Safe

by Mark Zubro

  “Can I look at what’s left?”

  She hesitated a few moments, but she’d given me the class list yesterday. I tried another winsome, earnest look.

  “It isn’t all that much,” she muttered.

  She returned from a storage room a minute later and stuck a brown cardboard box on the counter. “See, it’s just books.”

  I flipped through a couple of them. On the back page of a consumable vocabulary workbook, I found some writing. I stared at it for several moments. His handwriting was small, precise printing.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A list of books.” I showed it to her. After a quick glance at it, she shrugged. They didn’t mean anything to her, but the list made me certain that Kyle Davis was gay.

  Why Kyle wrote it on his vocabulary book, I would probably never know. Almost definitely only another gay person would recognize the titles, and I knew because I’d Googled many of them.

  I had surfed the Net and found a few sites that listed gay books. Plus, I’d read an article in the L.A. Times about gay novels. They’d printed a list of the titles and authors of famous ones. I hadn’t ordered any online. You need a credit card for that, and besides a package coming to the house would be noticed, and questions would be asked.

  On the Net I’d seen the books from the Times list and a zillion more. I wanted to read all of them. One Teenager in Ten, The Front Runner by Patricia Nell Warren, Halfway Home by Paul Monette. Lots more were on Kyle’s list that matched those on the Net. A few I hadn’t heard of, but there was no doubt in my mind that Kyle was gay.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tuesday 4:00 P.M.

  Talking with everybody had taken more time than I’d thought. I had to hurry to meet Bill Singleton. I took Magnolia Avenue down to Market Street to Sixth Street. The Riverside Tribune is in this old crumbling adobe complex between the Mission Inn and the Raincross Square Convention Center.

  The receptionist at the paper smiled pleasantly and led me to the city room.

  From the doorway I saw Bill Singleton staring morosely at a computer screen. He nodded at me, typed in a few more letters, punched a key, and sat back with his hands laced behind his head.

  “Obits are done for the day,” he said. He gazed at me closely. “You’re all excited about something. What?”

  “I found out some stuff.”

  I’d thought about what I was going to tell him on the way over. For once I wanted no secrets, and it was kind of safe telling this guy. He didn’t know me and had no real power or influence over my life.

  I told him who I’d talked to and what I’d discovered in Kyle’s vocabulary book. I said, “I know he was gay, because I’m gay and I know what those books are about.”

  He said, “A lot of gay kids commit suicide. This could be that, but let’s go talk to the cops.”

  It was only two blocks to the police station so we did what was odd any time in California, we walked. On the way I asked him not to tell anyone I was gay. All he did was nod and say, “No problem.”

  We met the detectives at a doughnut shop across the pedestrian mall from police headquarters. Singleton had set it up during the day.

  The fat and burly detective had stringy blond hair and blackheads on his chin. The young, thin cop had a high squeaky voice and kept resting his hand on the butt of his gun, which protruded from a holster under his sport coat. I didn’t think it was much of a concealed weapon, or maybe he didn’t want it concealed, or needed to show he was tough.

  The burly cop said, “Don’t feed us any nonsense, Singleton. Your reputation is zilch with cops in this town. I hope you aren’t trying to impress this kid.” While pointing across the table at Singleton, he looked at me. “This is about the last guy you should be hanging around with. He’ll teach you lots of rotten habits.”

  “Lay off the kid, Charley,” Singleton said. “He’ll learn soon enough who to trust. I’ve done you a few favors in the past.”

  “Very few, and my patience is limited. What do you want?”

  Singleton explained what we’d seen last night.

  When he finished, the burly cop said, “So?”

  “Doesn’t that make you want to investigate?” Singleton asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because, kid,” the young detective said, “we got enough cases that require real work. This one is crystal clear. He killed himself. You’re old buddy here found a miniature doll. So what? You got footprints? I can show you herds of them around that place. You got a disturbance away from the body? Who says it had anything to do with the death? Nobody. We asked around. Kid was a loser. Couldn’t handle it. So he decided to end it. Maybe a few other people are sad. No murder here. Go play detective somewhere else.” He pointed at Singleton. “And don’t let this guy buffalo you either.”

  I was mad and embarrassed. After the cops left, Singleton and I sat there a few minutes more. Finally he said, “They don’t think it’s murder.”

  “I caught that.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic. We just got to get more proof.”

  “Hold it, I’m willing to work on the story about Kyle and find out as much as I can, but I’m not going against the cops. You can. You’re an adult and near retirement, but I don’t want problems.”

  “I promise not to cause you any trouble.” Singleton seemed pretty depressed. It must have been hard for him to cope with being a star early in his career and now to be finishing up doing obits for a living. He drank some coffee and said, “What do you plan to do next?”

  “I’m going to the pet shop, and…” I hesitated. “I thought I’d go out to where he died while it’s daylight. I want to see for myself.”

  “Good lesson to learn. Always examine things for yourself. Better go to the groves first. It gets dark fairly early.” He hadn’t had time to go back during the day and offered to accompany me.

  I said, “I’d like it if you came along.”

  He perked up at that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tuesday 5:00 P.M.

  Out in the orange groves, he showed me all the stuff he’d told me about the day before. Frankly, I kind of thought the cops were right. In broad daylight, the markings Singleton reported could have been from anything. I think he sensed my skepticism. He was pretty quiet in the car on the way to the pet shop. I felt sorry for him.

  We parked in the Brockton Arcade lot and walked up to the store, Morty’s Pets. The first thing I noticed was one of the window displays. Now I knew where the miniature Eeyore had come from. On a shelf about chest high that ran the length of the front window, at least fifty little stuffed animals stared out at the passersby.

  I stopped to examine them. Some rainbow hued, some monochromatic, many with shaggy fur, all with precise detail, and most of them with woebegone smiles. They’d be perfect gifts for Christmas or for someone special.

  Inside an African gray parrot squawked, “To be or not to be.”

  A thin old guy with tufts of gray whiskers on his pointed chin shuffled over to us. He limped and carried his right arm stiffly.

  Singleton said, “You’ve got a parrot that quotes Shakespeare.”

  The old guy scratched his whiskers. “He used to be owned by a woman mystery writer in Chicago.”

  I asked, “If he was owned by a mystery writer, shouldn’t he quote Sherlock Holmes or Poe’s “The Raven”?”

  “Smart kid,” he muttered. “She read Shakespeare out loud at night. She thought the appreciation of the spoken word increased the effectiveness of her prose.”

  He introduced himself as Morty Gold, the owner of the store and asked what he could do for us.

  The store was immense. I realized it must take up at least half of the south side of the arcade. Cages of varying sizes lined three walls. Dogs filled the ones along the wall next to the front door. The wall on the left had rodents and rabbits, and the far wall had cats, birds and a raccoon. Stacked in the middle were tons of boxes of differen
t kinds of animal food, enough to keep a good-sized zoo going for a year.

  I kind of thought Singleton would take over asking questions, but he busied himself with a cocker spaniel puppy in a cage behind us.

  I asked Morty about Kyle, told him I was writing an article for the school paper.

  As soon as I mentioned Kyle’s name, Morty got misty eyed. When I finished asking, Morty said, “Take a deep breath.”

  I did.

  “Smell that?” he asked.

  I gave him a neutral nod.

  “This place doesn’t smell like the back end of a buffalo because Kyle kept it clean.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me to a cage in the far corner of the room. “See this?” He thumped the lid of one of the larger cages. Inside was a sleepy eyed mutt with bandages on both front legs. “Look at him. A week ago they brought him in all chewed up, muzzled, and ready to be put to sleep. The poor dog snarled when anybody got near him, except if it was Kyle.”

  A woman about thirty came out from a back room and stood by the old man. Morty introduced her as his granddaughter, Nancy. She wore a yellow apron over bib overalls and a flannel shirt. Morty said, “I was telling this young man about how good Kyle was with animals.”

  They couldn’t praise Kyle enough. The loser from school was a miracle worker among the four legged. Plus, he cleaned, helped feed and water the animals, carried heavy boxes, did all the odd chores without grumbling. The store was more than just a pet shop. The granddaughter was also a vet. They specialized in taking hopeless cases.

  They led us to a tiny room in the back of the shop. Maybe as big as a walk-in closet, it contained a cot with a faded gray blanket and an orange pillow that looked like a litter of puppies had fought over it.

  A desk and chair took up most of what little space remained. Someone had constructed shelves from the top of the desk to the ceiling. Mounds of papers, hundreds of stuffed animals, tools, bandages, and a blizzard of paraphernalia covered each shelf. Pictures of critters in the wild, some looking winsome, others with fierce scowls, decorated the wall above the cot. Clutter spilled from the top of the desk. Only the center had a small, neat work place with bits of fabric, stuffing, and tools carefully arrayed in the center, as if someone was coming back in a few minutes.

  Nancy spoke in a mellow voice. “Kyle spent hours back here, with his headphones on, listening to his iPod, working away. I’ve never seen anyone happier than he was when he created his stuffed animals.”

  I asked, “He made all those in the window?”

  “Yes.” She touched several of the tiny critters. “This is the first time I’ve been able to be in here since…” She drew a deep breath. “Since we heard the news.” She pulled a tissue out of her shirt pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Sometimes he would even stay overnight in here.”

  “Why?”

  “He said it was the only place in the world he felt comfortable.”

  “Not at home?”

  “He didn’t talk much about life outside of the shop. Over time, we trusted him so much that we’d let him stay. Often with sick animals. It was a relief for us. If there was an emergency, he’d stay or come right over. The animals seemed to do better if he was around, recover faster even.”

  She began to cry softly.

  I looked at Singleton. His eyes were on the floor. Morty Gold wiped his nose, placed a hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder.

  When she’d composed herself she said, “He was always so kind. He was the gentlest person I ever met.”

  They led us back to the front.

  I said, “Nobody at school knew this.”

  Morty replied, “Kyle just kind of showed up about five years ago. Hung around looking in the window, began by doing small things. You saw those stuffed animals in the window and those back there?”

  I nodded.

  “He got some help from my granddaughter at first. He’d spend hours constructing them after his work was done.”

  Singleton pulled out the stuffed Eeyore from the night before.

  Morty recognized it right away. We told him we found it near the site of the suicide.

  “I just don’t believe he’d kill himself,” Morty said.

  Nancy nodded in agreement. “He was happy here. He never talked about school, though, or even his plans for his future. I suggested to him once that he might want to be a vet. He never agreed or disagreed. He never said much. He was such a quiet kid.” She sighed.

  Morty added, “He could fix things too. He kept that bicycle of his in top shape. Always making improvements. Don’t think he ever got his driver’s license. Pedaled over every day. For going home at night he fixed up this big flashlight, like a laser beam. Attached it all by himself with red reflector tape. Made his own little generator.”

  I said, “He never rode the bike to school.”

  “I think he was afraid it’d get stolen or wrecked,” Morty said. “I told him he should report that kind of thing to the school authorities. He just shook his head, said he tried that, and it did no good. I let it drop. I never liked to push him.”

  “He was a senior. Why didn’t he have his driver’s license?”

  Nancy shrugged. “He never told me specifically. From hints or occasional comments, I thought he might have had a disagreement with his parents.”

  “Control,” Morty answered. “He didn’t want people controlling him.”

  “He told you this?” I asked.

  “He wanted to be free of his parents. He rarely mentioned them.”

  “His parents must have been happy about him having a job.”

  Nancy said, “They came in once. Kyle barely said a word to them. I started to tell them about the stuffed animals. Kyle mumbled real quick that it wasn’t anything. I knew enough to shut up, that something was not right. The dad went along all the dogs’ cages and scraped his car keys along the bars. The dogs snarled, bared their teeth, and lunged at him. His mom was a little saner. She told us she didn’t want Kyle to be in the way, that he wasn’t to bother us. We were to send him home if he was, and she hoped we were paying him decent wages.” She shook her head. “Kyle was never a bother. He was always…” She wiped away more tears. “I don’t think he saved his money. He was always buying special stuff for the animals, treats and things. He cared more about them than he did himself.”

  Morty said, “I was glad to see the parents go. I didn’t like them.”

  “How did he act the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  They said he worked on Sunday like usual from nine to six when they closed. “He seemed happier than normal,” Morty told us. “He’d just finished a miniature giraffe for the collection that afternoon, and one of the gerbils he’d been nursing back to health seemed full of life. That was the kind of thing that made Kyle happy.”

  “No problems?” Singleton asked.

  “He never seemed to have problems here,” Morty said.

  Nancy said, “I knew he was a loner. I guessed he had problems at school, since he wouldn’t talk about the place. I wanted to try and help him, but he was so happy here. I thought, why remind him of something miserable? If he had a haven here, why make it difficult? Now I wish I’d have said more.”

  “We couldn’t have known. If he’d let us help him, we would have.” With his left hand Morty pulled on his whiskers. “I just can’t believe he’d kill himself.”

  “You think it could have been murder?” I asked.

  Morty rubbed his left hand over the stiff right arm. “Really haven’t thought that far. If it wasn’t suicide, I suppose somebody must have done it, but why kill him? He was such a gentle kid. Nobody had softer hands with the animals. It was like magic watching him calm some frightened creature.”

  Kyle had no one with magic hands to calm him. I had something to write about, but I felt rotten. Maybe all it would have taken was a kind word, a calm pat, a simple hug, but Kyle had no one.

  Just before we turned to go, I asked if I could buy the giraffe, the last thing Kyle had made.
They gave it to me. That made me even sadder.

  Back in the car Singleton said, “I’d like to talk to the parents.”

  “I’d rather not.” I told him about never wanting to be the kind of reporter who intrudes on people’s grief like they do on television.

  He said, “I like your idealism. I’ll talk to them. Who are you going to talk to?”

  “Only one I can think of is Frank Boyer. Although I don’t know what help that will be, but my editor suggested it.”

  “And you live to please your editor, right?” He smiled when he said this so I guessed he thought he was making a joke.

  “If this is a murder investigation, we don’t have any leads.”

  “We go with what we’ve got. Okay, you talk to Boyer. I’ll talk to the parents. We can meet again tomorrow at the paper around four.”

  I agreed.

  I dropped Singleton off at the paper and headed home. I fingered the giraffe. I wondered why Kyle never got his license, an oddity for a kid in California. I wondered too why he hadn’t confided in the Golds. Maybe he didn’t want the slightest bit of taint of the horror of his outside life to infect the small bit of happiness he’d managed to carve out in the world. That this was his time away where he didn’t have to think about the misery that was his life. Or maybe he felt so safe there, so safe, safer than anywhere.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tuesday 6:30 P.M.

  I knew if Frank Boyer was anyplace, it would be later at the Burrito Palace Drive In on Van Buren Avenue near Arlington Avenue. The Burrito Palace was the latest rage in fast food chains in Southern California. Their difference was they added jalapeño peppers to everything, probably even the soda machine. The one on Van Buren is where the tough kids and gang hopefuls hang out, but they wouldn’t be there until after nine.

  At home, Mom had finally stopped vacuuming. She was repainting the guest room. Using her day off, she’d begun that morning and was now doing touch-ups. I helped my dad put the furniture back. Mom stood over us making sure not one bit of furniture touched the slightest smidge of paint. We placed fans at the door and in the open window to try and clear out the smell.