The next morning, yawning from the lingering effects of the bad dreams and sleeping pill, I drove to my father’s house.
I turned onto Warbler Drive at 10:44 a.m., a minute early. He was already waiting, standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. He wore a suit, dark sunglasses, and a summer-weight fedora. The sun glinted off his cane’s handle—the handle that also served as the hilt for the sword hidden within. He’d recovered robustly from a total hip replacement on one side nine months earlier and didn’t need the cane, but as he put it, “Once you’ve had a cane sword, you can’t live without a cane sword.”
I turned off the stereo as he slid into the passenger side.
“Dad, what’s with the hat?” I asked. “You look like you’re auditioning for the Blues Brothers.”
He set the fedora on his lap and shot me a grin. With an exaggerated thickness to his usual Irish brogue, he replied, “The world’s a stage, and we’re all unrehearsed, but at the very least, we can make our entrance with some style.”
He gave me the address for the Garcia residence.
As we drove there, he expounded on his philosophy of style versus fashion.
“Stormy, the thing is, fashions come and go, but style is eternal, because it’s an expression of your true self.”
I took another sip of the coffee I’d brought from home in a thermal mug. I tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but my mind kept wandering back to the scene by the pool and Erica, trembling and wet next to her employer.
The day had been warm, and the pool was heated. Had she been shaking from the shock alone, or did she know something she hadn’t disclosed to the police? As soon as she’d seen me, she’d asked for my father. Was it possible he was the only one she trusted?
Chapter 8
Erica Garcia lived in the Parkhill neighborhood, which was full of modest bungalows that compensated for their size with elaborate, eccentric front yards. Her street alone featured one property fenced by polka-dotted tires, one home built from a retired paddleboat, and one lawn decorated with the rear quarter of a 1958 Ford Fairlane Skyliner angled so it appeared to be driving toward some subterranean freeway.
Erica’s home was the most low-key one on the block, even though, with its flat roof and green-and-brown paint, it resembled a chocolate-peppermint wafer.
A dark-haired teenage boy with sleepy brown eyes opened the door. He wore a too-big T-shirt advertising a soft drink with a too-short pair of jeans that ended an inch above the tops of his socks.
“No soliciting,” the boy said, pointing to the handwritten note on the mailbox and then slamming shut the door.
Through the door came the muffled sounds of Erica scolding her son for being rude.
The door opened again.
“What are you selling?” the boy asked.
I pointed my thumb at my father. “Tickets to see the Blues Brothers,” I replied.
At this, the boy rubbed his chin. The sleepiness disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a mischievous twinkle.
“Are the tickets free?” he asked.
My father answered, “Only if you come up on stage and help me sing.”
The boy’s eyes flicked up and down shyly. He hugged the doorframe and asked, “Do I have to wear a suit like yours?”
“Have to? I think you mean get to. You can wear one of my old ones, Bobby. You’re darn-near tall enough now.”
The boy straightened up, his brown eyes wide. “How do you know my name?” He called over his shoulder, “Mom!”
Erica Garcia came to the door, apologizing for keeping us waiting on the front step. She wasn’t wearing her maid uniform and looked completely different in a pair of curve-hugging jeans and tunic-style top with a purple-and-gold batik pattern. Her curly dark hair was loose around her shoulders, varying from gentle waves at the front to tight ringlets at the back.
“Mr. Day and Miss Day, please come in. I tried to clean, but this little hurricane makes a mess three steps behind me.”
We went inside her tidy home, assuring her there was no need for apologies. We sat at the vintage arborite table inside her simple kitchen, which had dark-wood cabinets and a green-tile backsplash, matching the exterior’s chocolate-peppermint-wafer theme. She served us fresh coffee and cold cookies, homemade but still defrosting from the freezer.
My father set his hat on top of Bobby’s head and completed the look with his sunglasses. “I’ll just leave my things on this handsome hat stand,” he joked.
Bobby held out his hands in the manner of a butler. “Your jacket, sir?”
My father handed him the jacket, and Bobby ran off grinning, probably in search of a mirror. From elsewhere in the house, he called out asking his mother if he could record some videos on the computer while wearing the cool clothes. My father and Erica gave permission in unison.
“You look well, considering,” my father said to Erica once we were all seated.
She gave us a tired smile. “Better than poor Mr. Koenig, God rest his soul. How are you, Mr. Day? Or should I call you Officer Day?”
He said, “Like I told you on the phone, I’m not here as a policeman. I’m retired now, and that life is behind me.”
“But you still have friends on the force,” Erica said.
“I have friends everywhere.” He smiled and helped himself to a cookie. “Anyway, I’m sure the police already have all the information they need. It looks like the whole thing was just an unfortunate accident.”
She asked, “What do the police say?”
“I did speak to one of my contacts,” he said.
“Was it Kyle?” I asked. My father had been mentoring the young rookie, or at least letting him bring beer over to the house, since January.
“My sources are secret,” he said cryptically.
Erica shifted impatiently on her chair. “It was an accident, yes?”
“Here’s what the police think so far,” he said. “Mr. Koenig went out to take his morning swim, and either he tried something new or he slipped on the diving board. The suntan lotion on the diving board may have been a factor. He struck the back of his head with the end of the diving board. The impact knocked him unconscious and caused the bleeding wound. He might have died on impact before he hit the water. They’ll know once the coroner’s checked his lungs for water.”
“When?” asked Erica.
He checked the time on a clock hanging on the wall below a framed Sacred Heart image. “If the wheels are turning as they should, that report might be in already.”
“Now what?”
My father explained what would happen over the next few days. Even though the death appeared to be an accident, the police would likely visit the estate a few more times and interview each member of staff thoroughly.
“That won’t take long,” Erica said. “Only four of us were working. The butler, Randy, and Verity, the head of staff, plus myself, and Carlos, the cook.”
“No gardener or handyman?” I asked.
“We had someone in to trim the hedges around the pool, but that was Saturday.”
My father leaned in. “Do you think he came in to finish the job on Sunday? What did he look like?”
“It was a woman,” Erica said. “She was short, barely taller than my Bobby.”
My father gave me an eyebrow raise. Could it have been a short woman fleeing the scene? I didn’t think so. I shook my head, no.
We were on our second cup of coffee when he got down to brass tacks with Erica.
“Strictly off the record, has anything unusual been happening around the Koenig mansion lately?” He gave her a friendly smile. “Items going missing? Staff getting into quarrels with each other or with the family?”
Erica played with one of her dark ringlets. “Unusual?” Her voice was high and squeaky. “No, nothing that isn’t normal... for that family.”
My father raised his eyebrows and sipped his coffee.
Erica continued, “I suppose the family has been fighting more lately, but
that always happens when both of the sons are single and at home a lot. Those boys should have gotten married and had kids already. It would have settled them down. But Brandon is always too busy working, and Drake is... well, he’s always busy with other things.”
“Drake Koenig is very friendly,” I commented. “I only met him briefly yesterday, but I noticed he has a certain way with women.”
My father caught my eye. “How friendly?”
“Quite friendly,” I said.
“Good for you.” He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, Stormy. I’m a great fan of Mr. Sanderson, but you could do worse than date someone worth half of thirty million dollars.”
Erica gasped. “Thirty million? Is it really that much?”
I kicked my father under the table. “That’s just a rumor,” I said. “We couldn’t possibly know how much the Koenig Estate is worth, could we, Dad?”
“Just a guess,” he said. “You work at the mansion, though. You’d probably know more than most people.”
She muttered, almost sub-audibly, “I know more than I care to know.”
My father nodded and gave me a subtle hand gesture to wait.
Erica took a deep breath, her curves filling out her batik-patterned tunic. She exhaled the words, “Mr. Koenig had a new girlfriend.”
“Interesting,” my father said, playing dumb.
She took another breath, and the words came loose from wherever she had them locked down. “A young, stupid idiot of a girlfriend.” She held one hand to her chest and said directly to me, “I’m not trying to be mean, but you know. Stormy, you met her. You know what she’s like.”
“I do?” The confusion in my voice was also an act. I wouldn’t normally lie, but I was following my father’s lead.
He prompted her, “Who is it?”
Erica spat out, “Della. The singer. The one whose brother was...” She trailed off as she looked up at the cross on the wall. “It’s bad luck to speak of such darkness. Please forgive me for mentioning anything.” She touched the medallion on her necklace and whispered a prayer.
I shot my father a look. I did know Della had a thing for older men who wanted to take care of her. She also had a thing for drama. And violence. We hadn’t spoken since the night she’d aimed a gun at me and my friends.
Bobby came into the kitchen with the hat and sunglasses on, snapping his fingers and strutting. “Yo. Check me out.” He’d put on a pair of black shoes, and performed a rehearsed dance move for us. “That’s my new signature move,” he said.
“Very slick,” I said.
His mother got to her feet and squeezed him in a loving embrace. The louder he complained about her embarrassing him, the tighter she hugged him.
To us, she said, “Thank you both for coming to check on me. I am very grateful for your friendship. If you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure this one does his chores, so he can get paid his allowance. You have to keep up your regular routines, even when life gets crazy.”
My father stood and began collecting his hat, sunglasses, and jacket from the boy.
As we walked toward the front door, he asked, “Erica, did all of the estate staff take today off?”
“All except for the cook,” she answered. “He stayed to make sure the boys were eating. The rest of us were dismissed for the day, to give the family privacy. We will be back tomorrow, and we’ll be very busy. Many relatives will be coming to town for the funeral, and they will be staying at the house.”
Someone knocked on the other side of the door. Erica pulled aside some net curtains covering a vertical window next to the front door.
“Look at that,” she exclaimed with surprise. “Here is the estate’s handyman. He must be here to check up on me, too.”
She opened the door to reveal a tall, fit man with gray whisker stubble, wearing a loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, old jeans, and a big hat.
My nervous system jolted with adrenaline. If this was the estate handyman, Tim Barber, he had to be the same man Logan and I spotted emerging from the hedge when Erica was screaming for help.
The handyman said, “Sorry, Erica. I didn’t realize you had guests. I’ll come back in a few hours.” He backed away from the step. “I left the sprinkler going on the lawn, anyway, and I should shut it off.”
“Tim, don’t go,” she said, but he was already at the front sidewalk, heading up the street.
I leaned over to my father and whispered, “He’s the one I saw running away from the pool yesterday.”
My father murmured, “He’s on foot, too.” He turned and said to Erica, “The handyman lives in this neighborhood?”
“Just up the street,” she said. “Tim is so nice. It’s a shame he didn’t stay and meet you. He gives me a ride to the estate some days, when my sister needs to borrow my car.” She waved at Tim as he peered back over his shoulder.
I turned to Erica and bluffed, “Why did Tim run away from the pool yesterday instead of helping you with Mr. Koenig?”
Erica frowned. “Who said that? If Tim heard me calling for help, he would have dropped everything. And he wasn’t on the schedule to work, anyway.”
“I saw him there,” I said. “Logan called for him to stop, but he just ran.”
Erica shook her head. “No. It wasn’t him.”
I shrugged and offered her an apologetic smile. “I must be mistaken, then. Everything happened so fast.”
My father said, “Eyewitnesses get confused all the time. Your friend Tim isn’t in any trouble. You said he lives on this street?”
She smiled, relaxing again. “Tim lives in the house with the funny car fender sticking out of the lawn. He tells me the whole car is buried in there, and he’s going to pull it out one day and we’ll ride around in style.”
“I love those old Ford Fairlanes,” my father said. “I might have to walk over there and take a look.”
“Be careful,” Erica warned.
We both asked, “Why?”
She smiled. “Because Tim’s a real talker, and he’ll chew your ear off.”
Chapter 9
"Luck of the Irish,” my father commented as we walked up the street toward Tim Barber’s house. “And it’s a good sign for an investigation when the witnesses start coming to you.”
“We have to be careful,” I said. “If this guy’s lying about being at the estate yesterday, he might feel threatened by us questioning him.”
“I’ve got my cane sword. What have you got?”
“My sweet disposition,” I said.
“Then we’re well armed.” He pointed to the assortment of colorful garden gnomes in the yard next to Erica’s house. “But you could borrow one of those guys if you’d feel better holding something terrifying.”
I chuckled. “Dad, you’re the only one who finds garden gnomes terrifying.”
“They multiply,” he said. “They’re pure evil. A gnome infestation starts off innocently enough. You see a cute ceramic gnome with a wheelbarrow that’s the same color as your house, and it’s on sale, so you think, what’s the harm in just getting one? Then, a week later, you see another gnome who catches your eye with his impish grin, and you feel terrible about leaving it in the store when you have a lonely single gnome in your garden who could use a friend. What fun is life without friends, after all?”
“Oh, Dad.”
The next home had a similar infestation, but with pink flamingos.
We continued up the street until we reached the home of Tim, the handyman.
I stopped to admire the peaches-and-cream-colored Ford Fairlane tailfins emerging from the ground amidst late-blooming summer perennials.
My father stepped over a decorative picket lawn border and leaned over the jaunty car structure.
He asked loudly, “Do these tail lights still light up?”
Tim was hunched over a brass spigot near the base of his house, turning off the water for a nearby lawn sprinkler. He moved into an upright position slowly, one hand on his back. I’d guessed him to
be about fifty when we first saw each other at Erica’s house, but now that I saw how he moved, I was inclined to put him in his sixties.
Tim stared blankly at us. “What do you want with me? Who sent you?”
My father nodded to the tailfins and repeated, “Do these tail lights still light up?”
“No,” Tim said then, “Yes. But they’ve been modified.”
“How’s that?”
Tim eyed us with suspicion as he answered, “I’ve got some low-power LED lights inside, so it lets out a nice glow at night but not so bright that people call in reports to the police.”
My father chuckled. “That’s good. You wouldn’t want those clumsy police officers stomping around in your flowers.”
“No, sir,” Tim said. “I don’t have a problem with them doing their job, but sometimes they get in a fighting sort of mood, and they go around harassing regular citizens who are minding their own business.”
My father said casually, “Is that so?”
Tim walked toward us and removed his floppy hat to ruffle his light-gray hair with one hand. “People who get into that line of work are just the sort who want a badge so they can push people around and nobody can say nothin’ about it.”
My father continued to admire the car, commenting evenly, “That’s the sort of thing I’ve heard before.”
“I coulda been a cop, but I ain’t no bully,” Tim said, picking up steam. “That’s what I figure, anyway. They wouldn’t say. Just that I didn’t pass their test. They’ve got all sorts of mumbo jumbo they use, but the truth is it’s like a clubhouse, and if they don’t want you in their clubhouse gang, then you’re not invited. They label you with all sorts of things, but they won’t come out and say you’re stupid.” Tim tapped the side of his forehead. “You know who’s really stupid, though? Anyone who lets on that they know exactly what’s happening. That’s right. If you really are a genius, you better not let anyone know, or they’ll haul you off and do experiments on your brain.”
Death of a Modern King Page 4