Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

  Now it was his turn to be startled. “Excuse me?”

  “Ur-ine.” I broke the word up into two distinct syllables. “I smelled it from somewhere near that office. The human kind. And what’s with the White House kind of security on the cage? Doesn’t make sense,” I added for good measure.

  He smiled at me, the warmth returning to his face. “You’re good. You really are. Not many people would have noticed those things. If you ever want to go into law enforcement, you let me know. Meanwhile, I’m going to ask you again not to interfere with this case and,” he added, “come on, Lee. This really isn’t your job. It’s mine.”

  I gave him an initial hard look but relented, returning his smile after a moment. We both relaxed somewhat. After all, he was right, and I had a lot of work piled up on my desk. It was close to three in the afternoon, I was tired from the night before, and I really did want to go home.

  “Okay,” I said. I could see him let out a deep breath. I turned to leave, and he got in step with me. To my surprise, he started walking me to my car.

  Is he just being a gentleman or does he want to make sure I leave, the way I said I would?

  As I unlocked the door of the car, he said, “It’s been nice meeting you, Ms. Lee Alvarez, but I don’t want to see you back here again. Do I make myself clear?” The voice was still melodic and quiet, but there was an edge behind the words that made my mouth go dry. I got inside the car and started the motor.

  “By the way, were you inside the warehouse about a half an hour ago, as well?” He nodded toward the warehouse across the street.

  “No,” I stammered and felt like an idiot for allowing him to intimidate me this way. I cleared my throat and looked at him defiantly. “You saw me about one minute after I arrived. Why?”

  He didn’t answer, but took off his sunglasses and leaned into the driver’s side of the car smiling genuinely. His pale blue eyes searched mine for something. What, exactly, I didn’t know.

  “Give my best to your family,” he said. Then he abruptly stood up, checked for traffic left and right and slapped the top of the car with his open palm, a gesture I’d seen only in the movies. “It’s clear now. Pull out.” He turned and strode back to the warehouse. I did as I was told and headed for 101, becoming more and more irritated by the detective’s condescending behavior.

  “Just who the hell does he think he is, anyway?” I asked the sun visor. “Him and his good looking suit. It’s not even an Armani, for crying out loud!” I blustered, every inch the offended snob.

  By the time I got home, I had worked off some of my anger. I found the kitten in the middle of the black leather sofa having a nap. He looked so adorable; I decided then and there I would surround myself with felines instead of men for the next one hundred years or so. I would be different, however. I would forgo the rocking chair.

  Next to the cat were all of the toys I had bought plus several new makeshift ones. Stroking his head, I watched his little body stretch luxuriously under my touch. He never opened his eyes but purred loudly. I found a note in Spanish from Tío outlining the day’s activities in such detail, you would have thought I was an anxious parent needing reassurance from the daycare worker. From what I could surmise, my uncle left only about a half an hour before I arrived after an exhausting day for both of them. I knew if things continued at this level, the kitten should begin math and philosophy lessons the following week. I picked up the phone to let Tío know I had returned, and he answered on the third ring, barely concealing a yawn.

  “Hola, Tío,” I began, “I’m home,” and then repeated in Spanish, “Estoy en casa.”

  I told him a little about my day, and then, unfortunately, he began to press me on a name for his new charge. I glanced in the direction of the “little guy,” who had now arranged himself in a hilarious position. He lay on his belly with his head hanging down off the front of the sofa and his front legs stiffly pointing toward the easy chair. His back legs and tail stretched out behind him.

  “So, mi sobrina,” Tío Mateo questioned, “what do we call him, this ‘little guy’?”

  “How about Little Guy?” I offered lamely. Tío grunted his disapproval, so I added quickly, “Actually, Tío, I’m going to name him from a book written by T.S. Eliot.” From where this inspiration came, I don’t know, but I went with it.

  “Do you know who he is?" I asked, knowing full well Tío didn’t. When he confessed ignorance, I launched into a

  full explanation of Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, the poems therein, and the Broadway musical Cats.

  “I'm going to read it over again tonight and pick a name from it. If you remember, Tío, I auditioned for a road tour of Cats. Of course, I didn’t make the final cut. That was in the days when I thought I could be a dancer.”

  “You're a beautiful dancer.” He jumped in to defend my negligible talents.

  “Gracias, Tío.” I smiled at his protestations of my abilities despite the fact life had proven the contrary. I was, at best, a mediocre dancer and at this point of my life, an old mediocre dancer. I had learned early on that ambition may be given to many but talent to few. I also learned you need to be gracious about what you can’t do and grateful for what you can do. Dad taught me a lot of survival skills and that one goes to the top of the list.

  “Anyway, I want to give him a name from that book of poems. Tomorrow I'll tell you his new name. I promise.”

  I hung up the phone and viewed the day’s recorded tapes on the laptop in the living room while I drank hot tea and stroked the kitten that slept beside me. Convinced after one cursory examination nothing could be revealed without all of the tapes being entered into the database for sorting by the program, I fed them into the network computer and sent them off to Richard with my blessings. I also sent along an email message asking him to let me know as soon as possible if he found anything of interest.

  I took a cue from the kitten and fell asleep on the couch next to him while the six o’clock news blared in the background. I awoke abruptly around eight forty-five filled with anxiety and called Vets and Pets for the results of the Feline Leukemia test. They were negative, and I celebrated with the new “guy” in my life by broiling a steak and sharing half of it with him.

  Chapter Seven

  All In A Day’s Work

  The next morning was a workday. My six-thirty a.m. morning barre and floor exercises took nearly an hour. I had a quick shower, and went to my walk-in closet full of expensive, classic and trendy garments. Okay, let’s get one thing very clear up front. If it were up to me, I would be wearing stuff from consignment stores instead of clothes from some big-name designer.

  However, I have a trust fund left to me by my maternal grandfather; so, long ago, I came to the decision that because it was Mom’s father who left me the money, I would spend every penny of it on what is important to her, chic clothes. At any given time, I have nearly three-dozen suits by the likes of Escada, Versace, Yves Saint Laurent, and Chanel in a myriad of styles and colors. There’s also the assortment of dresses, shoes, handbags, and all the rest of the trappings of the well-appointed, executive woman, crammed inside this inadequate and frightened closet.

  Lastly, I’ve got a few pieces of fine jewelry tucked away in a safe under the hallway’s floorboards. I hardly ever put them on, but when I do, it’s more out of obligation than anything else.

  I make two weekly trips a year to New York City for the outfits I wear to the office. Anyway, that’s what I’ve told my mother.

  They’re actually purchased in-between sightseeing, ballet performances, and Broadway shows. Because I can wear nearly anything in either a size 6 or 8, I phone several of the shops that know me, ask one of the saleswomen to pick out what she likes in those sizes, charge it to my credit card, and have the clothes sent over to the hotel room. I keep whatever fits and return the rest. If I’m lucky, the whole shopping process takes about thirty minutes, instead of days, and no one’s the wiser. Then at the end of the year, I
donate most of that year’s clothes to a battered women’s shelter in East Palo Alto. One thing I like to see is a struggling, single mother of four wearing some of these glad rags on her way to work. It makes my day.

  I glanced out the window and saw it was a dismal day, gray and humid, with "spits" of rain falling intermittently. As a native Californian, I know the look of all day precipitation and that morning I had to remind myself that Northern California needed as much winter weather as it could get. It was a rare day in summer we see even a drop.

  Without the sun, the temperature had dropped into the low fifties, and I could feel a damp chill in the air. I chose a hot pink, two-piece, cashmere suit trimmed with black leather on its high-necked collar and peplum bodice. It was “bold yet classy.” That’s what the salesgirl told me. There are only two things I refuse to knuckle under on with Mom. One is color. Everything in my wardrobe is vibrant and bright. Not only do strong colors look best on me, they make me feel happy. No neutrals for me, much to Lila's dismay. Mom’s staple colors of gray, beige, and tan will never see the inside of my closet. Color me, please.

  The second thing is jewelry. Nearly anything that glitters on me comes from the silver mines of Tasco, acquired during our frequent visits to relatives in México. Like many other tourists, we often make side trips to Tasco, specifically for the handmade jewelry.

  The artisans there are famous for making spectacular silver pieces, often designed around semi-precious or precious gems. I purchased my first one-of-a-kind piece at the tender age of eleven and never looked back.

  That day, I chose swirling silver and onyx earrings, slipped on the matching bracelet, and pulled my hair off my face in a chignon at the nape of my neck. I really need to get it cut, I thought. It was half way down my back. I finished the outfit off with black leather, three-inch pumps and a matching handbag. I have a weakness for handbags; I must own fifty of them.

  Looking at myself in the full-length mirror, I caught a glimpse of the kitten, dear Little-No-Name, staring up at me as if he had no idea who or what I was. I scooped him up and laughed, as I hugged him. He was quickly gaining weight and had adjusted to his new home remarkably well.

  “Don't worry, little guy. I may look like something out of Vogue magazine, but it’s just me.”

  He batted at the shine on one of my earrings, and I made a mental note to get up twenty minutes earlier in the mornings to play with him. Not so much for him as for me. He had a relaxing effect on me. Then I noticed all the cat hairs on the front of my suit and decided to make it twenty-five minutes earlier. I knew I’d need another five minutes for brushing all the fur off my clothes. The doorbell rang and said feline and I went to answer it. After looking through the peephole, I opened the door wide and smiled at Tío.

  “Buenos días, Tío!”

  He shook the rain off a black umbrella, closed it, placed it under the eave outside the door, and entered stamping his feet. “Ah!” he said as he took the Furry One from me and placed him on one of his broad shoulders.

  Perfectly at home, the kitten balanced himself as he nuzzled the man’s ear. Keeping one hand up on the kitten’s body to prevent a fall, Tío strode the room looking around. “¿Dónde está el libro?”

  “Where’s the book?” I repeated in English, puzzled. “What book? Oh, the Eliot book. Right here, Tío.” I opened my handbag and took out the small, orange and black book. “Unfortunately, I fell asleep last night before I finished reading it. But I promise to at lunch, so tonight you will know his new name. I have a couple of ideas,” I added mysteriously, “but I want to pick just the right one.”

  “Bien,” Tío nodded, knowing that with me a promise was as good as done. “Mi querida.” He changed the subject hesitantly, as he looked earnestly into my eyes. “Your mama has asked me to move in with her permanently, now that Eva is gone, and you three are all I have left.”

  I stared at Tío hardly believing my ears. It had never occurred to me Mom would make such a generous and thoughtful offer as this. I had wondered what he would do with the rest of his life now that his beloved wife was dead, but I never imagined—

  Tío continued speaking, interrupting my whirling thoughts, “Last night your mama and me, we talk, and she said she thinks this is a good thing. The house is big—”

  “And sometimes she gets lonely, Tío,” I interjected.

  “Sí.” He nodded in agreement. “We do not say this is for always. This is just to try, to see. I may miss San Jose, my friends, and the life I had there, even though your Tía is no longer with me. Someday I may return to Mexico, too.”

  “You would be nearer to Richard and me, Tío, if you stayed here. Think about that.”

  His dark eyes bored into me. “That is what is on my mind, mi Sobrina. I do not want to do anything to upset you. You have your own life. Ricardo and I, we have already talked, but you, Liana, will this be too much for you? La verdad, por favor.”

  He knew only too well my fierce sense of privacy. Only a man as good and unselfish as he would want to know the truth even if it might hurt him or not be what he wanted to hear.

  “Oh, Tío,” I choked as I threw my arms around his neck, enveloping the purring kitten as well. “I think it’s wonderful, just wonderful. Let’s go out to dinner tonight to celebrate, all four of us.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll call Mom and Richard. Maybe even his new girlfriend will come. My treat.”

  "You approve?”

  “I approve!” I half-shouted. We laughed and hugged again.

  “Bien, bien! That is good.” He shook his head. “But no celebrations in restaurants when you have the greatest cocinero de México in all of the Bay Area,” he said proudly. “Besides, your hermano and his novia are busy tonight. We are thinking tomorrow night.”

  “Whatever you say, greatest Mexican chef in all of the Bay Area,” I repeated with a laugh. “Works for me.”

  “I will make tamales, Veracruz style, and other dishes, muy sabroso. You, your mama, Ricardo, and Victoria will come to the big house. I cook everything. We are going to have a fiesta.”

  “Qué bueno! Una fiesta!” I felt happier than I had in a long time.

  Tío took the kitten off his shoulder with a gentle hand and gazed at it in mock severity. “Except you. You cannot come. But you will be here learning your new name and playing with the many toys your new mistress has not so wisely purchased for you.”

  * * * *

  Shortly after nine a.m., I arrived at the place in Palo Alto where I have spent much of my life, 655 Forrest Street, Palo Alto, California. The three-story building, which houses

  D.I. is actually built on an angle facing the two corners of Forrest and Gilman. The exterior is of the same gold-beige sandstone that Stanford University’s older buildings were constructed of before the quarry petered out, so to speak, in 1950. Between 1890 and 1950, nearly every façade in and around the campus was constructed of stones quarried on Leland Stanford’s 8,000 acre farm, so I can only hope nobody was too surprised when the supply ran out one day.

  The Honor Blythe Building, named for a turn-of-the-century society matron, is one of the few non-campus buildings constructed of this sandstone to remain standing. It’s more than eighty-five years old, and its longevity is due largely to the bank that’s been on the ground floor since 1924. Modernized internally as the years went by, it still retains the original outside facade and was declared a historical landmark in the mid nineties, mostly due to Lila’s bulldogged efforts.

  Green ivy covers much of the structure now. In between the sidewalk and on either side of the building, two outwardly curved, brick parapets create a crescent shape allowing for a small, cobblestone courtyard, shaded by a two hundred-year old California Native Oak. Centered in this courtyard is a round, three-tiered stone fountain. Vivid blue and green colored mosaic tiles line each basin and birds drink and bathe in the cascading waters. In the bottom, larger bowl, four small goldfish dart in and out of mossy plants. Wrought iron benches placed around the perim
eter allow people to sit, rest, and whatever. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s a small bit of calm in an otherwise busy little town.

  The windows in the building are the original hand-blown, beveled glass, and the irregularity of the panes catches the sun’s light on all but the gloomiest of days. Inside the lobby, two stained glass light fixtures gleam in warm sepia tones, as they stand on either side of the doorway. These, and the complementary stained glass ceiling of the lobby, were designed and executed by Tiffany and Company. Not too shabby.

  Hurrying across the cobblestone, I scattered the birds fluttering about. I was anxious to talk to Richard about what he might have found on the tapes, as well as Mom about her generosity to Tío. I raced up the polished alabaster staircase, too impatient for the antiquated elevator to creak down to the ground floor.

  Not that I take the elevator, anyway. For one thing, as I always tell a client when I escort him or her to the lift and then head for the stairs myself, the elevator can only hold about one and a half people comfortably. If two or more want to go to the second or third floor, they get to know each other extremely well during the trip. This always gets a laugh.

  The second thing is — and it’s something I don’t like to talk about — I find the elevator to be so old and decrepit, no matter what Building Services says to the contrary, that the rattles of its ascent terrify me. I have this fear one day it might shudder to a stop somewhere between the second and third floors, and I might die a lingering death trapped inside. In any event, climbing stairs is good for you. Ask any doctor.

  I had run up to the third floor at such a breakneck speed, I had to stop for a moment to allow my heart rate to fall. Then I walked across the burgundy-colored, plush carpet toward the double doors of D.I. with the same feelings of ownership and pride I always have. Gold leafing on black ebony doors read simply: