Strawberry Sunday

by Stephen Greenleaf

  I tiptoed around the fringes of the blood pool but saw nothing helpful so I went back to the living room, found a phone, and called it in. I told whoever answered that I’d be waiting out back, under the yellow umbrella.

  Before I left the house I took a quick inventory. There was nothing anywhere that was not a fit with the home of an aging professional who was determined to live with as much dignity and elegance as she could accumulate. But as I moved toward the small study Mona had made out of the second bedroom, I began to wonder. Nursing is a good job, but nurses aren’t doctors and Mona Upshaw lived very high on the hog. The furnishings were expensive. The art was original; the electronics near top of the line. She had a TV the size of a refrigerator and a chair covered with leather so soft it seemed liquid. The crystal was just that, the china was French, the flatware was solid silver. You could live pretty well on a nurse’s salary in Haciendas, but not that well.

  When I got to the study I went straight to the desk. It didn’t take long to learn two things. First, Mona Upshaw had an investment portfolio worth almost a million dollars. And second, it was she, not Gus Gelbride, who had paid for Rita’s surgery. The bill from the hospital was the size of the Haciendas phone book and the net amount due was $123,595.67.

  I was about to pry for more information but I heard a car slide to a stop in front, so I hurried out the back and was basking in the shade of the yellow umbrella when a cop came down the path. He was Latino and large. His gun was drawn and his eyes were shifty and scared, always a potential disaster.

  I made sure my hands were visible. “I’m the one who called it in,” I told him. “She’s in the house, by the front door.”

  He looked around the yard. “She dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “You touch anything?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone else been in there?”

  “No one except the killer as far as I know.”

  “Stay put,” he ordered, and eased into the house. When he came back he was talking on his radio, telling the dispatcher what he’d found. “The chief’s going to want to see this, Sal,” he concluded, then signed off.

  I waited.

  “You a friend of hers?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What are you doing here, then?”

  “I came to ask Ms. Upshaw some questions.”

  “That’s who lives here? Upshaw?”

  “Mona Upshaw. She’s a nurse in Salinas.”

  “So she’s the one who’s dead then.”

  “Right.”

  “What kind of questions you ask? You a salesman or something?”

  I smiled. “Why don’t we wait for Chief Dixon?”

  He stiffened at the insult. “What?”

  “If I’m going to tell my story, why don’t we wait for the chief, so I won’t have to tell it twice.”

  “You know the chief?”

  “A little.”

  As he pondered his next move, an ambulance turned into the block, siren blaring, then strangled into a brusque silence. The cop went out front to direct them. When he came back there were two EMT guys with him.

  The three of them went in the back door. By the time they came out, Chief Dixon was on the scene, still popping out of his uniform, still regarding me with a mix of respect and resentment.

  He took a chair under the umbrella and sighed. “You found her?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’d she die?”

  “Stabbed a couple dozen times. No weapon in sight.”

  “You searched the place?”

  “Not really.”

  He shook his head with disgust. “Put a scare into anyone when you showed up?”

  “Nope. I’d say she’s been dead for a few hours.”

  “Robbery or rape?”

  “No sign of either.”

  “Gang stuff?”

  I shook my head.

  “You here on anything hot?”

  “Not till I found the body.”

  He squinted into the sun that had driven away the fog and was broiling my back. “The fact she was stabbed and the fact that you’re here make me think the killer might be the guy who killed Rita Lombardi.”

  “It’s a possibility,” I agreed.

  The chief crossed his massive arms. “So what’s the connection?”

  “Ms. Upshaw was on duty the night they brought Rita to the hospital. I figure maybe she heard something or saw something that might be a lead to her killer.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Mona was an upstanding citizen. If she’d heard or seen something important she would have brought it to us to look into.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know what was significant about it.”

  The chief’s smile was as tolerant as a teacher’s. “When I got sick of Gifford and his sidekicks telling me things I already knew, I used to play euchre with Mona on Monday nights. Sharp as a finishing nail. If she couldn’t figure out what it meant, she’d go to someone for help.”

  “Maybe she was warned not to talk. Maybe it took her time to work up the courage.”

  “You’re reaching, Tanner. This may qualify as a big lead up in the city, but down here we call it slim pickings.” He stood up and walked toward the house.

  “Mind if I look around in there, Chief?”

  He stopped and turned back. “Look for what?”

  “Some link to Rita Lombardi.”

  “They knew each other forever. Plus Mona was best friends with Louise. A link wouldn’t necessarily be significant.”

  “Rita had an appointment to see Upshaw the day before she died.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How’d you find out about it?”

  “It was on her appointment calendar.”

  The chief chased unwelcome thoughts through his brain. “Which you saw where?” he asked.

  “At the Lombardi house.”

  The chief turned toward the house. “Lopez. Get out here.” The summons was at the pitch of a foghorn.

  The original cop responded, tugging his belt above his waist as he came out the door, his eyes alert for danger and pointed solely at the chief.

  “You remember a datebook of some kind over at the Lombardi place?”

  Lopez shook his head. “There was nothing like that over there, Chief.”

  Dixon looked at me. “Where was it?”

  “Backpack, in a sort of secret pocket. It’s an electronic gizmo, like a little computer.” I reached in my pocket and pulled it out. “Looks a lot like this.”

  The chief glared at me and then at Lopez and then back at me. When he held out his hand, I gave it to him. In turn, he passed it to Lopez with a piece of advice. “You want my job someday, Hector, keep better tabs on your crime scenes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go back tomorrow and get the job done right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lopez almost saluted but not quite. When he had gone back inside, the chief looked at me thoughtfully. “We’ll be here all afternoon, so you’ll be in the way. You come by tomorrow, you’ll probably be able to look around some. Meanwhile, it’s under seal. I find out you broke it, I’ll lock you up for interfering with a police investigation.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, mimicking Sergeant Lopez.

  “So that’s it?” he asked.

  “There’s one more thing.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “Has Randy Gelbride ever been charged with a sexual offense in this town?”

  The chief uncrossed his arms and looked beyond me, at the crowd that had formed on the curb. “What makes you ask something like that?”

  “Randy seems to take a proprietary interest in some of his female workers. Droit du seigneur and all that.”

  “I don’t know about that French bullshit or whatever it was, but Randy’s randy. I’ll give you that.”

  “But he’s never been charged with a criminal offense?”

  “Got a hell of a lot
of speeding tickets. And there’s been some talk about the other stuff, I won’t deny it. But the Gelbrides always handled it in-house.”

  “You mean they bought the girl off.”

  The chief shrugged. “Could be. Could be other things. Unless it lands on my desk in the form of a complaint, it’s none of my business. Or yours,” he added pointedly.

  “You know a family named Vargas, Chief?”

  “Hell, there’s a dozen families named Vargas within the sound of my voice.”

  “This family lives in a cave.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then they’re outside my jurisdiction. Now get lost,” he added, but since there was a smile in his voice when he said it, I risked one more question.

  “Could Rita’s killer have been a woman, Chief?”

  He thought it over. “Only if she was berserk.”

  I thanked him for his time, then got in my car and drove to the Catholic church.

  St. Bonaventure looked older than the town itself, though in slightly better condition. Although not on the historically validated list of California missions, it had the same look and feel as the more famous churches in San Juan Bautista and Carmel, with a red tile roof above a creamy adobe shell that rose to a bell tower high over the sanctuary. Inside, the dark oaks and pastel ceramics of the nave made way for white plaster walls at the altar, a match with the tallow of the altar candles and the statuary of the crucifix and the Virgin Mary. The statues of Christ and the Virgin were tied to hooks in the walls with fishing line, in case an earthquake occurred while God was otherwise occupied.

  A single figure knelt at the chancel rail, a woman in a long black dress with a black mantilla draped over her head; otherwise, the church was unoccupied except perhaps by the Holy Ghost. It seemed impossible that I would know the lonely worshiper, but something in the arc of her shoulder and the cut of her hair seemed familiar. I tiptoed down the aisle until I could see her in profile.

  Maria Vargas, hands clasped, eyes squeezed tight, was giving thanks for her husband’s survival, maybe, or praying for the deliverance of her daughter from what must have been her many pursuers, the most potent of them being Randy Gelbride. It was tempting to interrupt her prayers to ask her some questions, but even I’m not that big a jerk, at least not unless I want to be.

  I tiptoed out the side door and walked to the rectory next door, where the priests worked and lived. It was a match to the church in design, but smaller in scale and more secular in function, as demonstrated by the poster that was taped to the front door advertising a raffle to pay for new pews.

  The hallway was tiled in blood-red tile squares and beamed with heavy cedar; the walls seemed as thick as the walls of a jail. My shoes made sounds of muffled drums as I looked for Father McNally’s office, which turned out to be three doors down, identifiable from the name painted above the door in block letters. I knocked and waited, then stuck my head in.

  The man who looked up from the desk was younger than I expected, taller and more athletic as well. He examined me closely, trying and failing to peg me as a parishioner, then stood up and extended his hand. He wore a simple black cassock topped by a clerical collar and his hair was cut within a quarter inch of his skull. His lips were thick and sensuous and there was a gap between his teeth that gave him a boyish charm, but his eyes were solemn and serious, as if they had borne witness to all the pain in the parish.

  His grip was as firm as a stevedore’s. “I’m Father McNally,” he boomed as I tried to escape his hand. “How may I help you?”

  I clasped my hands behind my back, rubbing them to ease the pain. It was an effort not to bow my head. “My name’s Tanner. I’m a private detective from San Francisco. I’m looking into the death of Rita Lombardi.”

  He nodded. “I see. It was a terrible tragedy, of course. In many ways the worst of my priesthood. What brings you to St. Bonaventure?”

  “I’m hoping you can help me out.”

  “I can’t imagine what kind of help that might be.”

  “I was wondering if Rita committed any sins of the kind that could have gotten her killed.”

  He blinked. “Did you know her, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know her only sins were not seen as such in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “How about in the eyes of the strawberry growers?”

  He smiled. “That I cannot say.”

  “Was Rita fearful in her final days? Or angry? Any mental state that might point to her killer?”

  “Why do you think I would know such a thing even if it existed?”

  “You must have heard her confession many times. Plus you met with her two days before she died.”

  Father McNally rubbed his skull with his left hand, then gestured toward the only chair in the room. “Please. Sit down, Mr. Tanner. This may take time.”

  I did as he asked and he took a seat across the desk from me, then crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back in his chair. He was ruggedly handsome and seemed gentle and sincere and intelligent as well—even the good Catholic women of Haciendas must be having second thoughts about the celibacy thing.

  “Of course anything Rita might have told me would be covered by the priest-penitent privilege of confidentiality,” he began softly.

  “While she was alive, at least.”

  “And after, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Even if it protects her killer?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He made a steeple of his fingers and regarded me over the top of it. “However, I believe I can ethically reveal in this instance that Rita demonstrated none of the emotions you listed. Instead, she was quite euphoric.”

  “Because of the wedding.”

  “That. Other things as well, I believe.”

  “What other things?”

  “Her surgery, for one. Do you know about that?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled. “God does seem to work through the AMA at times.”

  “Were there other reasons for her euphoria, Father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or won’t say?”

  “In this case, I can truthfully plead ignorance.”

  “Was there a problem with Carlos Reyna, Father? Was she having second thoughts about the wedding?”

  “None that she expressed to me. And she would have, I believe.”

  “Was there a problem with any of the Gelbride family? With Randy in particular?”

  “Everyone in Haciendas seems to have issues with a Gelbride. I know of nothing special between Rita and Randy, other than the normal business disputes.”

  “Which are?”

  He met my eye and spoke with brisk precision. “The historic exploitations of the farmworker.”

  “Was there anything special going on in that area at the time of Rita’s death?”

  He pondered in the light of the afternoon sun. “On second thought, I believe there was one thing.”

  “What was it?”

  He pursed his lips. I bet myself that at some point in her young life, Rita had had a crush on him. “I believe I should keep that in confidence,” he said at last.

  “Was it about a young girl named Vargas? Was Rita asking the church to protect her in some way?”

  Father McNally looked at Christ on the cross, tacked to the wall by the door. “You seem to know enough already, Mr. Tanner. You must be good at your job.”

  “If you can help Consuelo Vargas the way Rita wanted, you’ll be good at yours as well.”

  He looked away. “We do what we can. It is seldom all that’s needed, unfortunately. Now I’m afraid I must ask you to go. I schedule an hour of meditation at this point in the afternoon. To review my day. To make sure I have not strayed from God’s path.”

  I stood up. “As far as you know, the wedding plans were on schedule?”

  He nodded. “The wedding, plus she wanted to meet later to talk about baptism.”

  “Rita hadn’t been bapti
zed before?”

  “Of course she had. I checked the records myself.”

  I took a deep breath. “So that means she was pregnant.”

  The priest closed his eyes as if in pain. “I can’t believe that is so, even though it does seem indicated.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “If she strayed in matters of the flesh, it only shows the power of sin in the world. Rita was truly a child of God. And like our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, she was taken from this earth before her time, for reasons we can only guess at.”

  His tribute seemed to echo off the mountains and return for an encore. “Was Mona Upshaw one of your parishioners, Father?”

  “No, but I have met her many times. Why?”

  “She was murdered this morning.”

  He bowed his head. “How terrible. But surely it has nothing to do with Rita.”

  “I was hoping you’d let me know.” I smiled. “You wouldn’t have to violate the confessional; I’m pretty good at deduction.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he countered stiffly, then ushered me out the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I was waiting in the parking lot when she came out of the church, removing the shawl from her head and stuffing it in her handbag as she walked toward the main street. She was swaddled in a daze of some sort, as though the Holy Ghost had taken possession of her senses and was guiding her Himself.

  “Mrs. Vargas?”

  She stopped, startled and afraid; her hand flew to her throat and clutched it as though she were choking. I expected her to calm down when she saw who it was, but she seemed even more alarmed than before as she focused on my face.

  “I’m Marsh Tanner,” I said. “A friend of Carlos Reyna’s. I was at the cave with him last night when your husband got sick.”

  She nodded when I finished, but I had no idea how much of it she had understood. “Do you speak English, Mrs. Vargas?”

  She held up her thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Un poco,” she said.

  “I was also a friend of Rita Lombardi’s,” I said, playing my only two wild cards up front.

  “Señorita Rita. Sí.” Even through her fear, she managed a smile at the alliteration.