The Name of the Rosé

by Christine E. Blum

  “You really should consider a post with the CIA, Halsey,” Peggy whispered.

  “Whew, that was close.” Aimee fanned her increasingly crimson cheeks. “Okay, so she told me that she had a one-night stand with Rusty. He’d been at the bar all night, and she was in charge of closing up. One thing led to another. She said that now she’s having trouble keeping him away, and she has no interest in him. I suggested she tell somebody in case he got aggressive, but she shook her head. She doesn’t want to cause any trouble because she’s new here. She told me she could take care of herself but didn’t elaborate. Do you think she can? Do guys think we should do something?”

  Sally, Peggy, and I shared a look.

  “We’re going to do something, Aimee, but not just yet. I promise you, though, the pieces to this puzzle are really falling into place.”

  As we walked to our cars, I noticed the geek’s bulldog had been given a bowl of water.

  * * *

  When I returned home, I found Jack and Bardot playing in the pool. His giant schnauzer, Clarence, sat regally by the edge of the pool, but I could tell that as soon as Jack gave the nod, he’d be in as well. Jack could never take a break from training his dog.

  “Hi honey, get on in. The water’s great.” He gave a short whistle, and Clarence pranced down the steps and into the water.

  “Looks like you guys are having a blast.” I laughed. “I’ll be in soon. I’ve got some thinking to do. Jack, if I wanted to find out if someone had a pilot’s license, how would I go about doing that?”

  He thought about that for a bit.

  “There are a bunch of private directories I have access to, but actually, the FAA database should have what you need, and it’s public. You can do searches from the Airmen Inquiry section. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I just thought it might be a good idea to know who among our suspects has a valid pilot’s license. Maybe then we could do some kind of reverse lookup to trace one of them to the Pietenpol.”

  Jack swam over to the pool’s edge, poised to get out.

  “No honey, you relax and swim for a while in the warm water. You’ve been up for almost two days straight and you deserve a break.”

  He grinned like a kid who had been told he could finally go back in the pool after eating. Bardot was equally delighted to have her playmate back. I had one happy family.

  In my office, I hopped onto my computer and navigated my way to the page I needed on the FAA’s site. It displayed some basic search option fields, and the only one that was required was last name. I typed in Jack’s info, just to test the system. Seconds later, it returned his credentials; address, medical information and a list and details of his certificates, including the dates they were issued.

  Perfect, except for one little thing: I didn’t know Britt’s, Jonas’s, Rusty’s or Chloe’s last names.

  I next entered the name Oscar Sandoval and got three results, none of which looked like our Nicaraguan guy. No surprise there.

  “Jack? What’s Rusty’s last name?” I shouted out to the pool.

  “Mueller,” he replied, his voice sounding nearby. I turned, and he was behind me, semidry, with a towel around his waist. Before I could say anything, he moved in for a warm, lingering kiss.

  So cute, a girl could become distracted . . .

  “Pull up a chair,” I said, knowing where this was headed and wanting/not wanting to get back to my research. I typed in Rusty’s last name.

  “Nothing. Rats.”

  “Did you spell it with an e? As in ‘M-u-e-l-l-e-r’?”

  “Ah, that did the trick. And here’s one from California. That must be him.”

  Jack scanned the data and nodded his head.

  “How about Jonas’s last name? Do you know his?”

  “No clue. I don’t suppose you want to ask Augie?”

  “I’d rather have root canal while giving birth. I’m calling Sally.”

  She picked up right away but had to ask Jimmy.

  “Peters,” she said when she returned.

  “What’s the origin of that name?”

  “German? Austrian? I can check.”

  “Thanks, Sally. What about Britt? Do we know hers?”

  “No clue, but Aimee might. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m checking pilot’s licenses for these guys, I thought it might help us tie up the last loose ends. I don’t suppose you have Chloe’s?”

  “No way, but Peggy must have it, with her guys doing espionage for her.”

  “That’s a strong word, Sally, but absolutely the right one. More later,” I said and hung up.

  A search for Jonas returned nothing, but Jack grabbed a laptop and consulted his secured directories.

  Peggy didn’t pick up, so I texted her. Same with Aimee.

  “Now that’s interesting,” I heard Jack say after a couple of minutes.

  “Interesting as in a lead? Because that’s the kind of interesting we need.”

  “Then yes. I decided on a whim to check an international directory and I got a record for the name Jonas Peters.”

  “You sure that’s the same Jonas? Remember, Rusty said Jonas was chomping at the bit to get his license, dying to get into the air.”

  “That was maybe for a domestic one.”

  “How can you be so sure this is our guy?” I peeked over Jack’s massive shoulder.

  “I’m not, but you keep telling me that I shouldn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “You shouldn’t. So?”

  “So, this Jonas Peters has a license to fly in Nicaragua.”

  For that bit of good news, I took Jack’s hand and pulled him outside, where I jumped up, wrapped my legs around his waist and gave him a big kiss. Bardot barked with glee, Jack gave me a questioning look and I nodded okay. I lowered myself down.

  “On three,” he said. “One—”

  I couldn’t wait and jumped in the pool, clothes and all.

  CHAPTER 17

  Believe it or not, sometimes bouncing thoughts off Marisol inspires me. I know that’s about as hard to grasp as why you never see any baby pigeons, but all the same, I thought I’d give it a try.

  Jack had gone home to crash, so I went around the block to our local convenience store and bought her a couple of ice-cold Yoo-hoos. Chocolate, of course, I refuse to indulge in her perverse craving for strawberry.

  “Care for a nightcap?” I asked from the driveway side of her fence. I’d heard Marisol shuffling around back there, probably setting more finely tuned surveillance devices to point at my house.

  “Haven’t you had enough to drink today, Halsey?”

  “It’s not for me, it’s for you. Or should I say Yoo-hoo?”

  “You can come in, I guess.”

  I reached over the top of the gate and undid the latch. She was already dressed for bed in a long nightgown, fuzzy pink robe and thick Christmas-themed socks. She was taking dried laundry off the line that ran horizontally across her yard. Marisol owns a dryer, but as she says, As long as there’s sun in the sky, I’m not using any damn machine. I pointed out that there are also rivers and rocks, but she seemed to think the same didn’t apply to her washing machine.

  Marisol is somewhere between eighty-seven and one hundred and seven, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She scampers around wherever she needs to go, she is always learning new things, some devious, and is devoted to her family. I noticed she was taking in some of her daughter Terry’s exercise clothes, even though she is perfectly capable of doing her own laundry at the age of forty-two.

  She grabbed both drinks out of my hand, and we sat down on two patio chairs. They were the metal kind from the fifties that bounce if you swing yourself back and forth on their tube base, but these weren’t some retro knockoffs. These were the real thing.

  Of course, she had to bounce as she drank.

  “Marisol, I wanted to pick your brain on this whole airport mess and murder.”

  “What’s the matter
with your brain? Is it embalmed already?”

  “Very funny. You have a way sometimes of seeing things from your own twisted view, which is just what I think this case needs.”

  “Of course it is. What do you want to know?”

  This was no time to pull punches, so I told Marisol everything I knew, including Jonas and Britt’s sordid affair.

  “So sweet, young Jonas is a big, fat liar. A lot of guys are, especially if they’re trying to get into a girl’s pantaloons.”

  “But wouldn’t showing he actually has a pilot’s license be more impressive?”

  “He must have wanted to keep a low profile, to hide what he was really doing at the airport.”

  “Which is what, Marisol?

  “The stuff in that kid’s apartment didn’t look like it came from a dumpster dive. That had to cost money. Sure, the building was crap; that’s what he wanted people to see. I asked the super and he said Jonas never had visitors.”

  “You think he was secretly making beaucoup bucks from the drug deals?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Rusty. His mama told me again that she had to loan him money. Same old story. The people at the bottom do all the work while the bosses get the rewards.”

  I thought about that for a moment.

  “Do you think Rusty was actually working for Jonas?”

  “Glad to see your brain isn’t entirely shot.”

  “That would mean Jonas was the one with ties to the San Diego airport.”

  I got my phone out to call Peggy, but before I could dial, I got a text from her.

  Hi. Chloe’s last name is Bird. I know, it sounds cuckoo!

  “You ever hear of a person named Chloe Bird?” I asked Marisol.

  “Sounds like a stripper’s name, and those days are long gone for me.”

  For a moment, I just stared at her, and she grinned back.

  “She works at that restaurant in San Diego and her boyfriend is probably smuggling drugs from there to the Santa Monica airport. If you’re right about Jonas, I now have to link him to this Chloe Bird.”

  “Of course I’m right. You got another Yoo-hoo? If not, I’m going to bed.”

  * * *

  Like clockwork, as I was blearily sipping my morning tea, I saw Sally barreling up Rose Avenue on her morning workout. She’ll complete five thousand steps before I’ve even brushed my teeth. From the window in my breakfast nook, I saw her stop in front of my house.

  I opened the window and stuck my head out.

  “You can’t be tired already.”

  “I’m not. I was trying to decide if you were up.”

  “I’m up. Come in and I’ll fix you a nice cup of tea. You can jog in place if you need to keep up with your step count.”

  “Ah,” Sally said, sipping her glorious brewed elixir. “How nice, and I don’t even mind cutting my exercise short. This is the only time of the day I have to myself.”

  “Really? How come?”

  “The boys are on their own for breakfast, which generally means they eat cereal. God forbid they should attempt to put a slice of bread into the toaster. Then, if Joe is home, he gets his allergy shot around noon. He really is suffering right now. I don’t know if it’s because of the time of year or if he’s just so agitated by the police hanging around outside and watching the house. Joe’s new favorite activity is turning on the sprinklers when the cops step out of their car to stretch their legs.”

  “That’s a total Marisol move.” I laughed. “Then I suppose you start thinking about dinner. Isn’t Jimmy borderline diabetic?”

  “Yes, and so I have him on a special diet. What he does when he’s working at the museum is his choice, but when I feed him, he’s going to eat right.”

  “Amen, sister!” I thought for a moment. “That’s a lot of responsibility on your shoulders, Sally, even when you aren’t facing possible prison time for yourself or your family. You do it so effortlessly, I don’t think I realized how much pressure you have to deal with. I’m going to make it my personal mission to whisk you away on fun adventures as often as you’ll let me.”

  “I love it! And no time like the present. Get dressed; we’re going shopping!”

  * * *

  “Guess who has a pilot’s license?” I asked Sally as she drove.

  We were headed to IKEA, where she needed to pick up new armchair covers and “while I’m at it,” she told me, more wineglasses. It sounded like a fine way to spend a morning, and I could already taste the meatballs with lingonberry sauce I planned to devour for lunch.

  “Marisol?”

  “Ha! She might, but I meant Jonas.”

  “A student license; we knew that.”

  “No, Sally, a full-on, legit license.”

  She looked at me with raised eyebrows and I brought her up to speed.

  “Wow, that’s making my head spin.”

  “Don’t do that while you’re driving.” I chuckled. “But it gets more interesting. His license is international and was issued in Nicaragua.”

  “Is there smoke coming out of my ears, ’cause my brain’s on fire!”

  That elicited a full laugh from me. It was so nice to see Sally back to her silly, sarcastic, jolly self.

  “Guess who else?” I wasn’t done blowing her mind.

  “I give up.”

  “Chloe Bird.”

  “Who the sand dabs from Chez Jay’s is Chloe Bird?”

  “Our waitress from Casa Machado in San Diego.”

  “That’s her name? I wouldn’t have remembered, I was so upset at the time with Jimmy’s fate. So? That doesn’t seem like a big deal. She works at an airport, after all.”

  “It isn’t, except for the fact that it makes her another suspect who can fly.”

  “How many do we have now?”

  “Rusty, Jonas, presumably Oscar Sandoval and his girlfriend, Chloe Bird.”

  “And you think they’re all connected?”

  “It’s looking more and more that way.”

  “Are we missing anyone else?”

  “Just Britt, I asked Aimee if she could get her last name.”

  We pulled into the parking lot of the huge blue and yellow emporium of all things modern and reasonably priced. I remembered my first trip to an IKEA years ago, and the feeling I might never find my way out. It wasn’t such a bad thing because I felt like I was in a kind of Disneyland for first-time homeowners and singles finally able to ditch the beanbag chairs. Sally apparently knew her way around this store. She dragged me to the escalators, and when we reached the top entrance, she dragged me again.

  “Come with me. I know a way to cut through all these room settings and get to where we want to go.”

  “You mean the cafeteria?”

  “Not quite yet, silly. We need to stop at the stemware, fabrics, doodads and thingamajigs section first.”

  “Fine by me. I haven’t had a good Swedish doodad in a while.”

  “Halsey! There are children here.”

  “What? It’s true.”

  We cut through a denim blue-and-white living room, and it was everything I could do to keep up with Sally. That sofa and chaise with all the soft pillows was calling my name, and I wondered if the cafeteria delivered.

  Sally brought us to an elevator in the back corner and we waited to board the oversize cage that could accommodate at least two shopping carts as well as people. Just as the doors opened, my cell phone rang. My current ringtone is that of a breathy woman’s voice saying, If it’s not one thing it’s another —over and over. People laughed at first and then less, so I quickly answered.

  “Hi Aimee! Sally and I are at IKEA picking up a few things.”

  “Oh, wow, I was just there. Can you be a dear and get me two more packages of the dish towels I love so much? They fit in great at the Chill Out.”

  “Sure. Do they have a name?”

  “Lemme look; I’ll be right back. Yes, they’re called, geez, I’ll never be able to pronounce this. I’ll spell it for you. S-o—”
<
br />   “Hang on. I need a pen.”

  At that, three people on the elevator offered me an IKEA pencil. When I looked around again, I was handed an order slip to write on.

  “Okay, go.”

  “S-o-m-m-a-r-g-l-i-m. They’re real cute. You should get some for yourself.”

  “I just might. Is that why you called?”

  “How would I have known you were at IKEA? No, that’s not why I called, but I’m glad I did. I got your text and Britt’s last name is Fagel. F-a-g-e-l.”

  I wrote that down on the same slip.

  “Great. Thanks, Aimee. I’ll bring your towels over as soon as we get back.”

  I gave a nod of gratitude to all my administrative assistants.

  “That’s a funny name,” Sally said, glancing at the slip after we disembarked on a lower floor.

  “You want funny? They have a wardrobe named Dombås.”

  “No, I meant Britt’s last name—not one you hear every day.”

  We separated for a bit to browse the floor. I was dying to put the name Britt Fagel into the FAA’s database, but it would have to wait until I got home to my computer. I would have preferred to go back upstairs to one of the bedroom settings and think all this through—maybe grab the Måla easel and paper on the way to take notes. But I knew that wouldn’t fly, so I just ambled around the kids’ toy area. My phone rang again and this time it was Peggy.

  “Hi!”

  I decided not to let on that we were at IKEA; I could only imagine what she would have wanted us to get for her, and I was now anxious to get back to Rose Avenue.

  “Hi back, Halsey. I’ve got some news for you, such as it is.”

  “Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound very promising.”

  “Remember what I told you, every bit of information has the capability of blowing this thing wide open when looked at it from all angles?”

  “Right.”

  “I talked to the guys who’ve been looking into our friend Oscar Sandoval in San Diego. They came up empty. No driver’s license, no bank accounts, no visas. In fact, there’s no record of him ever entering the country.”

  “How is that possible? He owns a nightclub. He had to have leased the space and he’s got to pay utilities. I guess he could pay his employees in cash.”

  I was sitting on a children’s plastic blue stool at a matching mini dining table. I’d pushed the colorful plastic place settings and cups to one end so I could take notes on my order slip.