Nobody's Child (The Jeri Howard Series Book 5)

by Janet Dawson

  “Levi, it’s me. Jeri.”

  Now he really looked at me. “Jeez, Jeri. I thought—”

  “I know what you thought. I need to use the bathroom, Levi. Then I’ll explain.”

  “Okay, okay.” He held open one of the double glass doors and I scurried into the electronics store, heading for the back where the employee rest rooms were located. When I joined Levi in his office, he was pouring himself a mug of coffee. “Want some java?” he asked. “You look like you could use it.”

  “Better not,” I said, voice tinged with regret as the smell of fresh-brewed coffee reached my nose. “I’ll just have to pee again. I’m discovering that’s not easy to do on the street.”

  “Some people just do it on the street.” Levi settled behind his desk and frowned at me. “So what’s with the homeless act? No, wait a minute. Nell told me last night she’d seen you at the church. It’s about that dead girl, right?”

  I nodded. “When I talked with you a few days ago you told me about a street person named Rio. I’ve since found out Maureen Smith used to hang around with him. So I have to find him. Yesterday I made the rounds of all the service centers and shelters. I’m going to do it again today. The street people I talked with tell me Rio hasn’t been around for a while, but he does tend to stay up here on Telegraph. So I’m hanging out where he hangs out.”

  “You be careful,” Levi said, his voice stern. “It’s not the way it was back in the sixties. It’s meaner. A woman got hurt over here Saturday. Broad daylight, with people around. Some creep tried to take her purse. She wouldn’t give it to him, he pulled a knife and slashed her arm.”

  “I’m usually careful, Levi. You know that.” I sighed and moved toward the door. “I hope I don’t have to do this for long. I’m not very good at it I’ve discovered it’s an acquired skill. One I hope I never have to acquire.”

  Before I left, I told Levi about Denny and that I’d asked the homeless man to get word to me via the store if he saw Rio. But I didn’t really think that would happen. Denny was probably holed up somewhere warm, like a Laundromat, nursing his beer and his “little problem with booze.”

  A few doors down from Levi’s store there was a bakery. As I walked past it someone came out and the aromas that followed overwhelmed me. I pushed through the door and stood in front of the counter, staring at a vast array of pastries and breads as my mouth watered

  “Can I help you?” The woman’s voice had an edge. When I met her eyes, I realized she was looking at me the way that deli clerk had looked at Denny yesterday. She wasn’t seeing Jeri Howard, a person, who had a job and an apartment and a life. She was seeing the raggedy patched jeans, the frayed cuffs of the sweater I wore, and the layers of T-shirts beneath it all the clothing that still didn’t keep out the cold.

  My nose was running a bit because of the cold, and because I’d been in and out of heated places. Defiantly, I wiped one cuff across my nose and pointed at the stack of fat custard eclairs on the top shelf of the glass bakery case.

  “One of those,” I said, tilting my chin upward. Damn it, my money was as good as anyone else’s. No matter what I looked like.

  She took one eclair from the case and put it in a white bakery bag, told me how much it cost, and watched silently as I unzipped the pocket of my parka and counted out nickels and pennies. Then I left the bakery and ate the eclair as I walked up Telegraph. I ate slowly, savoring every sticky sweet bite, licking the chocolate icing and creamy custard from my fingers.

  I didn’t find Rio that day, on Telegraph or anywhere else I looked. After retrieving my car, I repeated the rounds I’d made the day before, to the Veterans Center downtown, the Drop-In Center on Oregon Street, and the Multi-Service Center on Martin Luther King. Denny had told me two other churches in Berkeley served hot lunches to the homeless, one on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and the other on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today was Tuesday, so I circled the neighborhood near that church. No luck there. It had started to rain again when I returned to Telegraph to check out the people lined up for the “quarter meal” at Trinity Methodist. I thought I spotted Denny in the queue, but I couldn’t be certain. The man who’d caught my eye was just stepping into the shelter of the church’s cafeteria.

  I knew Nell Carlton was probably in the church serving meals to the homeless people who were shuffling and stomping their feet as they stood patiently in their straggling line. But I didn’t feel like talking to her. Cold and bone weary, I returned to my car. On my way back to Oakland I cranked the heater up to maximum. But I couldn’t get rid of the chill that had permeated me all day.

  I already had a chill in my soul.

  Twenty-three

  BLACK BART LOOKED ALMOST GLAD TO SEE ME.

  I arrived at the veterinary clinic just after five, after a quick stop by my Oakland office, where I checked the messages and the mail. This netted me four hang-ups, three Christmas cards, two potential clients, and a stack of bills. At the clinic, Dr. Prentice barely gave my attire a glance as she informed me that Black Bart had a clean bill of health.

  She went to fetch him while I wrote out a large check for the little cat’s tests, shots, and overnight stay. Having one cat already felt like having a permanent toddler. Now I had two to keep in cat food, kitty litter, and yearly vaccinations.

  As I handed the check to the vet’s office manager, the kitten let out a plaintive yowl. Getting captured by the human who’d been feeding him must have been bad enough, but spending the night in a cage, getting bathed, and poked with needles, was beyond the limit. He was past ready to get back to familiar territory. He didn’t realize that he wasn’t going back to his past life outside, or what was waiting for him inside.

  I hope this works out, I thought. Dr. Prentice told me when the kitten was likely to be ready for neutering, then we discussed the problem of integrating a new cat into a household where Abigail had been sole cat for ten years.

  “It’ll be tough at first,” the vet said, “but I’m sure Abigail will come around. Just give it time.”

  When I set the carrier down in the middle of the living room, Abigail headed for her hiding place in the closet, still convinced it was her turn to go to the vet. After a few minutes she realized something was up. There was an intruder in the apartment. Now she edged out of the bedroom, through the hall to the living room, slinking toward the carrier as though stalking one of the birds she watched from the front window. Ears flat, she circled the cat carrier, sniffing audibly, taking in the unfamiliar scent. She moved closer, until her nose touched the wire mesh of the carrier. She glared at the frightened kitten.

  Black Bart shrank back into the farthest corner, wide-eyed as he stared at this much larger creature that surely planned to devour him. But he wasn’t going down without a fight. Black fur rose along the ridge of his back. He hissed and spat.

  Abigail backed up, surprised that she’d met with resistance. Then she let out an indignant hiss and turned her glare on me, radiating outrage. I didn’t need to speak cat to know exactly what she was saying. How dare I bring this creature into her apartment? She hissed at the kitten again and stalked off in the direction of the bedroom. Round one appeared to be a draw.

  I opened the door to the cat carrier. Black Bart hesitated for only a moment. Then he streaked through the opening and disappeared behind the sofa. I got down on my stomach and looked underneath. He’d wedged himself into the narrow space between sofa and wall, where he hoped neither Abigail nor I could reach him.

  “Just so you figure out where the cat box is,” I told him.

  The cat box was in the bathroom, where I stripped off my grungy clothes and took a hot shower in an attempt to scrub away the sights and sounds of my day spent with the homeless in Berkeley. After that, I went to the kitchen and opened a can of soup. It was the only thing that sounded good.

  While the soup heated in a saucepan, I dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and depressed the button. I gazed at the calendar on the wall above my
phone.

  Less than two weeks till Christmas, and a flurry of activities planned in the next few days. Friday night was my second time at bat with the Nutcracker and the Rat King, this time with Duffy LeBard. That same evening, my brother Brian, his wife Sheila, and their children would drive down from Sonoma to Dad’s condo in Castro Valley, for our family holiday weekend. Dad and Brian had talked about the Paramount tour, since this would be the third Saturday in December. Plus we had tickets for the Saturday matinee of A Christmas Carol, the American Conservatory Theater’s seasonal production of the Dickens classic. Sunday’s plans were still being formulated, although I’d volunteered to cook dinner.

  I transferred soup from the saucepan to a bowl and buttered my toast. Then I carried the bowl and the saucer to the dining room table where, judging from the cat hair on the place mats, Abigail had spent a couple of hours snoozing. Good thing I always figured cat hair was a source of dietary fiber.

  Less than two weeks until Christmas. I spooned soup into my mouth and burned my tongue. Grumbling to myself, I reached for the toast instead, breaking the slice into pieces. I hadn’t done any shopping, I hadn’t decorated my apartment. Maybe seeing my family would help me get into the spirit of the season. My niece and nephew were still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, still young enough to be transported by all the excitement and anticipation and magic of the season. I needed for some of that to rub off.

  Dinner out of the way, I curled up on the sofa to watch one of my Humphrey Bogart videos: My Three Angels, with Bogie, Peter Ustinov, and Aldo Ray as three convicts who’ve escaped from Devil’s Island on Christmas Day. That’s the sort of Christmas movie that reflected the mood I was in.

  Before I went to bed I checked Black Bart’s safe place. The kitten hadn’t moved. Abigail joined me on the bed, as usual, keeping a watchful eye on the bedroom doorway, in case the interloper decided to explore. I didn’t see the kitten but I heard him later, digging in the cat litter. Good, I thought. He’d come out to eat and inspect his new digs. By that time Abigail was asleep, twitching and dreaming at the foot of the bed. In the morning the kitten had returned to the safety of his spot between sofa and wall. Abigail sat in front watching him as though tracking a mouse to a hole.

  Wednesday’s sojourn in Berkeley was as unproductive as Tuesday’s had been. Again, I showed up at People’s Park just after seven, wearing the same clothes I’d worn the day before. This morning I lined up with the homeless men and women who gathered around the Catholic charities van like flies on a picnic lunch, waiting my turn for the stale pastries. I let it be known I was looking for Rio, and got blank stares, aimless conversation, and a proposition. As the stores opened along Telegraph, I walked along the concrete sidewalks, block to block and back again. I saw Emory again, at the same coffeehouse where I’d encountered him yesterday. He was consuming coffee and pastries, as before, only this time he wasn’t reading a newspaper. He was checking out all the women who walked by the window. Not an unusual activity for a male of his age. Finally, I wound up at Levi’s store to use the bathroom. Levi hadn’t seen Rio, nor had he appeared at the church where Nell served dinner. In the afternoon I made the rounds of the centers.

  When I got to the Drop-In Center on Oregon Street, Betty told me she hadn’t heard anything about Rio, but Mukisa was looking for me. She had tried to call me yesterday when she was here in the center. It took me a moment to recall that Mukisa was the woman I’d talked with Monday. I had a cup of coffee with Betty and waited for over an hour, but the homeless woman didn’t show up. I had to leave. I had a late afternoon appointment with a possible client and I needed to go home, shower, and change.

  I was walking toward my Toyota when I heard a voice call, “Hey, girlfriend.” I turned and saw a black woman in baggy blue jeans and layered sweaters, carrying a large backpack and a bedroll. “How come you never be in your office to answer your phone?”

  “Mukisa. Those hang-ups on my answering machine. That was you.”

  “I don’t like talking to those things.” She set down her backpack and bedroll, took out a cigarette, and fired it up, staring down her nose at my attire. “Nice try, white girl,” she said with a derisive snort “But you don’t look like you been livin’ on the streets. Too clean.”

  “Thanks for the critique.”

  She blew smoke at me. “Lemme see that picture again, the one you showed me the other day.”

  I took out the snapshot of Maureen and Dyese Smith and handed it to Mukisa. She examined it again, then handed it back. “I think I did see her once. It came to me after you left the other day.”

  “Where?”

  “You know Lois the Pie Queen?” Mukisa’s question would have sounded bizarre to anyone who didn’t know of the North Oakland eatery by that name, famous for its pies and biscuits.

  I nodded. “Sixtieth and Adeline.” I glanced at the photograph in my hand. “You saw her near the restaurant?”

  “Couple of blocks away, south. On the sidewalk by a house. Saw this white girl with a colored baby. Talking to a black woman.”

  “Can you describe the black woman?”

  Mukisa looked at her own hand. “Lighter than me, but not much. Gray hair. Nice clothes. Thought maybe the white girl was panhandling the other woman. But then it looked to me like they knew each other. Does that help?”

  “Yes, it does.” So did something Douglas Widener said when I’d talked with him Saturday afternoon.

  I gave Mukisa a couple of twenties so she could get a room for the night. Then I sped home to shower and change clothes. My afternoon appointment was at an attorney’s office in downtown Oakland. I arrived just a few minutes before the agreed-upon time and spent an hour getting the particulars on a personal injury lawsuit stemming from a traffic accident on Park Boulevard. Other than Naomi Smith’s case, this was the first work I’d had in a couple of weeks, so I was quite attentive when plaintiff’s counsel gave me a list of witnesses to locate and interview.

  I went back to my own Franklin Street office and set the wheels in motion. This took the rest of the afternoon. In the early evening I headed for North Oakland and rang a few doorbells on Genoa Street, disturbing a number of householders during the dinner hour. The interlude was productive. I went back to my car and waited. It was past seven when a fairly new Chevy pulled into the driveway of a one-story stucco bungalow with a light glowing through the living room curtains and bars on the windows. It was that kind of a neighborhood.

  Ramona Clark got out of the Chevy, hoisted a bag of groceries, and walked toward her front door. I intercepted her on the porch. She looked apprehensive until she recognized me.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes unfriendly in the yellow glow from the porch light Her question and the way she said it sounded exactly like her employer. She made no move to unlock the front door. “What do you want?”

  “You told me you hadn’t seen Maureen since last Christmas.” She didn’t say anything. “I’ve talked to some of your neighbors. She was here several times, during both the summer and the fall.”

  She didn’t deny it, just gazed at me with her unreadable brown eyes. “Those groceries look heavy, Mrs. Clark. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  Twenty-four

  RAMONA CLARK SIGHED AND STUCK THE KEY IN THE lock. I followed her into a small living room furnished with a sofa and two matching chairs upholstered in a nubby brown fabric. A crocheted afghan decorated the back of the sofa. An entertainment center against one wall held a large screen television set and some stereo equipment. Family pictures crowded the top of a low bookcase and were scattered here and there on tables. As Mrs. Clark walked through the living room, I stopped to glance at the photographs.

  Most of the pictures showed a boy and a girl, from childhood through their teen years. They looked enough like Mrs. Clark that it was a safe bet they were her children. There was a graduation picture on top of the entertainment center, showing another young man, wearing a cap and gown. His face caught
my eye. I picked up the photo and examined it. Then I set it back in place and followed Ramona Clark into a large kitchen at the back of the house.

  She set the grocery sack on a round oak table and took out a half gallon of milk, which she stowed in the refrigerator. There were snapshots affixed to the refrigerator door with magnets, more family pictures, showing the same three young people. I stepped closer to peer at them. For some reason this made Ramona Clark even more edgy than she already was.

  “All right, she was here.” Her voice was tight and controlled as she removed five-pound sacks of flour and sugar from the sack and shoved them into a cupboard.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a good answer, Mrs. Clark. You may have been the last person to see Maureen alive.”

  That took her by surprise. Anger flashed in the older woman’s brown eyes. She slammed a can of peas down on the counter. “You think I had something to do with that girl’s death? I tried to help. All her life I tried to help her.”

  “Like when she ran away from home?” She didn’t answer. “Come on, Mrs. Clark. Douglas Widener told me he thought Maureen came to stay with you after she left home. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” Ramona Clark finally said the word as though she were reluctant to part with it

  “When did Maureen show up here? Was it right after she ran away?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe three weeks after she left. She was here one night when I got home from work. Looked like she’d been living on the streets that whole time.”

  “So you took her in. Why?”

  “I felt sorry for her.” Mrs. Clark pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. “I gave her a meal and a place to stay. I thought I could talk her into going home. Not that she had anything to go home to.”

  Now the older woman glared at me resentfully. “My employer is an alcoholic. Only thing that keeps her from being a drunk on the street is that big house she inherited from her husband and all that money she inherited from her parents.”