by Terri Thayer
He said, "Maybe it was a key instead. What do you care? You're insured for this kind of stuff."
I looked at him. He was messing with the wrong girl today. "I've got business to attend to, Mr. Shore. If you file a claim with your insurance company, I'm sure they'll contact me."
I walked away, trying to inject plenty of attitude in my stride. First the taxi fare, and now this. This guy was turning out to be more trouble than he was worth.
I tried to shake off my concerns about the store, Tim Shore, and Frank Bascomb and just enjoy my time outside. It was a typical October day in San Jose, sunny and cool. The morning fog had burned off, and the sun shone brightly. Wind whipped up the Alameda, bending the branches of the newer trees and knocking down the leaves of the older ones. My footsteps were audible, crunching on the brittle leaves.
I welcomed the cooler weather and the rainy season that was coming. Fall meant clouds racing across the sky, giving the bland blue sky character. Summer weather was like an overly matched bedroom suite from Ethan Allan. I preferred my furniture with a few scratches and dents.
Just like I preferred Buster with a five o'clock shadow.
My neighborhood was great. Everything I needed was in a three-block radius. The Alameda was a mix of old buildings and new, chain stores and mom and pops. Right next door to QP was the burrito shop, beyond that a pawnshop. Across the street new condos were going up, with a Starbucks on the ground level. We already had a Peets a few doors down. The old Towne theatre now showed Bollywood movies with their brightly attired actresses on posters out front.
The bank was the old-fashioned kind, built when marble and gilt were meant to give the impression that hard-earned money would be safe here. Once the twelve-foot doors closed behind me, the sounds of the street were immediately muted. The ceiling was trimmed by graceful cove molding painted in light and dark shades of cerulean blue, giving the space a cathedral air. The marble floor was yellowed, but age had been good to the woodwork, leaving it soft and mellow.
The elevated teller windows were to the left. Years agod, the bank tellers had sat behind ornate brass scrollwork, but there was no sign of that now. Instead, each window was decorated for Halloween with faux spider webs crisscrossing the space.
A huge golden bank vault took up much of the back wall. It was open, the intricate workings of the lock visible. As a kid, I'd been afraid to get too close. Afraid that the heavy door would close behind me, and I'd be locked in for hours until the bank manager, then a dour woman with helmet-like hair, would let me out. Kevin, on the other hand, had been fascinated by the door, begging each time we'd banked to be allowed to turn the wheel. He loved to watch the levers move.
The bank was crowded, with a line snaking around the lobby. The commercial teller was closed, naturally. No point in having a teller dedicated strictly to businesses if she was going to be open all the time. I swallowed my resentment.
I settled behind a sun-burnished man in well-worn jeans and a cowboy hat. As soon as I took my eye off the beautiful architecture, the list of things I had to do back at the store began running through my brain, like the annoying scroll across the bottom of the TV. I'd covered the bottom part of my screen with sticky notes to block out the intrusive news. I tried to do the same now, mentally covering up the trailing thoughts with virtual post-its, but I failed.
In the cavernous lobby space, voices carried. I realized that the same little old lady in a stretched-out Irish cable knit sweater had been standing in front of Teller Window Four since I'd come in. The woman's voice rose and fell. "It's my money, and I demand ac cess to it. This is the second day in a row you've been difficult with me.
That voice. I took a step out of line to get a better look.
The college-aged boy with straight black hair and a maroon knit tie was getting flustered. He spoke louder. "I'm just following procedure, ma'am. You need to see the manager. As soon as she's finished with her customer, she will be with you."
The woman's gray hair was inexpertly dyed the same color as her brown polyester pants, and her shoes were broken down at the heel. She was carrying a tote bag with three-dimensional rabbit ears that read, "You're no bunny until some bunny loves you."
I knew that tote bag. Yesterday, it had been full of water bottles and fabric scraps. It belonged to Gussie Johnston, from the Stitch 'n' Bitch group. What had she done to her hair? No wonder I'd hadn't recognized her. It looked like she'd found a bottle of do-ityourself hair dye at the Goodwill.
Gussie drew herself up on her tiptoes in an effort to get level with the counter. She rapped on the wood, oblivious to the black plastic spider that tumbled out its web and onto her foot.
"Young man, I am not stupid or incompetent. Does the sight of an older woman set you off so much that you think I am incapable of handling my affairs? I've been trusted with the disposal of my money since before you were born. Since before your mother was born for that matter."
I'd never seen her angry before. I approached her, stopping just behind her shoulder.
"Gussie?"
Gussie didn't acknowledge me, her attention focused on a dressed-for-success woman making her way through the hidden door behind the other teller stations.
The woman stopped alongside the young man and addressed Gussie.
"Ma'am, please lower your voice," the manager pleaded. She checked the customers in line, smiled so that no one thought she was abusing this frail old woman. "We are required by law to ensure that you are not being swindled. There are procedures. Forms. You have requested a large sum of money."
The manager said that last sentence in a whisper. She was trying to be discreet. I looked around. Everyone was staring. Gussie didn't seem to care.
"To some people, perhaps." Gussie was channeling her inner Celeste, putting on her haughtiest voice.
I stifled a laugh, nudging her side.
She finally noticed me. "Dewey. Good, you're here. Tell them I'm in my right mind. I only want to withdraw funds from my account. I don't know why that should be such a big deal."
"And who is this?" the manager asked.
Gussie pulled me forward with her liver-spotted and gnarled hands. "This is my granddaughter."
Her granddaughter? I could only stare at her, amazed at how easily the lie came tripping off her tongue.
The teller and manager exchanged a look. The manager nodded silently with the air of someone who'd just been let off a legal hook.
"Is your grandmother okay?" the teller asked earnestly. The manager was watching me closely, so I put my arm around Gussie.
I thought about it. My living grandmother, Nona Pellicano, lived in Carmichael in a retirement community. If throwing devil horns at errant golf carts and spitting on the sidewalk and talking back to soap opera characters is okay, my grandmother qualified.
Gussie pinched my arm, hard. Startled, I looked at her. She was begging me to go along. This was more than a bureaucratic snafu. She needed this money. Badly.
"Of course she is. She's gray-haired, not harebrained."
I was pretty proud of my turn of phrase, and Gussie smiled triumphantly and patted her thinning hair.
The manager made a decision. "Go to the vault, Paul. I will help Mrs. Johnston with the paperwork at my desk. Follow me."
Gussie pinched me again, this time gentler. "Thank you," she whispered. She was excited, two red spots high on her cheeks. She'd attempted lipstick, but it had worn off except for a thick pile in the corner of her mouth. Going to the bank was a special occasion for her, too.
"I came in yesterday," Gussie said, as we left the teller window. "They wouldn't give me my money. Said they didn't have enough cash on hand, if you can believe that."
"How much money are you trying to withdraw?"
Gussie said, "Twenty-nine thousand."
My eyes widened, and I suppressed a gasp. I didn't know Gussie had that kind of money. She was always pinching pennies. This had to represent her entire savings.
The manager shot me a
look over her glasses. I remembered my role as dutiful granddaughter and clamped my mouth shut.
Halfway between the teller windows and the manager's area, I stopped Gussie.
The line had disappeared, the customers waited on and out the door. No one was within earshot.
"Why so much cash?"
She leaned in. "You can't tell anyone. My grandson, Donna's son, Jeremy, is buying a house. Jeremy told the bank he had thirty thousand in cash for a down payment."
Her voice got quieter still, and I had to move closer to get it all. Her fingers closed on my arm, one ragged nail scratching me. "He lied."
She continued. "He needs my money to make up the difference. There's some problem-if I gave him a check, they would trace it back to me, and then there's tax implications. I don't get it all. All I know is he needs my help, so here I am."
The teller walked past with a package, smaller than I thought nearly thirty thousand dollars should be. He handed the money to the manager, ignoring Gussie's outstretched hand.
"Please sit," the manager said to us. "Federal banking regulations require that we fill out this form."
Before she sat down, Gussie glanced out the large plate window that overlooked the parking lot. She pulled me close, turning her head away from the manager, and talking behind her hand.
"Do me a favor. Go and see if there's a yellow Taurus in the parking lot."
I'd already lost my place in line, and I still needed to get my cashier's check. "I can't."
Gussie pleaded, "I've been in here longer than I thought I would be. My ride should be here by now. I don't want him to leave."
I couldn't stop playing the dutiful granddaughter now. It would only take me a minute to look out the window for the car, then I could get my cashier's check.
But a line was forming again. I hesitated.
"Go," Gussie hissed at me. "I'll be out as soon as I can, but I don't want to miss Larry."
Larry? Celeste's Larry? Oh-oh. Maybe there was something going on between them after all.
I crossed to the big window. The parking lot was half-full, but no yellow Taurus. I went back to the desk. The bank manager had her head down, and Gussie was admonishing her for being slow.
"There's no car like that out there, Gussie," I said quietly.
She looked up, startled. "Well, he has to be somewhere. He's waiting to take the money..." She stopped, when the manager raised her head quickly.
Gussie changed tack. "He's waiting to take me to Redding."
"What's in Redding?" I asked.
The manager was listening intently, her eyes flitting from me to Gussie and back again.
Gussie sat up tall in the chair. Only her fingers gave away her uncertainty. She held them low in her lap so the bank manager couldn't see how they fluttered.
"Your cousin, dear. You remember. Jeremy."
"Of course, that cousin." I nodded as though she'd refreshed my memory. The bank manager relaxed in her seat, and returned to filling in the form.
My own work had to get done. "Gussie, wait for me. I need to get a cashier's check. I won't be long. I want to talk to Larry before you take off." I needed to make sure he knew what he was getting into, squiring Gussie around, with thirty thousand dollars in her tote bag.
Gussie returned to harassing the manager. I got back in a line that was now ten people long. Two tellers had shut down. I hopped from one foot to the other, anxious to get the line moving, but knowing I looked like a little kid who had to pee.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gussie walk toward the door, her bunny tote bag stuck under her arm. I called to her, but she ignored me. I was sixth in line now. I'd made some progress and wanted to maintain it. I craned my neck, twisted my body, keeping one foot in line and could see Gussie had settled on a bench outside the bank door to wait for Larry. I could just barely see the top of her head.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly two. I had to get the cashier's check and get to the post office by three. I had to stay in line.
My neck developed a crick as I tried to watch Gussie and the tellers at the same time. She stayed on the bench. People came and went without so much as glancing at her. She might be a sitting duck with all that cash, but the good news was that no one would think anyone who looked like Gussie would have that kind of money on her.
There were three people ahead of me. I'd moved forward to a point where I couldn't see Gussie anymore. I strained to see her, looking around the plus-size woman behind me.
"Would you hold my place in line?" I asked her.
She sighed, but agreed. Her purse was the size of a carry-on bag. A small dog poked its head out and yapped as I passed, causing my heart to trip hammer.
I took a couple of steps and could see Gussie still sitting on the bench. She seemed to be talking to herself. That was okay, acting a little nuts could be the key to keeping her safe.
I squirmed around again. The lady in back of me gave a noisy tsking sounds. "My grandmother," I explained. She rolled her eyes.
The logjam broke when two tellers returned from lunch. I stepped up and asked for the cashier's check.
Gussie had completely distracted me from the task at hand. I had to empty a bank account in order to buy these scissors. Money that I'd banked a year ago. Money that I'd vowed never to touch. Money that I wished I'd never come to possess.
Five thousand dollars, proceeds from my mother's life insurance policy.
NINE
I PAID FOR THE check and got out of the bank as fast as I could, but Gussie was no longer on the bench. Larry must have come for her.
Okay, one problem solved. At least she wasn't wandering the streets with all that money.
I stopped to fold the check neatly and put it in my back pocket. This check represented all the money I had. I was gambling, but the profit I could make from this was enough to give the store some breathing room.
I did a last quick glance around the parking lot for the yellow Taurus. There was one man at the ATM machine. Oh, crap. Tim Shore. The last person I wanted to run in to.
I turned away from the ATM, hunching my shoulders and moving quickly. Just seeing him made me angry all over again.
When I reached the street, I saw Gussie was on the sidewalk, walking away from the bank. Shit. She was going in the opposite direction from Quilter Paradiso. I couldn't let her walk the streets by herself. I sighed, and took off after her. She moved slowly and I caught up to her just past the pet store. A cat stretched in the window, pretending to ignore us.
"No sign of Larry?" I asked. "Where are you going?"
"I'll wait for him at home," Gussie said without breaking stride.
I swallowed a bit of annoyance. What about me? She could have waited for me. There was a fine line between independence and downright orneriness. Gussie was being ornery now.
Unless there was another explanation. "Maybe you were supposed to meet somewhere else?" I asked gently. My older customers were notorious for getting their signals crossed. Just last week, I had a woman in the store who was sure she was meeting her girlfriends at QP before lunch. When the friends showed up an hour later, full of split pea soup, it turned out they'd been waiting for her at the diner across the street.
Gussie considered. "No"
"Why don't we call Larry and see?" I tracked the cars that passed us. No yellow cars. I had visions of Larry waiting in the bank parking lot, her sitting at home. This could be a nightmare of missed opportunities.
We were walking past the post office. Vangie's offer of the envelope came back to me. Damn. That would have made this so simple. The sign on the post office said all Express Mail had to be out by 3:00 p.m. in order to be guaranteed for the next day. My trip to the bank was supposed to take only a few minutes. I sighed. First the run-in with Tim Shore in my parking lot, and now Gussie had cost me precious time.
"Let's call Larry," I said, pulling out my phone.
"I don't have his number, dear," Gussie said.
She didn't ha
ve his number? I knew what that meant. Men who didn't give out their number were usually married. Larry wasn't exactly married, but he was involved with Celeste. That rat was playing the women against each other. I'd have thought women in their eighties would be safe from fast men. Guess a guy was never too old to want to have his cake and eat it, too.
I held my phone in my hand. "How do you get in touch with him?"
"He calls me or stops by," Gussie said.
"Okay, let's check your message machine and see if he's had a change of plans."
Gussie looked at me like I was demented. "I don't have one of those."
Oh great, I thought. Was the Goodwill out of answering machines the day she went? How did anyone live without one? I chastised myself for having such a mean thought, but I had to get back to work. I couldn't let Gussie wander around with that much cash.
Maybe I could enlist one of her friends to take over for me. Ina was babysitting her grandson and I didn't have Pearl in my cell directory. Thumbing through, I saw I had one number we could use. I tried to be delicate. "Shall we call Celeste?"
Gussie growled, "Not a good idea. She doesn't know that Larry is doing this favor for me."
I gave up. I was walking her home. "Where do you live?"
"On Monroe."
Well, at least that wasn't far.
We turned into my parents' neighborhood, the Rose Garden. The homes here were a lovely mix of small apartment buildings, bungalows and large family homes. The neighborhood was an eclectic array of California architecture-Craftsman, Spanish, Tudor, Prairie. The steady hum of leaf blowers greeted us as we walked on the uneven sidewalks.
Halloween decorations were up here, too. A tree was decorated with hanging ghosts. In one upstairs window, a pair of stuffed legs hung out, as though the person had gotten stuck climbing out.
Gussie went up the walk of a pink stucco bungalow that seemed to lean toward its much larger neighbor. Her car sat in the driveway that was split with weedy grass. Scraggly geraniums in mismatched pots lined the concrete porch steps. A plant, maybe even the foxglove that Celeste had thrown out, sat on the top of a metal milk bottle container, next to a bright green ceramic frog. I was no gardener, but I could see why Celeste had pitched it. The main spine was broken, surrounded by little sprouts of new growth. I guessed, to Gussie, it wasn't ugly enough to throw out.