Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

  Mark made sure every pore of the hand that had held the abrin seeds was wiped clean.

  Perrin changed his tone. “When do you file your copy? Please don’t write anything about the affair. I don’t want Jane reading after I’m dead that I was unfaithful.”

  “But it happened.”

  “I have a son, as well.”

  “Oh? Who with?” The words were out of Mark’s mouth before he sensed their force.

  The old man’s anger erupted again. “That’s vile. I invite you into my home, pose for your pictures, answer your questions, and all I get in return is trickery and insults. Don’t you have any respect at all? Piss off, will you? Get out of my house.”

  Mark didn’t need telling. He was ready to go. He called out to Dale that they were leaving.

  Perrin still had a parting shot. “Scumbag.”

  * * *

  After driving away, Dale said, “Got overexcited, did he?”

  “Only towards the end when he cottoned on that I was writing his obituary.”

  “What does he expect?”

  “He thinks I’ll skewer him.”

  “And will you?”

  Mark thought deeply before answering, “There’s a saying of Voltaire’s I learned when I trained as a journalist: ‘To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.’”

  * * *

  Ten days later, the Post contained a news item on an inside page:

  SUDDEN DEATH OF JOURNALIST

  Freelance journalist Mark Peters, 44, was found dead at his Fulham home on Thursday morning. It is not known how long his body had lain undiscovered. Apparently in good health until recently, he is thought to have succumbed to a severe gastrointestinal disorder leading to multiple organ failure. A postmortem examination was inconclusive, and further tests are being conducted. Mr. Peters was an occasional contributor to this newspaper. An obituary will follow in tomorrow’s edition.

  Judson Perrin read the report with satisfaction. The muckraking journalist hadn’t died from a mystery illness. He’d been poisoned with abrin, but not from contact with the seeds. Abrin is water soluble, and can be absorbed through the skin. The moisture sprinkled on the hand wipes had been lethal.

  And when Perrin himself died a week later, his obituary said nothing about the affair with Portia. It was unchanged from the bland version Tysoe had shown Mark.

  * * *

  UNKNOWN CALLER

  BY MEG GARDINER

  The package arrived on a stormy autumn day. A padded manila envelope, it had no return address. But the sender’s handwriting made Evan Delaney smile as she walked from the mailbox to her front door. Inside the house, she kicked off her pumps. She’d spent a spirited afternoon arguing motions in Santa Barbara Superior Court, and wanted to change and go for a run. Outside the French doors, a crimson-edged sunset cut through the clouds.

  Evan tore open the envelope. Inside was a hard object roughly the size of a cigarette, thickly wrapped in layers of newspaper.

  The newspaper was what stopped her.

  She unwrapped the package slowly, layer by layer, reading the headlines. They were old news, and familiar. ARRESTED, one said. SCHEME EXPOSED, said another. She smoothed out a photo of a muscle car smashed through a storefront’s plate glass window. PLEADS GUILTY.

  The final layer of newspaper contained no shocking headlines, just an Odds ’n’ Ends column. CHURCH BAKE SALE. SCHOOL CAR WASH. DOG FOUND. It was dated November 26, three years ago.

  A chill inched up Evan’s back. Three years ago exactly.

  Heavily, she sat down at the kitchen table.

  * * *

  The knock on Evan’s apartment door had come late on a Monday afternoon. It was fall semester, her second year in law school, and she was barefoot in the Northern California heat. She opened the door and did a double take. The woman on the porch wore a flannel shirt and hiking boots. Her long ponytail was pulled through the back of a Giants baseball cap. Her cheeks were flushed, and not just from riding her bike across Palo Alto to campus. The distress on her face made Evan’s breath catch.

  “Gram, what’s wrong?” she said.

  “Kid, I hate to bother you. But I don’t know where else to turn.”

  Kath Wheeler put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were bright and brimming.

  Evan pulled her into the cramped student apartment. Kath was a former army nurse, and didn’t do tears. Even when she’d lost Evan’s grandfather three months earlier, she’d tried not to break down in front of her grandkids.

  In the kitchen, Evan poured her a glass of water. Kath briefly eyed the bottle of vodka by the sink, then accepted the glass and drank it down.

  Evan took her hand. “Gram.”

  Kath held back, uncharacteristically. Kathleen Evan Wheeler lived full-steam-ahead. Evan had been named in her honor. Her mother called her K.E. version 2.0. It wasn’t always a compliment.

  “Your brother’s in trouble,” Kath said.

  For a moment the kitchen turned so bright Evan couldn’t focus. Fear coursed through her. Brian was a navy fighter pilot. Trouble could mean his F/A-18 had drilled a smoking hole in the ground.

  “What happened?” Evan said.

  “He begged me not to tell anybody,” Kath said. “Especially not your mom or dad. But it’s getting out of hand.”

  Evan’s fear changed to confusion. “Wait. What kind of trouble?”

  “He got arrested. In Mexico.”

  “Oh my God.”

  The room seemed to throb. Kath leaned against the counter, as though she had no energy to stand up.

  “He drove down to Ensenada this weekend for a bachelor party. He and his buddies were driving back from a bar when the car wrecked.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Brian was driving. He was drunk.”

  Evan put a hand to her forehead. She led Kath to the sofa and sat beside her. Arrested for drunk driving—in Mexico. Conduct unbecoming an officer. It meant the end of her brother’s naval career.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Kath said. “One of his friends got hurt—somebody from his squadron, I think. He’s in the hospital.”

  Evan’s chest tightened. “Marc Dupree?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  She nodded. “But Lord knows how much the hospital’s going to cost.” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Brian wasn’t injured, but sounded awful.”

  Shaken, Evan put an arm around Kath. “We’ll help him. Help them both.” Her throat caught. “We have to tell Mom and Dad. They can—”

  “Absolutely not.” Kath straightened. “Brian was adamant. He does not want your parents involved.”

  “Does he have a lawyer? We need to call him—”

  “We can’t. He called me from a pay phone at the jail.”

  “Then how...”

  Kath set a hand on her arm. “I sent him money for bail. That’s what I need to tell you.”

  “You what?”

  “I paid his bail. And I was happy to help. But bailing him out didn’t solve his problems, so I think it’s time to bring in more troops to fight this fire.”

  “Money.” She frowned. “How much did you pay?”

  “Three thousand dollars.”

  “That’s not as bad as it could have been.” It actually sounded like a bargain for bail on an injury accident DUI, whether in the U.S. or Mexico. But it was nevertheless a substantial amount for a widow on a fixed income to pay. “Still, it was a lot to ask. I’m surprised Brian called you.”

  “Your brother’s good for it—I don’t doubt that. But he phoned an hour ago and said he needs five thousand more, as bond, to get his passport back.”

  A new chill settled on her. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Brian’s my grandson. I have to help.
But another five thousand dollars—I can’t raise it.”

  “Stop.” Chilled to her fingers, Evan grabbed her phone. “This doesn’t add up.”

  “You can’t call him. The police confiscated his phone. They’re holding it with his passport, as collateral.”

  Kath’s fear and deep sadness were palpable. The look in her eyes was desperate. But this whole thing smelled wrong. Evan hit Brian’s number.

  He answered on the second ring.

  “Ev, great photos from your Halloween party. Good Alien chest-burster outfit.”

  “Where are you?” she said.

  He didn’t need to answer. The background whine of jet engines told her he was exactly where he was supposed to be: on duty with his Carrier Air Wing at Naval Air Station Lemoore, near Fresno.

  “What’s that sound in your voice?” he said.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  She hung up. With a glance at Kath, she phoned the police.

  * * *

  The Palo Alto Police Department was bustling. Outside, live oaks swayed in the breeze. The view was cozy and slick: the shiny Spanish-style architecture of Silicon Valley. Detective Hector Mendoza was sympathetic but steely.

  “It’s even called the Favorite Grandson Scam,” he said.

  Kath looked shrunken to half size. Evan’s heart ached. She’d been clenching her fists since she spoke to Brian.

  “The caller ID was ‘unknown caller,’” Kath said. “I should have known, but when he said Mexico...”

  “Did the caller identify himself to you by name?” Mendoza said. “Did he say, ‘Hi, Grandma, it’s Brian’?”

  She shook her head. “He said, ‘Hey, it’s me.’ And I had to think for a sec, but I said, ‘Brian?’ And he said, ‘Right.’”

  Mendoza wrote it down.

  “His voice sounded rough. But I thought, he’s been in a car accident.” Kath lowered her eyes. “It was stupid of me.”

  Evan said, “No. It was logical.”

  She was thinking that when Kath had told her one of Brian’s friends was injured, she’d done exactly the same thing: filled in a blank, with the name Marc Dupree.

  “How did you send the money?” Mendoza said.

  “A wire transfer. From the Western Union in the shopping center, to Brian Delaney at the Western Union in Ensenada. Can you trace it? Find out who picked it up? I know it’s outside the U.S., but...”

  “Mrs. Wheeler, I’m sorry. But no matter the name and address on a wire transfer, it’s possible for anybody to collect the money anywhere in the world. He didn’t have to be in Ensenada. He could have been in the East Bay. Or Estonia.”

  Kath’s face paled. It looked like the last of her hope and self-respect draining away.

  “What can you do?” Evan said. “How do we track these bastards down and get my grandmother’s three thousand dollars back?”

  Mendoza’s sympathetic expression seemed to say, Really?

  She said, “How do these people know who to target? They apparently knew that Gram is a grandmother. Do they cold-call random numbers?”

  “Sometimes. Mrs. Wheeler, can you remember telling anybody in town about your grandson?”

  Her eyes went soft. “I tell everybody about my grandkids.”

  Evan put an arm around her shoulder. “Can you think of anybody in particular?”

  “The people at the bank. And the post office. And the library.”

  Mendoza said, “Sometimes they target people when there’s been a bereavement. They’ll look for funeral notices, or public records and court filings.”

  “My grandfather died in August,” Evan said. “His estate is in probate.”

  She could hardly swallow. Her rage was so blinding, the detective seemed to shimmer.

  She wanted her mother there, but Angie Delaney was a flight attendant, and was in Rio. Her dad would have broken legs for Kath, but he was in Washington, D.C. She dreaded telling Brian. His anger would be incandescent.

  “We have to do something,” she said.

  With a cheerful chime, Kath’s cell phone rang. Everyone fell silent. Kath pulled the phone from her pocket, and her jaw tightened.

  The screen said Unknown Caller.

  She looked at Mendoza. He nodded sharply. She set the phone on his desk and answered on speaker.

  “Hello.” Her voice held firm.

  “It’s Brian,” a man said.

  Acid rose in Evan’s throat. It wasn’t Brian. But with the noisy, staticky connection, it didn’t sound too far off. She stood and leaned over the phone.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said.

  He paused a long beat. “Cool. You get the cash?”

  “I got something better,” she said. “I’m at the Palo Alto Police Department. Detective Mendoza thinks he can help clear things up with the Ensenada cops.”

  The call went dead.

  Mendoza gave her an inscrutable look. “Proactive. That’s a tactic.”

  Evan’s pulse was thumping. Kath put the phone away. She looked even paler than she had before.

  Mendoza’s tone softened. “They won’t call back again, Mrs. Wheeler. They’re done going after you. Your granddaughter just saw to that.”

  “And we have no way to go after them?” she said softly.

  His eyes were concerned, and pained. “If you remember anything else, or come up with more evidence, let me know. I’ve got your report. Until then...”

  Evan took Kath’s hand, and they left.

  Outside, in the cheery California sunshine, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “My fault entirely,” Kath said. “I’m a grown woman, and I should know better.”

  But the loss of Evan’s grandfather was still raw. Kath wasn’t herself yet.

  “We won’t give up,” Evan said. “We’ll figure out a way.”

  * * *

  Day by day, it festered. Evan could see that the crime, coming on top of her grandmother’s grief, stuck Kath like a splinter: a sharp, outsize pain. Brian was horrified when Evan told him. It jabbed her, too. Scamming a widow—the psychopathic balls on these guys. Detective Mendoza got used to her phoning and stopping by to ask if there had been any breaks in the case.

  Weeks passed, and her paltry hopes shriveled. But she couldn’t let it go. Let it go, and she felt she’d be letting Kath down.

  Then, on her ninety-fifth call, Mendoza went quiet for a moment. “I’m heading out for coffee. Starbucks on University, if you’re in the neighborhood.”

  She got there in ten minutes, and Mendoza didn’t waste time.

  “We don’t have probable cause to arrest him for scamming your grandmother, but we think we know who did it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Man named Roger Inke. Runs a pawn shop on El Camino.”

  Evan was already steaming. “Why can’t you arrest him?”

  “Insufficient evidence. Inke’s a low-level con man, persistent and clever. The Favorite Grandson Scam is rumored to be his specialty. We arrested him for pulling it on another senior citizen, but last week his attorney got the charge dropped on a technicality.”

  “Roger Inke.”

  “We have no evidence tying him to your grandmother’s case. However, if you do...”

  “Are you asking? Hoping?” she said. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m telling you that as much as I hate this guy, as of today I can’t get him. But if you have the resources to pursue this on your own, it could be worthwhile. If you could substantiate your grandmother’s claim well enough to file a civil suit, it might be possible to obtain a judgment against Inke.”

  If they had the money to hire a lawyer, and a private investigator, Mendoza was telling her. Which they didn’t. It was a lesson not taught in class: the law didn’t guarantee justice.

  “The only evi
dence we have is what we’ve given the police department,” she said.

  “So far,” he said. “Think you could come up with more?”

  * * *

  Icarus Jewelry & Pawn sat on a barren patch of El Camino Real, the main business street that ran through Palo Alto. The display windows were stuffed with tat. On the second floor, a blue neon sign blared BAIL BONDS. It hit Evan again why the scammers had claimed Brian was in Mexico: to keep Kath from calling a California bondsman. The scam was as slick as grease. Anger filled her again, like an abscess.

  A buzzer rang when she opened the door. The shop’s interior was both shiny and dim. “We buy gold!” it promised, and it did, great dripping necklaces of it.

  At the back, Roger Inke sat behind the counter, beneath walls mounted with electric guitars and velvet Elvis paintings and laptops available for the price of a steak dinner. He was a thin man with a thin grimace and thinner eyes, reading Today’s Pawnbroker magazine. At his feet lurked a greyhound. The dog didn’t exactly sit, but hovered nervously over a dog bed, looking ready to bolt if anybody so much as smacked their lips. Judging by a photo behind Inke, it was a former race-winning greyhound. But as guard dogs went, a hamster would have been more threatening.

  Inke eyed her with disinterest. “What are you after?”

  She hesitated. What was she going to do—scream Vengeance! and leap on him like a banshee? She pointed at a painting and asked how much.

  “Forty-five dollars,” he rasped.

  “I’ll give you fifteen.”

  Behind her, a mailman slid a stack of letters through a slot in the door. Evan jumped at the sound. As the letters dropped to the floor, the dog sprang to its feet. It pranced down the narrow aisle and picked them up, daintily, with its teeth. It primped back, nails ticking on the tile, and Inke took them.

  “Good girl, Tyche.” He glanced at Evan. “Twenty.”

  The painting made her eyeballs ache, but she didn’t care to linger. She paid and left, her nerves vibrating.