by Leslie Karst
“It seemed like pretty much the same stuff as before.” He shrugged. “I dunno; maybe they think I was lying last time and hoped I’d say something different if they asked me again.”
“But they didn’t arrest you, so that means they still don’t think they have enough evidence for a charge to stick. That’s good.” But it’s not good that they came back a second time, I was thinking.
“Yeah.” Javier had slumped in his chair and was staring at the Gauguin print on the wall. “They did tell me not to leave the area, though.”
I snorted. “The police have no authority to prevent you from going wherever you want, Javier. I may not be a criminal defense attorney, but I do know that. They can only keep you from leaving if you’ve been charged and then release you on your own recognizance.” At his blank look, I added, “You know, let you out until trial without having to post bail.”
“Well, it’s not like I’d go anywhere, anyway. I’ve got my job here, and besides, where would I go?”
Mexico, was the obvious answer. And that’s certainly where the cops are afraid you’ll go. But I kept such thoughts to myself.
Javier shifted in his chair. “Also, I was wondering if you had any news about . . . you know . . .”
“As a matter of fact, I do. You got a minute right now?”
“Yeah. Reuben’s got it under control for the moment.”
I told him about meeting Kate and then what I’d found out about the letter-writing Ted. “So I think it might also be wise to start checking the produce deliveries and stuff like that, just in case he decides to strike again.”
“Great. That’s all I need: something else to worry about. As if I didn’t have enough problems already.” Javier picked up the small, wooden tiki that was sitting on the corner of the desk and rubbed its smooth surface absently with his thumb.
“But the good news is I think I might get the chance to meet this Noah guy in person this weekend. Who knows? Maybe I can get some important information from him.”
“Won’t that be kind of dangerous? If he knows you’re on to him—I mean, you think he might be the murderer, right?”
“Don’t worry, Javier. It’s gonna be in a room full of other people at some fancy-shmancy restaurant in Berkeley. And I’m betting he won’t know that I know about his secret identity. If Kate realized she sent that e-mail to me instead of him, I’m thinking she wouldn’t tell him. What good would it do? It sure doesn’t sound like there’s any love lost between them.” I was trying to convince myself as much as I was Javier. The prospect of meeting an ecoterrorist who had me on his hit list was more than a tad daunting. “Anyway, it’s more likely that she doesn’t even know about her e-mail goof-up. Besides, I’m thinking of taking the big, bad Eric with me. He can fend off any thugs who come my way.”
Javier set the tiki back on the desk with a laugh. The idea of the slender, five-foot-six Eric taking on anyone in a fight was pretty amusing.
“Oh, and another thing I forgot to mention about what I found out from Kate: so she’s at her farm working last month—fertilizing her carrots or some such thing—and out of the blue, this guy she doesn’t know drives up and starts harassing her—”
“Was it Tony?” Javier blurted out.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.” I looked at him hard. “Why do you ask that?”
“Uh . . . I guess it just sounded like him.”
“How could it ‘sound like him’? I didn’t even say anything about the guy.”
“I dunno; for some reason, it just reminded me of him.” Javier picked the tiki back up and fiddled with it, not meeting my eyes.
I stood up, leaned over the desk, and grabbed the tiki out of his hands. “Dammit, Javier! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you really keeping something else from me?”
He sighed. “Look, Sally, there is something I haven’t told you . . .”
I was incredulous. “How could you? This is your life we’re talking about. Do you really want to go to prison for murder?”
“No! It’s just that, well . . .”
I sat back down and shot him the gravest look I could muster. “Dígame, Javier.”
Another sigh, even bigger. “Bueno. So the truth is, about a month ago, I was at Dixon’s on my night off, when Tony comes in with this other guy. I’d been there awhile and had already had a few beers. The two of them sat at the other end of the bar from me, but Tony kept giving me these looks. I tried to ignore him and had a couple more beers, and well . . . I guess I was kind of drunk, you know?”
I nodded. “Got it.”
“So on my way to the bathroom, as I’m passing by where he’s sitting, I lean over and say something like, ‘You know, you may think you’re so special for Letta . . .’”
To Letta, I corrected him silently in my head.
“‘But I happen to know she’s got a girl on the side.’ Or something like that.”
At my open-mouthed look, Javier added, “I just wanted to piss him off, okay?”
“I can imagine that did the job.”
“Yeah, it did. He turned around in his chair and hit me. Hard. Right in the face. Gave me a bloody nose.” Javier’s right hand went to his nose, and he touched it gingerly. “It still kinda hurts sometimes.”
Realization hit me, like one of those light bulbs that appears over a character’s head in a comic book. “That’s why you had that pushing match at Letta’s repast. I get it now. And why you two were acting so weird at the wake. I knew that lame excuse you gave me before couldn’t be right. Why the hell didn’t you tell me this the first time I asked about you and Tony?”
“I was too ashamed.” Javier hung his head like a scolded spaniel. “I still can’t believe I betrayed Letta that way, by saying that to Tony.”
That word “betrayal” again. This was the second time in two days it had come up. I couldn’t think of a time when I’d heard it used before—in real life, that is, as opposed to a TV drama or a lurid romance novel. But then again, this case seemed to be turning into something like that, what with the love triangle between Letta, Tony, and Kate. No, make that a rectangle, because you had to add Javier to the equation as well. It was obvious that his jealousy was a major reason for his decision to taunt Tony that night at the bar, even if he wasn’t willing to admit it. And then there was that creepy Ted character, not to mention the mystery men in the photo and in the muscle car. Quite the collection.
“An’ so I was just worried that the guy you talked about,” Javier continued, “the one who came to Kate’s farm, that he mighta been Tony.”
“I don’t think so—not from the way she described him.”
“Good.” Javier’s face relaxed. “I’d feel even worse if I’d caused that kind of thing to happen. So you have any idea who it was? You think it might be someone related to Letta’s murder?”
I shrugged. “All I know about the guy, other than he drove some kind of macho car and acted like a total jerk, is that he’s got a Giants tattoo on his arm. You know of anyone with a tattoo like that?”
Javier looked pensive for a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t, actually. Which is kinda weird when you think about it. I mean, the Giants are so popular around here, you’d think lots of people would have that as a tattoo.” He stood up. “Look, I gotta get back downstairs. But you’ll let me know if you find out anything else, right?”
“I will if you will,” I answered, giving him a stern look. “There aren’t any more secrets you’re keeping from me, are there?”
“No, no more.” He made the sign of the cross over his chest. “I swear.”
Javier went out the door, and I could hear his quick, light steps descending the staircase. Turning to look out the window, I gazed down at the petals scattered over the grass next door like pink-and-white confetti and contemplated what I’d just learned. It didn’t seem from what Kate had said that it could have been Tony who had driven up to her farm that day, but Javier’s bombshell was making me rethink that assumptio
n. The timing was what made me nervous: the mystery man’s visit had apparently occurred just a week or so after Javier’s drunken blabbering to Tony.
I needed a definitive answer to the question, or I could tell it was going to drive me crazy. If nothing else, I needed confirmation that it wasn’t Tony so that I could move on to the other people on my list.
Standing up to stretch, my eyes strayed to the wall next to the window. There, tucked into the corner of the family photo, was the snapshot of Letta and Tony at the picnic table. Ah ha! It wasn’t the best likeness of him on earth, but it would certainly do. Since I knew Kate was going to be at the Slow Food dinner on Sunday, I could show it to her and find out once and for all if Tony was the mystery man. I took the snapshot from the frame and tucked it into my wallet.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday morning, I had a few errands to do before work. First on my list was stopping by Aunt Letta’s house. I was hoping to find the pink slip for the T-Bird, since I needed to change the insurance and registration to my name, but I also thought it couldn’t hurt to do a little snooping around while I was there. The key was in its usual place, on a nail at the back of the garage, and I let myself in through the side door into the kitchen.
The house smelled stale—not unusual when a place has been closed up for a while in this beach town. But it still gave me the heebie-jeebies. Even though Letta hadn’t actually died in the house, the dank air brought to mind the inside of a crypt or some other ghoulish place. Forcing open the stubborn wooden window above the sink, I took a few deep breaths and tried to get a grip on myself.
After a couple minutes, I felt relatively normal again and headed for the study. A filing cabinet stood against one wall. Let’s hope she was organized enough to have a file for the T-Bird. I was in luck. Removing the manila folder labeled “Car,” I checked to make sure the pink slip was inside and then set it on the desk. I then turned back to flip through the remaining files: “Maps,” “House Insurance,” “Water/Sewage,” “Instruction Manuals,” “Gardening.” No letters, photos, phone records, credit card bills; all the potentially helpful stuff had obviously been carted off by the police. Being second in line searching for clues was clearly a disadvantage.
I shut the cabinet and wandered through the house, trying not to think too much about how its former occupant met her death. Maybe something would pop out at me, something that the cops had missed but I would recognize as important, because of my superior analytical skills. Right.
After making an uneventful sweep of the house, I returned to the kitchen. Opening the drawers one by one, I poked idly through the myriad cooking utensils, flatware, aluminum foil, plastic bags, potholders, and cloth napkins that Letta had accumulated over the years. I was about to close a drawer overflowing with pens, scratch pads, scissors, a phone book, and a pile of to-go menus when my eye was caught by a small piece of card stock with a picture of a fish on it.
As I withdrew it from the drawer, it opened up accordion style. “Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch: West Coast Consumer Guide,” I read. Unfolding the card, I saw that it contained three columns: “Best Choices,” “Good Choices,” and “Avoid.” But more interesting to me was that there was writing in red ink on the card.
I sat down and studied the list. Some of the entries under “Best Choices” had been circled: Alaskan salmon, farmed scallops, yellowfin tuna (US troll- or pole-caught varieties), and US Pacific halibut. I recognized these as kinds of seafood currently on the Gauguin menu, but I wasn’t sure if they were from the sources listed in that column.
Other items, ones in the “Avoid” category, had lines drawn through them: Atlantic farmed salmon, imported farmed shrimp, imported swordfish, and yellowfin tuna (except troll, pole, and US longline). I also recognized these as Gauguin menu items.
Had Letta been the one who made these markings? I wondered. Had she been considering switching the fish choices at Gauguin? Or had someone who wanted her to do so marked the list and then given it to her? Too bad there was no handwriting on it that could be identified. I slid the card into my back pocket. Javier could tell me if Letta had talked to him about Gauguin’s seafood sourcing.
Next I tried the kitchen cupboards. Several had glass fronts through which I could see plates and dishes stacked high. Letta’s china was a hodgepodge of all completely different patterns—her “mad tea party” set, she’d called it. I wondered if my dad would let me have the dishes; he certainly would never use them.
Behind the wooden doors were Letta’s staples. One cupboard contained dry goods—flour, sugar, dried beans, rice, pasta—and the other, condiments. I rummaged through this second one. Maybe there were some things I could snitch for my own kitchen.
Dad probably wouldn’t want that unopened jar of fermented black beans, nor the harissa or mango chutney. Shoving aside a bottle of white wine vinegar (which he would definitely use), I reached for a small, red can and extracted it from near the back of the cupboard.
And then I laughed—a sort of ironic, sad chuckle. It was Letta’s pepper spray, in one of the least useful locations possible. I could totally see my aunt, in one of her distracted moods, seeing the word “pepper” on the can and absent-mindedly placing it on the shelf along with the hot chili oil and sriracha sauce.
I took the can and dropped it into my bag.
***
After stopping by the ATM for some cash and buying a new watch battery, I decided to stroll down Pacific Avenue before heading to Solari’s for work.
For several years after the big Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989, which destroyed some of its buildings and caused others to be red-tagged and torn down, this shopping area appeared to have gone the way of many city centers across the country and had become almost a ghost town. But then, after a nine-plex movie theater moved in, downtown Santa Cruz underwent a renaissance, and folks flooded back. It’s been a happening place ever since.
It felt good to take a break from my regular life—which, of late, seemed to consist solely of work and obsessing about Letta’s murder and what to do about Gauguin—and spend a couple hours on completely unrelated activities: window-shopping, checking out the racks at the Gap, and browsing the new arrivals in the cooking section at Bookshop Santa Cruz.
The day after my talk with Javier, I’d made a color copy of the snapshot of Tony and Letta, being sure to crop out the half with Letta in it. No need to further provoke Kate, I figured. I also called Eric to see if he wanted to accompany me to the Slow Food dinner on Sunday. He’d readily agreed upon learning he’d have the chance to meet the enigmatic Ted, not to mention get a meal on me at a swank Berkeley restaurant. Other than satisfying those two logistical details, however, I hadn’t made any progress in the last two days toward figuring out who might have killed Aunt Letta. And now the search of her house had pretty much been a washout as well.
For the moment, though, I was enjoying the warm sun on my face as I sprawled on a bench, sipping a latte, admiring the cherry blossoms as they fluttered in the breeze, and watching the world go by. Setting down my cup, I rolled up my shirtsleeves and pulled my sunglasses from my purse. After several weeks of cold and blustery weather, we finally had a truly warm day—bliss!
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, listening to the sounds of the passing parade. A pack of teenage girls were chattering about a boy named Ryan. A cyclist pedaled by with the rhythmic scraping of a misaligned chain. Several dogs barked in the distance, and a car horn beeped. A gruff, male voice started shouting.
The proximity of this last noise prompted me to open my eyes. An old man with gray stubble and a tattered, gray jacket to match was standing in front of the taquería across from my bench, shaking his fist and shouting at the patrons as they entered and exited.
As I watched his ranting, I noticed someone inside the restaurant at the table nearest the window staring out at me. It was Tony.
When he saw me returning his gaze, he smiled and waved. On an impulse, I stood up and walked into th
e shop and over to where he was sitting. He appeared to be alone, a partially eaten burrito and can of 7-Up on the table in front of him.
“Hey, Tony.”
“I thought that was you, Sally. How ya doing? You wanna eat?” He motioned to the chair across from him. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“No, I had a late breakfast, and I gotta be at work in a little while. I just came in to say hi. But I will sit for a minute if you don’t mind. I actually had something I wanted to ask you. Go ahead, though.” I nodded toward his plate and sat down.
Tony picked up his burrito and bit into it, wiping a dribble of guacamole off his chin with a paper napkin. He had on brown canvas work pants and, I noted with regret, a long-sleeve, white T-shirt. I wouldn’t get a chance today to see if he had a Giants tattoo on his arm.
“How’s Buster doing?”
“He seems to be doing pretty good. I’m sure he misses Letta—I sure do—and wonders what the hell’s going on, but he seems to like living with me just fine. Of course, it’s not that huge a change for him, since he’s used to hanging out at my house a lot.”
I nodded and watched as he took another bite and chewed, washing it down with 7-Up. “Nice day,” I observed. “Finally.”
Tony grunted. “Yeah, but the salmon sure aren’t biting.”
“Oh, right. I read that the season just opened. You go out this morning?”
“Yep. But I had to make do with a dozen sanddabs and a couple black cod. No one’s catching any salmon yet.”
“Overfishing?”
“Not by me, that’s for sure.” Setting his can down on the Formica table, he looked at me. “You wanna know what I think, though? Seriously? It’s ’cause we’re destroying their spawning grounds. Polluting the rivers and taking all the water for golf courses. And then there’s that farmed salmon. It’s even worse. They get covered in these sea lice, and then when they escape from their pens, they infect the wild salmon with ’em. It’s a disaster.” He shook his head in disgust and took another bite.