by Mary Feliz
“Do you want to know everything?” I asked. “The details are a bit rough.”
They nodded. Brian scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned forward on his forearms. “Of course we want to know. We need to know. Stephen and Jason are our friends. We have to help them.”
David uncharacteristically agreed with his brother. “Brian’s right. Besides, you know that if the details are interesting, the story will be all over school by tomorrow morning. Do you want us to get the news from you or from the rumor mill?”
I smiled and David smirked. As teenagers so often do, he’d noted one of my favorite rules, saved it up, and hurled it back at me. Max and I urged them to tell us what was going on with them, with their friends, and at school, driving the message home by reminding them that if they didn’t tell us themselves, we’d most likely hear an expanded, more dramatic version via the parent network.
“Touché,” I said to David. “Here’s what I know.”
I filled them in on Munchkin’s condition and how he’d dragged himself home, what Detective Smith had told me, the details Stephen had given me, the contents of the letter he’d written, and finally what Stephen had asked me to do. I emphasized how important it was to keep the information within the family.
“Do either of you know this boy?” I asked. “Rafi Maldonado? His sisters? Or any other kids who work at the restaurant? Did you know Mr. Xiang?” Orchard View High School’s district boundaries included parts of Mountain View, and it had an open campus. The older kids often went out for lunch, especially on Fridays. Rafi was older than David, but there was a chance they knew each other. Brian was more likely to know one of the sisters, though I still wasn’t sure how old they were.
Brian shook his head. David stood up, moved to the counter, and lifted himself to sit on top of it. “I might know him,” he said. “He may have been in my concert band class at the start of the year. I think he dropped the class, but he still plays bass with us.”
It seemed like an odd arrangement. I frowned.
“It’s not that unusual. The teachers do that with some kids—especially the older band kids they’ve known since they were freshmen. They’re the only teachers who see kids all year, every year, straight through school, right? So they know us better than anyone. Better than the counselors who see us for, like, ten minutes once a year and don’t even recognize us to say hi to in the quad. There are kids that the performing arts teachers keep an eye on and kinda look after. If Rafi is the guy I’m thinking of, he’s one of those kids.”
I thought for a moment. That was good news. Maybe one of the music teachers could put me in contact with Rafi, and we could meet in the band room if that seemed like a safe place to him.
David spoke as though he’d read my thoughts. “You know, if you have trouble getting in touch with Rafi, I’ll bet Kathryn could help—Kathryn Sands, the band teacher.” Kids calling their teachers by their first name had at first seemed odd to me. It might have been a laid-back coastal California thing, or a measure of the fact that Kathryn thought of her students as musicians, colleagues, and people. Regardless, it worked for Kathryn and in no way diminished the respect the kids had for her.
“You’re right,” I said.
David beamed, jumped down from the counter, and grabbed a fistful of cookies. “I’ve got a ton of reading to do for history,” he said. “Will you let us know if you find out more? Or if there’s anything we can look into at school?” He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out the crumpled papers he needed signed, tossed them on the table, and dashed up the back stairs, followed by Belle, who knew that David was good for sneaking her at least one cookie from his stash.
Brian looked at the table and frowned. Uh-oh. He was my sensitive kid. The most likely to feel things deeply and least likely to talk about them.
“Questions?” I asked. “Ideas?”
Brian shook his head. “It sounds like those girls are pretty little. And Rafi is even older than David. I won’t find out anything at school. But . . . What do I say if anyone asks about Stephen?”
Whew. That was a good question. “I’m not sure. Maybe something like ‘I heard about that, but I don’t know the details. Stephen is a good guy.’”
Brian wasn’t happy with my suggestion. “Lame, Mom. But never mind, I’ll think of something.” He stood and took his glass to the sink. He knelt next to Munchkin and massaged the dog’s floppy ears. “Can he go upstairs with me?”
“Taking care of Munchkin is one of the most important things we can do right now,” I said. “See if he needs to go out, and then I think a long snooze in your room while you keep him company and do your homework might be exactly what he needs. But take him up the front stairs—he may still be a little clumsy with the sedation and I don’t want him to bang up those wounds too much.” The kitchen stairs to the second floor were utilitarian, narrow, and steep. If I hadn’t previously seen Munchkin manage them, I’d have questioned whether he would fit in the stairwell at all.
I was starting to think about dinner when Brian came back through the kitchen after taking Munchkin outside.
“Mom, did that man at the intersection know Munchkin? It sounded like he was trying to say Munchkin’s name.”
“I’m not sure, hon,” I said. “I think so. But how would he have known him? On the other hand, Munchkin seemed to know him, too.”
“He’s probably at that corner every day. You could ask him.”
Brian disappeared quickly through the dining room with Munchkin. He was absolutely right. Just as David had been earlier. But before I followed up on their ideas, I needed to make calls to the people Stephen had asked me to phone, and continue to bounce ideas off the boys and Max, when he got home.
I placed my palms on the table and stood. “Right,” I said to no one in particular. “With a team like this, we’ll certainly get Stephen out. Maybe even before I’m forced to tell Jason where he is.”
But I was Jason’s friend as much as I was Stephen’s and I feared Jason would learn too much from the sound of my voice if I phoned him. I didn’t want him to worry. I compromised by texting him. As Jason had explained to me, a text was more likely to get through the overloaded disaster-area communications system anyway.
I typed:
Found Stephen and Munchkin. Everyone healthy, well, and accounted for. Will start on project with Stephen tomorrow.
I knew that Jason would assume that the project I was referring to was the one we all had expected to start yesterday—sorting their belongings and organizing their home offices, storage, and new front room. I hated to mislead him, but the text would have to do for now.
By 6:30 p.m., the boys were finished with their homework and chores and were immersed in a video game. Max had called to say he was working late on the prerelease testing of a new product and wouldn’t make it home in time for dinner. I wasn’t surprised. It was all part of the predictably unpredictable life of being married to an engineer working to get a product out the door.
I called the boys away from their video game and Brian clattered down the stairs first, holding his laptop. “Mom, Rafi’s on social media, but he doesn’t post often. I’m guessing he doesn’t have a computer at home. He probably uses ones in the library during a free period. There’s nothing here that shows where he hangs out.”
“If what Stephen told me is accurate, between working, school, and helping his family, Rafi doesn’t have much time to hang out anywhere,” I said. “Does he like any sports or music?”
Knowing his interests might help to get to know him—if I could find him.
“I can’t tell,” Brian said, clicking madly on his keyboard. “There’s not much here to work with.”
David, Belle, and Munchkin clomped down the back staircase with all the subtlety of a winning rugby team. A white streamer trailed from Munchkin’s mouth. I reached down to pull it off.
“Toilet paper?”
“You don’t want to see the bathroom upstairs,” David said. “
Maybe you can help me clean it up after dinner?”
“What on earth? Did he eat a whole roll?” I looked at Munchkin, unwilling to think about how to cope with the digestive system of a massive dog who had eaten toilet paper.
He looked horribly guilty and embarrassed, whimpered, sank to his haunches, and crawled under the table.
“Try a whole package,” said David. “I don’t think he ate it all, though. Shredded it and spread it all over the bathroom and the upstairs hall. We’ll probably want to get to it before it turns into, like, papier–mâché. That dog can sure drool. Like he’s performing as the erupting volcano in a school play.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I decided to laugh. “Never mind. It sounds like a large garbage bag will do the trick. Poor Munchkin. He probably needs more exercise than he’s been getting.”
“What he needs is Stephen,” Brian said as he filled a bowl with chili from the simmering pot on the stove and brought it to the table. Chili was our go-to family meal for busy times. “Did you get him out of jail yet?”
“No,” I said, filling my own bowl and sprinkling it with cheese. “I’ve got the lawyer’s number right here, though, and I’ll call him in the morning. Rafi’s grandmother, too, if I can figure out where she lives.”
“What about that homeless guy on the way home?” David said. “He seemed like he knew Munchkin. Maybe he knows something about how Munchkin got hurt. Can you find him again?”
“Your brother said the same thing. I’ll give that a try. Maybe one of the store owners down near the restaurant knows where to find him. A bunch of thugs don’t attack a restaurant out of the blue. There must have been something brewing for a while. Maybe the stores have been hassled or held up, and this attack on Mr. Xiang is the first sign that it’s intensifying.”
My kids knew all about escalating violence, having experienced it firsthand, too close to home, when we moved to Orchard View.
“Wouldn’t the police have already thought of that?” David reached across the table to grab a piece of sourdough bread from the basket next to my placemat. I passed him the bread and gave him my “mom” look. He looked guilty and grabbed a second slice while chewing the first.
“Sorry! Please. Thank you. Don’t grab. And don’t talk with your mouth full,” he recited.
“Right, and . . . ?” I asked. The boys chimed in with “There’s a fine line between a smart kid and a smart aleck. Make sure you’re on the right side of the line.”
I smiled. Message obviously received. Sometimes hunger and expediency overrode their manners, but they were definitely good kids.
“If you two take the dogs out on their leashes so they don’t get too rambunctious, I’ll tackle the dishes and Munchkin’s art project upstairs.”
“Deal!” said David. “You haven’t seen the bathroom yet though . . .”
We cleared the table and I asked David to let me know if he saw anything about the murder at the restaurant on social media or on the web site of the local weekly paper.
“But be careful you don’t reveal any information in the process,” I said. “I don’t necessarily agree with Stephen’s need to keep this all quiet, but that’s what he’s asked me to do.” I shook my head. “He must have a good reason.”
“I already checked all the sites I could think of. There was nothing, which is weird. Stephen may be the only guy who knows that Rafi was there. When a rumor involves someone from school, the Internet blows up. There isn’t even any discussion of Mr. Xiang’s death or murder. Not on social media, the restaurant’s web page, the police blotter, or any of the online newspapers. Has the restaurant been closed? It would have to be, wouldn’t it? Do the police think the thugs were high school kids, or older?”
“Whoa!” I said. “Those are all good questions, but I don’t have any of the answers. Not yet, anyway.” While the boys took the dogs outside, I double-checked the restaurant’s web site and the police blotter. As David had said, there was no mention of the murder. Was that usual, two days after a violent death in a town with a normally low crime rate and a citizenry that thrived on the Internet? I didn’t think so.
Orchard View prided itself on maintaining a “rural atmosphere,” which meant, among other things, no streetlights and no sidewalks. The boys took flashlights and bags to help them pick up after the dogs and warn off any skunks or raccoons scrounging for food.
I signed the kids’ papers, fed the cats, did the dishes, and cleaned up the bathroom, which looked like a blizzard had hit it but wasn’t that difficult to restore to normal. I put a new package of toilet paper out of Munchkin’s reach on top of the medicine cabinet and hoped he wouldn’t turn to shredding our towels in frustration. When the boys came upstairs and reported that Munchkin had suffered no digestive repercussions from his papier–mâché mess, I suggested they pick up any dirty clothes, shoes, and anything else they’d deposited on the floors of their rooms—in case Munchkin’s plan was to branch out to other materials.
Holmes and Watson, our ginger-colored cats, followed me upstairs and “helped” me sort the laundry by attacking socks, subduing them, and dragging them under the bed.
Within an hour or so, I was tucked up in bed with my yellow-lined legal pad, making lists of the people I needed to call and the things I needed to do tomorrow. Contact the lawyer, Rafi’s grandmother, and the proprietors of the stores near the Golden Dragon. I checked the web site of the local paper again but had no luck finding anything. The paper came out on Wednesdays and had already been printed and distributed by the time Mr. Xiang was killed in the early hours of Thursday night. My guess was that the few reporters and stringers the small paper still employed would be collecting details up until the last minute for next week’s edition, hoping to print a more in-depth story with a local twist to differentiate themselves from the daily papers and nightly news. The aunt of a student at Brian’s school worked at the paper, and I made a note to phone her. Then I crossed off her name and finally wrote it again with a question mark. While the reporter might be a good source of information, she’d want to know why I was asking. I wouldn’t call her unless I absolutely had to, for fear I’d leak some part of Stephen or Rafi’s involvement by mistake. Neither one of them needed to raise their profile with the police or the rumor mill by having their names appear in the paper.
I checked the San Francisco Chronicle and the San Jose Mercury News, but they’d posted nothing as yet. I made a note to check online again in the morning, but decided to avoid the television and radio news. I didn’t have time to listen to an entire newscast of superficial information just to get a sound bite or two on a story they probably wouldn’t cover anyway. Events occurring in the towns between San Francisco and San Jose were sparsely covered on the flashy nightly news programs, except in the case of very visual stories like a major wildfire, earthquake, or flooding, or anything that might affect the tech companies and their stock prices.
I sighed while I reviewed my calendar. If I was going to help Stephen, I needed to clear my schedule. It was a little painful to consider doing so, because I’d been working hard to build my client list since our move to the area last fall.
I was in the middle of a kitchen reorganization with one client, who hoped I’d be finished by the time she returned from a business trip in Germany. I e-mailed her about the unavoidable delay, offering her a ten percent discount. She quickly e-mailed back, explaining that she was awake early to go for a run before work. Her project had been extended by a month. She asked if I would mind convincing the post office to extend the hold on her mail and check to see if her neighbor was still watering her garden. Both chores would be easy for me, so I readily agreed. She thanked me for the extra work and suggested we forget the discount and call it even. I wished all my clients were that easygoing.
I called a few other customers, delaying an appointment to provide an estimate on a downsizing project, two for closet clean-outs, and a garage storage consultation. In general, the clients had seemed reliev
ed. The reason they’d called for help in the first place was that they had an aversion to tackling the projects. By hiring me, they were scheduling time and hiring accountability and a second opinion. Having their personal organizer encourage them to procrastinate on a dreaded chore was good news.
But there was one client I knew I couldn’t put off—Mrs. Bostwick. She was an exceptionally organized elderly woman with no family. I’d helped her clear out the sprawling city apartments of two of her siblings following their deaths. We’d dealt with everything from valuable antiques and artwork to treasured memorabilia. We’d grown close. But she’d had a stroke and now seldom left the house. She watched hours of home improvement television and called me every month or so to discuss an update to her systems.
This month’s project was swapping out her yellowed and crumbling manila folders for brightly colored new ones. We’d planned to replace the old typewritten labels with new ones in a large, easy-to-read font. Her once-tidy hanging folders were coming unglued, so we were exchanging those for new ones with large print tabs.
She’d already provided a spreadsheet with all the file names. We’d gone over it to determine if there were files she could combine or discard altogether. If she’d been a younger woman, I’d have suggested converting to online bill payment systems, but she was comfortable and adept at keeping her finances up to date using an old-school checkbook and register. I didn’t want to mess with her success or force her to learn a new system that might make her anxious about safety and security.
All I needed to do was make the new labels, set up the folders, and keep an appointment in a little over a week to exchange the old files for the new. I figured I could easily fuss with those tasks in between bouts of working on Stephen’s project, which I planned to have finished long before the appointment with Mrs. Bostwick.