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

by Heather Haven

  “And maybe not. Then there’s Flint. I’ve never felt so useless, so helpless.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I should be in Vegas right now, with him. He took a bullet because of me—”

  I threw myself in my favorite leather chair. Tugger leapt into my lap, turned around three times, and settled down. “If it wasn’t for me…” I broke off, hanging my head.

  “Now stop it,” Frank said, clicking his tongue. He knelt beside me. “I spoke with the hospital not twenty minutes ago, and Flint’s going to be all right. He’s alert and talking.”

  “Is he? Gracias, El Señor.” I felt as if the cushions in the wingback chair were wrapping me in an endless embrace, I was so relieved. I shook my head, not able to say anything more, and ran limp fingers across damp eyes, still keeping my head down.

  Frank went on. “The doctors say initially it looked worse than it was. Regardless, Flint knew the risk when he went in. We all do. Every day you get up, you know the risk.

  It’s the business we’re in. That’s why I never wanted you in it in the first place. But you are and at least…” He paused, and I looked up. He winked at me, throwing out one of his dazzling smiles. “At least, you have an attack cat to help you out now and then.”

  I smiled back then let out a faint chuckle. “He’s better than a German shepherd and doesn’t eat as much.”

  “That’s my girl.” Frank tousled my already unkempt hair with a careless hand and got up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Then my father’s heart-brother walked out and shut the door behind him, shouting, “And come lock this door! I want to hear them chains going on before I leave this porch.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Matter of the Upsets

  Somewhere I heard a ringing sound, faint at first but becoming louder. I tried to move, but it was like I was under water, motion was slow and laborious. And there was the weight on my back, which moved and sprung off me with my exertions. Tugger.

  I’d flung myself diagonally across the bed hours before and went into one of those heavy, deep sleeps. The ones from which you awaken feeling sluggish and over-medicated, even if you didn’t take anything at all, not even an Aspirin.

  My bedside clock said 8:45, as I reached for the ringing phone, but was it a.m. or p.m.? I groggily looked out the window. Dark—8:45 p.m. —good. I’m glad we settled that. What a detective.

  I wiped the drool from my face. “Hello?”

  “Mi sobrina! ¿Estás bien o no?” Tío continued to rattle off more words in Spanish—too numerous to mention—a sure indication he was upset.

  “I was sleeping, but I’m fine, Tío,” I said, interrupting his diatribe. Still in a fog, I asked, “Where are you?”

  “Where am I? I am in la cocina. I now come back from the clinic to a message from your mama. She tells me to make sure you are all right. You were attacked?”

  “Wow, Tío. You finally learned how to use the answering machine. I’m proud of you.”

  He let out an exasperated and noisy breath of air. “I do not like the flip at these times. Basta.”

  “Basta, Tío. I’m sorry if I was being flippant.”

  “Do not make the apology. ¿Que pasó? Dime.”

  And so I told him what happened. All in all, Tío took it well. He listened. His only comment at the end was the same as Frank’s—how could I leave the door open, given what was going on? Boy, make one little mistake, and people sure beat it into the ground.

  “Let’s move on, Tío. I’ve learned my lesson. No more hip action at the door.”

  “The burrito, you eat it? I left also the flan. I make it with the orange flavor, mandarin. They are good this time of year.”

  “Not yet, but I’m starving. I’ll heat it up right now.” I stood and walked toward the kitchen, the cordless receiver plastered against my ear, followed closely by Tugger.

  “How did it go with delivering the puppies?”

  “Two, they were the normal births. One, a Great Dane, gives birth in the breech. We lose one of the babies.”

  I stopped in my tracks, tears springing to my eyes. For whatever reason, this news made me feel surrounded by mayhem, tragedy, and death. Even a newborn puppy was not exempt.

  “Oh, Tío. I am so sorry.” My voice quivered, but I couldn’t help it.

  “We save the other five. It was not easy, but the mother and pups, they are well and resting.”

  “You sound tired, Tío.”

  “Si. But I have a good tired. You do not sound like a good tired.”

  “No. Gurn, Richard, and Frank are all running in the Palace to Palace tomorrow.” I brought him up to date, adding, “I’m scared for them, Tío. I’m afraid something is going to happen to one of them.” Again, it was hard to keep my voice from quivering. My uncle managed to bring whatever I was feeling right out of me. A super confessional, that man.

  Tío was silent for a moment. I almost called his name out when he finally said, “Do not let fear take from you the common sense. Like Tugger, you have the corazón of a lion. Now you need to make the brain to match.”

  “It’s a tall order, Tío.”

  “Si,” he agreed, “but you are a tall girl. You see? I, too, can make the flip.”

  He laughed, and I tried to laugh, sounding more like a bat having a sneezing fit than anything else, but regardless, laughter it was. We hung up, me certainly lighter of spirit.

  I heated and ate the delicious beef burrito dripping with cheese, wondering about this thing called common sense. It didn’t seem to me there was anything common about it. Tugger continued to hover nearby, either to be near me or the beef I was dropping to the floor. I suspected a little of both.

  Afterward, I gave a quick call to Las Vegas General for an update on Flint. He’d been taken off the critical list and downgraded to stable. I almost did cartwheels. The nurse asked if I’d like to speak to him, always a good sign. Even though he was awake, I said ‘no’ but asked for her to tell him love from Papoose and hung up. I ordered flowers sent to his room, a dozen Calla lilies, a flower of which he is quite fond. Then for Tugger’s amusement—or maybe mine—I tried to do an impersonation of Katharine Hepburn from the 1937 Stage Door, done by a lot of stand-up comics. Only better.

  “‘The Calla lilies are in bloom again, really they are, really.’ Hmmm. Not quite right. Higher and a little more nasal, I think.”

  I looked at Tugger for approval. He left the room after my third attempt. It was like he was almost saying, “Don’t quit your daytime job, honey. I’ve got a catnip habit to support.”

  * * * *

  Six hours later, I nearly threw my laptop across the room in frustration. I got up and banged around my office a little, straightening this and that in a gruffer than usual way. I had watched all eight videos hour after hour, again and again, until I thought my eyeballs would fall out of my head. First, I’d concentrated on the runners then the crowd. I even scanned nearby trees and bushes to see if anyone or anything lurked in them. Nada.

  I sat back down and studied the screen again, for all the good it did me. However the cartel was killing off these runners, I hadn’t a clue.

  Tugger, always drawn to the happening place, hopped onto the desk, and walked across the keyboard, demanding some attention. His feet hit a series of keys, causing one of the images to freeze and enlarge. The pristine white bib of a fallen runner, with number 71 emblazoned in red upon it, filled the screen. It meant nothing to me.

  My pet’s earnest, golden eyes and sharp meow took my focus away. Bleary-eyed, anyway, I was glad to oblige. I stood, stretched, and picked him up, rubbing my face against his satiny, sweet-smelling fur.

  With a practiced hand, I slung him onto one shoulder, him facing behind me. He settled in, purring. Tugger’s the sort of guy that often likes to see where he’s been rather than where he’s going, another cat lesson in life. We left the office and headed back to the bedroom.

  It was two-thirty a.m.; I needed to get some sl
eep, if I was going to be any good in the morning. Although, what I was going to be good for was questionable.

  Still wearing Tugger like a stole, I set the alarm for five-thirty. I tried not to fret or think about Gurn, Richard, or Frank. Plenty of time for fretting in the morning. I lay down and was out like a light.

  Five-thirty a.m. came in what felt like ten seconds. I awoke, I won’t say refreshed, but feeling a lot better than my

  two short naps should have allowed. After coffee and the remnants of Tío’s burrito, I took a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and threw on an embroidered jean jacket I picked up at a thrift store. I live for consignment shops and thrift stores.

  Tugger lay sleeping at the foot of the bed. When I roused him to say goodbye at six a.m., his half-lidded eyes gave me a cross-eyed, what-the-hey look. Then he crashed again.

  Grabbing my new leather handbag-satchel–two-weeks salary but so worth it—cellphone, traveling coffee mug, and keys, I opened the door and stepped outside, remembering my laptop only when I’d locked the door behind me. Whatever information was eluding me could still be on the bloody computer.

  The day was not starting out well, I thought, as I raced back inside to the office. The laptop’s screen still held the frozen, close-up image of the bib. I unplugged it, banged the lid down, and crammed it into my bag. The whole operation took less than fifteen seconds but how could I forget something so crucial?

  As I pressed the accelerator of the car to the floor, the angst and fear surged back. I would be in San Francisco and at the starting line of the 12K Palace to Palace in less than an hour. Three men I loved were depending on me to keep them alive before, after, and during the race. I needed to be focused and sharp. No more thoughtless or stupid oversights, like forgetting an important piece of equipment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s All in the Timing

  I arrived at the Palace of Fine Arts slightly before seven a.m., already crowded with people on foot and cars searching for a place to park. Frank had put a promised VIP sticker on my windshield sometime during the night. This opened streets for me otherwise closed to ordinary vehicles. Elegant homes, some unassuming, some screaming their wealth, were jammed into this small, upscale section of San Francisco near the waterfront. In this residential neighborhood, parking was difficult under normal circumstances, but now it was ridiculous.

  Hidden by trees and buildings, I knew the Golden Gate Bridge loomed nearby like an orange-red skeleton of a gargantuan, mythical beast. After fifteen minutes of crawling from Lyon Street to Crook Street, I pulled into the VIP temporary parking lot set up on the side of the road. A barking attendant pointed me into a cramped space between two bushes barely wide enough to open the car door.

  Once out on the street, I joined hundreds of people making their way to register for the race and pick up their bib. When last checked, the entries had numbered over three thousand. Comfortably cramming so many runners into this small neighborhood was next to impossible and didn’t include spectators and ‘bandits,’ or interlopers, the ones who ran along at the last minute, sans bib and entrance fee. There would probably be several hundred of them.

  The sun was breaking through silvery clouds and loosening the cold’s grip on the night. All in all, it promised to

  be a perfect day for running, the temperature languishing somewhere in the upper fifties, low sixties.

  I love this part of San Francisco. Old world and slightly hidden away, it’s only a short walk to the Bay and a marina, housing boats from the St. Francis and Golden Gate Yacht Clubs. There’s also Crissy Field, a fabulous open park, with drop dead views of the San Francisco Bay. Families are out here all the time, kids flying colorful kites in the breezes off the water. Turn left, and it’s no more than a three-minute drive on Highway 101 to the Golden Gate Bridge, which takes you to Sausalito and beyond. Turn right, a short drive on Marina Boulevard takes you along the Embarcadero, passing the Ferry Building, Pier 39, and a myriad of other buildings, all fronting the Bay. In fact, it was in one of these warehouses where I found the body of Portor Wyler, one cold and wintry day, but it’s another story, and one which still gives me the shivers.

  From that part of the Embarcadero, you can see the Bay Bridge straddling the Bay, linking San Francisco with Oakland and beyond.

  Along with the throng, I scurried to Lundeen Street and toward the cement covered lawn in front of the curved Exploratorium Science Museum, where registration was taking place. This amazing, hands-on museum was founded in 1969 by a really neat physicist named Dr. Frank Oppenheimer. Built in a semi-circle around one side of the rotund Palace of Fine Arts, I can remember coming up here as a small child and seeing what made lightning. In fact, I got to make some. Once, I even got to pet a live starfish. You can’t make up those kinds of memories.

  I glanced beyond the museum at the pinkish Palace of Fine Arts in a small garden alongside a manmade lake, complete with gliding swans. The Palace’s salmon-colored domed roof was warm and golden, reflecting the new day’s sun and looking almost alive. I guess if I could live anywhere in San Francisco, right here would be the place, maybe on one

  of the park benches. Of course, the nights would be chilly, and I would probably be arrested for loitering, but what an incredible living diorama.

  Turning my attention back to the upcoming race, I saw last minute registration and sign-ins were well underway. A light autumn wind ruffled a huge, off-white tent, temporarily set up to house supplies and personnel. Directly in front of the tent, long tables sat side by side. Wearing white skirts of large letters of the alphabet drawn on flimsy, eleven by fourteen cardboard, they boogied in the constant wind. I stepped aside, not joining the registrants as they fell into the fifteen or so lines, according to the beginning letter of their last name.

  I studied the busy and upbeat crowd, some in groups, some loners, chatting, pinning on their bibs, or doing light stretches for the big event starting in about twenty minutes. I couldn’t see any of my men and was about to press the speed dial for Gurn’s number, when I heard his voice.

  “Hi, sweetheart! I thought I’d find you here!” Gurn had come up from behind. He wheeled me around and planted a big kiss on my mouth. He broke free and went on, “I figured you’d be here eventually, so I’ve been hanging around waiting for you.” His eyes searched my face with concern. “You look tired. Anything happen? Or did worrying about me keep you up half the night?” Before I could answer, he continued in a rush, defending his position.

  “Honey, I’ll be fine. Really, I’ve been in worse messes, and I’m surrounded by Frank’s men.” He stopped pushing his point of view and looked at me, large question marks zapping at me from his eyes.

  That’s when it hit me; Gurn didn’t know about the previous night’s horror. Apparently, neither Richard nor Frank had told him yet. Jeesh, usually those two are the biggest gossips since Entertainment Tonight. I thought for sure one of them would have unloaded on him by now.

  Driving all the way up, I’d been rehearsing what I’d say to counteract Gurn’s reaction. If he didn’t hit the roof, he’d

  probably throw a blanket over my head, toss me across one shoulder, and carry me home with him.

  Of course, the last part sounded pretty good, so I was tempted to spill about Flint being shot, Spaulding nearly killing me, and Tugger saving my life. But I hesitated, looking up into his gorgeous green-gray eyes, and a face wearing a million dollar smile. Gawd, I loved this man.

  Even though I wanted to share everything with him, this wasn’t the time. If he was going to run this race, he needed a clear mind. But it didn’t stop me from making one more feeble attempt to dissuade him from doing so. Every serious relationship needs a certain amount of nagging.

  “Gurn, I really wish you wouldn’t—” He stopped my words with another kiss.

  “Lee, we’ve been all over this.” He said after, lowering his voice and looking around. He pulled me over to a roped-off Magnolia tree, still holding onto la
rge, creamy-colored flowers despite the onset of fall.

  “This is the best way to flush them out.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’m being careful. I’ve got Frank, this new guy, Charlie, and even Richard’s keeping an eye on me. Although, I don’t know where he is right now.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts, Lee.” He looked at me with challenge in his eyes. “You’ve got a better plan?”

  “It’s just that—”

  “This is the only way, Lee.”

  “If you interrupt me one more time,” I threatened, pointing a finger in his face for emphasis, “I’m going to have to smack you.”

  Gurn burst out laughing and drew me to him in an embrace. I lost my intent and relaxed into his arms.

  “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” I murmured into his neck.

  “Of course, I will, darling, I promise,” he murmured back. He broke from our embrace and looked into my eyes. “I’ve got a long, full life planned with you. I’m not going to do anything to shorten it.”

  I tried to smile reassuringly, thinking about how I’d come close to shortening our life together, myself. Sometimes life comes at you like a freight train or a bargain basement three-hour sale. Bottom line: you’d better be ready.

  I felt his warm breath on my cheek and asked, “What corral are you in?”

  In this particular race, the runners are organized into corrals. Corrals are designated starting areas for participants with similar, estimated finishing times, set up along certain streets. Each race has its own rules, and in this one, placement within a corral is determined by your running average. You could only be in the first ten corrals if you have impressive finishing times in previous races. For people with no average at all, like Frank and Richard, they were probably somewhere in the back forty.

  “I’m in number one. That’s right over there.” He pointed to the corners of nearby Baker and Bay. “Charlie’s in number three, so he’ll be close by.”