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

by Heather Haven

  He lowered his hands and wiped his eyes, this time on a paper napkin. “Oh, I knew from the first week you weren’t who you were pretending to be. I suspected that Lenny hired you to find me out. Before you did, I was hoping I could scare you into quitting.” He snorted. “No way.”

  “But how?” I pressed. After all, I was quite a good actress, I thought, really getting into the part and all that.

  “Your underwear, for one thing.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, nearly spilling coffee down the front of my blouse.

  “Oh, sure. One day you bent over in front of me and those baggy, black pants you were wearing came down below your…ah…panty line and I saw the La Perla logo. They’re all over the Internet.”

  “You saw the La Perla label on my underwear?” I managed to get out.

  “Sure. Those things cost about fifty bucks each. That’s all that JLo wears.” He went on, warming up to the subject. “Now a real down and out woman with children in East Palo Alto would be more like my mom, wearing something from Wal-Mart.” He looked at me. “Wouldn’t she?”

  I looked back at him, speechless.

  “Then I started paying attention to the way Lenny wasn’t talking to you. He’d talk to everybody else but not you, and I wondered why. So then I decided to follow you home on my moped and saw you get off the bus at that shopping mall, get into that really neat car, and drive here.”

  “I think the wrong person is the PI here,” I said, getting up for a second cup of coffee.

  “That’s why when Lenny told me to wait in the car that night I got to thinking I got duded out.”

  “So you traced his steps, saw the Discretionary Inquiries sign, and ran. That was two days ago. Where have you been ever since?”

  “I’ve been hiding out in the public library during the day and spending the nights at Bingo Bango when everybody left. I haven’t been getting much sleep.”

  “You look pretty wrung out. Why did you come here night before last?”

  “I was hoping I could talk to you. Maybe you’d convince Lenny not to put me in jail.”

  “But I scared the bejesus out of you, and you took off.”

  He inhaled a jagged breath, nodded and reached for his sandwich again, absently stroking a purring cat with his free hand. I had a feeling Tugger was a better judge of character than I was. “By the way, your other shirt is in the back of my car.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “When I’d called home and told Mom about what I did to Lenny, she said I couldn’t come home until I made up for it. She said I had to give the money back I took, apologize to Lenny for stealing the codes, and then to you for being so nasty. It was the only Christian thing to do. I’ve been waiting for you ever since, so I can go home. That’s before I go to jail, I guess.”

  “Leonard’s not pressing charges, but this does explain the strange voice mail message I got the other night, where he sounded more guilty than angry.”

  “He’s not going to send me to jail?” Robby said. “What a relief. Maybe the fact I’m his half brother means something.”

  “I should have guessed. You two do resemble each other,” I said, shaking my head. “I remember once I looked at the back of Leonard and thought it was you, only….” I stopped myself and stared forward. “Dios mio.” I set down the half empty cup and stood up, banging the palm of my hand against my forehead. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  “What is it?” Robby said, dropping the sandwich. “You’re not going to become violent again, are you?”

  My cellphone rang, and I reached for it, looking at the number of the incoming call. ”Richard,” I blasted. “Why didn’t you tell me that Leonard Fogel and Robby Weinblatt were half-brothers?”

  “What? How can that be?”

  “Oh, it can be,” I retorted. “I’m sitting here with Robby right now, and he told me the story of their lives. He and Leonard have the same mother but different fathers.”

  “Well, that partially explains it, although it doesn’t justify the slipup on our part,” he said. “I’m sorry, Lee, but we were given specific instructions by Lila to check only so far back on the backgrounds of each employee. I remember that Len was in San Diego living with his father before moving here a year ago, and Weinblatt’s been in Bakersfield until about six months ago. I did notice their mothers had the same first name, but ‘Mary’ is such a common name. Lee, I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “We weren’t really looking for that type of connection. You’d think Len would have been forthcoming with that.”

  “You’d think,” I said. “Moving on, have you heard from Lila?”

  “No, but I just got in some information on this Ramírez de Arroyo character.”

  “I thought you were bartending tonight.”

  “I’ve been reprieved. Victoria knew something was going on, and I’ve given her the highlights, so I’m doing research instead of playing host.”

  “That woman’s a saint, Richard, in a custom-made hat.”

  “Don’t I know it, but back to Estaban Ramirez de Arroyo. I managed to get all the birth records for the past fifty

  years for anyone with that name in both Spain and Mexico—”

  “What you can coax out of a supercomputer,” I interjected.

  “It’s a program.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Anyway,” Richard said dismissively, “he isn’t from Barcelona, as he claims. He just went to college there. He was born and raised in Guanajuato and Julio de Arroyo Mendez, the co-owner of Mesoamerican Galleries is his--”

  “Brother,” I interrupted.

  “Cousin,” Richard corrected.

  “Close enough. This is all making sense to me now. I’m pretty sure I know where that missing truck is heading, and I’m on my way over there right now to look for it. Listen, call Frank and tell him I think I’ve located the ownership of the ceramic knife, and--”

  “Wait a minute, where are you going?”

  “Hey, what about Tex?” I asked, not answering his question. “Maybe Tex knows where Mom is.”

  “She doesn’t pick up at either the rancho or on her cellphone.”

  “Hmmm. Call Señor Lopez. Maybe he can tell you something.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ve got to run. Keep me posted.”

  “Lee, tell me where you’re going.”

  “Why don’t we keep this on a need to know only basis?”

  “Tell me or, I swear, I’ll track you down and come and get you. You know I can do it.”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down,” I said. “Mesoamerican Galleries. I’m going to check out a few things. Maybe I’ll just sit and wait and see what happens.”

  “Wait? For what? You’re not going to try to get inside, are you? That’s breaking and entering!”

  “Richard,” I said, “during this whole fiasco I’ve made every wrong choice I could possibly make. I’m not going to be doing anything like that again, so don’t worry about it. That truck’s had over a twenty-four hour start on us. In a few hours, I think it’s going to come barreling up University Avenue heading straight for the gallery. I would like to be there to greet it.”

  I hung up before he could say another word. My phone started ringing again almost immediately, and one glance told me it was Richard again. Brothers can be such a pain.

  I turned the cellphone off and looked at the kid cooing in my cat’s face. “Robby, everything’s going to be all right, at least for you. Try not to worry. We can talk about this more in the morning. I’ve got something else I need to deal with right now.” I hustled my bustle to the inside door that goes down to the garage and my car.

  “I’ll go with you. Maybe I can help,” he offered, about to stand.

  “Thanks but no thanks. Why don’t you call your mother, tell her you’ve done the Christian thing, and you’re going to be home sometime tomorrow? Meanwhile, the linen for the pullout couch is in the closet over there. Likewise for the towels,” I said, pointing. “You’re free to sta
y here for the night, if you’d like. You look like you could use some sleep.”

  His face lit up like a soccer stadium. “Wow, dude, thanks. Can I play with your cat while you’re gone? What’s his name?”

  “Tugger, and he’s an indoor kitty, so don’t let him out. He’s got food in the fridge, and he could use some fresh water.” I opened the door and hit the lights, looking down at the garage steps. Turning back to Robby, I added, “This door self-locks behind me. I don’t know when I’ll be back, so don’t wait up.” I slammed the door shut, took the stairs two at a time and got into my car.

  The first thing I did was to unlock the glove compartment and check for the nylon holster housing my new snub nose. I would have preferred the one I’m used to, the Detective Special, but that was under the floorboards in the living room, and I couldn’t chance that Robby might see me take it. Nothing scares people like a loaded gun, and he looked scared enough already.

  Regarding the Colt Royal Blue residing in my glove compartment, I got carried away at a gun show. It was pretty. It matched the car. It was on sale. I named it Lady Blue and had only used it three times on the practice range. At that point, I’d never aimed a gun at anyone, much less shot them.

  I checked to make sure it was loaded. There was extra ammunition in the glove compartment, and I knew I was set. As I was backing out of the driveway, I turned the cellphone on for an instant to give Tío the news about my houseguest. Knowing my uncle, he’d walk over with a tray of his homemade soup for Robby.

  Just as I was hanging up from Tio, I heard the signal that someone was trying to reach me on my other line. It was Richard; I turned off the cellphone again without answering it. I didn’t need any lectures about what I was doing. In my gut, I knew everything was tied to that gallery. Like that truck rushing up the highway, I had a rendezvous with Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent god of the Toltecs and Aztecs. Nothing was going to get in my way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Sleigh of the Hand

  The annual Palo Alto Wine and Food Fair was scheduled to begin the following day and run through Sunday night. From eight in the morning to eleven o’clock at night, all the merchants on University Avenue hawk their wares on sidewalks in between booths of participating California vintners and well-known restaurants selling delectables. Local artists demonstrate their talents and musicians perform, while strolling patrons drink wine and nibble on high-caloric goodies.

  For those seventy-two hours, sidewalks promised to be jammed with foot traffic spilling out into the roadway, including families pushing baby carriages or attached to large dogs. Roads are blocked off and local busses and trucks rerouted, so happy shoppers won’t find themselves under the wheels of passing vehicles. Palo Alto becomes a town in full swing twenty-four hours a day for those three days.

  If a truck being sought by two countries wanted to unload its contraband in an alley behind a gallery, it would have to arrive the night before all the madness began. Otherwise, there would be a three-day wait, risking detection. I was sure the driver had an open throttle to get here in time.

  At ten-thirty p.m., I parked on University. I found a space by a pizza parlor down the street from the gallery and leapt out of the car. I was wearing dark green slacks, good, but a white blouse, bad. I keep a multi-pocketed black jacket in the trunk of the car, along with other staples. Opening the trunk, I threw the cotton jacket on and buttoned it to the top. I also grabbed a small screwdriver, pencil flashlight, can of mace, and an old, thick credit card that had gotten me into more places in the middle of the night than my fake ID and a low-cut blouse.

  Getting back in the car on the passenger’s side, I surreptitiously shoved the holstered snub nose into one of the jacket pockets, spare ammo into another, and the cellphone into a third before I got out of the car again and locked it.

  I figured I couldn’t get into the gallery itself, odds on it having a sophisticated alarm system, but I could wait in the back alley. This way I would be on hand for whatever arrived in the dead of night, like a truck zipping up from Mexico loaded down with smuggled goods. Beforehand, I wanted to case the front of the building, Phillip Marlowe style.

  Shops had locked their doors and gone home but chic restaurants and designer bars were open, as usual. Everything looked calm before the three-day marathon began in pursuit of the almighty dollar. Groups of people sauntered by, oblivious to a lone woman strolling toward a three-story building called Mesoamerican Galleries in the middle of the block.

  A tall, hatted man, draped in shining chains, hurried down the sidewalk heading in my direction. Race! I scooted into the shallow entrance of the closest store, scrunching myself into the dark doorway. Heavy boots on the sidewalk echoed within my small chamber as he strode by. I emerged and watched his retreating figure. Had he come from his own nearby gallery or had he come from Mesoamerican’s? I continued on to the gallery but looked back over my shoulder from time to time. Race had vanished into the night.

  Closing in on my prey, I pressed my nose to the plate glass that shimmied all the way up the front three floors of the building. Inside, about twenty feet back from the glass, were

  two white walls, two stories high, reaching up to the open-air balcony of the third floor. A hallway ran through the middle of the walls to the back of the gallery. Spotlighted paintings and art pieces, strategically displayed, climbed up each wall to the pale oak trimmed railing of the top level. On the bottom floor and to the right, a red carpeted, circular staircase with an oak banister led up to the third floor. I noticed it was roped off at the top. That floor probably functioned as storage and the rope was to discourage visitors, which didn’t work on me.

  While I pondered if there was any way of getting inside without setting off the alarm, a shadow moved across a light source from somewhere in the back, on the other side of the great, white walls. Was I lucky enough to find someone still inside? I pushed at one of the double glass doors, fully expecting it to be locked. Wonder of wonders, the door swung noiselessly open, followed by a “ding-dong” sound overhead. I stepped inside, hoping I’d come up with a plausible reason to be there.

  A young Latino man, beautifully dressed in a black silk shirt, white tie, and very tight black slacks hurried down the hallway. He smoothed back the sides of his pompadour with a manicured hand while extending the other one in my direction. I would have pegged him for a ballroom dancer rather than an art dealer.

  “I am so sorry,” he fawned with a slight accent, “but we are closed. I was only finishing up some paperwork at my desk and am about to leave.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said, “Because my client insists that I buy those three items right up there.” I pointed vaguely. “I’m an interior designer, perhaps you’ve heard of me? Chloe Leviticus?”

  He hesitated and then said, “Of course. Miss Leviticus. I am José. If you will come back tomor--”

  “Oh, no!” I said, grabbing the sides of my head as if it was all too much to absorb. I gave my best Sarah Bernhardt sigh. “This is terrible, just terrible. My client, Mr. Paul Bunyan, wanted me to purchase them today. Well, I know it’s my fault for coming so late, but I didn’t know what else to do. You see, I was on the horns of a dilemma. My daughter belongs to a girl-scout group, and the meeting ran late…” I trailed off, trying to look desperate but appealing.

  “You have a daughter so old? That is not possible,” he said, grabbing my hand and planting a very wet kiss on it. “Which ones did you say?” I took the opportunity to wipe my hand off on the back of my pants when he stretched his neck to look up to where I’d pointed.

  “Those big three, on the wall up there. The...ah…picture, the glass vase, and...ah...the other thing right below it. Oh, and possibly a fourth. That one, over there.” I pointed in another direction.

  “Well, I…” he began. With perfect timing, a ringing phone from the back area stopped him further. He turned to me. “Excuse me one moment, Miss, and then I’ll see what I can do for you.”


  “Thank you so very much,” I said and almost curtseyed. I watched him dash to catch the phone, and then I made a beeline for the double doors. Hoping it would click in place if it was opened wide enough, I pulled one of the doors open. It did. Then I made with some dashing myself, up the stairs, over the rope, and into the darkness of the third floor.

  From the shadows, I watched him return a moment later, saying, “I am so sorry, Miss, for leaving you….” He froze when he saw the lack of me, looked around, and then spotted the open door.

  “Hijo de perro,” I heard him mutter. After making sure I hadn’t taken anything, he shut the door, locked it and the other one, checking them both carefully. Part of me was afraid he would come upstairs, but he never did. A minute or two went by and the light downstairs went off.

  I heard the faint musical notes as he punched in numbers setting the alarm, then the opening, closing, and locking of the door at the back of the building. I burned it on my brain that when I opened the back door to leave, the alarm was going to go off, sending for a bevy of police. I hoped to be long gone.

  The streetlights provided ample illumination through the front glass wall, and pivoting around, I gave the floor my complete attention. Everywhere I looked, I saw boxes. Large, small, opened, sealed, they were stacked everywhere. I chose one of the open boxes, threw back the flaps, and feeling through the layered packing paper, found a small terracotta statue of a fertility god and goddess united in passion. I took it close to the banister for better light.

  A happy couple passed by outside on the sidewalk. Mindful that if they looked up they might be able to spot me, I stepped back into the gloom until they were gone. Safe, I come forward again, turned over the statue, and searched for a mark indicating it was a replica. Not surprised, I found it and returned the statue to the box. They would have to sell some models and replicas as a front, if nothing else.

  I pulled the flashlight from my pocket, switched it on, and headed toward the back. It became darker with every step. I walked through a tight path flanked on both sides by more boxes. Another thirty feet, and the stacked boxes blocked out the light from the street completely. All was murkiness, save for the small shaft of light moving back and forth in front of me. Soon I arrived at an area that was about fifteen feet or so of open space. Sitting on top of an industrial grey, rectangular rug was a long, empty worktable, file cabinets, and a modern desk with a chair, all in matching pale oak. Behind the furniture was another three-foot high banistered balcony, and like the front, it was set in from the outside wall by about twenty feet. To the right was a duplicate staircase to the one in the front, leading down to the back of the first floor. Careful not to trip over a stray box here and there, I made my way to the work area and sat down in the chair behind the desk.