, about taking a seafood crawl down the coast—let’s really do that,” Jack said. “We could maybe tie it into a celebration . . .”

  I knew where this was going and tried to suppress the look of abject fear I felt forming on my face.

  “Hmmm,” I managed to utter.

  “You know Malcolm and Penelope are getting hitched in September, and their winery is such a beautiful spot for a ceremony.”

  I instantly became afraid of where this was heading. That couple had met last year during the unfortunate circumstance of finding the old woman buried in my garden plot, and after a tumultuous beginning, they fell in love. Penelope moved to the winery, and with planning the wedding, we hadn’t seen much of them lately.

  “I’m not saying a double wedding, but maybe shortly after?” Jack was trying to evaluate whether he was delivering good or bad news.

  “Is this a proposal, Jack?”

  Lame. I need to work on my bob-and-weave skills.

  He looked at the frozen smile I’d planted on my face and I saw his shoulders sag. Thankfully, our server appeared with the takeout and the check, so we both had a moment to recover.

  “I think of it more as a proposal that we think about proposing.” His hand had moved to his beard for a comforting tug.

  I genuinely smiled this time. My gentle, amber-eyed giant was so giving in his earnest pursuit.

  “I love that idea! But the deal is that either one of us can do the proposing when we feel the time is right.”

  “Wow. That makes me a happy man.”

  Mission accomplished, and I was feeling pretty good myself.

  CHAPTER 8

  The day started with lots of promise ahead, provided I got past the one little hurdle I needed to jump to set everything in motion.

  “I’m going to need to borrow that fish. I promise to keep it frozen,” I said to Marisol through the small openings in her black wrought-iron front security door.

  “Can’t.”

  I could barely make out her head in the shadow, and if it weren’t for the glint off her gold tooth, I might have thought I was back in fourth grade confessing my sins to Father McCluhan.

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. I am deeply sorry I spit my lima beans into my milk at dinner so I didn’t have to eat them.

  “What do you mean, you can’t? I’ve found someone who can identify the fish and she needs to see the real thing!”

  “I promised, can’t let it out of my sight.”

  I knew I was going to regret what I was about to say, but it would take a miracle to get that fish any other way.

  “You can come with me. How exciting for you! I’m going to the Aquarium of the Pacific.”

  “I hate those places. Fish should be free to swim wherever the heck they want.”

  She wasn’t going to make this easy, but I knew which Marisol buttons to push.

  “You don’t have to come in, I won’t be long, and then I’ll buy you a hot dog.”

  “You can’t bribe me with food.”

  Since when?

  She now had her hands on her hips and was staring me down. I weighed my options while I pictured Marisol at a craps table in Vegas with the high rollers. This one was playing like a pro. I knew my next offer needed to be big, and I needed to be prepared to walk away.

  “So, the aquarium I need to go to is in Long Beach.”

  “So?”

  It was my turn to string her along.

  “So, there’s something else that’s pretty great in Long Beach.”

  “I’ve been to the Queen Mary. It was a long walk for a short drink of water, if you ask me.”

  Marisol was referring to the most famous steamship from the 1930s, which is docked in Long Beach, a revered historical landmark. You can tour this Art Deco masterpiece during the day or stay onboard in one of the cabins in the part of the ship that has been converted into a hotel. It’s a favorite destination during Halloween due to the numerous eyewitness accounts of encounters with ghosts, particularly around the indoor swimming pool and boiler room. I could see why this wasn’t Marisol’s cup of tea; she prefers to be the haunter and likes her subjects to eat, breathe and make mistakes.

  “I was not referring to the Queen Mary. This is much better.”

  I had her on the ropes.

  “I don’t care. You can’t take the fish.”

  Ha! She folded too soon!

  “Okay, then, never mind. Bardot is going to be awfully disappointed, though.”

  I stepped back from her door and headed home. I heard the clang of a heavy lock releasing and then the creak of her metal door.

  “Wait. What about Bardie?”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Bardot. What about Bardot?”

  I stopped but kept my back to her just to make sure I’d set the hook.

  “You made it clear you won’t let me take the fish, Marisol.”

  “Maybe I can make an exception.” She’d softened her voice to sweeten the statement.

  “You sure?” I turned to her and she nodded.

  “Okay, you get the fish. I’ve got a cooler all ready in the back of my car.”

  She let the door slam shut and I could hear her scampering across the kitchen to her backyard. All of a sudden, she stopped, and then I heard her scampering back to me. She got right up to the screen again.

  “You still haven’t told me what we’re doing with Bardie, I mean Bardot,” she demanded.

  “After my meeting, we’re going to Rosie’s Dog Beach, of course! Don’t forget your sunscreen.”

  “I don’t burn,” she hollered back at me in mid-scamper.

  Come to think of it, I’d never seen her reflection in a mirror either.

  That had been the clincher. Los Angeles city and county rules strictly prohibit dogs on the beach. People test the ordinance all the time, but if caught, the fines can be hefty. Rosie’s is in the city of Long Beach, so it’s zoned for off-leash four-legged frolicking in the sand and surf. I’d taken Marisol and Bardot there once before and it was dark before either of them agreed to get back in the car.

  * * *

  An hour later, we were finally cruising down the 405 freeway. Luckily, Shelly, the specialist I was meeting at the aquarium, had given me a wide window of time today. What was the holdup? Marisol decided to make lunch for a beach picnic, then couldn’t find the high-powered binoculars she claimed were for whale watching but I know will be used for people spying. Finally, she needed to go through her batteries to find the ones that fit some other electronic device. She was keeping tight-lipped about its function for now.

  “I went to the post office yesterday,” Marisol announced from the shotgun seat.

  “I’m proud of you. What do you want, a parade?”

  “I brought coffees with me,” she continued, ignoring my snark and grinning. This beach trip had put her in a solidly good mood.

  “You talked to Rusty’s mom! So, what did you find out?”

  “Her boy’s a no-good mess, but she claims he has a good heart.”

  “A mess in what way?”

  “Owes a bunch of money. When he started out at the airport, he had plans to become a famous pilot. She says that was all he talked about, bragged all the time to his girlfriend that they’d get married and travel all over the world.”

  “I have a feeling I know where this story i
s going.”

  We’d just passed the airport traffic and were now cruising at a comfortable speed for Los Angeles. It was a weekday and we were dealing with a rare heat wave that was keeping people indoors even at the beaches.

  “She says when things weren’t moving as quickly as he’d liked, Rusty started taking matters into his own hands. Like cheating on some written pilot’s tests and getting in with a bad crowd of losers at the airport. She told me that he’d also never realized how expensive it was to fly. Rusty was always hitting her up for money. When the well ran dry, she suspects he turned to illegal ways to get the cash.”

  “Like dealing drugs?”

  “She didn’t say exactly, but she gave me the universal sign.”

  “Which is what?” I was afraid to look.

  “I don’t remember exactly, but you know it. Something like this.”

  Marisol pantomimed making a fist with her thumb sticking out and bringing it to her lips as if she were drinking, followed by pinching her thumb and index finger together in front of her face like she was smoking, and for her denouement she crossed her arms dramatically.

  I had no comment, but Bardot thought it was a great game and started licking Marisol all over. When that wasn’t enough, she tried to climb into the front seat with us.

  “Don’t make me pull this car over,” I yelled.

  “Sorry, Bardie, your mom’s cranky when she doesn’t have her wine.”

  I swear, I saw Bardot laughing in my rearview mirror.

  My cell phone rang, and I turned on the Bluetooth speaker on my steering wheel.

  “Hi honey.”

  “Hi babe, you driving?”

  “I’m headed to the Aquarium of the Pacific, I have Bardot and Marisol with me.”

  “Two of my favorite girls.”

  “Who’s that?” Marisol asked.

  “It’s Jack. You think I call anyone else honey?”

  “Probably when you drink.”

  “Listen, I’ve only got a minute,” Jack continued, “but I saw Mark this morning and, as I suspected, the DEA is all over the heroin found in the fish on Charlie’s plane. He says it’s part of a really bad batch that’s been circulating for the last few months and putting a shocking number of naïve millennials in the hospital for overdosing. He says it’s cut with fentanyl, making it a dangerously strong narcotic. Fifty times more potent than morphine.”

  “Yikes, those poor kids.” And parents, I thought.

  “The DEA is working on sourcing the origin of the fish, but these things, especially operations outside the U.S., can get bogged down in bureaucracy. I would say you all are on a very important mission and time is of the essence to clear your friends. Gotta go, love you.”

  Jack clicked off.

  “I knew he loved me.” Marisol beamed.

  “What?”

  * * *

  “I suppose I could leave the car running so you two get the cool air,” I said to Marisol after we’d parked at the aquarium. I’d opened my window to test the temperature and felt like I’d stuck my head in the oven to check on the Thanksgiving turkey. I’d quickly closed it back up.

  “You’re trying to kill us, aren’t you?” Marisol said this more like a statement than a question.

  “When we left, I figured that you and Bardot would maybe walk around outside and watch the boats and birds dockside. I had no idea this heat wave was going to continue and it would feel like a sweat lodge.”

  I had to think this through. As Jack had said, I was on an important mission. Behind me, Bardot smelled sea critters and wondered what was taking us so long. I dialed a number on my phone, which was still hooked up to the car’s Bluetooth.

  “Hi, this is Shelly,” came the response. We could hear running water and ambient noises in the background.

  “Hi Shelly, it’s Halsey.”

  “Great, you’re here, I’ll meet you at the information desk on the ground floor.”

  “Um, there’s one thing—” I started to say.

  “Oh?”

  “I have my dog with me, as well as my neighbor. They were going to wait outside while we met, but we hadn’t planned on it being this hot a day.”

  “Hmmm. The aquarium has strict rules about this. Only service dogs are allowed inside. Does your dog qualify?”

  I paused for a second while my good Halsey and bad Halsey battled it out.

  “Why yes, she does,” I finally declared.

  “You’re going straight to hell,” Marisol said.

  * * *

  When the three of us entered the aquarium, we stopped to take in the environment. Just like I felt when I pulled onto my Mar Vista home for the first time, I felt like I was in Oz and had Toto in tow, along with the Wicked Witch of Rose Avenue. All around us were people in sea-blue polo shirts smiling and asking if they could help us. In front of us, taking up most of the back wall, was the aquarium’s version of the Wizard’s palace. A floor-to-ceiling, glass-exposed tank called the Blue Cavern was teeming with all shapes and sizes of sea life and flora. You didn’t know where to look first. A diver had lowered himself down from the top and was hand-feeding the fish, while a dry-land expert provided commentary to the large group of uniformed third graders here on a school trip. They formed a rapt semicircle in front of the tank.

  A wave from a staff member caught my eye, and I figured this must be Shelly, signaling us to come over. For once, Bardot was well behaved, probably overwhelmed by sensory overload and feeling very much like a dog out of her pool. Plus, we’d had a little talk before we entered the building, and I’d told Bardot and Marisol exactly how I expected them to act, because we were guests. At least one of them seemed to be listening.

  “You must be Shelly,” I said, extending my hand. “This is my neighbor, Marisol, and my service dog, Bardot.”

  “Hah!” Marisol didn’t even try to control herself.

  “Never mind her,” I whispered to Shelly. “Her age is advancing but her mind is regressing. I just thought a day out would do her some good.”

  Shelly nodded and gave my back a soft rub. She approved of my altruism.

  “This way, ladies. We’re going to go through the staff door and take the elevator to the second floor.”

  We followed obediently, knowing she was the alpha dog in this scenario. Shelly did have a commanding presence, and not just because she was tall. Her long, California-blond hair came down almost to her waist and was held neatly in place with a low ponytail. I guessed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties and suspected her naturally blushed cheeks and dark lashes would bless her from having to wear makeup her entire life. Her body was trim but athletic, and knowing my Coast Guard friend Trevor, she could probably match him toe-to-toe paddleboarding, surfing or waterskiing. She had a warm, assuring smile that made me feel safe.

  “We’re going to go to the area above the Blue Cavern,” she explained as we boarded a very large elevator that could transport a shark. And from the odor inside, I imagined this happened often. “I’m running backup for the feeding show you saw going on for the kids, so I have to be on stand-by in case they need anything. I’ll examine the fish there,” she said, nodding to the Playmate cooler I was carrying.

  “Great. As I said on the phone, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m so grateful for any help we can get.”

  “No worries, I’m fine,” Shelly said as we disembarked. “Your dog is so good, I’m impressed.”

  “Ha!”

  This time Shelly responded by throwing an arm over Marisol’s shoulders and gently leading her into the space. When we entered, we could hear the commentator’s voice being piped in. Shelly worked a button and turned the sound down a bit.

  “We’ll stay up around the perimeter of the tank and behind the railing,” Shelly explained.

  We followed her to a built-in shelf along a back wall. It had a grate over the top of what I could now see was a basin for water and any fishy bits to drain. In the center of the room, water circul
ated in and out of the top of the Blue Cavern. We watched with fascination as curious fish swam up to the surface, looking for food, and then dove back down when they didn’t find any. Bardot’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “So, we have a mystery to solve? I understand. One of my favorite things to do. I remember back when we ran into a puzzle ourselves. We started noticing that some fish would go missing from one of our galleries. Gone without a trace, so we ruled out any predators in the same tank. We wondered if someone was stealing them to sell on the black market, so we set up a camera to film the display throughout the night. The next morning, when we reviewed the footage, we found the culprit.”

  “Was it aliens?” Marisol asked. The story was about spying, her favorite subject.

  “Close. It was an octopus from the neighboring tank. It would scale over the rim when it got dark and help itself to a seafood buffet. That’s why we now keep lids on all the octopus aquariums. Turns out, a lot of places were experiencing the same thing.”

  I watched Marisol mull this over and could just see her at the computer tonight, searching for mail-order six-armed cephalopods.

  “Let’s take a look at the specimen, shall we?”

  Shelly brought me back to the business at hand, and I opened the cooler. Marisol was quick to reach in and hand Shelly the fish, preserving the chain of custody in her mind, I assumed.

  Shelly turned on a flexible overhead light and bent it down close to the fish for examination. She donned some latex gloves and rinsed the fish in warm water to soften it a bit. Shelly used a pair of long-nosed tweezers to lift the gills and open the mouth. Each time she looked in a new place, Marisol gave out an uh-huh like this was exactly what she had expected. I gave her the evil eye behind Shelly’s back.

  “It’s a tilapia,” she finally said, removing her gloves. “I’m going to scan our database to see if I can narrow it down more. Based on the strength of its fins, this looks to be a warmer-water fish. Meaning it isn’t from the coast of California or even Mexico but someplace closer to the equator. Maybe Nicaragua? I’m seeing species that are close but none that are spot-on,” she said, scrolling through her computer pages. “That makes me wonder if this could be a freshwater specimen, and the only way to confirm that is through DNA testing.”