Too Big to Die

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Ben glanced at it. “Yes, that’s in Beverly Hills,” he said. “We remodeled both the pool house and guest house about two years ago. I understand that they’ve since sold the property.”

  I turned and looked at the young man, who seemed unfazed by what Zee had uncovered. “Did Burt work on that project?”

  Ben looked at the photo, his brows knit together. “He probably did. He’s been a part of our regular crew for several years now.”

  “So he and Marla Kingston knew each other?” asked Zee. I had to hand it to her, she was good at this. “Did you tell the police that?”

  Ben ran a hand down the side of his face and cupped his chin while he considered the question. “No, I didn’t. I’d forgotten about this job.” He brought his hand down and studied the photo. “But I doubt Burt and Mrs. Kingston ever had any contact. Usually with properties of this size and stature, we deal with the architect and a staff member, like the property manager. We seldom deal directly with the owner. They are usually travelling or staying at one of their other homes while we work on the job. And even if an owner did interact with us directly, it would mostly likely have been with my father or me.”

  That made sense to me. I couldn’t see Marla or Kingston themselves running out to the pool house to check on drywall, especially Marla.

  “Did you work this project?” I asked.

  He studied the photos again, then shook his head. “No, at least not until the end. As I recall, I was overseeing the finishing up on another one. I think it was a place in Malibu—a smaller job. My dad is very hands-on when it comes to these bigger clients.”

  I held out my hand to Ben Church. “Thank you for your time, Ben. I appreciate it.” After we shook, he and Zee shook hands.

  Before leaving, I dug into my purse and produced my T&T business card. Before I left this morning, on the back of a couple cards I had jotted down my cell number in case I needed to leave my contact information with anyone today. Just before handing it to Ben, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned just in time to see Donna press herself up against the wall just inside the door by her desk. I held out the card to Ben.

  “If you think of anything that might help us figure out why Burt landed on my husband’s doorstep yesterday, please contact me.”

  Ben took the card and nodded.

  thirteen

  As soon as we were in the car, Zee asked, “Did you see that woman skulking around, eavesdropping?”

  “You caught that too, huh?” The car was an oven. With the driver’s door open, I turned on the engine and set the AC on full blast to try to force some of the hot air out. “I wonder what her story is? Or if she’s just nosy? I would love to have talked to her, but it seemed like an imposition at that moment. She wasn’t exactly friendly. Maybe I can call her later.”

  “Ben Church seems like a nice young man,” Zee said. “Do you think he’s right, that Marla Kingston and Burt Sandoval probably never met during that job?”

  “He did seem nice, also genuine,” I said. “Not bad on the eyes either.”

  Next to me, Zee huffed at my comment. “Odelia! He’s just a few years older than my Jacob.”

  “Well,” I said with a chuckle, “I don’t have a son, and Ben Church is a bona fide looker.” I shut the driver’s door. In the few minutes in the car, I could already feel sweat forming on my forehead and the heat baking my body like a doughy dinner roll. “I may be old and married, but I’m not dead.” I punched the address for the next stop, the one in Westminster, into my GPS.

  After checking traffic, I pulled away from the curb and thought about Zee’s question. “But I do think it’s possible that Marla and Burt never met at that remodel job. Marla didn’t seem to recognize Burt on Saturday.” I paused as something from my memory emerged from the muck. “Then again,” I began and drifted off, leaving the thought incomplete as I merged into traffic, following the instructions from the GPS to get back onto the 405 Freeway.

  “Then again what?” asked Zee, who’d turned in her seat to look at me.

  “I was just thinking about something Marla said in the parking lot. It was right after she came screaming up to her car.” Zee waiting patiently while I pieced together my memories of that moment into a whole thought. “When she came up to the car,” I continued, “she immediately pointed at Burt and asked him if he’d broken her window.”

  “Did she call him by name?” Zee asked.

  I shook my head as I came to a stop at a red light. “Not that I recall. I dismissed it as racial profiling. Here was a white man in a wheelchair, a middle-aged white woman, and a bulky Latino with tattoos, but she immediately zeroed in on the Latino and accused him of the damage.” I turned toward Zee. “Is it horrible that I jumped to that conclusion about Marla?”

  Zee lowered her sunglasses so that I got the full effect of her laser- hot eyes. “I’m a black woman living in Orange County, Odelia. Did you really need to ask me that? Women like her always make those ignorant assumptions.” She pushed her glasses back up. “Remember just a few years ago when we were at that day spa in Newport Beach?”

  I smiled tightly. “I remember. We were sitting in the lounge in the women’s section waiting for our facial appointments.”

  “Yep, and some ditz very much like Marla Kingston breezed in and mistook me for one of the spa’s staff, even though I was wearing a robe.” Zee huffed and puffed. “She asked me to get her some extra towels. And when I refused, she informed me I was definitely not getting a tip and complained to management.” Zee crossed her arms across her chest, clearly still angry by the memory. I was there. It wasn’t pretty, and, I confess, such things never happen to me. I’ve been treated poorly because of my size but never for my pasty complexion.

  “Yes, but look on the bright side,” I said, tossing her a grin, hoping to calm the waters. “The spa manager was so mortified by that woman’s behavior, she comped both of our facials and threw in pedicures.”

  “Humph,” came from my passenger’s seat.

  When the light turned green, I moved through the intersection. “For argument’s sake,” I said, moving on with my thoughts, “let’s say Marla wasn’t profiling Burt and she did recognize him from the job. It still wouldn’t explain why they were both there and why she jumped to the conclusion that he might have been the one to break into her car. After all, the job Church Construction did for the Kingstons was two years ago.”

  “I agree,” Zee said as she unfolded her arms and relaxed. “Unless Burt and Marla had an ongoing relationship over the past two years, I think it’s unlikely she’d remember him.”

  “Unless,” I added, “they’d had a run-in of some kind when he was working the job.”

  “True,” Zee agreed, “then she might remember him, but if they did have a run-in, she would be the type to report it to the company, and I’d think Ben Church would have remembered that.”

  “Excellent point,” I agreed. I glanced at Zee. “You’re pretty good at this detective stuff. Who knew?” I laughed.

  “Please, Odelia,” Zee said with a little laugh of her own. “I raised two kids. I’m an expert at interrogation and getting to the bottom of things.”

  We rode along in silence for a bit. Just before getting onto the freeway’s on-ramp, Zee said, “I think we’re heading down the wrong path here, Odelia.”

  “No,” I told her, “this is the way back south to Westminster. Even without the GPS, I’m sure of it.”

  “No, not the way back to Orange County. I think we’re taking the wrong tack with Burt and Marla.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Instead of asking why Burt was in that parking lot on Saturday, maybe we should be asking why Marla Kingston was there. Burt lives in Torrance. It wouldn’t be that out of his way to be at a grocery store in Long Beach. But if memory serves me, the Kingstons’ primary residence is in Newport Coast, and
I’ll bet they also have a home in either Beverly Hills or Bel Air. Long Beach is about mid-way between both of those properties.”

  “So she could have taken a potty break on her way to one or the other,” I suggested, “or stopped to buy some water or tea or something.”

  “True,” Zee said. “Did you see her with anything in her hands?”

  I thought about that. “No, I didn’t. She just had her purse. So maybe it was a potty break.” I studied the road and checked out the map on my GPS. Slowly I began moving to the right and exited the freeway.

  “Where are we going?” Zee asked.

  “To the scene of the crime,” I told her. “It’s not too far from here.”

  For once I was happy that the 405 was running slow. If not, we would have been long past the turnoff we needed to get to the shopping plaza. As it was, I was able to exit the freeway and maneuver on city streets to get to the little shopping plaza I knew well.

  At the rate we were going, we may never get to check out both Jordon Wests today, but I was following my nose and my nose was saying Zee was right. What was Marla Kingston doing at the shopping plaza nowhere near one of her homes? Not that there is a law against it, but I would think that most high-end shoppers would not end up in Long Beach at a shopping plaza that served the neighborhood.

  The plaza that held the grocery store was set up in an L-pattern with a huge parking lot in the middle. The grocery store anchored the longest side. On the short side was a drugstore belonging to a national chain, and between them were various small businesses. I parked my car in the parking spot in front of the grocery store next to the spot where Marla’s car had been on Saturday. The actual spot was currently occupied by an old white Toyota.

  Leaving the ignition on for the AC, I looked around at the shops between the two anchor stores and spotted a nail shop and a greeting card store on the short side. On the long side was a pizza place, a clothing boutique, and a dog groomer. In the elbow, a chain coffee shop was wedged between the nail shop and the dog groomer, joining the two sides of the plaza. A few small tables and chairs were out in front of the coffee shop.

  “It makes sense,” I said to Zee, “that Marla may have felt it would be okay to leave her dog in the car if it was just for a quick in-and-out. It’s not right by any means, but it makes sense. It doesn’t take long for an animal or small child to become distressed in a vehicle in extremely hot weather.”

  Zee was also checking out the stores. “Maybe she went into that Starbucks to use the bathroom or to buy a drink.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “Marla had parked her car here,” I said, pointing to the spot on my left. “She wasn’t carrying a drink when she returned to her car. And if she was going to go to Starbucks, especially on a hot day, she would have parked closer, don’t you think? She was wearing ridiculously high sandals.”

  “Unless she needed to go to the grocery store too,” Zee suggested. “Or maybe she used the restroom in the grocery store?”

  I replayed the scene of Marla screaming and tottering up to her car in my head. “I don’t think she was coming from the grocery store.”

  On my phone I opened up the Google app, clicked on the images tab, and searched for an image of Marla Kingston. After picking one that was a fairly current headshot, I saved it to my phone.

  “What are you doing?” asked Zee.

  “Saving a photo of Marla to show to some of the shop people.”

  “Great idea, Columbo,” Zee said with a grin.

  I shook my head and grinned. “Columbo didn’t have a cell phone. But think how much more he could have done with one?”

  I turned off the ignition and reluctantly got out of my cool car. Zee climbed out of the passenger’s side and joined me by the rear of the car next to mine.

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said, pointing off to the left of the market, “that Marla came from the left of the store, from one of those shops. “We were standing about here, and she was screaming long before she reached us, so we all turned to see what the ruckus was about.”

  “That meant she had to be inside one of those places when the dog was being rescued,” Zee said, shielding her eyes with a hand above her sunglasses. “If she’d been outside, she would have noticed people standing by her car long before the glass was shattered. We’re not that far from the front of the market.”

  “Exactly,” I confirmed. “So that leaves the pizza place, the boutique, and the groomer. She couldn’t have been at the groomer because she would have taken Maurice with her. And I doubt Marla is into greasy pizza.”

  “You never know,” Zee said, looking at me. “With that misogynist husband of hers, maybe she sneaks in some of her favorite foods at out-of-the-way places so he doesn’t rag on her about getting fat. You’ve heard some of the things he’s said about women.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a possibility.” I started walking toward the line of shops. “Let’s start with the boutique. I think that’s our best chance.”

  The clothing boutique was called Kelly’s Fashion Corner. In all the years I’d been shopping at the nearby supermarket, I’d never noticed it. As soon as we entered, a light bell sounded. The shop was crowded, with racks of clothing against walls painted a soft blue-green and with several round racks down the middle, and it was blissfully cool inside. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and started looking around, Zee on my heels. Besides nicely displayed clothing, there were shelves and tall narrow rotating racks displaying various accessories. Everything was cute and well-presented and moderate in both price and quality—definitely not the sort of place Marla Kingston would shop. Near the back was a small glass display case, behind which a pleasantly plump woman was bent rearranging jewelry in the case.

  “Be with you in a sec,” she said in a cheerful voice without looking up.

  A few seconds later, satisfied with the positioning of several bracelets and necklaces, she looked up and greeted us with a smile. “Hello, ladies. Can I help you find something?” She was mid to late forties with light brown hair cut into a chin-length bob. Her face was round and friendly, her cheeks two dots of rosy blush the same color as her lipstick. Around her neck glasses hung from a sparkly chain of multicolored stones.

  “I hope you can help us,” I answered back with my friendliest voice. “Were you working this past Saturday?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” she answered. “I’m Kelly, the owner. I’m here every day but Sunday, 10 to 6, except I close on Saturday around 4.”

  I produced my phone and showed her the photo of Marla. “Was this woman in here this past Saturday?”

  Kelly slipped her glasses onto her face and examined the photo. “Humph,” she said once she’d removed her glasses. “Hard to forget a piece of work like that.”

  “Was she in here?” I asked again. “Around noon or so?”

  “Oh yes, she was here about that time,” Kelly said. “I remember because I usually grab a quick bite to eat between 11:15 and 11:45. I don’t have any employees, so if it’s quiet, I eat in the back with my feet up and listen for the front doorbell. I get a lot of customers from those large office buildings across the street, so I like to be free from about noon until 2 during the week. If it’s very busy, I wait and eat later. Saturdays can be dead or very busy; hard to tell.” She tapped my phone, which I still held out between us. “This one came in just before 11:30.”

  “Are you sure?” Zee asked.

  “Positive,” Kelly replied. “It was very slow this past Saturday. It usually is on very hot days.”

  “Did she buy anything?” I asked, thinking maybe Marla made a small purchase that would fit into her handbag.

  “Nope,” Kelly said. “She roamed the store, pulling out this and that, but I don’t think she was really interested. When I asked if I could help, she waved me away like I was a servant.” Kelly paused. “Frankly, I think she was
waiting for someone and ducked in here to keep cool.”

  “Why do you say that?” Zee asked.

  “Because she kept glancing out the front window,” Kelly explained. “She’d wander around, pick something up, then saunter to the window and look out, like I was too stupid to notice.”

  “Do you know who she is?” I asked, showing her the photo again.

  “I sure do,” Kelly answered with an uptick to her tone. “She’s that annoying Marla Sinclair from that tacky TV show. The one who married that creep Kelton Kingston. I watched that show a few times before I got tired of their snotty attitude toward us common folks.” Kelly studied me. “Hey, didn’t I see you on the news? Aren’t you one of the people who rescued that poor dog of hers?”

  I nodded. “Actually, it was my husband who smashed her car window.”

  “Well, your husband deserves a medal, in my opinion,” Kelly said with authority. “Who in their right mind leaves a poor animal in a car in heat like this?” She shook her head. “If she’d brought it in here, I’d have understood.”

  “Did she ever make contact with anyone while she was in here?” I asked. “Or place a call or anything like that?”

  Kelly shook her head gently from side to side. “Not that I noticed. She’d pick up a blouse or something, pretend to be looking at it, then go to the window and look out. Then she’d discard the item, pick up another, and go through the same motion. She did that for almost thirty minutes.” She took a breath in her narrative and came out from behind the counter. She started straightening a table of neatly folded knit shirts that did not need straightening. “That woman touched these things like they had vermin. If she ever comes in again, I’m going to ask her to leave.”

  “Do you know what caused her to leave?” Zee asked. She’d been fingering some light, summery scarves.