Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

But I had no idea at that point what helping Stephen would entail.

  Chapter 6

  Many organizers suggest that organized storage means finding a designated home for every item you own. If only it were that easy! I suggest starting with one drawer. Remove everything that doesn’t belong. Once you remove invasive items, you’ll have space to clean and tidy what’s left, decide where everything belongs, and discover which items you can discard.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Saturday, February 18, Morning

  When Max’s team was releasing a new product, no matter how many months of painstaking design and planning had been done, disasters cropped up requiring last-minute testing and emergency bug fixing. Twelve-hour days, midnight calls from European and Asian testing teams, and weekend marathons were the norm for as long as it took to verify that the product was ready to go and wouldn’t pose problems for customers.

  So I wasn’t surprised when he rolled in at 1:00 a.m., gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and fell promptly asleep.

  In the morning, I found flowers on the kitchen table and a note from Max expressing his undying love and asking me to remind him of any appointments or family events he might otherwise forget while keeping his current crazy schedule. No problem. I had his back when he was busy, just as he had mine. But the flowers were a nice gesture and brightened up the kitchen on a gloomy February morning.

  After breakfast, I dropped the boys off at their Saturday activities. Soccer practice for Brian with an afternoon at a friend’s house. David’s plans were a little more free-form—Ultimate Frisbee followed by lunch with the other trumpet players from his band class.

  I’d hoped to catch Max at home before he returned to work, but I found a note on the table that suggested I’d just missed him. I phoned his office and left a message, then poured myself a cup of coffee. I took it outside, along with the Saturday editions of all the newspapers I could find in the news racks near the soccer field. I sat in one of the rockers on our back porch, scanning one paper after another for news or an obituary for Mr. Xiang. Then I paged through them looking for something that might indicate that a pattern of violence or harassment had developed in the downtown business district. All I could find was a brief notice from a funeral home on the obituary page of the San Jose paper:

  Jon Yuen Xiang, 75, born April 18, 1940, died February 16, 2016. Resident of Mountain View. Owner and manager of the Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant since 1979. No services will be held. In lieu of flowers, please donate to your favorite charity.

  The notice seemed small and sad compared to the flowery mini-biographies of other elderly residents, most of which were written by grieving family members. They were capsules of California history, captured in the lives of individuals. I wondered whether the brevity of the announcement was due to the police keeping a lid on the details of the murder or a personal preference on the part of Mr. Xiang. I hoped it would be followed by a lengthier article or obituary later.

  I dawdled over the rest of the paper, putting off interviewing some of the homeless people and shop owners near the Golden Dragon. I wasn’t looking forward to introducing myself to the street people. Most of them weren’t dangerous, I knew, but many lacked basic hygiene for a variety of reasons. Some had mental health issues that put them barely in touch with reality. And all of them tugged at my heart. I wished homelessness and treating incapacitating mental illnesses were problems that we handled better than we did.

  A gust of wind set the rocker next to mine moving gently, as though Max sat beside me, unseen. I shivered. The homeless who couldn’t find shelter were going to be in for a cold and uncomfortable night.

  I couldn’t do anything about the weather, and I needed to attend to things where I could make a difference. As quickly as I could. I phoned Forrest Doucett. If he was working over the weekend, he wasn’t answering his phone, so I left a detailed message, asking for him or any of his colleagues who were working on Rafi’s case to phone me back.

  I hadn’t heard from Max, so I texted him to avoid engaging in an ongoing game of phone tag:

  Miss you. Lots of news here. I’ll fill you in when you get home. Running errands most of the day. Text me if you need me to pick up anything. oxox

  I phoned Paolo. “Hey, have you heard any news about Stephen?” I asked when he answered the phone. Paolo had little time or patience for small talk.

  “It’s not good. They’ve moved him to the county jail, though they’ve given him his own cell to keep him safe.”

  “What do you mean? Is he in danger?” I’d been worried about Stephen’s mental well-being, but I hadn’t given a thought to his physical safety. He was a retired marine who’d worked in special ops, and I’d taken for granted that he could look after himself.

  Paolo paused before answering. I couldn’t tell whether it was because of his normal reticence or if he was carefully choosing his words to avoid telling me something.

  “Sometimes cops get targeted when they’re in jail,” he said.

  “But Stephen isn’t a cop. He didn’t want me to tell anyone in the police department about his connection to Jason, and I didn’t. So how would anyone in the jail know who Stephen is?”

  “Oh, Maggie,” Paolo said, as if he were addressing someone hopelessly naive. “Prisoners have very little to do in jail except gossip and they’ve got quite a network. Jason is responsible for putting men in jail. Stephen’s probably worked with the few who are veterans.”

  He sighed. “They’re both good-looking men who are often photographed at those police charity events. All it would take for word to get out is for one of those incarcerated men to have a suspicion that Stephen was connected to law enforcement. For that matter, most crooks claim they can spot a cop a mile away. Stephen’s military bearing and his stint in the military police could have put a target on his back even if no one made the connection to Jason.”

  “But the guards will keep an eye on him, right? I should go down and see him. Do they have visiting hours on the weekend? Do I need any special paperwork?”

  Again, Paolo was quiet.

  “Paolo?”

  “Yes, they have visiting hours. Normally, you’d need special paperwork but it can wait until next week, now, I think.”

  “Because?”

  This time, in the silence, I heard a catch in Paolo’s voice. “He’s been injured and is in the hospital.”

  “What hospital? How badly is he hurt? What happened?”

  “The hospital ward at the jail. He was targeted, I assume. His story is that he had an accident in the common area, slipped, and hit his head and arm on a table. He needed stitches, broke his arm, and has a number of nasty bruises. He’s being observed for brain injuries.”

  “How do you know all this? Couldn’t the bruises have been from the beating he took at the Golden Dragon?”

  “I’ve got a buddy who works in the jail pharmacy. He knows Stephen and the situation. He’ll keep quiet.”

  This time, there was silence on my end of the phone as I sifted through a storm of questions that came to mind too quickly for me to spit them out. “It doesn’t matter what happened or why. We need to get him out of there as quickly as possible.”

  Paolo agreed. “Look, I don’t have any more information on the case than I did yesterday, but I have the administrative phone number and a list of procedures for making contact with prisoners. You’ll need to make arrangements with the chief warden if you want to visit Stephen, but you may want to wait. Normal practice is to restrict visitors to hospitalized inmates for at least a week. If he gets a visitor when he’s not supposed to, it will arouse speculation.”

  “Do you know what they’ve charged him with? Why they’re holding him there?”

  “I don’t know much more than I did yesterday, except that the district attorney is serious about putting pressure on Stephen to talk.”

  “Okay. I’ve got a list of things to take care of today for him
. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

  “He’s safe enough for now in the medical facility, but . . .”

  “I know. Thanks, Paolo. I’ll talk to you later.”

  What neither of us said, but both of us knew, was that Stephen in jail was like a caged wild bird. He might survive, but he might never be the same after this experience.

  At least I could take good care of Munchkin. I called him and Belle, leashed them both, and grabbed my raincoat. I put them in the back of my car, giving Munchkin a little boost when he had trouble jumping up. I needed information and Munchkin needed a walk. He was restless, injured, and unhappy. A walk might not help, but it couldn’t hurt.

  I drove to downtown Mountain View and was thrilled to find a rare vacant parking space in front of the corner Pet Wash. Both dogs were still remarkably clean and I didn’t want to irritate Munchkin’s healing wounds, but I stepped inside the store anyway. Wanda Daniel had been part of the downtown landscape for decades and knew everyone.

  “Hey, Wanda,” I called out over the noise created by a barking basset hound, running water, a clothes dryer thumping with heavy towels, and the chainsaw-like sound of a high-powered hair dryer. The room was lined with three tubs on each side, normal human bathroom tubs set at counter level to make dog washing less hard on their owners’ backs. Ramps and small flights of stairs led up to the tubs, each of which was equipped with a hair dryer, a nonslip mat, and eyebolts for attaching leashes. Wanda supplied each human customer with a plastic apron, towels, and shampoo and conditioner in a variety of scents.

  Wanda didn’t hear me, but I waited while she finished drying a Bernese mountain dog who insisted on licking Wanda’s ear. She turned off the dryer, fluffed out the dog’s fur, and added a spritz of perfume. “No more rolling in dead birds, Buster,” she said. “Although I do appreciate your repeat business.” Buster licked her ear again.

  Wanda looked up and startled when she saw me with the two dogs in tow. “Hi, Maggie. Wow, two? I don’t have any tubs side-by-side right now but . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Wanda, these two are fine. Do you have a minute? I’ve got a couple of questions for you, and I wanted to give you some of my cards.”

  “Sure. Buster’s people dropped him off so they could run errands while he gets his beauty treatment. I want him to air out for a minute and sniff him again. He found a dead bird at the beach early this morning and had a good long roll before anyone could get him back on his leash. It’s a particularly persistent smell.”

  My nose wrinkled involuntarily. Munchkin and Belle tugged on their leashes, eager to make Buster’s acquaintance. I was pleased to see Munchkin wagging his tail, but no matter how perky the smell made him, it would be a long time before I resorted to a field trip to roll in dead things at the beach. “Get a good sniff, Munch,” I told him. “That’s as close as I hope you’re getting to anything dead for a good long time.”

  Wanda laughed, hung up her apron, and offered cookies to the dogs. I handed her a few of my business cards.

  “Thanks, Maggie. I’ve been interested in going paperless with my files and stuff, but I don’t have the money to pay you or anyone else to make the switch for me. And I can’t carve out the time to do it myself. I hear customers talking about organizing projects all the time, though, and I’d be happy to give them your card.”

  “I can give you an estimate if you’d like. I offer a discount for friends.”

  Wanda chuckled. “My books are a mess. There’s never enough time. I tell myself I need to sit down and attack them but then I start thinking how great it would be to have a glass of wine, curl up on the couch, and watch . . . almost anything on TV.”

  “I get that. You know, if you’re concerned about the cost, we could think about setting up a class. If enough storeowners in the area are interested, I could do a group lesson with weekly follow-ups to keep the cost down.”

  “I’d go for that. As long as someone else organizes it and I get to bring my dog.” Wanda changed the subject and I didn’t press her further. This wasn’t a marketing visit and delivering a hard sales pitch wasn’t my style. “You said you had some questions. Did someone tangle with a skunk? Munchkin sure messed with something, didn’t he?” She knelt down next to Munchkin and made sympathetic noises and said something about Stephen that made it sound as if she knew both of them.

  “It’s a little delicate,” I began. “Do you know Stephen Laird?”

  “Of course.” She patted Munchkin and fended off a jealous Belle before patting her too. “We’re part of one of their regular walking routes. I’m generally closed for business before they head out on their treks around the neighborhood, but they’ve stopped a few times to chat or help if I’m here working late.”

  “And did you hear about the trouble at the Golden Dragon?”

  “Poor Mr. Xiang. He was such a sweet man. He wasn’t too fond of dogs, especially the bigger ones, but he always said hello and waved and gave me money plants every Chinese New Year.” She pointed to a row of healthy pots of bamboo-like pachira on the windowsill. “I don’t know how he knew, but it seemed like every time I was having a bad day, he’d send one of the waiters down with a container of tangerine chicken, which is my favorite. It included a napkin with the characters for peace, strength, and happiness.”

  I was impressed. “You read Mandarin?”

  “No, but that’s what the waiters always said as they pointed to the characters.” She smiled and spoke to the dogs while rubbing their ears. “For all I know he could have written ‘scram, you witch,’ but Mr. Xiang wasn’t like that. I still can’t believe that he’s gone, or that someone decided to kill him.”

  “I saw the death notice in the paper,” I said. “It was . . . brief. I was surprised that there wouldn’t be a service. Does he have no friends, family, or business colleagues who’d like to say good-bye or pay their respects?”

  Wanda hesitated, but finally said, “As far as I know, he has no family. But surely his long-term customers and employees would want to do something to honor his memory. I’ll have to think who to ask, but I’ll try to find out. It may be that his death was so unexpected and tragic that no one has had time to organize anything. You’re right, though. He’s been an active part of the community for almost forty years. Maybe one of the business associations he belonged to would like to do something.”

  “If you find out, will you let me know? My number’s on the card.”

  Wanda agreed and walked back toward Buster. Before she could turn the noisy dryer back on, I followed her, trying to decide how much to tell her about Stephen’s predicament and my plan to help him.

  I knew Wanda pretty well. Every dog owner in Orchard View and Mountain View did. Washing Belle here, or having Wanda wash her for me while I did errands, was too great a luxury to pass up. Her rates were reasonable and there was seldom a wait for a tub. She was friendly and I’d never heard her pass along any gossip that wasn’t completely innocuous. If I could tell anyone about Stephen, I could confide in Wanda. But I’d told Stephen I wouldn’t tell a soul and I’d already talked to the boys. So I’d have to try to get information from Wanda without giving too much away. Interviewing people was much more complicated than either Jessica Fletcher or Miss Marple made it look.

  I took a deep breath and pressed on. “I’m trying to find a witness who could have seen or heard what went on at the restaurant that night,” I told her. “Or anyone who might know what sparked the violence. The police tell me that no one has come forward, but surely, a gunshot . . .”

  I let my voice trail off, hoping that Wanda would fill in the rest and not be too curious about why I was asking. Her natural desire to be kind and helpful must have won out over her interest in my reasons for inquiring.

  “I went home pretty early that night,” she said. “Trying to fight off a cold. I stayed until maybe an hour after closing. Some of the other shop owners might know more, though. We’ve all been working later hours since the recession. Laying of
f help and doing the work ourselves. And then there are the homeless people. They might have seen something. They won’t talk to the police but they might talk to you.”

  I hesitated for what must have seemed like a second too long. “Don’t worry,” she said. “All of the regulars are harmless. The Mountain View Police are pretty good about finding a reason to pick up anyone who is dangerous to themselves or others. But if you don’t want to talk to them, I wouldn’t blame you. They frighten me sometimes. I scare easily at night. I was attacked once, years ago. By someone who was after my moneybox. I’ve never felt safe in the dark since. I think Stephen Laird must have sensed that, because he has an uncanny way of stopping by when I work late.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Anyone who knew Stephen was aware that he had a reputation for appearing out of nowhere when help was needed, much like a caped crusader. Max called him the Ninja Marine. But had Stephen been spending time here because he knew Wanda was fearful, or was he keeping an eye on a more serious problem? Had he sensed that trouble was brewing even before it boiled over in the violence at the Golden Dragon?

  “I’m a little nervous about talking to them,” I admitted. “But I’m sure I’ll be safe with these two canines by my side. I’ll wait though, until I’ve talked to the other shop owners. I’m sure someone must have seen something.”

  Wanda turned to reach under the counter behind her and pulled out a fifteen percent off card. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help. But next time you come in, you can give Belle the works. A spa day. She’ll love it.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said, taking the card. “Have you been especially nervous at night lately? Have there been break-ins? Vandalism? Threats? Anything like that?”

  Before she could answer, Buster barked and the rest of the dogs joined in. A young woman opened the shop door with a jingling of old-fashioned shop bells. I assumed she was Buster’s owner, ready to take him home.