Secondhand Stiff

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Without warning, I seized my gut and bent over, releasing the contents of my stomach onto the pavement. People nearby glanced at me, then looked away. I vomited a second time just as a light rain started up. This time no one gawked. A sick woman was no competition for a roaring blaze.

  “Odelia,” Mom called with concern from the car, “are you all right?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I’m okay. It’s just my nerves.”

  After heaving a third time, I opened the back door of the car and pulled out a small roll of paper towels I kept stashed in a pocket behind one of the front seats. More emergency supplies. It wasn’t a monogrammed linen hankie, but it would do. I wet a length of towel and mopped up my face and hands, then took a mouthful of water and swished and spit, as I had directed Mom to do.

  I could only imagine what my mother would write on her blog tonight and hoped my upchucking would not be a highlight.

  fourteen

  Dinner was quiet—mortuary viewing-hours quiet. Greg had picked up the Chinese food, but the three of us were not very hungry. We picked in silence at sweet and sour pork, egg rolls, fried won tons stuffed with crab and cream cheese, Mongolian beef, shrimp with pea pods, sautéed eggplant, and both steamed and fried rice. I don’t know who Greg thought he was feeding, but even without the trauma of the explosion we would hardly have made a dent in the feast.

  I’d wanted to take Mom to the ER to have her mouth looked at, but she refused. When we got home she did let me check it out under the bright light of the guest bathroom. The injury looked swollen, and the bite appeared clean.

  “You have any mouthwash?” she’d asked. “Some of that really strong stuff. I need to clean it.”

  I nodded and went to our bathroom to fetch it. While my mother took a mouthful, swished it slowly around, then held it in her damaged mouth for a few seconds, I winced with discomfort only imagining the pain as the alcohol in the mouthwash hit the injury. Her eyes became damp during the process. When she spit it out, the room filled with an antiseptic odor but there was no blood in the sink. Mom took several deep breaths. The old broad had moxie, that’s for sure.

  “You should do that again before bed,” I told her. I got up to leave. “Maybe you’d prefer warm soup or maybe something smooth and cool for dinner.”

  She shook her head. “I had three kids. This is nothing.”

  “Nothing” still made her blow her nose and dab her eyes several times.

  At dinner Mom had a few bites of the sweet and sour pork, but I noticed mostly she ate the rice and shrimp—the more bland of the dishes. She ate little and chewed with slow, careful deliberation. After pushing a piece of pork around her plate with her fork for a minute or two, she excused herself.

  “If you kids don’t mind,” she said, getting up from the table with the same care used to chew her food, “I’m going to get ready for bed. It’s not every day I nearly get blown to bits.” She started to reach for her plate to clear it from the table, but Greg stopped her before I could.

  “Don’t bother, Grace,” he told her in a comforting voice. “Odelia and I will get the dishes. You go relax.”

  Mom put the plate down and started to go. I got up and put an arm around her, giving her a quick hug. Mom wasn’t a hugger, so I made it short. “I’m so sorry for today. I should never have taken you with me.”

  “Nonsense,” she snapped, still lisping from her wound. “I’m the one who insisted on going.” She started toward the hall that led to her room. Before she got out of sight, she turned back to us. She started to say something, then snapped her mouth shut and continued on. Seamus, who had been curled up next to Wainwright on his bed, got up and followed Mom to her room with his own slow, arthritic gait.

  Once she was gone, Greg said, “Today might make her want to run back to New Hampshire and stay there for good.”

  “And something tells me Seamus will be petitioning to go with her.”

  I plopped back down into my chair. After pushing my plate away, I put my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands. “I nearly got my mother killed today.” I started sobbing, not gobs, but a slow, choked weep. “Surely there’s special place in hell for people like me.”

  “Don’t be silly, Odelia.” Greg wheeled over to me and pulled one of my hands away. “No one is going to hell over anything. You heard Grace say she insisted on going, and you didn’t cause that explosion.”

  I held up two fingers and sniffed. “Two explosions.”

  The early evening news had reported that a blast had occurred at Goodwin’s Good Stuff, a resale shop in Torrance, around four thirty. Authorities didn’t know yet what had caused the blast. It was suspected that the resulting fire had set off the smaller second explosion when it reached paint and refinishing materials. They also reported that it was believed the store was empty at the time. Neighboring businesses had suffered varying degrees of damage, with the nail salon getting the worst of it by nearly being destroyed by the blaze. Injuries suffered by the people in the salon ranged from numerous cuts and bruises caused by falls and flying objects and one broken arm. The liquor store also sustained serious damage when merchandise fell to the floor in heaps of broken glass. Fortunately, considering all the spilled alcohol, the blaze didn’t reach that far. The owners of the liquor store were bruised and cut, the reporter had explained, but they had escaped any serious injuries. People in the other shops were badly shaken. One woman in the parking lot suffered a mild heart attack. Bill Baxter had been interviewed by the reporter. He seemed stunned but safe. He reported that some of his tools had fallen to the floor from the impact of the blasts, but his business had sustained no other damage.

  I reached for a paper napkin and blew my runny nose with it. “I know, but still—that could have been Mom who had the heart attack. We could have still been parked in front of that store when it exploded.” I started to cry again, then forced myself to hold it together. “And those poor people in the liquor store and nail place.”

  Greg rubbed my arm. It felt comforting. I could feel his love and concern seeping into my skin like warm, expensive lotion. It found its way to the center of my core.

  “Do you think,” I said to Greg, trying to reset my mind on the what and why and not what might have been, “Buck set that explosion himself? Or that someone did it to get him, same as Red?” I grabbed another napkin from the stack we kept on the kitchen table and mopped up my face. At this rate, I’d have no makeup left to wash off later.

  “I’m not sure. You did say Buck showed up at the store, grabbed lunch, then left.”

  “That’s what both the sub shop guy and Bill said.”

  “Maybe he did set it himself, though why anyone would want to destroy a business they worked hard to build is beyond me.”

  “For insurance money?” I suggested.

  “Maybe, but say I decided to pull such a stunt with Ocean Breeze. Before the ashes would be cold, the fire department’s arson investigators, the police, and the insurance company would be all over the remains like ants at a picnic and crawling up my ass with questions. In this day of advanced forensics, it’s very difficult to do, otherwise you’d see more of it in this ailing economy. Not to mention it’s a major crime, especially if people are injured.”

  I started pulling cartons of Chinese food toward me. While I gave Greg’s words thought, I removed serving spoons from the cartons and closed them up. We’d have enough leftovers for several meals.

  “Did Ina’s attorney tell you anything more about Red Stokes?” I got up and started moving the food toward the refrigerator. Greg started to help, but I shook my head. “Let me, honey. I need to keep busy right now or I’ll go insane.”

  Greg positioned his wheelchair so he could watch me move between the kitchen and the table. “Not really, just that they were questioning Ina about any reasons someone might have to want Stokes dead.”

  Also on the news toni
ght was the story of Red’s death. They had reported that he was shot from a passing vehicle while driving on the freeway. Witnesses interviewed by the reporter said they saw a late-model car come up close behind Red’s vehicle, then move alongside him. One witness who’d been driving one of the cars involved in the accident said he was driving behind Red’s truck and saw a hand holding a gun poke out from the rear window of the car that pulled alongside Red and fire. He said he heard two shots just before Red’s truck lost control and hit the divider. The news speculated that it might have been gang-related.

  I stopped, a carton of food held in my hand, and turned to Greg. “Do you believe the accident was gang-related like the news said?”

  Greg shrugged. “Hard to tell. From the little I saw of Red Stokes, he didn’t seem the type to be involved with gangs, but you never know. Neither of us knew the guy, just what we saw the day of the auction. The attorney didn’t know or tell me anything more than what we heard on the news, only that Ina still isn’t talking.”

  I put the carton in my hand back on the table and sat down in my chair. “Honey, I want to talk to Kim Pawlak tomorrow. She was on my list already, but I’m moving her up.”

  “Wasn’t she Red’s assistant?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if she worked for Red in his auction business or for the storage company directly, but I’ll find out. I want to see what she has to say.”

  “I’m sure the police have already questioned her about it.”

  “True, but I’ll be asking about Tom’s death, not Red’s, and Kim might be emotionally vulnerable enough now to crack. I know that’s mean, but we need to get to the bottom of this, and fast. Too much has happened in too short of a time.” I pointed a finger at him. “And Ina needs to start talking before she’s implicated in more than just Tom’s death.”

  “I totally agree. I went to see her today after her attorney spoke to me, but she just stares off into space when anyone asks her anything. I think she’s either involved or protecting someone. Maybe she’s protecting Buck Goodwin.”

  “She might also be scared spitless.”

  A low, sad laugh escaped from Greg’s lips. “I think that goes without saying. She was looking very pale and fragile when I saw her today. My mother is worried sick about her.”

  I got up and moved the final food carton into the fridge and started picking up the dirty plates. “I’d also like to locate and talk to Buck’s daughter. Bill Baxter said she and Ina were tight.”

  “I’m going with you tomorrow, Odelia.”

  I stopped rinsing the plate in my hand and turned off the water. “What about the shop?”

  “Chris is back in the saddle, and I’ve already told him I’d be taking tomorrow off, maybe longer, depending on how this goes. The shop will be fine. You’re not going back out there alone.”

  From the set of Greg’s jaw, I knew I’d never talk him out of it, nor did I want to. My husband made me feel safe and protected, and wheelchair or not, he could hold his own with almost anyone. I wiped my hands on a towel, went to him, and planted a big kiss on his lips. “What about my mother? She may want to come along.”

  Greg put an arm around me and hugged me close. “Even after today?”

  “I’m learning my mother is made of steel. This might only scare her off temporarily.”

  Greg chuckled. “Then we better get out there and investigate while she’s still frightened.” He pulled back and looked at me. “You know, my mother needs something to keep her mind off of Ina. Didn’t Grace say she wanted to look at some retirement places out here?”

  “Yes, she did.” I smiled, knowing where Greg was going with his thoughts.

  “How about I call my parents and ask them to take Grace out for a look around tomorrow? I’m sure Dad would also like to keep my mother occupied with something other than this mess.”

  “Great idea, honey.”

  I rewarded him with another big kiss. He picked up his phone and called his parents while I went back to cleaning up.

  “All set,” Greg said with satisfaction. “Mom told me she’d call Grace around eight tomorrow morning to plan their day.” He hesitated. “I didn’t tell Mom about you and Grace being near the blast in Torrance, just that Grace wanted to check out a new place to live. Mom sounded pleased that your mother might relocate.”

  “I’m happy they’re getting along. I wasn’t so sure at first. As for today, I’m sure Mom will tell her tomorrow. No sense giving Renee something more to worry about tonight.” I walked back to the table and voiced my next concern. “I wonder if Mom has blogged about the blast yet. If she does and Clark reads it, he’ll have a meltdown.”

  Greg wheeled over to the counter where he’d dumped his laptop when he got home and pulled it from its bag. He brought it over to the table and fired it up. While he was doing that, our doorbell rang. Wainwright charged for it barking his happy bark, his nose and ears telling him it was someone friendly. I left Greg and answered the door, finding on our stoop a slightly damp Dev Frye.

  “Hey, Dev,” I greeted as I opened the door to let him in.

  “Where were you today?” he asked without greeting me back.

  “Um, out and about with my mother?”

  “Is that a question or an answer, Odelia?”

  I didn’t care for Dev’s tone one bit but kept my snarky self under control. “Mom and I were out all afternoon. I was showing her the sights.”

  “Torrance is a hot spot for tourists these days?”

  “According to the news tonight,” I shot back, “it’s a big hot spot.”

  Greg wheeled in from the dining area. “What’s this all about, Dev?”

  Anxious to change subjects, I offered, “You look beat, Dev. We just finished dinner. Why don’t you take off your jacket and let me heat up some Chinese food for you?”

  “No, thanks, I grabbed something before coming over.”

  “Coffee, then?”

  “This isn’t a social visit, folks.”

  I headed for the kitchen. “Then let me get you some ‘police business’ coffee. Mom made a fresh pot right before dinner. It’s decaf, though.” To emphasis the invitation, Greg started rolling back to the kitchen table.

  After a bit of hesitation, Dev blew out a deep breath of air in surrender and followed us. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair before lowering himself into it. By the time I placed his coffee in front of him, Dev was giving Wainwright a hearty rubbing on his neck and head, and his frown had been replaced by a tired smile.

  When we join forces, the Stevens family can be quite charming, but the dog is our secret weapon. A few minutes later, Muffin came out from under the buffet as backup and rubbed herself against Dev’s pant leg. Seamus was still with Mom and was generally useless when it came to buttering up visitors.

  “Excuse me a minute, Dev,” Greg told him, going back to his laptop. He turned it away from the cop. “I have to check something for work real quick, then you’ll have my full attention.”

  While Greg tapped along on his laptop, I settled at the table next to Dev. “Yes, Dev, Mom and I were in Torrance, and we were near the explosion. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  He took a sip of coffee, testing it for temperature, then followed up with a big, satisfying gulp. “According to Fehring, witnesses said a plump middle-aged woman and her elderly mother were asking questions about Goodwin right before the blast. One witness even provided your first names.”

  “That must have been Bill Baxter. Mom and I had coffee with him.”

  Greg closed his laptop. “Is Fehring involved because it was Buck Goodwin?”

  “What do you think?” Dev took another sip of coffee. “In one day, two of the people at that auction have been involved in violence; one is dead. You do know about Redmond Stokes, don’t you?”

  Greg and I nodde
d in unison. “Mom and I were caught up in the traffic jam the accident caused,” I told Dev. “The news mentioned something about it being gang-related.”

  Dev shrugged. “Easy to assume since most drive-bys are, but it’s under investigation.”

  “So, Dev,” Greg asked, “are you here on your own or at Fehring’s request?”

  Dev leaned back in his chair and studied the two of us. “You might say I’m the opening act.” He played with his coffee mug, slowly turning it around in his hands. “There are people wondering if Odelia here had something to do with the blast.”

  “That’s preposterous!” came an angry lisping voice from the living room.

  We all turned to see my mother standing in the living room at the edge of the hallway. She was in a floor-length mauve satin robe, pulled tight and cinched at her waist. On her feet were matching slippers. She’d slipped in so softly none of us had heard her. She stepped closer and started shaking her right index finger at Dev.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said, the slight lisp in no way masking her outrage, “but to even suggest my daughter had anything to do with that mess in Torrance is despicable.”

  Dev got to his feet and extended his right hand with tired patience. “Is it safe to assume you’re Mrs. Littlejohn, Odelia’s mother?”

  When Mom hesitated, I made the introduction. “Mom, this is our good friend, Detective Devon Frye. Dev, my mother, Grace Littlejohn.”

  Mom still looked like she wanted to bitch slap Dev instead of shake his hand. It didn’t matter that he towered over her; like a missile waiting for liftoff, she stood ready to defend my honor—something that touched me in spite of the situation. Finally, she held out her hand.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you, Grace,” Dev told her, taking her slender hand between both of his meaty paws. “I’m just sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  Mom withdrew her hand as if Dev had cooties. “Odelia did not set that blast. Any fool who’s met her could tell you that.” It was clear she wasn’t giving Dev an inch.