Mariachi Meddler

by D. R. Ransdell

  Mrs. Sfirakis handed me a coffee with a frothy top. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  The coffee was delicious. I wondered if I would have time for a refill. “I’m sorry about the screaming the other day.”

  “She’s an excitable young woman. I hope you’re not in love with her. Have a cookie.”

  The lemon circle melted in my mouth. “She’s a tease. I’m trying to get over her.”

  “I’m sure you will, and sooner than you think.”

  I didn’t try to stop myself from confiding too much. I wouldn’t be able to bend Joey’s ear at this time of evening, and sharing thoughts with my neighbor was safer than sharing them with Pablo. “I thought Yiolanda cared about me, or at least liked me, but I was wrong.”

  “I’m sure you’re not the first man she’s cornered. She was buried so deep into your couch I thought you were going to have to dig her out.”

  “I’d best buy a shovel and keep it on hand.”

  “A big one. I must say, I’m glad I’m past all that—the expectations, the waiting, the disappointing dates. Ych.”

  Shadow jumped in my lap, sniffed my chin, and started purring. “After your husband died, did you date anyone else?”

  “Not on your life.” She stirred her coffee and licked the spoon. “Men in your generation are a little different. In mine they expected maids and lovers rolled into one. If I found a boyfriend now, he’d expect me to make his breakfast and do his laundry. And at our age, his ding-a-ling wouldn’t even work.” She put her hand to her cheek and shook her head. “No more men for me. Next month I’ll go and visit my daughter—that’s all the company I need.”

  “Personally I have rotten luck with relationships.”

  Mrs. Sfirakis pierced my glance. “What happened to the young woman who left the key the other day?”

  “She’s boring.”

  Mrs. Sfirakis nodded, unconvinced.

  “She wants me to be the focus of her life. She wants to have a family.”

  “Maybe she loves you.”

  Shadow jumped off my lap, suddenly attentive.

  “I work half the night. That’s the wrong lifestyle for a family.”

  I heard a faint knock at the door. I was about to stand, but then I realized the knock was on my door, not Mrs. Sfirakis.’ I was prepared to ignore it.

  “Maybe you’re not ready for a family.”

  “Maybe I never will be.”

  Mrs. Sfirakis sipped her coffee. “That’s all right too.”

  A second, louder knock ruined my concentration. Mrs. Sfirakis hadn’t heard it. Shadow pointed herself towards the noise, but I captured her and plopped her on my lap. “Any relationship is a challenge.”

  Mrs. Sfirakis nodded her head up and down. “I loved my husband dearly, but my god! There were times I got so mad I couldn’t see straight. Not that I’m saying I would have done anything differently, but our marriage wasn’t a smooth path.”

  This time a loud knock accompanied my name, which I could faintly distinguish. A high-pitched voice. Yiolanda’s.

  “Did you hear something, Andy?”

  I pointed below. No cars were allowed in St. Michael’s Square, but motorbikes often sneaked through. “You mean like a honk?” I stroked Shadow so Mrs. Sfirakis wouldn’t know how much the cat pined to investigate.

  Mrs. Sfirakis shook her head. “I thought I heard a woman’s voice.”

  “You’d think I’d notice that!”

  “Strange.” She paused, and since I couldn’t think fast enough to come up with a segue, I shuffled my chair to make noise.

  “Help me!” Yiolanda whispered loudly. “I’m in danger!”

  If only I could have believed her. A small stubborn part of me wanted to.

  Mrs. Sfirakis set down her coffee glass. “Andy, I heard that voice again.”

  “I’ll check.” I set the cat down, bounded inside the apartment, and held my ear to the front door.

  “Andy, they’re trying to kill me!”

  I already knew what she would look like. A skimpy red dress, or a blue one, or a see-through blouse, and moist eyes, soft cheeks, delicate hands, and the faint scent of a French perfume. One made from flowers. She’d have an elaborate excuse about how, since I hadn’t left the money at the non-existent café, etc., etc., and then she would coyly ask if she could stay at my apartment. While I was at work, she’d be entertaining a new friend.

  Loudly I opened and closed Mrs. Sfirakis’ bathroom door before returning to my balcony seat. “You’re right! You did hear a woman’s voice. Some soap opera across the hall.”

  “For crying out loud. No wonder I always think I’m hearing things. You’d think the neighbors didn’t have anything better to do than watch TV. Here, have another cookie.”

  I tore into another yellow swirl, snapping all but a tiny corner in one giant bite.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  By the time I marched to the restaurant, I’d calmed down. I’d been made a fool for the last time. Finally I’d resisted her. Not definitively, because she didn’t know I’d been resisting, but each step of progress counted.

  I slipped in the back door and didn’t stop moving until I got to the stage where I could clutch my violin and feel official. As I peered cautiously over the edge of my instrument, I looked around for Yiolanda. One by one I checked her haunts: the bar, the back table, the cashier’s desk. Empty. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to face her right away. Instead I could ease into the night. Mentally that would give me more leverage though I told myself I didn’t need any.

  I felt so buoyant that I didn’t mind my friends’ taunting about Joey’s close call with Stefani. “She almost tore both his arms off,” Sergio told me. “You’re lucky he’s still alive.”

  “I’d never thought of her as dangerous,” said Hernando, “but if you ever live together, you’re going to need a fire extinguisher.” They’d collected ammunition for the next few weeks and delighted in tormenting me. I was glad for the diversion. Anything to get my mind off Yiolanda.

  Since we had a small crowd, we could afford to take small breaks between songs. Rolando came over to remind us that he wasn’t paying us to chat and then chatted with us for ten minutes. When we got bored we studied our audience. The three charming girls from Long Beach looked vaguely related. They were too young for me, but Pablo and I amused ourselves by playing psychoanalyst as we watched Sergio interact with them.

  “Enjoy your night off?” Pablo asked.

  “Sure. Sometimes you need a change in the routine.”

  Pablo shrugged. “I’m envious.”

  “We could find someone to fill in for you.”

  “Not this month. Too many bills.” Pablo worked hard enough, but he never seemed to get ahead. His wife didn’t work because they had two children under five.

  “Do you ever regret ... No. Never mind.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your lifestyle?”

  He took apart his trumpet and shook out the spit that had collected in the tubes. “One night off and you get philosophical on me.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “You mean the family thing, right? I don’t regret it. But it’s different. Nobody warns you how different it’s going to be.”

  “I need to come to a decision about Stefani.”

  “Another decision? Break it off.”

  “That’s what my brother said.”

  Pablo grinned. “So why are you asking me?”

  All night I was on guard, but as much as I anticipated giving myself a final test when I saw Yiolanda, I didn’t get the chance. She never appeared. Rolando said nothing about her but seemed his jovial self. No doubt, Yiolanda was off doing her own thing.

  That was all right too. I was glad she wasn’t around to bother Rolando or to bother me. She might as well spend someone else’s money and take someone else’s time. She wasn’t worth the investment. No matter the economic wave, she didn’t pay a return.

  We wrapped up e
arlier than usual because the remaining couples refused to clap to any of our songs. They weren’t being rude; they’d come for romance and were too wound up with their companions to need music to punctuate their advances.

  Corinna, who’d also had a slow night, emerged from the kitchen. “I have to fry some calamari or throw them away. Who wants some?” At the power of Corinna’s suggestion, I realized that all day long I’d only had the plateful of meringue cookies. As soon as the last of the customers paid the bill, the rest of the staff sat down to a feast. Rolando ate a plateful before begging off, claiming he was watching his weight, and pooh-poohed Corinna’s suggestion that a thin restaurateur was suspect. Hernando’s wife called three times to find out why he wasn’t home yet, but he turned off the ringer to prevent any more interruptions. Suddenly it felt like several years earlier, before Yiolanda, when we’d hung around together and had dinner every night, when the idea of being paid to stay up all night was a cherished novelty rather than an occupational hazard.

  By the time the phone rang, we were on our third or fourth round of Coronas and umpteenth round of calamari. Dennis got up to answer. As he came back to the table, still chewing, he pointed in my direction.

  “I’m not here,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” said Dennis.

  “Tell them I’ve gone.”

  “How can I say that after I reported you had a mouthful of squid?”

  “Say you were mistaken?”

  Dennis sat back down, tore off a piece of bread, and pointed at me with the rest of the loaf. “I will not tell lies to a woman who is calling you long-distance.”

  “Long-distance?”

  “The phone connection sounds weird.”

  Pablo punched me in the side, causing a fork to fly out of my hand and clatter to the floor. “Rachel. The one who was going to an island for the summer.”

  Then I did hurry to the phone.

  Rachel wanted to let me know she would be in Greece until the last day of September and that I could come visit any time before then. I didn’t have the heart to say I’d already taken a good deal of time off and couldn’t take any more. Instead I said I’d try.

  I returned to a table full of wishful gossipers.

  “No big deal,” I said “Rachel wanted to say ‘hi.’”

  “A woman calls him from Greece and he says it’s nothing,” laughed Pablo. He turned to me. “No wonder you aren’t married!”

  They descended into low cracks which, along with all the Coronas, seemed funny enough. On the walk home, I was still chuckling about them.

  When I got home I was too relaxed to feel sleepy, so instead I channel-surfed, mostly concentrating on reruns of 24. The phone didn’t ring until a couple of hours later. I was brushing my teeth at the time, so I didn’t answer. From the bathroom, I strained to listen to the message. Rolando’s quiet voice pushed away the sounds of dawn, but I couldn’t distinguish his words.

  I snatched the phone. “Hold on!” I spit out the toothpaste and wiped my mouth on my wrist. “Sorry. What’s up?”

  He took a deep breath, trying to get the message out in one shot, but it came out in sputters. “The police ... murdered ... outside Huntington Beach ... Yiolanda.”

  Oh, God, she’d done it again.

  “Identify body ... go along?”

  “Body?”

  “Maybe ... Yiolanda. Drive me?”

  “Wait.”

  “Hate … inconvenience you.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

  Dazed, I hung up the phone and started to dress.

  ***

  Rolando was waiting for me outside his building. Rather than say hello, he nodded recognition and swung onto the back of my scooter before it came to a halt.

  “I’m sorry—” I began lamely, as one always does.

  He shouted as I accelerated. “Maybe nothing.” He didn’t believe what he’d said.

  When we reached a red light, I twisted my head around so that I could look at him. “How did the police know to contact you?” Slowly Rolando opened his eyes. “Purse ... close to a body.”

  “Do you know where Yiolanda was going tonight?”

  “Out.”

  I wasn’t surprised.

  By the time we reached Huntington Beach, the sun was sneaking over the town and approaching the beach. Rolando directed me to stop at the third lifeguard tower south of the main beach area. We trudged over the sand to the shoreline below the observation platform that stretched out over the sea. A few early risers in jogging clothes huddled near the water. As we crashed their ranks, a young officer halted us.

  “Careful! This is a crime scene.”

  Rolando stared at the officer without speaking.

  “The victim may have been my friend’s wife,” I said. “You called and asked him to come.”

  The officer’s demeanor changed immediately. “My apologies. Let these gentlemen through!” He escorted us through the circle of police officers and medical staff to the prone figure covered by a white sheet.

  “Chief, this is Mr. Díaz.”

  An older man, crouched beside the body, rose and shook my hand. He looked pale in the growing light. “I’m Mr. Byczek, Chief Detective of Huntington Beach,” he told me. “I’m sorry to have to ask you to come here.” The thick hair on the left side of his head stuck out as if it hadn’t been combed for several days.

  “I’m a friend.” I put my hand on Rolando’s shoulder and brought him forward. “This is Mr. Díaz.”

  “My mistake.” He shook Rolando’s hand. “I’m Mr. Byczek, Chief Detective of Huntington Beach. I’m sorry to have to ask you—”

  Rolando spoke so softly that I could barely catch his words. “When the phone rang, I was praying it would be her.”

  “Christiansen!” shouted Byczek.

  I hadn’t noticed that our young escort had a woman’s black bag slung over his shoulder, but he immediately handed it over to Rolando.

  “Please examine the purse,” said Byczek. “It will spare you pain if we’ve erred.”

  Rolando took the bag as the new sun hit its clasp and shone in his face. Involuntarily he stepped back. “It’s hers.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Rolando unzipped the bag and looked inside. His eyes glossed over the contents, but he took out a wallet. “I bought this the first time we went to San Diego together. It has three compartments and two places for coins.” He opened the red leather and verified what he’d said. “She has credit cards with Visa, WorldCard, and Nevada Star Alliance.” He then showed us the cards. “And she carries one picture.” From behind the cards, he pulled it out. “This was taken the day after we married.”

  I knew the photo. The honeymooners were on a marina in Mexico. Clear blue skies riding the waves behind them promised a beautiful life.

  “Five years ago,” I said.

  “Five years next week.”

  Byczek reclaimed the bag. “We’ll need this for evidence, but it will be returned. There was no money inside. Was your wife in the habit of carrying cash?”

  “Enough for cab fare.”

  “Sorry,” said Byczek. “I must ask you to view the body. Rolando threw his arm around my shoulders while I wrapped my arm around his waist in an odd embrace.

  Byczek nodded, and his assistant pulled back the sheet.

  Yiolanda slept in a frozen pose as the sun highlighted her features. Wavy strands of hair spilled over her face, saving us the horror of looking her in the eye. Her neck was stretched sideways along the sand as it would be on a pillow, her hands caressing the terrain. I’d seen her lie that way before.

  Christiansen pulled the sheet further back. Yiolanda’s white blouse, twisted in strands of red, hung over a black mini-skirt that had scrunched up enough to reveal naked hips. The sand below was dark.

  “Is that—”

  “It’s her.”

  “She was shot from behind,” Byczek explained. “She wouldn’t have seen it coming. She probably die
d right away.” He motioned, and Christiansen pulled the sheet all the way off. Byczek pointed to her high-heeled sandals. The sides were scraped white. “Her shoes are beat up. Do you remember what they looked like before she went out last night?”

  “I was at the restaurant, so I didn’t see her dress. But she wouldn’t have gone out in scuffed-up shoes.”

  “That’s what I thought. We think she was running away from someone, but in this sand we can’t find a trail.”

  Christiansen gently shook the sheet. “All right?”

  Byczek nodded, and his assistant covered her.

  Rolando began wheezing and waving his arms. Christiansen and I helped him sink to the ground.

  “Anybody have water?” Christiansen called out.

  I sat next to Rolando on the cool morning sand. “What can I do for you?”

  He bent over, holding his forehead. “Wait.”

  From somewhere in the growing crowd, a bottle of mineral water appeared, and Rolando took several long swigs.

  Byczek tapped my shoulder. “Should we call an ambulance?”

  I squinted as I looked up at him. “I’m not sure yet.”

  We sat without moving while Byczek and his team mulled around making notes and asking for eyewitnesses, leaving us in our own world.

  “Okay,” Rolando finally told me. “I think I’m okay.” He stood slowly, placing his feet far apart for balance.

  Byczek peered into his face, concerned. “Shall we have someone drive you home?”

  “Andy brought me. Can we leave?”

  “We wouldn’t want to burden you with questions at this time.”

  “Now or later. It’s the same.”

  Byczek nodded. He had the quiet patience of someone used to standing back while people reacted to bad news. “We’ll do a full report later, but can you give me any ideas about what might have happened?”