I thought Malibu might have liked that. I took a twenty from my wallet and began to search the trailer for a clean envelope and a stamp. I found what I was looking for and was addressing the envelope when Yolanda Flores called me.
“Dey find her,” she said, choking back sobs. “She dead. The police find her in a trash can. She beat to death. Es horrible!”
“Yolanda, I’m so sorry.” I really was. “I wish I could do something for you.”
“You wan’ do somethin’ for me?” Yolanda said. “You find out what happen to my sister.”
Generally I like to be paid for my services, but my mind flashed to little dresses in cardboard boxes. I knew what it was like to live without a mother. Besides, I was still fuming over last night’s encounter with Pasqual.
“I’ll look into it for you,” I said.
There was a silence across the line.
“Yolanda?”
“I still here,” she said. “I…surprise you help me.”
“No problem.”
“Thank you.” She started to cry. “Thank you very much. I pay you—”
“Forget it.”
“No, I work for you on weekends—”
“Yolanda, I live in a trailer and couldn’t find anything if you cleaned up my place. Forget about paying me. Let’s get back to your sister. Tell me about José. Martina and him get along?”
There was a very long pause. Yolanda finally said, “José no good. He and his brothers.”
“Is Pasqual one of José’s brothers?”
“How you know?”
I told her about my visit with Pasqual the night before, about Big-and-Fat’s threat. “Has he ever killed anyone before?”
“I don’ know. He drink and fight. I don’ know if he kill anyone when he’s drunk.”
“Did you ever see Pasqual beating Martina?”
“No,” Yolanda said. “I never see that.”
“What about José?”
Another moment of silence.
Yolanda said, “He slap her mebbe one or two time. I tell her to leave him but she say no ’cause of the girls.”
“Do you think José could kill Martina?”
Yolanda said, “He slap her when he drink. But I don’ think he would kill her to kill her.”
“He wouldn’t do it on purpose.”
“Essackly.”
“Yolanda, would José kill Martina for money?”
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s Evangélico. A bad Evangélico, but not el diablo.”
“He wouldn’t do it for lots of money?”
“No, he don’ kill her for money.”
I said, “What about Pasqual?”
“I don’ think so.”
“Martina have any enemigos?”
“Nunca persona!” Yolanda said. “No one want to hurt her. She like sugar. Es so terrible!”
She began to cry. I didn’t want to question her over the phone. A face-to-face meeting would be better. I asked her when was the funeral service.
“Tonight. En la iglesia a las ocho. After the culto funeral, we go to cementerio. You wan’ come?”
“Yes, I think that might be best.” I told her I knew the address of the church and would meet her eight o’clock sharp.
I was unnerved by what I had to do next: break the bad news to Deirdre Pollack. The old woman took it relatively well, never even asked about the ring. When I told her I’d volunteered to look into Martina’s death, she offered to pay me. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but when she insisted, I didn’t refuse.
* * *
—
I got to the church by eight, then realized I didn’t know Yolanda from Adam. But she picked me out in a snap. Not a plethora of five-foot-eight, blond, blue-eyed Salvadoran women.
Yolanda was petite, barely five feet and maybe ninety pounds tops. She had yards of long brown hair—Evangelical women don’t cut their tresses—and big brown eyes moistened with tears. She took my hand, squeezed it tightly, and thanked me for coming.
The church was filled to capacity, the masses adding warmth to the unheated chapel. In front of the stage was a table laden with broth, hot chocolate, and plates of bread. Yolanda asked me if I wanted anything to eat and I declined.
We sat in the first row of the married women’s section. I glanced at the men’s area and noticed Pasqual with his cronies. I asked Yolanda to point out José: the man who had come to the door with Pasqual. The other two men were also brothers. José’s eyes were swollen and bright red. Crying or post-alcohol intoxication?
I studied him further. He’d been stuffed into an ill-fitting black suit, his dark hair slicked back with grease. All the brothers wore dark suits. José looked nervous, but the others seemed almost jocular.
Pasqual caught me staring, and his expression immediately darkened, his eyes bearing down on me. I felt needles down my spine as he began to rise, but luckily the service started and he sank back into his seat.
Pastor Gomez came to the dais and spoke about what a wonderful wife and mother Martina had been. As he talked, the women around me began to let out soft, muted sobs. I did manage to sneak a couple of sidelong glances at the brothers. I met up with Pasqual’s dark stare once again.
When the pastor had finished speaking, he gave the audience directions to the cemetery. Pasqual hadn’t forgotten about my presence, but I was too quick for him, making a beeline for the pastor. I managed to snare Gomez before Pasqual could get to me. The fat slob backed off when the pastor pulled me into a corner.
“What happened?” I asked.
Gomez looked down. “I wish I knew.”
“Do the police—”
“Police!” The pastor spat. “They don’t care about a dead Hispanic girl. One less flea in their country. I was wearing my work clothes when I got the call this morning. I’d been doing some plumbing and I guess they thought I was a wetback who didn’t understand English.” His eyes held pain. “They joked about her. They said it was a shame to let such a wonderful body go to waste!”
“That stinks.”
“Yes, it stinks.” Gomez shook his head. “So you see I don’t expect much from the police.”
“I’m looking into her death.”
Gomez stared at me. “Who’s paying you to do it?”
“Not Yolanda,” I said.
“Martina’s patrona. She wants her ring.”
“I think she wants justice for Martina.”
The pastor blushed from embarrassment.
I said, “I would have done it gratis. I’ve got some suspicions.” I filled him in on my encounter with Pasqual.
Gomez thought a moment. “Pasqual drinks even though the church forbids alcohol. Pasqual’s not a bad person. Maybe you made him feel threatened.”
“Maybe I did.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Gomez said. “Calm him down. But I don’t think you should come to the cementerio with us. Now’s not the time for accusations.”
I agreed. He excused himself as another parishioner approached and suddenly I was alone. Luckily, Pasqual had gone somewhere else. I met up with Yolanda, explaining my reason for not going to the cemetery. She understood.
We walked out to the school yard, into a cold misty night. José and his brothers had already taken off their ties and replaced their suit jackets with warmer windbreakers. Pasqual took a deep swig from a bottle inside a paper bag, then passed the bag to one of his brothers.
“Look at them!” Yolanda said with disgust. “They no even wait till after the funeral. They nothing but cholos. Es terrible!”
I glanced at José and his brothers. Something was bothering me and it took a minute or two before it came to me. Three of them—including José—were wearing old baseball caps. Pasqual was the only one wearing a painter’s cap.
I
don’t know why, but I found that odd. Then something familiar began to come up from the subconscious, and I knew I’d better start phoning up bus drivers. From behind me came a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
Pastor Gomez said, “Thank you for coming, Ms. Darling.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry I never met Martina. From what I’ve heard, she seemed to be a good person.”
“She was.” Gomez bowed his head. “I appreciate your help and I wish you peace.”
Then he turned and walked away. I’d probably never see him again and I felt a little bad about that.
* * *
—
I tailed José the next morning. He and his brothers were part of a crew framing a house in the Hollywood Hills. I kept watch from a quarter block away, my truck partly hidden by the overhanging boughs of a eucalyptus. I was trying to figure out how to get José alone, and then I got a big break. The roach wagon pulled in and José was elected by his brothers to pick up lunch.
I got out of my truck, intercepted him as he carried an armful of burritos, and stuck my .38 in his side, telling him if he said a word, I’d pull the trigger. My Spanish must have been very clear, because he was as mute as Dopey.
After I got him into the cabin of my truck, I took the gun out of his ribs and held it in my lap.
I said, “What happened to Martina?”
“I don’ know.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You killed her.”
“I don’ kill her!” José was shaking hard. “Yo juro! I don’ kill her!”
“Who did?”
“I don’ know!”
“You killed her for the ring, didn’t you, José?” As I spoke, I saw him shrink. “Martina would never tell you she had the ring: she knew you would take it from her. But you must have found out. You asked her about the ring and she said she didn’t have any ring, right?”
José didn’t answer.
I repeated the accusation in español, but he still didn’t respond. I went on.
“You didn’t know what to do, did you, José? So you waited and waited and finally, Monday morning, you told your brothers about the ring. But by that time, Martina and the ring had already taken the bus to work.”
“All we wan’ do is talk to her!” José insisted. “Nothin’ was esuppose to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I asked.
José opened his mouth, then shut it again.
I continued. “Pasqual has a truck—a Ford pickup.” I read him the license number. “You and your brothers decided to meet up with her. A truck can go a lot faster than a bus. When the bus made a stop, two of you got on it and made Martina get off.”
José shook his head.
“I called the bus company,” I said. “The driver remembered you and your brother—two men making this woman carrying a big bag get off at the stop behind the big garbage bin. The driver even asked if she was okay. But Martina didn’t want to get you in trouble and said todo está bien—everything was fine. But everything wasn’t fine, was it?”
Tears welled up in José’s eyes.
“You tried to force her in the truck, but she fought, didn’t she?”
José remained mute.
“But you did get her in Pasqual’s truck,” I said. “Only you forgot something. When she fought, she must have knocked off Pasqual’s Dodgers’ cap. He didn’t know it was gone until later, did he?”
José jerked his head up. “How you know?”
“How do I know? I have that cap, José.” Not exactly true, but close enough. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
José thought a long time. Then he said, “It was assident. Pasqual no mean to hurt her bad. Just get her to talk. She no have ring when we take her off the bus.”
“Not in her bag—su bolsa?”
“Ella no tiena niuna bolsa. She no have bags. She tell us she left ring at home. So we took her home, but she don’ fin’ the ring. That make me mad. I saw her with ring. No good for a wife to lie to husband.” His eyes filled with rage, his nostrils flared. “No good! A wife must always tell husband the truth!”
“So you killed her,” I said.
José said, “Pasqual…he did it. It was assident!”
I shook my head in disgust. I sat there in my truck, off guard and full of indignation. I didn’t even hear him until it was too late. The driver’s door jerked open and the gun flew out of my lap. I felt as if I’d been wrenched from my mother’s bosom. Pasqual dragged me to the ground, his face looming over me, his complexion florid and furious. He drew back his fist and aimed it at my jaw.
I rolled my head to one side and his hand hit the ground. Pasqual yelled but not as loud as José did, shouting at his brother to stop. Then I heard the click of the hammer. Pasqual heard it too and released me immediately. By now, a crowd had gathered. Gun in hand, José looked at me, seemed to speak English for my benefit.
“You kill Martina!” José screamed out to Pasqual. “I’m going to kill you!”
Pasqual looked genuinely confused. He spoke in Spanish. “You killed her, you little shit! You beat her to death when we couldn’t find the ring!”
José looked at me, his expression saying: do you understand this? Something in my eye must have told him I did. I told him to put the gun down. Instead, he turned his back on me and focused his eyes on Pasqual. “You lie. You get drunk, you kill Martina!”
In Spanish, Pasqual said, “I tried to stop you, you asshole!”
“You lie!” José said. And then he pulled the trigger.
I charged him before he could squeeze another bullet out of the chamber, but the damage had been done. Pasqual was already dead when the sirens pulled up.
* * *
—
The two other brothers backed José’s story. They’d come to confront Martina about the ring. She told them she had left it at home. But when they returned to the house and the ring wasn’t around, Pasqual, in his drunken rage, beat Martina to death and dumped her body in the trash.
José will be charged with second degree murder for Pasqual, and maybe a good lawyer’ll be able to bargain it down to manslaughter. But I remembered a murderous look in José’s eyes after he’d stated that Martina had lied to him. If I were the prosecutor, I’d be going after José with charges of manslaughter on Martina, Murder One on Pasqual. But that’s not how the system works. Anyway, my verdict—rightly or wrongly—wouldn’t bring Martina back to life.
I called Mrs. Pollack after it was all over. Through her tears, she wished she’d never remembered the ring. It wasn’t her fault but she still felt responsible. There was a small consolation. I was pretty sure I knew where the ring was.
I’m not too bad at guesses—like the one about Pasqual losing his hat in a struggle. That simple snapshot in my mind of the brothers at the church—three with beat-up Dodgers’ caps, the fourth wearing a new painter’s cap. Something off kilter.
So my hunch had been correct. Pasqual had once owned a Dodgers’ cap. Where had it gone? Same place as Mr. Pollack’s robe. Martina had packed the robe in her bag Monday morning. When she was forced off the bus by José and his brothers, I pictured her quickly dumping the bag in a garbage bin at the bus stop, hoping to retrieve it later. She never got that chance.
As for the ring, it was right where I thought it would be: among the discards that had shrouded Malibu Mike the night he died. The Dodgers’ cap on Malibu’s head got me thinking in the right direction. If Malibu had found Pasqual’s cap, maybe he found the other bag left behind by Martina. After all, that bin had been his spot.
Good old Malibu. One of his layers had been a grimy old robe. Wedged into the corner of its pocket, a diamond ring. Had Malibu not died that Monday, José might have been a free man today.
Mrs. Pollack didn’t feel right about keeping the ring, so she
offered it to Yolanda Flores. Yolanda was appreciative of such generosity, but she refused the gift, saying the ring was cursed. Mrs. Pollack didn’t take offense; Yolanda was a woman with pride. Finally, after a lot of consideration, Mrs. Pollack gave the ring to the burial committee for Malibu Mike. Malibu never lived wealthy, but he sure went out in high style.
DETECTIVE: GRETCHEN GILMAN
SPOOKED
Carolyn G. Hart
THE AUTHOR OF APPROXIMATELY SIXTY BOOKS, Carolyn Gimpel Hart (1936– ) had indifferent success during her first dozen years as an author, during which time she wrote six books, four published only in England. Everything changed when she created the charming Death on Demand series featuring Annie Laurance and her boyfriend (later husband), Max Darling.
The Death on Demand bookstore is located on an island off the coast of South Carolina that, for all its coziness, is a lightning rod for murder and violence, with Annie often the brains behind an investigation. The series of bibliomysteries (mystery and crime fiction with the world of books as its background) has drawn a wide audience as it features the one thing that mystery readers have in common: the love of mysteries. The setting enables the characters to discourse on mystery writers and books, past and present, in a totally natural way. The first book in the series (of twenty-seven) was titled, perhaps not unsurprisingly, Death on Demand (1987).
Beginning her writing career as a journalist, Hart graduated, a Phi Beta Kappa, with a journalism degree from the University of Oklahoma, where she went on to become an assistant professor in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication. She has been a full-time mystery writer since 1986, being nominated for and winning numerous mystery awards since then, most notably the Grand Master Award in 2014 for lifetime achievement, presented by the Mystery Writers of America.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 151