Rhythm & Clues

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Rhythm & Clues Page 8

by Sue Ann Jaffarian


  Shelita snorted. “At least that I do know.”

  As Shelita started for the front door, I saw movement down the hallway that led to the other bedrooms. It was Lorraine, poking her head out of her room and listening.

  Mom got up, and she and I walked Shelita to the front door. Just outside, she turned and faced Mom. “I don’t know if Odelia told you or not, Grace, but I think it’s best if you and my father stop spending so much time together. After your behavior last night, I just can’t allow it.”

  “Art and I are adults,” Mom said after squaring her narrow shoulders. “We will continue to spend time with whomever we wish, including each other.”

  Shelita and Mom stared at each other a long time, then Shelita said, her eyes narrowed and her jaw tight, “We’ll see about that.”

  If I hadn’t had such a firm grasp on the door, Mom would have slammed it in Shelita’s face. She certainly tried, but my grip was stronger so it stayed put. Shelita was worried about her father. I understood that completely. At some point in life, the tables turn and adult children start looking after the welfare of their aging parents as if the kids were the parents and mom and dad were the kids. Whether Mom liked it or not, I did it with her, and Greg keeps an eye on his parents, although Ronald and Renee Stevens never get into situations like my mother. They’re normal, and when they call for help, it’s for routine day-to-day stuff or advice like which contractor they should use to remodel the downstairs bathroom, not which lawyer can meet them at the police station in the middle of the night. If I were in Shelita’s shoes, I’m not sure I’d be wanting my father to hang around Grace Littlejohn either.

  After watching Shelita go down our walkway to her car, I shut the door and questioned Mom myself. “Are you sure Art wasn’t with you last night?”

  “He wasn’t,” said a voice behind us. It was Lorraine, who’d finally decided the coast was clear enough to come out. “It was just Grandma and me. I haven’t seen Art yet this trip.”

  I might not always trust my mother to not fudge the truth, but I didn’t have that same misgiving about Lorraine.

  “Okay, then,” I said, heading back to the kitchen to put away groceries. “I’m sure Art will turn up when he’s ready.”

  I took a package of steak out of one bag, then remembered my promise to Clark. Lorraine had followed me into the kitchen and was helping by unpacking the other bag. “Lorraine,” I said to her, “you need to call your mother. She talked to Elliot and is worried sick about you. She called your dad, who called me.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Lorraine answered. “She’s left me a million voicemails and texts. So has my father.”

  “Your dad called me,” I continued as I put the steak and the salmon I’d bought to go with it into the fridge, “and I told him you were here. He said he’d call your mother and let her know where you are, but you still need to call her yourself.”

  Mom had drifted in and taken a seat at the table, watching us. “Your father’s on his way here,” she announced.

  Lorraine froze. In her hand was a bottle of salad dressing. Fortunately, she didn’t drop it on my clean floor. “Dad’s coming here? Why?”

  “Because of what happened last night,” I told her. “You didn’t think he’d find out and not come running, did you?”

  She was quiet as she worked to empty the bag, placing items on the counter for me to stash in cupboards. “I don’t want to talk about Elliot. It’s over, and that’s that.”

  “Honey,” I said to her, “I’m sure your parents are very concerned about you and Elliot, but your father is mostly worried about what happened last night. He wants to make sure you’re just a witness and not a suspect.”

  Lorraine stared at me with the wide eyes of a tired raccoon. “I’m not a suspect, am I?” She started squeezing the loaf of bread in her hand. I rescued it before it became gummy pulp. “The police said I was free to go.”

  “Everyone’s a suspect until they catch the killer,” Mom stated in her usual blunt fashion.

  Lorraine turned to me. “Is that true?”

  I shut my eyes, then opened them to tell her the truth. “Yes, Lorraine, pretty much. But don’t worry,” I told her before she panicked, “your flight times give you a solid alibi. You were nowhere near here when Cydney Fox was killed, and the police would never have let you go if you were at the top of the suspects list.”

  I went to Lorraine’s side and slipped an arm around her shoulders. I didn’t know her sister very well, but Lorraine had visited several times after Mom relocated to Southern California. We were in contact quite often and had become friends.

  She turned and folded herself into my arms, looking for comfort. “Oh, Aunt Odelia, what am I going to do?” I smiled and gave her a tight hug. Clark’s daughters seldom referred to me as aunt since they hadn’t grown up with me in their lives. They were adults when Clark and I finally met. Greg’s two nephews, on the other hand, always called me Aunt Odelia, and Zee and Seth’s children grew up calling me Aunt Odie. In spite of the serious nature of the situation, my heart became as warm and gooey as a chocolate chip cookie upon hearing the words.

  I pulled slightly away from Lorraine. “What you’re going to do first is get more sleep,” I told her, “especially if you’re going to face your father later.”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, “I’m too jittery.”

  “Why don’t you take a bath in Odelia’s fancy tub?” Mom suggested. “That will help.”

  “Your grandmother’s right,” I told Lorraine. “Take a nice long soak in the whirlpool tub. There’s a bottle of lavender bath gel on the ledge to add to the water. You’ll be out like a light after.”

  After Lorraine left and I finished putting away the groceries, I sat down at the kitchen table with Mom. She had gone back to reading the information on the members of Acid Storm and now had her cell phone in her hand, punching numbers. “What’s up, Mom?”

  “I’m going to call some of the numbers for these guys and ask them about Boaz,” she told me.

  I took the phone from her hand and stopped the call mid-dial. “You heard the police; we’re not to do anything.”

  “What harm is there in making a few calls, Odelia?” she asked, snatching the phone back out of my hands. “It’s a free country, and Boaz is my friend.” She started dialing again. “I’m starting with this David Oxman guy since he’s known Boaz the longest and you’ve already called their manager.” She looked from the Marigold printout to her phone to confirm her fingers were hitting the right numbers. Done, she put the phone up to her ear.

  “At least,” I said to her, “put it on speaker so I can hear.”

  Mom did as I asked but added, “Let me do the talking.” I nodded, knowing I’d never be able to stop her.

  A man answered the phone. “Is this David Oxman?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?” asked a very gruff, thick voice.

  “My name’s Grace. I’m a neighbor of your friend Boaz Shankle-man,” Mom said into the phone.

  “Bo’s no friend of mine,” barked Oxman.

  “But you’re in that band together,” Mom countered.

  “That’s business, old lady. That’s all it is.”

  A cloud of stormy anger crossed Mom’s face. “What makes you think I’m an old lady?”

  “If you’re a neighbor of Bo’s, then you live in that old folks’ place.”

  I found this conversation amusing since Oxman had to be in his sixties, like Shankleman, and more than qualified to live at Seaside himself.

  Mom was about to say something snarky when I cut in. “Mr. Oxman, my name is Odelia Grey. Grace is my mother. She’s concerned because she hasn’t seen Mr. Shankleman in a few weeks. Do you happen to know where he is or might be?”

  There was a pause, then Oxman said, “Hopefully in hell.”

  “Do you know about the mu
rder yet?” Mom asked before I could shush her. I shot her a look that I hoped would stop her in her tracks, but it only garnered me a withering look in return.

  “What?” Mom said to me in a stage whisper. “It has to be on the news by now.” She had a point, but the police might not have released Shankleman’s name or the victim’s yet.

  “Murder?” Oxman asked, his voice going up in surprise. Clearly the police hadn’t reached him yet for questioning and he hadn’t seen any news reports.

  “A body was found in Boaz’s home last night,” my mother said, returning to the phone conversation and leaving out her part in the body’s discovery. “Some woman named Cydney Fox. So now I’m really worried about Boaz.”

  There was a very long pause on the other end.

  “Mr. Oxman?” I asked. “Are you still there?”

  The line went dead.

  “He knows something,” Mom said, looking at the phone in her hand. She turned her eyes to me. They were sharp and bright behind her Coke-bottle glasses.

  My Spidey sense was on alert too, but I tried to tamp it down so as not to feed Mom’s excitement. I didn’t know if Oxman actually knew something about Fox’s murder, but his animosity toward Shankleman and his abrupt departure following the news about Fox had me more than just a little curious.

  Mom started punching numbers into her phone again. “Now who are you calling?” I asked her.

  “That Tuttle kid. The other member of the band.”

  We sat at the table and listened as the call went straight to voicemail. Mom tried again, and again the call was picked up immediately by voicemail.

  “What do you want to bet that Oxman’s talking to Simon Tuttle right now?” Mom said. “Could be a conspiracy.” She tried calling Oxman again. “It went straight to voicemail,” she reported. “See? A conspiracy.”

  I got up and went to the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. “I doubt that, Mom. They are probably just talking. Titan West said Cydney Fox was now the band’s manager. If that’s true, one band member telling another about her murder wouldn’t be that odd.” But even as I said it, my stomach pinched, telling me that it thought there was something else afoot.

  Mom got up from the table and disappeared down the hallway. By the time I’d polished off the water, she’d returned with her purse. After straightening the papers on the table into a neat pile, she picked them up and headed for the back door.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I want to talk to that Oxman guy.” She shook the stack of printouts at me. “It says here he lives in Costa Mesa. That’s just down the road.”

  Nothing in Southern California is just down the road. Costa Mesa was fifteen to twenty miles away, depending on which part of it you were talking about, and whether you took the freeway, which added miles but could save time if it wasn’t jammed up, or took Pacific Coast Highway, which ran along the coastline. PCH was shorter but could have backed up traffic, especially in August, and only served the westernmost part of Costa Mesa. Before I married Greg, I had a condo in Newport Beach almost where it bordered Costa Mesa. The T&T office where I worked was in Santa Ana, almost where Costa Mesa, Newport Beach, and Santa Ana came together. I knew the way well.

  “Mom, let the police do their job.” Even as I said it, I was itching to go with her. Based on the vibes Oxman gave off, I knew there was more to the story, even if not connected to the murder. I’m usually not given to reading and listening to juicy tabloid gossip, but this was about a band I adored in my college days. The pull on my interest was strong and insistent, like a powerful magnet.

  When she was halfway out the door, I said, “You’re not going alone, and Lorraine needs her rest.”

  Mom turned, the door half open, letting out all the cool air. If Greg was here, he’d be barking about all the money flying out the door. “Lorraine is thirty years old,” Mom reminded me, “and she’s tired, not sick. I checked on her when I got my purse. She’s soaking away in your tub, happy as a clam at high tide.” She paused. “I’m going, Odelia, with or without you.”

  As tired as I was, my need to know more about this puzzle won out. I also knew my mother would probably get into less trouble with me there. She was the one who needed the babysitter, not Lorraine, and I could hardly put my mother in a straitjacket to keep her here. Knowing her, she’d slap elder abuse charges on me if I tried. “Close the door and hold your horses,” I said to Mom. “Let me tell Lorraine that we’re going out for a little while.”

  As Mom had said, Lorraine was soaking away in our whirlpool tub, fragrant bubbles up to her neck. She had earbuds firmly tucked in place, and her eyes were closed. It took me saying her name twice to get her attention. “Lorraine, Grandma and I are going out for a bit. Will you be okay?” In response, she gave me a dreamy smile and a thumbs up.

  “If you get hungry, help yourself to anything you find,” I added. In response, I got two soapy thumbs up.

  eleven

  From the address on the Marigold report, I knew that Oxman lived in the part of Costa Mesa farthest from the ocean and not far from my office. I plugged the address into my car’s GPS. Along the way, I noticed Mom playing with her phone.

  “You trying Art again?” I asked her.

  “Yes, and I texted him. He’s not much for texting, but he will use it from time to time.”

  I glanced over at her. “So what was it you didn’t tell Shelita?”

  Mom didn’t look up at me. “I told her everything, smarty pants.”

  Mom only called me that when I hit a bull’s-eye. “I’m betting you didn’t,” I pressed, my eyes back on the road. “I know that Art likes to take road trips, but I also sense that there’s something else.” I made a safe lane change before adding, “Why are you so worried about contacting him?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Yes, you can, Mom. I won’t tell Shelita.”

  Mom took several deep breaths before deciding to give in. “Art has a lady friend in San Diego. Her name is Tess—Tess Kincaid. That’s why he goes down there so often.”

  I let out a short, sharp gasp of surprise.

  Mom looked at me, pleased as punch with herself for catching me off-guard. “You’ve always thought Art and I were fooling around, didn’t you?” She crossed her arms in front of her and looked out the windshield. “Art and I are just friends—best friends actually. He just didn’t want his family to know about Tess because they get so weird whenever he has a girlfriend.” She glanced at me. “Art really likes this Tess. I’ve met her a few times and think she’s a doll. She’s smart, fun, and attractive. She’s been divorced a number of years and has grandchildren. Art and I let people believe that he and I are involved to keep his family off the scent. They’ve sabotaged a few of his other relationships.”

  “If you’ve met her, then Tess has come up here?”

  “A few times,” Mom replied, “and then she parked at my place and pretended to be visiting me. You know how nosy that Mona is about Art. We think she even has a few of the guards watching him. She’s the one who squealed to Shelita before about Art having lady friends.”

  I shook my head, astounded at both the subterfuge of Mom and Art and the stupidity of Shelita at not letting Art live his own life. It made me wonder if she was this overprotective of her kids when they were growing up.

  “So you’re trying to reach him to let him know his family is trying to reach him?” I asked.

  “Well, that, and I’m worried about him myself.” Mom glanced at her phone, checking for a return text. “You see, Art always tells me when he’s going to see Tess, just like I always tell him when I’m taking one of those casino busses or spending the night at your place. But he didn’t say a word yesterday about going anywhere.”

  “Maybe,” I suggested, “it’s just like you told Shelita. Maybe he decided at the last minute that he needed to get away
from all the hubbub at Seaside and forgot to charge his phone? That’s why he couldn’t tell you.”

  Following the snarky instructions called out to me by my GPS, I took a ramp off the freeway and started traveling surface streets. We were very close to our destination.

  “Maybe,” Mom agreed, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Mom, Shelita went to Art’s place. He wasn’t there, and his car is gone. He must have simply taken one of his road trips. If you have Tess’s number, why don’t you give her a call?”

  “I do have it, but I don’t want to bother them if he’s there, and if he’s not, Tess might get to worrying.”

  I shot a look at her. “If I were worried about your whereabouts and you were somewhere reachable, I’d want Art to track you down and let you know to call me.”

  For a change, something I said got through to her. She placed the call to Tess. It was answered quickly. “Hi, Tess,” Mom began, “this is Grace Littlejohn. Is Art with you?”

  “Put it on speaker,” I told her.

  She did as I asked just as a pleasant, mature voice answered, “No, Grace. I haven’t heard from Art since Sunday night. What’s going on?”

  “His daughter is worried. Art and his car are both gone, and I thought maybe he went to visit you. He’s not answering his cell phone, but you know how he forgets to charge it.”

  Tess laughed softly. “That I do, but I’m not home this week. I’m taking care of my grandchildren while my son and his wife get away for a few days. Art is probably on one of his drives. You know what a driving enthusiast that man is.”

  “Well, if you do hear from him,” Mom said into the phone, “have him get in touch with his daughter, and have him call me so I know he’s okay. I’m staying with my daughter for a few days, so I’m not home either.”

  After Tess promised to pass along the message to Art should he contact her and the call ended, Mom looked over at me, worry beaming through her glasses like spotlights. “I don’t like this, Odelia.”

 

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