A petite young lady with jet-black long hair greeted me. “You want mani-pedi?” she asked in broken English.
I looked at her trendy American clothing and wondered if the accent was real or embellished for clients. It was a thought that often occurred to me at my own salon. I’d been going there for years, yet old hands and new employees alike, both young and old, spoke English like they’d just arrived in the country on a broken-down fishing boat.
“Thank you, but not today,” I told her with a smile. “I’m looking for Buck Goodwin, the man who owns the secondhand store.”
She tilted her head to one side like a puppy who didn’t understand the command “sit.”
“Buck Goodwin,” Mom repeated. “Big guy who owns the store next to you.” She pointed in the direction of Goodwin’s Good Stuff, then pantomimed his size by holding her hands high and wide.
A slight middle-aged man stepped forward from the rear of the salon. He and the girl exchanged words in their language before he turned to me. “How help?” His English was better, but not by much.
I repeated my question. At Buck’s name, I saw recognition flash in his eyes.
“Yes, know Buck.”
“Have you seen him today?”
He thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “We busy. Not notice.”
Realizing we weren’t getting anywhere, I thanked him and the girl and left the shop.
On the other side of the salon was the liquor store. I headed in that direction.
“Are you going to hit every store in this mall?” Mom asked.
“If I have to. Buck’s been here a long time. He must be friends with some of these people.”
“When we get to the donut shop, I’d like a cup of coffee. It’s getting a bit chilly.”
I stopped just outside the liquor store. “You can go there now, Mom. You can get a coffee and wait for me if you’re cold or tired.” Mom putting her feet up with a cup of coffee would certainly speed up my questioning of the local merchants. Every time I asked a question, I’d be wondering if Mom was going to interrupt with her own inquiries.
“I didn’t say I was tired,” she clarified. “Just said I wanted a cup of coffee.” She made no move to head for the donut shop. “But it can wait,” she added. “We have work to do first.”
We. I silently groaned and headed into the liquor store.
With its windows nearly blocked by ads, the store appeared small, dim, and crammed, like a tiny cave hidden in the side of a hill. Besides alcohol, it sold all kinds of beverages. It also displayed a lot of snack foods, tobacco products, and lottery tickets. My father always referred to these tiny liquor stores as package stores. With the convenience of buying booze at the grocery store or from one of those mega-beverage chains, I wondered how a place like this could stay afloat. Mom and I stood a moment on the threshold, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“Can I help you?” The question, uttered in a thick accent, came from a small brown woman stationed behind the counter. She appeared to be somewhere between Mom and me in age.
I approached the counter. “I’m looking for the man who owns the secondhand store. He’s not there right now, and I was wondering if you saw him today?”
The woman looked at me with large, dark eyes but said nothing.
“Do you know Buck Goodwin, the owner of Goodwin’s Good Stuff?” I pressed.
“We do not,” came another accented voice.
I turned to see a male counterpart to the woman behind the counter. He was standing by the small vertical cooler that held soft drinks. In his hands was a small box. He approached, put the box on the counter, and nodded in our direction. “I am very sorry, but we do not get involved with our neighbors. We are too busy trying to run a business.”
I looked from him to the woman, who was probably his wife, and saw that neither was going to say more. It was stamped on their faces along with very polite but closed smiles. I smiled at both in return and thanked them.
“Just a minute,” said Mom as I was about to leave. “I want some of those lottery tickets.”
I turned to her in surprise but said nothing as she surveyed the line of colorful scratch tickets behind the counter. “Give me five of the green ones and five of the red ones,” she told the woman. “And five picks for SuperLotto.”
“You’re not playing Mega Millions?” I asked, stepping closer.
Mom looked over the advertisement for the lottery games, checking out the current jackpots. Obviously, she didn’t catch the sarcasm in my voice or was choosing to ignore it. “Sure, why not?” She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and plopped it on the counter. “And give me five picks for that Mega game.”
“I meant the question as a joke, Mom, not as encouragement.”
“What’s the harm? And who knows, I might win.” She took the tickets from the woman and thanked her, giving both the store owners a rare smile.
Outside, I said to Mom, “I didn’t know you played the lottery.”
“I don’t, but you can’t go barging in questioning people without buying something; it’s not polite. Not to mention you yourself said buying something during investigations looked more natural.”
While I didn’t like having my words thrown back in my face, Mom had a very good point. I’d bought many an item while trying to squeeze information out of people. I’d even submitted to a breast exam once. Mom’s presence was definitely putting me off my game.
The next storefront was the dry cleaners. I was about to again suggest Mom go for coffee when she surprised me with the idea herself.
“If you don’t mind,” she began, “I think I will walk down to the donut shop for that cup of coffee.” She pulled her jacket closer.
“Not at all, Mom.” I tried not to show my enthusiasm at going solo. “I’ll work my way down the line of stores and meet you there.”
I got the same polite but stony response from the woman working the counter at the dry cleaners as I did from the liquor store. Next was the sub shop. Manning the counter were two teenage boys. One’s nametag said his name was Luke and identified him as the manager. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen—twenty, tops. There was only one customer, a man, who sat at one of the two tiny tables eating a sandwich while reading a newspaper.
“Do you know Buck Goodwin, the man who owns the secondhand store?” I aimed the question at the kid named Luke but hoped the other was listening too. Following Mom’s example, I thought about buying something, but if I did that at every store in the mall, I’d be getting a manicure, eating sandwiches, and buying booze all the way down the line. And heaven only knows what I’d do when I reached the weight-loss clinic.
“The big guy?” he asked.
“Yes. Blond hair. Tattoos.”
“Sure,” Luke answered. “He comes in all the time for lunch.” He turned to the other kid, who only nodded in response.
“Did he come in today? You see, his store is closed, and I’m wondering if he’s coming back today or if it’s closed for the day.”
“No, he was in today,” Luke answered. “I made his sub myself—turkey and ham with all the trimmings. I remember because usually he gets a meatball sub or a Philly steak sub.”
“Did he say anything about closing early today?”
“Nope. Just grabbed a sub, some chips, and a drink, and left.”
“Do you remember when?”
“Yeah, because that was odd, too. It was around eleven thirty. Usually he comes in around one.”
Eleven thirty would have been shortly after returning from court—about the time Greg was home having his lunch.
As I made my way down the line of small stores and shops, I had no further luck. Even if people knew Buck, they knew nothing about his whereabouts. Skipping the weight-loss clinic, I doubled back to Goodwin’s Good Stuff before entering the
donut shop. I wanted to see if Buck had returned while I was checking with the neighboring merchants and before I reconnected with Mom. He hadn’t returned, and it was now after three thirty.
I walked around to the back of Buck’s store and found a wide service alley with access to the back of all the shops in the mall. This was where they took deliveries. Large commercial trash bins were lined up against the back walls. A quick glance told me none of them appeared full. While I was checking out the area, someone came out of the back door of one of the stores. It was the kid from the sub shop—not Luke but the other one. In his hand was a plastic bag full of trash. He heaved it into the trash bin behind the sandwich shop, where it landed with the hollow thunk of a near-empty container. The trash pick-up must have been yesterday or today. The alley was wider than I expected, and there was room for one or two parking spaces behind some of the businesses. These were probably for employees. Buck’s shop was the only one with a garage-type door at the back.
Seeing nothing of importance, I returned to the front of the strip mall and called Greg. I reached his voice mail so simply left a short update about the bad accident on the 405, Buck’s store being closed, and so far hitting a dead end. Finished with my message, I wandered down the sidewalk, past the shops I’d visited. It had grown cooler, and the promise of rain was in the air. A coffee or hot chocolate was sounding pretty good.
When I got to the donut shop, I saw that Mom was not alone. Sitting at a small, round table with her was an elderly man who instantly reminded me of a Hobbit, specifically Bilbo Baggins—the older one from Lord of the Rings. The image wasn’t dispelled any when he politely got to his feet as I approached. He was short and portly, with thick, curly white hair and compelling blue eyes that twinkled from behind square-framed glasses. It took everything within me not to check for pointed ears and bare, hairy feet.
Mom introduced us. “This is my daughter, Odelia.”
The pixie man held out his hand. “I’m Bill Baxter. Nice to meet you, Odelia.”
Huh. Bill Baxter. Bilbo Baggins.
Bill indicated for me to join them.
“Let me get something first,” I said, giving him a curious smile.
“No,” Bill said, stopping me. “You sit down. I’ll be happy to get you anything.”
“That’s not necessary,” I protested.
“But I insist.”
“Let the man be a gentleman, Odelia,” my mother admonished. “It’s so rare these days.”
I hesitated, then said, “Okay, then. I’d like a hot chocolate. Very light on the whipped cream.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thank you. Just the hot chocolate would be great.”
With a nod and a wink, Bill left and went to the counter. It was then I noticed he used a cane and had a slight limp. I also noticed that for an old guy with a cane, he was pretty spry.
“Who is he, Mom?” I asked in a whisper as I hung my handbag on the back of my chair and slipped out of my windbreaker.
“He’s a locksmith,” Mom explained, her hands holding a paper coffee cup. “That’s his shop in the parking lot.”
I turned to look out the window of the donut shop and noticed for the first time a tiny shed almost on the edge of the mall parking lot. It was painted green, with white shutters. On top of it was a large sign that said “Keys—Locksmith.” The diminutive house wasn’t helping me rid my brain of the Hobbit reference. Next to the shed was parked a tan Honda Element. On its side was a smaller version of the same sign.
Before I could find out what Mom had told Bill, he was back with my drink and several napkins. I thanked him and wrapped my hands around the warm cup.
“I hope you don’t mind my intruding on your time with Grace,” Bill said to me. “But I saw this charming lady come into the shop all alone and couldn’t help but introduce myself.” He smiled across the table at Mom.
Charming? Mom?
I was about to remark that Bill didn’t get out of his Hobbit hut very often but bit back the snide remark. After all, the man had bought me hot chocolate. Instead, I said, “I don’t mind at all, as long as you’re not a stalker or a serial killer.”
Mom kicked me under the table just as I took my first sip. “Ow!” Bill looked at me funny. “Sorry,” I explained. “The hot drink zapped one of my fillings.”
“Maybe it’s going bad, dear,” Mom said, all sugar and spice. “At your age, teeth start to become troublesome.”
At my age? Grrrrr. The fact that I was in my mid-fifties and had recently had not one but two root canals came to mind. Still, no one wants to be reminded of those things, especially not by one’s eighty-plus-year-old mother who wears dentures. It’s like looking in a dental crystal ball and not liking the reflection.
I was about to give Mom a little kick back purely on principle when Bill chuckled. “At my age I can hardly be either. You need stealth for those endeavors. An old codger hobbling along with a stick is pretty noticeable.”
“Speaking of noticeable,” interjected Mom, “I was telling Bill about our trip up to the secondhand store.”
I was getting worried about where Mom was going with this. How much had she told this stranger?
Bill said, “Grace told me how you two got caught in the backup from that nasty accident on the 405. I saw it on the news just before I came to get my coffee. There was at least one fatality.”
“From the look of the pickup truck involved,” I told him, “that doesn’t surprise me. It was totally smashed.”
We had a few seconds of somber thought for the dead before Mom added, “Bill here said he saw Buck leave.”
I perked up. “When did he leave? And do you think he’ll be back?” I toned down the eagerness in my voice. “I mean, if he’s closed for the day, we might as well go home.”
“I don’t think he’s gone for the day,” Bill answered. “I could be wrong, but usually he pulls a security gate across the front before he leaves. A few years ago Buck had a short series of break-ins, so he had the gate installed. He’s the only store with one and had to get permission from the mall owners to do it.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I see pretty much everything that goes on around here from my little shop. The days are long unless I have customer calls to open their car doors or change their locks. And people tend to forget I’m there. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I see.” He shook his head. “Some of it is amusing. Others, downright shameful.”
It was becoming clear to me that Bill Baxter could be useful. I glanced at Mom. She was watching me with a smug look, and I knew if I didn’t tell her “good job” when we got back into the car, I would get an earful.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
He closed his eyes as if counting on imaginary fingers. “About ten years or so. Right after my wife died, I bought the shop from a locksmith who moved out of state. I used to have a larger store, but as I got older it became more difficult to handle, and I didn’t want to retire. My son thought this would be perfect for me, and it is, though some days it can be lonely. I have a TV and DVD player in there—in fact, all the comforts of home, just smaller. And I watch all the comings and goings.”
“So you saw Buck Goodwin leave?” I asked, getting the conversation back on track.
Bill nodded. “Unusual day for him.”
Luke at the sub shop had said something similar, that Buck’s food order and lunchtime today were unusual. Seems Buck was breaking a lot of his patterns. Was it because of worry over Ina or some other reason?
“He opened late,” Bill continued, “then went to the sandwich shop for his lunch, which he does almost every day. Shortly after, he got in his truck and left.”
Mom asked the next question. “Is he the only one at his store? Doesn’t make sense for him to close up every time he needs to make a delivery or go to one of them auctions.”
“Daughter? So Buck’s married?” I raised an eyebrow in Mom’s direction as I remembered how chummy Buck was with Ina at the auction.
“Not that I know of,” Bill answered. “Though I have seen him with lady friends from time to time. He was seeing one particular lady for a while, but I haven’t seen her lately. Tiffany—that’s Buck’s daughter—once told me her mother and Buck were high-school sweethearts. Her mother got pregnant just before he went into the service. They never married, but Buck has always supported and been close to Tiffany. She came to live with him after her mother died from a drug overdose. Tiffany was just a young teenager.”
Reaching into my bag, I pulled out two photos of Ina: one taken at Thanksgiving just last week and another of her when she had long brown hair. I placed them on the table in front of Bill. “Ever see this girl?”
His eyes lit up with recognition. “Sure. That’s Ina, a friend of theirs.”
“Theirs?” Mom asked, looking for clarification.
“Yes. This girl hung around a lot with Tiffany. They’re close in age. And I believe Ina and her husband are also in the resale business, like Buck. Ina drives a Honda like mine, just a different color. Hers also has a store logo on it.”
So far Bill was spot-on with his observations. “So you saw her here with her husband?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t recall ever seeing him, just her. But Ina was here off and on. She and Buck seemed to get on fine.”
Bill looked at the photos again, then up, giving me and Mom a closer look. “Ina’s husband was found dead at a storage facility. I saw it on the news. Who are you ladies really?”
“We’re Ina’s family,” Mom answered. “Odelia is married to her cousin. We were at that auction when Ina’s husband was found dead.”
So Mom hadn’t told Bill everything over their intimate cup of coffee—until now.
Secondhand Stiff Page 11