Secondhand Stiff

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  I looked to Greg and my mother. They seemed as surprised by the information as I was. I was betting even eagle-eyed Bill Baxter had botched this tidbit.

  “What about Ina?” asked Greg. “Are she and Tiffany involved romantically?”

  “Not according to Tiffany,” answered Fehring. “She said Ina was like a big sister to her and encouraged her to come out. She didn’t seem upset about Tom’s death, even said he deserved what he got considering how he treated Ina. Tiffany is very concerned about Ina.”

  Greg swallowed hard, then asked, “Does she think Ina killed Tom?”

  Fehring shook her head. “No, she doesn’t, but she wasn’t surprised that Ina was planning to take off. Tiffany said Ina had been talking about it ever since Tom took up with Linda McIntyre a few months back.”

  “Seems Bill got the boyfriend thing all wrong,” Mom said, leaning forward. “But Bill also said until recently Buck had a girlfriend, but he didn’t tell us her name or anything about her, just said she hadn’t been around in a while. Did Tiffany mention that?”

  “Not a word,” Fehring said. “Neither did Bill Baxter.”

  Whitman added, “Considering the girlfriend is in the past, neither might have thought it important.”

  Fehring jotted the information into her little book with short, precise strokes of her pen, wasting no effort. The conviviality was over; the pie, forgotten. She looked up. “Anything else?”

  I scrunched my eyes closed, wondering if I should say anything about Bobby Y. In light of Red’s death and the destruction of Goodwin’s shop, his reviews seemed trivial, but you never know.

  “What is it, Odelia?” asked Dev. “I know that look. There’s something you’re not telling us.”

  “It’s silly, really.”

  Whitman let out a long-suffering sigh and stood up. “I don’t know about you two,” he said to Fehring and Dev, “but I have real police work to do.” He reached for his jacket. “I don’t have time to coddle some busybody.”

  My eyes popped open. “Hey,” I snapped. “You came here, remember? I didn’t come to you. Maybe it’s my time you’re wasting.”

  Greg put a hand on my arm. “Settle down, sweetheart.”

  Detective Fehring stood up but didn’t reach for her jacket. She took Whitman by the arm and led him away from the table. “Why don’t you go home, Leon. It’s been a long day. I can handle this from here.”

  Wainwright went on alert but stayed in his bed.

  Whitman glanced back at me, then gave Fehring a short nod of agreement. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Fehring spoke low to Whitman as they strolled to our front door. Once he was gone, she returned to the table. “He’s been under a lot of pressure lately,” she said, “and it has been a long day.” She looked around the table. “For all of us.”

  She took her seat and took a long drink of coffee before picking up her pen again. She latched her eyes onto mine. “If you have more to say, Odelia, spill it. Spill it all.”

  I told her about my research into secondhand stores and how that led to the online reviews and to Bob Y and his obvious bias against such stores. While Fehring jotted in her notebook, I outlined our trip to the food trucks and our failure to date in finding out Bob Y’s identity.

  When I was done, Fehring asked, “So you think this guy might have a vendetta against resale shops?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But he sure dislikes them and has taken potshots at several represented at the auction, including Tom and Ina’s store and Buck’s. He seemed particularly nasty in his review of Buck’s store. My gut told me it might be something to look into.”

  Dev looked over at Fehring. “It might be a stone worth turning over,” he told her, backing me up.

  Fehring nodded while she wrote notes. “I’ll contact the About Town office and see what info they can give us on this guy or are willing to give without us getting all legal on them.”

  Detective Fehring stopped writing and looked at me. “Anything else?”

  I thought about the day we found Tom’s body. “Yes, something I just remembered. It was something I overheard Ina say to him the day of the auction.”

  “To him?” Fehring asked. “To Tom Bruce?”

  “Well, to his body,” I clarified. “At the time it just seemed like something she might say in shock, but now I don’t know.”

  “What was it?” Fehring was ready with her pen to take down the words like dictation.

  “Right before the police arrived and pull us away from the crime scene, I overhead Ina say to Tom, ‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’”

  Fehring wrote down the words and studied them. “That’s all she said? ‘You stupid, stupid bastard’?”

  I nodded. “Doesn’t exactly sound like something a murderer would say to her victim, does it?”

  “Hard to say, Odelia,” Dev said. “You’d be surprised what people say after they’ve killed loved ones.”

  “But we’ll definitely look into it.” Fehring tapped her pen on the notepad. “And you just remembered this now?”

  “Yes.” What I didn’t tell Fehring was that it popped out of my memory when I was mentally calling Whitman a bastard.

  “Have you talked to Linda McIntyre yet?” I asked.

  “No,” Fehring admitted. “She’s been rather elusive. No one claims to have seen her since the auction. We’re wondering if she skipped town.”

  I forged ahead with an idea that had been fermenting in my brain since our talk with Bill. “I’m wondering if she was Buck’s girlfriend before she started seeing Tom. You know, the girlfriend Bill mentioned who is no longer in the picture. We know Ina was close to Buck and Tiffany, but maybe she had feelings for Buck and didn’t like him being with Linda. And then when Linda took up with Tom, it was too much.”

  “Are you giftwrapping a new motive for Ina and handing it to us?” asked Fehring without a hint of sarcasm. “Right on the heels of telling us something that might help her?”

  “No, not at all,” I quickly clarified. “I’m not saying Ina killed Tom over it. But maybe Buck did and used the blast in his store as a diversion.”

  Mom leaned forward and tapped an index finger on the table to make a point. “Or maybe Buck dumped Linda because of Ina, so Linda took up with Tom for revenge.”

  Fehring wrote it all down, then looked at us, waiting for more. Mom complied, working the angle on her mind. “Maybe things with Tom weren’t working out, so Linda killed Tom, then went after Buck. She did flee the auction as soon as the body was discovered.”

  “And how do you figure Redmond Stokes fits in?” asked Fehring, who seemed mildly amused by Mom.

  Mom zeroed her weathered face in on the lady detective like a heat-seeking missile. “How the hell do I know? That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  sixteen

  Greg and I determined that our first stop Friday morning would be Elite Storage. We still didn’t know if Kim Pawlak worked for them or directly for Red Stokes, so before going we called the Elite Storage office. A man answered and told us that Kim didn’t work there; she worked for Acme Auctions. A quick Google search gave us the information we needed for location and ownership. Seems Acme Auctions was owned and operated by Redmond Stokes—or had been owned and operated by him. A calendar showed an auction scheduled for this morning at Elite Storage and another scheduled for later this afternoon in Downey. The man who answered the phone at Elite had said nothing about that. Maybe the auctions had been cancelled in light of Red’s death. I placed a call to the number listed for Acme Auctions, half expecting to get a recording saying that due to the death of the owner, the business would be closed until further notice, or at least for a few days.

  “Um, hi,” I said to the woman who answered. “I read about Red’s death and was wondering if the auctions scheduled for today were still going forward.”

&nbs
p; There was some hesitation, then the woman said in a low, sad voice, “Yes, both of them are still on the calendar. Seems making money trumps decency.”

  I thanked her and started to end the call when I tacked on as an afterthought, “Was Red the only owner of Acme? I mean, what will happen to the company now?”

  “Guess it will go on as before. At least that’s what Kim told us this morning.”

  “Kim Pawlak? Red’s assistant?”

  “She’s also his partner. Red sold her half of the company recently.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, it’s nice that the business will continue and your jobs are safe.”

  “We’ll see about that,” came the short, curt response that seemed anything but optimistic.

  This was definitely getting more interesting. With Red out of the way, Kim probably had full ownership of the company, or at least full management. It would depend on what kind of business entity it was and what kind of an agreement they’d signed when Red sold Kim half the business. We did contracts like that all the time at the firm. Usually the agreement would provide the remaining partners with an option to buy the deceased partner’s ownership from the heirs for a predetermined amount or calculation of value. If the remaining partners decided not to exercise the clause, then the heirs could sell it to someone else or keep it; Greg had made a similar agreement with Boomer when Boomer bought into Ocean Breeze Graphics. Or it could be that Kim got full ownership outright. Everything would hinge on the agreement made when she bought into the business. I shared this new information with Greg while he finished dressing.

  “Acme Auctions.” I rolled the words over my tongue. “Makes me think of anvils falling from the sky and a roadrunner squawking ‘beep beep.’”

  Greg chuckled in agreement. “Sure does.” He pulled a Lakers sweatshirt over his tee shirt. “If Kim Pawlak directly benefits from Red being gone, it certainly opens up the possibility that she could have had something to do with his death.”

  “Well, it at least gives her a motive, but it doesn’t tie her in with Tom’s death.”

  Greg ran a hand through his hair, which was his equivalent of styling. “Two murders and a bombing all within days of each other and all having to do with people connected to the resale business. I’d say there’s a connection.” He turned to me and grinned. “As Dev would say, it’s not a coinkydink.”

  “Speaking of Dev, I still think there’s something wrong. He doesn’t seem himself at all. I hope he’s feeling okay.”

  We moved from the master suite into the kitchen and prepared to leave. “After last night, I think you might be right, sweetheart. Maybe I’ll ask him out for a beer and see what gives.”

  “Good idea.” I put on my earrings as I walked. “I hope some of the same people are at the auction today as last time, especially that Linda McIntyre.”

  After Dev and Fehring had left the night before, we gave Mom a heads-up that Renee would be calling. We didn’t want her to feel blind-sided. She seemed very happy with Renee’s offer to help and didn’t say a peep about tagging along with us. Of course, we didn’t tell Mom our plans either.

  “Maybe I could get my hair done tomorrow,” Mom had said. “Just in case my date with Bill is still on. Renee’s hair looks so nice. Do you think she’d take me where she gets hers done?”

  Greg had turned his head so Mom couldn’t see his grin.

  “Maybe,” I’d said. “Or you can try to get an appointment at my salon. I’ll leave the number on the counter for you.” I hesitated, then moved forward with caution. “Do you think it’s such a great idea to still have dinner with Bill Baxter?”

  Mom had looked surprised by my question. “Why not? I doubt he planted the bomb. At least the police didn’t say he was a suspect. And I might be able to pump him for more information, especially about that girlfriend of Buck’s. The more I think about it, the more I think it might be that Linda tramp.”

  I threw up my hands, knowing I was talking to a wall.

  About then, Seamus wandered out from the direction of Mom’s bedroom. Slowly he made his way to his food bowl, scooped up a few pieces of kibble, and crunched away, ignoring us. Muffin went over to say hello, but the crabby old cat swatted her away and went back to eating.

  “Did you know,” Mom said, watching Seamus with affection, “that Seamus snores? He snores louder than either of my two husbands.”

  I laughed. “You ought to hear it when he and Greg get going in harmony.”

  “Me?” Greg pointed a finger at his own chest. “Don’t believe her, Grace. It’s more like Odelia and Seamus are in competition. I’ve seen Wainwright cover his head with his paws.” I swatted at my husband, but he was just out of my immediate reach.

  “You know, Mom, you don’t have to let Seamus sleep with you. Just shove him out and close the door. He’ll either bunk with us or on the sofa.”

  Mom shook her head. “It’s okay. I rather like the company, snoring and all. I was never one for pets, but I’m thinking if I move out here I might get me a cat.”

  “You might not need to, Grace,” said Greg. “The way Seamus has taken to you, he might adopt you full-time. As he’s gotten older, he’s become less patient with Muffin and Wainwright, and even with us.”

  I could tell by my mother’s small smile, flashed just before she tottered down the hall, that it would be something she’d like. I’d miss Seamus if he moved in with Mom, but if it was something the two of them wanted, I would go along with it. He’d still be in the family.

  In the morning, just as we were getting ready to leave, Cruz showed up. I introduced her to Mom, who was waiting for Renee to come by and pick her up for their day of beauty and home hunting. We left Wainwright behind so we could move faster and not worry about his water and potty breaks. This was unusual and the dog let us know it, ladling on the guilt like mushroom gravy. As we went out the back, the dog pressed his nose against the glass sliding door and whimpered. By his side was Muffin, looking just as forlorn and abandoned. Seamus had given up saying goodbye to us years ago.

  “Don’t look back,” Greg told me as he hustled me out to the garage. “If you do, we’re toast.”

  Sometimes I wonder who really runs our household.

  Long Beach is just north of Seal Beach, and Greg knew which streets to take to avoid the morning rush-hour snarl. We landed at Elite Storage just as the auction was beginning.

  The crowd was larger than it had been on the day Tom’s body was found, making me wonder if some of the new people were lookey-loos who came to see where it all went down. I recognized some of the people present, but there was no sign of Buck Goodwin. No surprise there. Not only did he no longer have a viable store, if he did destroy it himself, he would be in hiding from the law. If he didn’t do it, he might be in hiding from whoever did.

  Right up front was Linda McIntyre, dressed again in jeans and a tank top. Over the shirt this time was a loose black jacket worn unzipped. In her ear was a cellphone earpiece. Even though she wore oversized sunglasses, I could see the events of the past few days had taken their toll. Her already hard face was gaunt and ashy, making me wonder what she was doing here. Ina had said Linda worked auctions on behalf of clients who could not attend them, so maybe she had to be here for work. If she was a contract worker, no work meant no pay, and she didn’t look like she could afford to lose a day’s pay.

  I scanned the crowd but didn’t see any sign of Mazie Moore and was curious about their alleged partnership. I was also still curious why Mazie’s store had escaped the harsh critique of Bob Y. Did he not have time to visit her stores? Or was he only interested in certain shops and their owners? I spotted Robert Vasquez standing on the edge of the crowd. He appeared to be alone. I wondered what had happened to his nephew. Had he been deported already? With so many questions swirling around, I had to work hard to mentally sort them into priority piles.

 
I studied the faces of the people waiting for the auction to begin. A group of people mostly brought together by the common thread of wanting to purchase and sell used goods, yet each was an individual with their own peculiar history, dreams, and motives. It was true of any group of people of any size. Put four people together and you had four different dramas playing out, some quirky, some tragic, some fun and uplifting. The more people, the more story lines. In this group of thirty or so people standing together in the cool November morning, there could be an abuse victim, an alcoholic, a former priest, a millionaire, a wife-beater, even parents putting a kid through medical school. There might even be a murderer.

  Kim Pawlak approached the crowd. She looked the same as the last time I saw her, only this time she was running the show. By her side, holding a clipboard, was a young, slim woman with closely cropped blond hair, thick black eye makeup, and torn jeans. She couldn’t have been more than twenty—twenty-two tops. My money was on her being Tiffany Goodwin.

  Kim’s eyes scanned the crowd. When she caught sight of me I saw no recognition reflected from behind her round framed glasses. I’d dressed very casual for the day in jeans and an old V-neck sweater over a turtleneck. My hair was pulled back into a clip, and one of Greg’s baseball caps sat on top of my head.

  “I’m Kim Pawlak, the auctioneer,” she announced in a monotone. “As many of you know, Redmond Stokes died in a horrible accident on the 405 yesterday, but we at Acme Auctions thought the best way to honor him would be to continue with our scheduled auctions. For those of you who knew Red personally, you know he would have wanted that. Details of a memorial service for Red will be posted on our website shortly.”

  The announcement made me think of poor Tom. His body still had not been released by the police, and once it was, I didn’t know who would claim it. Ina was in jail. Greg’s dad had told us that while Tom’s family had been called, they had made it clear they had no intention of taking possession of the body or of having or attending any funeral. He was dead to them in more ways than the obvious. They had also expressed the desire that Ina get “the chair.” Although I never cared for Tom Bruce, it saddened me to see him tossed aside by his own people like garbage. Another individual with a tragic history. Knowing my in-laws as I do, they would see to it that Tom received a proper sendoff when the time came. It’s who they are and why Greg is the wonderful person he is. Decency runs in that family like grouchiness runs in mine.