Address to Die For

by Mary Feliz

  I looked at Diego in the rearview mirror, and he looked pale, almost gray.

  Brian wanted to drive straight to the police station. I wanted to drop off Diego, go home, get Brian a snack, shift the laundry, and let him get started on his homework before it was time to go back and get David. I craved normalcy. I feared growing more deeply enmeshed in what was shaping up to be a murder investigation, but we had an obligation to pass any information we had along to the police. Brian phoned Jason and left a message.

  We dropped Diego at the DeSoto house, an overbuilt home with pink walls, a huge courtyard fountain, and a Mediterranean feel. A signpost read Castillo de las Fuentes. My Spanish was rusty, but I was pretty sure that meant “Castle of the Fountains,” and I wondered where the other fountains were. Most public fountains in California had been turned off during the drought to save water and money. Having a huge fountain like this one running in your front yard seemed to say that the DeSotos felt Orchard View policies about conserving water during the drought did not apply to them.

  “Thanks, Mrs. McDonald,” Diego said. “See you tomorrow, Brian.”

  I helped Diego with his backpack. “It’s no problem giving you a ride, Diego. Anytime. You know where we live?”

  Diego nodded. “It’s where my br—” Diego was cut off by Belle’s barking. I usually fed her when the boys got home from school, so she wanted to get moving.

  “Sorry, Diego, what was that?” I asked.

  Diego looked at his feet. “Nothing. Mr. Hernandez let us play there sometimes, is all.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come back,” I said. The more I heard about Javier Hernandez, the more I thought I’d missed getting to know a wonderful man. I waited to be sure Diego got in the front door, but I wasn’t sure where the front door was. Diego shuffled across the courtyard dragging his heavy backpack and trailed his hand in the fountain as he passed it. No instrument case.

  “Did Diego forget his instrument?” I asked Brian. “Should we take him back to get it?”

  “His dad thinks music is a waste of time. He won’t let Diego join band.”

  Okay, then. I put another black mark against Mr. Snooty in my mental list of his offenses.

  When I turned back to make sure Diego got in safely, he’d disappeared, and I still couldn’t figure out where the front door was. The enormous fountain made it hard to see anything beyond it.

  I backed out of the DeSotos’ driveway and drove to our house. Jason arrived shortly after we did. We went inside and Brian filled Jason in on his suspicions about the iPad and suggested Miss Harrier might have installed an application on it that would allow it to be traced.

  Jason confirmed that the crime-scene techs had secured Harrier’s phone and computer, but that neither held any documents that helped clear up the mysteries surrounding her death. They hadn’t looked for a tablet because they didn’t know one was missing. Jason thanked Brian and took his phone out on the porch where we could hear him barking orders to his team to meet him at the school.

  “Can I help look for it?” asked Brian.

  I started to answer, but Jason walked back in from the porch and beat me to it.

  “We’ll need to search the entire school, and her home, and go through her car once more,” he said. “Don’t you have homework?”

  “I’ll do it before Mom drops me off in the morning. Or I could help you look in Miss Harrier’s office then?”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “But . . .”

  “For reasons pertaining to bringing charges against someone later, we need to limit the number of people who are involved in the search. If our team finds nothing, we’ll see what you can do to help. For now, do your homework.”

  Brian frowned and rolled his eyes, but turned and ran upstairs.

  “Should I be worried for him?” I asked Jason. “What kind of evidence would you expect to find on Miss Harrier’s iPad that would be worth dying or killing for?”

  Jason rolled his shoulders, then tilted his head from one side to the other, stretching.

  “We’re the only ones who know that Brian thinks the iPad is a key bit of evidence. If there’s a killer out there, he or she might have destroyed it.”

  Jason brushed his hair away from his face and looked at me, biting his lip and thinking.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do you have a minute? There’s something else I need to tell you.” He gestured toward the living-room sofas. “Can you sit for a minute?”

  “What is it?” I asked, sitting on the arm of the couch across from Jason. He stared out the window and looked exhausted. I was reminded of my conversation with Paolo at the gas station, and wondered if getting a word out of Jason this afternoon would prove as difficult.

  “Maggie . . .” Jason coughed and started again. “We got the report from the medical examiner on Javier Hernandez’s death.”

  “Right, the guy in the basement,” I said.

  “It’s been ruled a homicide.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Homicide?” I was horrified. A person had been murdered in my home. In an odd way, I felt responsible, as if, because it was my house, I could have somehow prevented it. It was ridiculous, but then, before I moved to Orchard View, I hadn’t had much experience with homicide and had no idea what a normal reaction to such dreadful news would be.

  Jason nodded. “We’re still not sure what happened, or why. But we need you and the boys to be extra careful.”

  “Are we safe here?” The idea that someone had murdered Javier meant he’d been alive one minute and killed the next. Someone did that to him. Someone who could do the same to the boys or to me, or to one of the animals.

  “Is it the same person as the vandal? Could it be the same person who killed Miss Harrier?” I asked.

  Jason shook his head. “We just don’t know. But we will find out. Would you be more comfortable living somewhere else?”

  It was my turn to shake my head and I did so with more determination than I felt. “This is our home,” I said. “We’re staying put.”

  Jason thought for a moment. “I can step up the patrols, and Stephen and Munchkin will be here for as long as it takes us to find this guy. But be careful.”

  I walked Jason back to his car.

  “You can change your mind any time,” he said.

  I nodded. Jason climbed into his car and turned the key in the ignition. He rolled down the window. “I’m as excited by the possibility of finding that iPad as Brian is. Please thank him for me. And try not to worry about the crimes. I’m more concerned about the vandal than I am by the murderer. TV is one thing, but in real life, murderers usually don’t kill random people.”

  I shuddered and tried to hide it. Jason either didn’t notice or pretended he hadn’t.

  “Stephen will be by later. We’ll have eyes on those monitors all night. And Maggie? No snooping. That’s our job.”

  I thanked Jason, waved to him as he pulled onto Briones Hill, and walked back to the house.

  Back in the kitchen, I pulled out a pad of paper. I had time to do a little planning—especially if I picked up a deli meal on the way to or from getting David.

  I wrote down everything that I remembered from this morning’s meeting, and what we knew about the death of Javier Hernandez and the destructive little lowlife who was targeting our house. I had no idea if the events were connected, but I figured the only way to ensure that we didn’t find a connection was to avoid looking for one. I tapped my pen against the pad, leaving tiny dots of ink where there should have been bullet points outlining stirring insights.

  Flora was the most recent addition to my circle of friends, so I focused on her first. There was the marijuana angle, but it was a stretch to connect that to Miss Harrier or to the events at our house. Sure, if we’d flung open the doors of the barn on that first day and uncovered a major pot-growing operation, that would help explain why Flora might have wanted Javier out of the way and why she would want to drive us fro
m our home.

  And if it had been a major operation that Harrier had somehow uncovered and threatened to expose, and if Flora was in debt to a major drug gang—all that might have given Flora a reason to kill Harrier. But Flora? Part of a major drug ring? A murderer? I couldn’t see it. She was an herbal entrepreneur with fairies embroidered on her skirt. I could easily picture her wearing a Think Global, Buy Local T-shirt. She’d turned down the big-name coffee at Elaine’s. No, if Flora was selling pot, it would be a small, one-woman operation.

  What had Flora said at the meeting about her PTA role? Something about not being privy to the treasurer’s reports. But that Susan Harrier had wanted to review those reports more often and in more detail than Dennis DeSoto thought was necessary? In Stockton, when I’d had a brief stint as the not-very-organized secretary of the elementary-school PTA, the treasurer’s reports were attached to the minutes and filed with them. I had no idea whether all PTAs had similar requirements, but I thought Flora should have access to the treasurer’s reports in her role as PTA secretary.

  PTA finances would be kept entirely separate from school or district funds and from the foundations that Tess had told me about. So why had Susan Harrier wanted to scour the PTA treasurer’s reports? Compared to all the other pools of funds, the PTA budget was small potatoes. Did she suspect Dennis of fiddling with the books? Or did she just have a special project she wanted to suggest the PTA help finance and was hoping to find an untapped budget category? I didn’t know, but I thought it was worth finding out more. Someone who might cut a few corners when it came to PTA bookkeeping might not be scrupulously honest in their other dealings, either. And, if Dennis had done something wrong and someone discovered it, they might be blackmailing him into performing other criminal activities. Or it could be that I’d read too much crime fiction.

  I wrote Call Flora on my pad. I’d call her while I was waiting for David. If she still didn’t have the reports from Dennis, I’d offer to go to his house and pick them up myself. Progress. I had one bullet point. I clicked my pen and made the bullet darker and larger.

  I took the pad with me when I drove to the high school so I could take notes as ideas came to me. None did. I phoned Flora, but had to leave a message. When I picked up David, he claimed to be starving and begged me to take him to In-N-Out Burger. Since I’d talked myself out of a slow-cooked meal in favor of a quick stop at the deli, David didn’t have to twist my arm very hard.

  The line at the drive-through window was enormous, so I parked and walked inside. David stayed in the car to contact a school friend about a homework assignment.

  I ordered burgers, including extra for Stephen and for Munchkin.

  “Maggie?”

  I turned and watched Elaine Cumberfield and her cloud of gorgeous white hair approach me. Elaine eats hamburgers? She gave off such an impression of a magical fairy queen that I found myself surprised she ate at all. If she did eat, surely honeysuckle nectar and bee pollen would be her comfort foods.

  “I see I’m not the only one on a quest for an easy meal,” Elaine said. “There’s just too much going on to plan and cook, isn’t there?”

  I agreed and she went on. “I’m going to grab my burger, plop down in front of the TV, and watch Castle reruns. They always wrap up the worst murders in less than an hour. I want some of that in my life, don’t you?”

  I nodded. Castle was a favorite of mine too. “Do you know if they’ve made any progress on Miss Harrier’s murder?”

  Elaine shook her head. “What do you think happened, Maggie? As an outsider, you can look at events more objectively than the rest of us.”

  I laughed. “Jason doesn’t feel that way. He’s asked me to stay out of the investigation, stop thinking about it, and let the police handle it.”

  Elaine frowned. “I’m not sure that’s the best approach.” She looked at my face, which must have showed the skepticism I felt. “Really. I think you could offer a lot. Look at everyone, including me. After all, I probably know the school better than anyone, and my house is in a great position for me to know when I could sneak in undetected.”

  Elaine placed her order and stood to the side of the front counter, waiting with me. “If we’re talking about murder, or even suicide, we’re not talking about reasoned behavior, are we? Most rational people will find other solutions to their problems. And we never know what will make an ordinary person snap, do we?”

  Elaine was starting to make me nervous. Her comforting cloud of hair was beginning to make her look more like a mad scientist and her voice was growing strident. I’d embraced David’s suggestion of an easy meal, thinking it would give me more time to play with my ideas about the cases and discuss some of the possibilities with Stephen. But now, with Elaine exerting pressure to think the worst about the only people I knew in Orchard View, I was increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of digging up motives for murder.

  I was relieved when they called my name to pick up my order. I said goodbye to Elaine and tried not to run to the car. David demolished one burger on the way home and another when we sat down to unwrap our dinner.

  We ate in the kitchen. Stephen joined us and we had a lively discussion about video games and the one that was everyone’s current favorite. I asked the boys to toss their laundry down the chute in the upstairs hall and headed to the basement to start a load of wash. Fall in California, at least until it starts raining, is hot and dusty. With all of us still working on moving chores, and David’s long, hot, dusty band practices, I was doing laundry whenever I could squeeze it in.

  I’d started upstairs with a basket of clean and folded wash when I heard the sound of breaking glass and a pop, pop, pop, pop-pop noise I couldn’t identify. It didn’t sound good, though. I dashed up the basement steps, skipping several in my hurry to get to the boys.

  Chapter 19

  If you have an organizational system that works for you, don’t change it.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Monday, September 8, After dinner

  “Brian! David!” Stephen called to the boys from the living room.

  “Are you okay?”

  Both boys answered from their bedrooms upstairs.

  “Grab Belle. Move into the hallway.” Stephen shouted orders in a voice that left no doubt he was a Marine. It sounded like a good plan to me. “Close the bedroom doors. Sit on the floor in the hall and stay there.”

  By the time I reached the living room, glass from the front windows littered the window seats and carpet. Stephen crouched next to the front door, gun drawn, peering through the sidelights into the darkness beyond.

  I hadn’t realized Stephen carried a gun, and I wondered if it was a recent addition to our protection detail. I decided it didn’t matter. As creepy as I thought guns were, I was glad Stephen had one. I trusted him. If he thought it was needed, it probably was.

  “See anything?” I whispered.

  “Nothing. Stay away from the windows. If you want to join the boys, take the back stairs.”

  I retraced my steps though the kitchen, turning off lights and staying away from the windows. Upstairs, the boys sat in the hallway with Belle, as Stephen had asked, but they sat on the top step of the front stairs, trying to see what was going on outside.

  I pulled them both roughly by their shirt collars back to the relative safety of the central hallway. They protested such profound indignity, but I ignored them. Their blue-jeaned–covered bottoms scooted easily on the polished floor.

  Pop pop pop-pop pop came the noise from the front yard, followed by crashing and a clunk as something heavy broke through the window above the front stairs. I hoped it hadn’t destroyed the wisteria window that had first endeared me to the house, but then I scolded myself for worrying about something replaceable when we were in danger.

  “Have either of you called the police?” The boys shook their heads.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and pressed
the buttons. Before the line had time to connect, I heard sirens. Stephen or one of the neighbors must have called.

  Munchkin barked and we soon heard the voices of officers calling to one another and talking on their squawking radios as they crept through the bushes and patrolled the rest of the property.

  After a very long fifteen minutes, Stephen shouted an all-clear.

  “Close Belle in your room, David,” I said. “Put on your shoes. We’ll need everyone to help with the glass.”

  I crept down the stairs in my sneakers, avoiding as many of the shards as possible. I worried about the cats cutting their feet, but expected that wherever they were, they’d be hiding from the commotion.

  I checked in with Stephen to make sure we wouldn’t damage any evidence if we began sweeping up the glass. He showed me small rocks that must have been thrown by a slingshot in order to have enough power to break the windows. Small green and white plastic spheres littered the front rooms, creating a tripping hazard that was more dangerous than the broken glass underfoot. Stephen told me the tiny balls were pellets from an airsoft gun, which sounded something like the BB gun one of my brothers had when we were growing up.

  Stephen showed me a pale-yellow brick and the note that had been rubber-banded around it: Go Back To Stockton.

  I was angry. First, I was angry because someone thought they could dictate who was welcome in the neighborhood. Second, that they endangered the stained-glass wisteria window, which had survived, no thanks to them. Third, that the coward wasn’t brave enough to show himself. In addition, I thought it was excessive to use three different kinds of weapons—BBs, bricks, and slingshots—to attack us.

  Of course, my overwhelming fear was for the safety of my family, but that terror was so primal it was beyond words, beyond thoughts. It wasn’t so much an emotion as a wash that tinted my entire perception of the world. This has to stop. And I’m going to have to stop it.

  Paolo Bianchi pulled up to the front of the house with several sheets of plywood strapped to the Subaru’s roof rack. He and the rest of the officers covered the broken windows before the boys and I had finished sweeping up the glass. I was sure we hadn’t found it all and that we’d each probably have to pick a sliver or two out of our bare feet at some point during the next week. For now, we’d done the best we could.