Santa Cruz Noir

by Susie Bright

  Quiet on the other end of the line.

  “Do you even know how to hold one?” Susanna finally asked.

  “It’s just for show.”

  “What are you getting yourself into?”

  “It’s nothing. Rudy wants to meet again on his boat and I don’t trust him.” Yeah, even if her body tingled at the prospect of meeting him again. Even in the light of day sitting on the boat with him, the smell of him . . . Maybe she could persuade Rudy to take her into the privacy of the cabin, suggest a little addition to the bargain.

  “Are you still there?” Susanna asked.

  “So what do you say?” Molly pressed.

  “If I go along with this hare-brained scheme, I swear, you better cough up every sordid detail of what you and Rudy have going on.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  * * *

  A stiff ten-knot wind in the harbor had every rigging chiming. Below the halo of a single dock light, Rudy unlocked the gate. It clanged behind them. He put his hand right on the small of Molly’s back.

  “Pretty dark out here,” Molly murmured.

  “There aren’t any other live-aboard’s on N dock.”

  Molly snaked a hand into the pocket of her wrap. The butt of the gun steadied her nerves.

  Rudy helped her over the boat’s edge.

  She turned toward his locked cabin door. “It’s a bit chilly, right?”

  “Romantic, though,” he said. “Out here with the sound of the sea.”

  Romantic. Molly swiped a loose curl from her forehead. She took a seat again in his fiesta chair. Rudy crossed the deck holding two fishing rods she hadn’t seen before. He hovered by the outboard, adjusting a couple of levers.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Thought we might do a little night fishing.” Rudy yanked the starter. Molly struggled up from the chair. “I’d stay seated,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to lose your balance and fall over.” He yanked the rope again. When the engine caught, he adjusted the choke. “What’s the matter, dollface? Thought you liked fishing expeditions.”

  Molly calculated her options—riding out to sea with this man or pulling the gun now. The stink of the engine fumes made her stomach churn.

  “You know, two can keep a secret if one is dead,” Rudy whispered in her ear.

  In spite of everything, his breath stirred Molly right down to her tangerine toenails. She pulled out the weapon from her wrap.

  “What are you planning to do?” Rudy chuckled. “Shoot a gull?”

  She leveled the barrel at his chest.

  “Take your finger off that trigger,” Rudy said.

  “Hey, I have the gun . . . I give the orders.”

  In one move, Rudy twisted her wrist, took her gun, and knocked Molly out of the chair. She tumbled to the deck, scraping her bare legs. His full weight fell on top of her and an embarrassing sound squeezed from her body.

  “Now I have the gun, sweetheart.”

  Molly struggled to get up, and he allowed her that. Blood trickled down her calves. Rudy kept the gun trained on her as he eased the boat out of its slip.

  They burbled out of the harbor, through the channel, past the riprap of the jetty, past the lighthouse, and into open water. Molly shivered. Her thin dress was meant for seduction not sailing. Although it didn’t seem like Rudy intended to hoist either her dress or the sails.

  A pod of dolphins broke the surface of the open water off the bow. Molly swallowed. Dolphins are good luck, she told herself.

  The boat slowed and bobbed in the swell. On the starboard side, the distant lights of the wharf and Boardwalk winked through the fog.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Molly said.

  “Oh no you don’t.”

  “So, here we are,” said a throaty voice.

  Molly snapped her head toward the sound. “Susanna!”

  “Hi, Molly.” Sue was elegantly coiffed even here. She wore latex gloves and held a gun that looked like the one Rudy had used at the bank.

  Molly gulped.

  Sue pointed the gun at Rudy first.

  “Now wait a minute, dollface,” he said.

  “Didn’t you call her that about two minutes ago?” Susanna waved the gun back at Molly. Molly shrieked and Sue snorted. Then she returned her aim toward Rudy. “You were going to negotiate with this pink-faced idiot? Thought you could charm her pants off, huh? Have her join our little venture?”

  Rudy moved in toward Susanna. “Doll, in case you haven’t noticed, I have Molly’s gun in my hand.”

  “It’s not loaded.”

  The cold wind whipped hair into Molly’s eyes. “Sue, you gave me an unloaded gun?”

  “Hey, you said yourself it was just a prop.”

  Rudy pulled the trigger. An empty click.

  Susanna fired her gun straight into his heart; he keeled over without another word.

  Straddling his body, Sue shook her head. “So average. Like I said.”

  Molly’s heart exploded. “You’re the accomplice?”

  “A little hiccup happens to be lying here,” she said to Molly as she slipped the weapon into her waistband. “Let’s tie some weights on him and get him overboard.”

  “Fifty percent?” Molly said.

  “Of course.”

  They pulled out fishing line and weight belts from a deck box. It took the two of them to wrap him tight and hoist his 170 pounds, plus the weight belts, over the side. He sank like a stone.

  Cackling, Susanna launched into the first bars of “Octopus’s Garden.” “Wish I had my ukulele now.”

  Molly shivered. “But we’re stuck out here.”

  Susanna stopped singing about wanting to be under the sea. “Hah! I know this boat better than he did. Who do you think sold him this wreck?”

  Molly shook her head. Of course.

  “Now, about that deal . . .” Sue scratched behind her ear.

  “Yes?” Molly’s teeth chattered.

  “Here’s your 50/50, dollface.” Susanna drew the gun back out of her waistband. “You can either go overboard voluntarily, saving me some work, or I can shoot you first.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “Seriously? Me, friends with someone who never advanced beyond teller?”

  “You can keep all the money.”

  Susanna laughed. “How very generous of you.” She gestured with the barrel toward the water where Rudy’s body had disappeared.

  Dripping with misery, Molly looked at the waves roiling below. “But why, Sue?”

  “Any woman stupid enough to trust Rudy Carmona deserves to die.”

  A swift jab with the gun sent Molly flailing backward. Icy shock surrounded her. She gulped salt water and then bobbed to the surface.

  Above her, Susanna waggled her fingers and launched into a deep-throated rendition of “Under the Boardwalk.”

  Molly treaded water, her wet wrap tugging her down. The distant lights taunted her. Never much of a swimmer, she took a floundering stroke.

  The boat turned and putted toward shore, wagging its stern at her. The water’s phosphorescence lit the scrolled lettering on the stern: Karma II.

  PART III

  Good Neighbors

  TO LIVE AND DIE IN SANTA CRUZ

  by Calvin McMillin

  UCSC

  Maybe it’s just misplaced nostalgia, but I’m one of those people who still buys the newspaper. When I was little, my dad would leave our trailer every Sunday morning and come back with a box of donuts and three different newspapers cradled in his arm like a football. All these years later, I’m still not sure why our household needed so much news coverage. I always reached for the comics. Unfortunately, there was nothing comical about this Sunday’s edition of the Santa Cruz Sentinel.

  Graduate Student Found Dead on Campus

  Julie Chan, Staff Writer

  The body of a UC Santa Cruz graduate student was discovered early Saturday morning on campus grounds, according to a university
press release.

  The deceased was found in the vicinity of the student health center, which is located on McLaughlin Drive across from College Nine. Campus police are currently handling the investigation.

  The student’s name has not been released to the public as authorities are attempting to notify the next of kin.

  Next of kin. The phrase gave me goose bumps. I tossed the newspaper in the backseat of my Mustang and looked up the Sentinel’s homepage on my phone.

  PhD Student Died From Apparent Fall from Bridge

  Stephanie Williams, Staff Writer

  Elizabeth White has been identified as the UC Santa Cruz graduate student found dead on university property last Saturday morning. She may have fallen from one of the pedestrian bridges on campus. White was a PhD candidate in literature and lived in graduate student housing.

  Campus police have cordoned off a footbridge located near the student health center. The bridge is suspended approximately seventy-five feet above the ground. This summer, new five-foot-high guardrails were installed to address safety concerns.

  White attended high school in Battle Creek, Michigan, and was an honor student in English at Michigan State University before coming to Santa Cruz three years ago. Friday marked her twenty-fifth birthday.

  That last line hit me hard. I didn’t cry; I just stared at that sentence, wondering why bad things happen to good people, as if I were the first person in the world to ever ask the question. I killed the engine and swung the car door open.

  Composed of a trio of buildings, graduate student housing was billed on its official website as “a friendly neighborhood consisting of eighty-eight scholars hailing from different countries across the globe.” I couldn’t care less. I just needed to talk to two of those eighty-eight. Not coincidentally, they shared an apartment on the fourth floor of Building 3.

  After knocking on the door, I stood back from the peephole so whoever was inside could get a good look. A redhead with soft bangs wearing a Banana Slug hoodie answered the door. I must’ve looked respectable.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I called yesterday. I’m Elizabeth’s sister.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth’s room was clean and well-lit, but otherwise unremarkable: a bed, a nightstand, a desk, a swivel chair, and a bulletin board without a single note. All standard issue from the university. No posters. No photographs. Aside from a trio of succulents on the windowsill, it was as if Elizabeth hadn’t made herself at home. At the foot of her bed stood a bookcase filled with literary classics, trashy best sellers, and phone book–sized anthologies, many of them stacked artfully, others shoved haphazardly into every available nook. If there had ever been an earthquake in the middle of the night, the looming bookcase could have easily crushed Elizabeth in her sleep. She didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

  On the top shelf stood a little plastic doll—a woman in a frilly bonnet wearing an old-fashioned blue dress. She held a book in one hand and a quill in the other. I’d never seen it out of the package. I couldn’t help myself; I had to pick it up.

  “That’s Jane Austen,” said Alice, the redhead. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know who it was either. I thought it was an Amish woman!”

  I smiled and put the figure down carefully.

  “I should probably give you some privacy,” Alice said.

  “Actually, do you mind chatting with me for a bit?”

  “Not at all.” Alice sat across from me on Elizabeth’s bed.

  “I’d like to learn more about my sister’s life here in Santa Cruz before she . . .” I let the sentence trail off and put my head in my hands. The tears came easily.

  “Lizzy was a great person!” Alice exclaimed, as if enthusiasm alone could mute my feelings. “She was super nice. Polite. Always kept the common areas clean. I never had any problems with her.”

  Nice? Polite? Clean? Obviously, Alice barely knew Elizabeth.

  “And Lizzy was such a go-getter!” she added. “Always attending some conference or taking a research trip. She even taught her own class!”

  “What about her social life? Did she have any friends? I mean, besides you.”

  Alice looked embarrassed; clearly, she didn’t count herself as a friend.

  “Was she seeing anyone? The police didn’t say.”

  “Yeah, she was . . . His name was Chet, I think.”

  “Chet?” I laughed. “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. He’s handsome. Oh, and he’s in the creative writing program.”

  “Does he live in student housing too?”

  “No, Lizzy said he lives near the Boardwalk. In that old apartment complex with the bell tower. God, he must be devastated.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, he had it bad. He sent her bouquets of flowers, one after the other, right up until the, until the—” Alice tried to catch herself.

  “Until the end?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” She averted her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it. When’s the last time you saw Chet?”

  “Maybe a month back. I came home late. To be honest, it kinda freaked me out seeing a guy come out of our bathroom in the middle of the night.” Alice pointed to the hallway. “The funny thing is, he looked twice as scared as me and super embarrassed.”

  “I see.” An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

  “It must’ve been an accident, right?” Alice said. “I know grad school is stressful, but I didn’t think she’d commit suicide.”

  “She’s not the type. Believe me, I’d know.”

  “Of course, you’re sisters.”

  We exchanged polite smiles.

  “Y’know,” Alice said, grinning like she’d just thought of the perfect joke, “I sort of forgot that Elizabeth was adopted.”

  “Adopted? What makes you say that?”

  “Uh, well, I—” Her smile faded.

  “You don’t detect a family resemblance?”

  “Um . . .”

  Before I could let Alice off the hook, I heard the front door open.

  “That must be Natalie,” Alice said. “You should talk to her. She and Lizzy were in the same department.”

  We stared at the open door until Natalie came into view. A black Bettie Page bob framed a pair of deep blue eyes and a delicate face. In one hand, she clutched a large soft drink and in the other, a bag of takeout that was sweating with grease.

  “Natalie,” Alice called out, “come here and meet Lizzy’s sister.”

  I stood up, but Natalie’s hands were full, so instead of offering my hand to shake, I gave her a little wave and sat back down.

  The sound of crickets chirping punctuated the awkward moment, as Alice scrambled to silence her phone. “Sorry, that’s my cue to leave. I have a meeting with my advisor.”

  We exchanged pleasantries, and I remained seated as Alice left the apartment.

  “So, why are you here again?” Natalie asked between sips of soda.

  “To learn more about Elizabeth.” I made a gesture inviting her to take a seat. She refused, towering over me.

  “Liz was a slut,” she announced, the smell of french fries on her breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, Liz. Was. A. Slut.”

  I jumped to my feet. “How could you even say that to me?”

  “Easy. Liz didn’t have a sister. So you better tell me who the hell you are before I call the cops.”

  I felt numb. Instead of offering a quick denial, I smiled to suggest that Natalie’s accusation hadn’t rankled me one bit. “Okay, you caught me. I’m not Elizabeth’s sister. No relation at all. I’m Stephanie Williams of the Santa Cruz Sentinel, and I’m doing a story on Elizabeth’s death.”

  “So you pretended to be her sister?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone would talk to me if I told the truth.”

  “Sounds a little unethical to me.” Natalie sat on the bed, suddenly interested.

  “There’s a s
tory here. I’m sure of it. Elizabeth was intelligent, beautiful, and in the prime of her life—and then, suddenly, she ends up at the bottom of a ravine? Why kill herself?”

  “Have the police confirmed it was a suicide?” Natalie asked.

  “Not yet. But depression is a big problem among graduate students. I thought I could shed some light on Elizabeth’s story.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Natalie asked.

  “You called her a slut.”

  “Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Liz didn’t exactly play hard to get, if you know what I mean.”

  “Alice didn’t mention anything like that.”

  “Her room is on the other end of the apartment. She couldn’t hear a peep.”

  “But you could.”

  “Hard to miss. I’m right next door.”

  “And what exactly did you hear?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, if you must know, she and her . . . boyfriend made so much freakin’ noise.” Something about the way Natalie said “boyfriend” made it sound illegitimate. “I teach a discussion section at nine in the morning. Hard to get any sleep with her going at it all night.”

  “Has your relationship with Elizabeth always been so strained?”

  “Actually, no. We were close the first year. That’s how I know about her family. But we drifted apart.”

  “Aren’t you both in the same department?”

  “Yeah, but I do postcolonial studies. Liz isn’t exactly a serious scholar. She’s into Jane Austen. I mean, can you think of anything fluffier than that? And my god, have you ever read Mansfield Park? Complete garbage.”

  “So, you had a falling out over . . . Jane Austen?”

  “No, it was over the bathroom. She wanted things spotless. No matter how much I cleaned, it was never enough. And don’t get me started on all her little passive-aggressive comments.”

  “Such as?”

  “Liz was a strict vegetarian.” Natalie held up the bag in her hand. “If I want to eat Jack in the Box, I’ll eat Jack in the Box. It’s none of her business.” She reached into the bag and popped a soggy french fry in her mouth.