by Mary Feliz
I thanked Wanda, excused myself quickly, and left with Munchkin and Belle. I’d wanted to ask her about Rafi and whether she’d seen him around the neighborhood. It would have to wait for another time. I reminded myself that he worked late and Wanda left early, so their paths were unlikely to have crossed. She had no hours posted on her front door or window, but I could check on my computer at home and find out if she was ever open in the evening. Regardless, I’d done all I could do at Pet Wash today.
“Who’s next, guys?” I asked the dogs. Belle nudged at my pocket, hoping I had another treat hidden there, but Munchkin tugged us toward the flower shop. It made sense, I guessed, that he should be our tour guide. This was his territory and he knew it well. I’d brought him with me today to cheer him up and to keep him from eating all the paper products in the house, but he was doing double duty as a consulting detective and I appreciated his help.
A cold gust of wind tore my coat open and ruffled the dogs’ fur, making them look larger and more aggressively protective than they actually were. I squinted and turned my head away from the dust the wind kicked up. I shivered as a cloud covered the sun.
I opened the door to the next shop and was greeted by the cozy smell of warm soil and the sweet perfume of hothouse flowers. It was like entering a rainforest and felt good after the gusty chill of the brewing storm. I wiped my eyes, which had begun to tear in response to the windblown dust out in the street.
Munchkin woofed softly and a short round man with a bald head and bright red apron bustled out from behind a counter. He only had eyes for Munchkin and knelt to greet him, touching his nose to Munchkin’s with great deference.
“How are you, old boy?” he said with a hint of a British accent. “I’ve missed you. You haven’t come by to see me in days and I’ve been worried. And what is this? Who has been hurting you? We can’t have that. No. Certainly not. You give me their names and I’ll see to things. They will not be welcome here, I can tell you that.”
Belle scooted past me and nudged the man’s elbow with her head, insisting that he also pay attention to her. Her persistent head-butting nearly knocked him sideways. He put out a hand to keep himself upright, looked up at me, and drew back in surprise.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “Please, excuse me.” He stood up with more ease than I would have expected, given the excess weight he carried. “I saw Munchkin and was expecting Mr. Stephen Laird to be at the end of the leash. How silly of me.” He brushed his hands off on his apron and extended one to me.
“Maggie McDonald,” I said as I shook it. “And you’ve met Munchkin’s friend Belle.”
He bowed slightly to Belle. “Indeed. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Belle.” She responded by wagging her tail with enough enthusiasm to knock over two orchids and a ceramic gnome.
“Ed Bloom,” he said, with a grin that told me he understood that the idea of someone with his last name running a flower shop was apt to spark a joke or two. “And yes, it’s my real name. I used to be a software engineer, until I realized I’m not happy unless I’ve got my hands in some good rich loamy soil. I’ve been doing this now for five years and I love it. I just opened a second store in Orchard View with my brother.”
“I’ve seen your sign but have never been inside your shop,” I said. “It’s lovely.”
“Munchkin and Laird are frequent visitors. Stephen stops in for a cup of Yorkshire Gold tea and a visit on chilly evenings, and Munchkin generally accepts a cookie and a bowl of water. Straight up, no ice. Can I interest you and Belle in some refreshment?”
Ordinarily, I might have been a bit wary of Ed’s invitation, but he was a friend of Stephen’s and enthusiastically endorsed by Munchkin. Even Belle looked over her shoulder with a pleading look, trying to convince me she might starve if she couldn’t have the cookie Ed was offering.
“Please,” I answered. “May I help?”
Ed bustled toward the back of the shop. “No, no. Make yourself comfortable. It’s no trouble at all. No trouble.”
The dogs and I followed him through an arched doorway behind the register and into a narrow room lined with potting benches. Above each bench were rows of shelves stocked with every size and shape of flowerpot, from utilitarian to whimsical and beyond. Planters shaped like gnomes, small wheelbarrows, water wheels, and what I thought might be Flash Gordon’s spaceship were stacked clear to the ceiling, and I had no trouble imagining them all falling to their deaths in the next earthquake. I ducked my head a little and followed Ed into a small side room. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I’d landed in a Hobbit hole. A small space heater took off the chill and was flanked by two chairs upholstered in worn autumn-colored chintz. Behind one chair was a credenza set up with a toaster, electric teakettle, and a hot plate. On the floor were a dog dish and a mini-refrigerator.
I looked around, half expecting to see a camp bed hidden behind a screen. The room felt too lived in to be merely a breakroom.
Munchkin went right to the water bowl but allowed Belle to drink alongside him when she joined him. Ed didn’t seem to notice or mind that the dogs were spilling an expanding puddle of water on the floor. He turned on the kettle and pulled mugs toward it. “Will Yorkshire Gold suit you?” he asked, plopping tea bags into a flowered teapot without waiting for an answer. “It’s the only kind I drink.”
While the water heated, he gave each dog a small rawhide chew he’d selected from a cookie jar on the counter. He brought out a wrapped cylinder of English biscuits to share with me: chocolate-covered whole-wheat cookies.
When the tea was ready, Ed settled into the chair next to me with a happy sigh. “Are you warm enough?” he asked, turning the heater dial. “My HVAC system is on the blink again and the landlord doesn’t seem to have a clue how to fix it reliably.” His feet were saved from dangling in front of him by a short and well-worn wooden footstool. “It always feels so good to sit down. I never understood how much time shop owners spend on their feet.” He lifted his legs and held them out in front of him, showing off a pair of bright red and well-padded running shoes. “Good shoes are my best friends.”
I’d taken a big sip of hot tea and couldn’t respond right away. Ed covered the awkward break in the conversation effortlessly. “So, Munchkin isn’t saying a word, but do tell me why you are holding the end of his leash today and why he is out in the daylight and absent the company of his usual companion.”
I introduced myself again, explained that Belle and I were friends of Stephen’s, and gave him my card. He took it in both hands, held it out from his chest, and looked at it through the bottom of his smeared lenses, as though he were overdue for an updated prescription.
“Ah, an organizer. I could use your help I expect.” He lifted his chin. I turned and saw an old-fashioned rolltop desk with some two dozen pigeonholes overflowing with paper. “The top still rolls, I think. Though I haven’t been able to muscle it past any of those papers and books in years.”
I nodded. “I’d be delighted to help you sort all that out, if you’re ready, and if you think it would help. I’ve had enough experience to know that a messy-looking system isn’t necessarily inefficient. If a system is working for you, it doesn’t matter what it looks like.”
“Just so.” He took a sip of tea and carefully extracted a cookie from the package. “Though if you’d stopped in here last week, you’d have an entirely different opinion of my shop-keeping habits, I’m afraid. Someone bashed in the alleyway door, forced open the cash register, and knocked down my display shelves. It took most of the week to get a new register, throw out the broken items, and reorder stock. Luckily, they didn’t touch my refrigerated cabinets and I didn’t lose any flowers.”
“That’s terrible. Do they know who did it? I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”
“The police are investigating, but I’m sure it has something to do with all those homeless people. I wish the police would round them all up. They’re dirty, smelly, dangerous, and half of them
are drug addicts. The other half are barking mad. They don’t need help; they need to dry out and get jobs. The boozers and the druggies would kill to get the money for their next high. They’re more pests than people.”
I leaned back and took a sip of tea, stalling for time. I wasn’t sure how to respond, especially since Wanda had given me a completely different assessment of the potential threat posed by the homeless, even though she’d said they made her nervous. Mr. Bloom, on the other hand, seemed angry instead of frightened and considered them a much more serious problem.
Before I could comment, he offered me another cookie, which took all my strength to refuse. Belle looked at me as if I were crazy.
“Never mind,” Mr. Bloom said. “The mess has been cleaned up. Out of sight, out of mind. Please, tell me why you are here. And tell me what is wrong with my old friend Munchkin. He appears so melancholy this morning.”
“He is sad.” I spoke slowly, weighing how straightforward I should be with someone who was a stranger to me but obviously a friend of both Munchkin and Stephen. Once again I decided to err on the side of discretion. “Munchkin and Stephen got themselves into a bit of a mess,” I said. “Munchkin is recovering with my family for a few days.”
“And Laird? Is he hurt?”
“He and Munchkin are both going to be fine,” I said, dodging the question.
Mr. Bloom winked at me over his mug of tea. “So it’s like that, is it?” he said, holding out a placating hand as I started to explain. “No, no, it’s fine. I trust you because you are a friend of two creatures who are dear to me. But I can see that you are struggling with a confidence, and I will not ask you to reveal any secrets. Tell me exactly how I can help you and I will endeavor to do so to the best of my ability.”
I shook off the feeling that I’d somehow landed in the sitting room of Sherlock Holmes’s brother, Mycroft, and began asking Ed the same questions I’d asked of Wanda at the Pet Wash, explaining that I was trying to learn more about the murder at the Golden Dragon.
“Ah, yes,” Ed said. “Last Wednesday night. Or early Thursday morning. The police have already been to see me, asking similar questions. I live above the store here, but I sleep soundly after a day on my feet and heard nothing. But then, I didn’t hear anything even when my own shop was attacked. There’s always a certain amount of noise out among the dustbins in the alley. Raccoons and skunks, homeless people hunting for recyclables—after a few restless evenings I tuned it all out. Except for Mr. Xiang taking out his garbage. It was always the last thing he did every night, long after the alley was otherwise quiet. I’d hear a loud clanging thud from his dumpster and know it was time to put my book away and go to bed.”
He tapped the side of his mug with a gold ring and moved his jaw from side to side. I could tell he was thinking about how much to tell me, so I decided to give him a little more information and see if it might encourage him to divulge more.
“What time did that typically happen? Do you remember whether you heard it Wednesday night?” I asked. “I talked to Wanda Daniel next door. Both she and Stephen thought it likely that one of the neighborhood homeless people might have witnessed what happened at the restaurant but is unwilling to come forward or talk to the police.”
“I’m not surprised. Like I said, they’re trouble. I sometimes go soft and offer them hot drinks on cold days, but seriously, there are shelters and that’s where they should be. But they don’t want help. Last winter I left out a heavy coat that no longer covers my girth. No one took it, even though one man was shivering in his ragged blanket. Sad.” Mr. Bloom shook his head and made a tsking sound, but he didn’t sound sad at all.
“I was surprised to learn from Wanda that there are homeless people that she considers to almost be residents of the alley out back. I seldom see anyone during the day.”
“Probably there are a dozen or more. Just as they hide from the townspeople and the police during the day, they travel in the shadows at night. Many of them sleep in the park, but will only go there after full dark when they can’t be seen.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have seen or heard anything the night of the trouble at the Golden Dragon? Anyone who might be willing to talk to me? I’m surprised by the lack of information in the news . . .”
Ed frowned and leaned over the armrest of his chair to grab a newspaper from the basket at his side. “I’m sure I saw an obituary for him in one of the San Francisco papers.”
“The painfully short death notice? I saw that one.”
“No, no, this one had more. Have another cookie while I look.” He offered me another chocolate biscuit, which I accepted. Belle wagged her tail, hoping I’d share it with her. “Chocolate is bad for dogs, Belle. You know that,” I told her. I broke off a small piece of the cookie, popped it in my mouth, and allowed myself a moment to thoroughly enjoy it while Ed scanned the pages and kept talking.
“You’re right. It’s difficult to keep a secret around here under normal circumstances, but though they have less than most, the homeless have more to lose. They survive by keeping secrets.” He hesitated before continuing.
“I don’t know if this information is connected to poor Mr. Xiang’s death,” he added slowly, “but it might give you some background into what is happening in our busy little alley at night. We have a new health inspector in town. He has been strict with the restaurant owners about offering leftovers to the homeless and has warned us all about attracting rats by leaving food out at night. And when he says rats he clearly means the homeless people. He’s been growing frustrated because someone continues to leave food out, but he hasn’t been able to catch that person in the act.”
I wasn’t comfortable with Ed’s anger toward the homeless and wondered what had sparked it. He had an odd look on his face and I wondered whether he knew, as I did, that it was Rafi and Mr. Xiang who’d been feeding desperate people leftover food. I couldn’t tell for sure, but his stories were helping me understand the situation and the range of feelings the homeless provoked among the shop owners. The information might not help me get Stephen out of jail, but it could aid me in developing a strategy for approaching a homeless person. Despite Ed’s feelings, I was with Wanda and far less afraid of them than I’d been when the man at the intersection had pounded on my window.
“Do people bother them? Do the police hassle them?”
“The police will bring them food from time to time and offer rides to the shelter when the weather is bad. They try to match them up with social services, veterans affairs, and job banks that could help. But in the end, the aid that the police can offer doesn’t necessarily match up with what the homeless people need or want. I think a get-tough approach would be more effective.”
“If I decide I need to talk to one of them, what’s the best way for me to go about it? What time would you recommend?”
Ed shifted in his chair. “Here it is.” He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and read aloud. “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.
“Jon was born in a small farming village in Taiwan. He was the third son and one of eleven children. An uncle, also the third son from a large family, provided money for him to attend medical school in Taiwan. When his parents died in a car accident in 1974 he emigrated to the United States and settled near his uncle in Mountain View, California. Though it was his parents’ wish that he become a doctor, Jon gave up medicine and studied business at Santa Clara University, receiving a master’s degree in 1976. Shortly thereafter, he graduated from the Silicon Valley Culinary Academy. He was engaged to be married, but his fiancée disappeared before they could be wed.
“He and his uncle created a partnership to buy a vacant bank building on Castro Street in Mountain View. After a complete renovation, they opened the Golden Dragon in 1979. Customers, suppliers, and employees describe Mr. Xiang as a savvy businessman who was warm and welcoming to h
is customers and treated his employees like family. He often employed high school students and awarded them scholarships to colleges and universities across the United States. ‘It was his way of paying back his uncle’s investment in his own education,’ said Dr. Susan Huang, a gynecologist at Stanford University Hospital, who once worked for Mr. Xiang.
“His uncle died shortly after the Golden Dragon opened, and Mr. Xiang had no other family in the United States. A memorial service is being planned for a later date.”
Mr. Bloom lowered the paper and folded it carefully, placing it back in the basket at the side of his chair. “That’s interesting. There’s no mention of how he died. And no story about the murder.”
“Someone in San Francisco must have submitted the obituary,” I said. “But who? Maybe one of those students he helped? I wonder if the police are keeping the details of the attack quiet. A murder in a cold-storage locker? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but that’s pretty lurid stuff. You’d think the papers and the nightly news would splash it all over.”
Mr. Bloom shrugged. “Sometimes I think the city papers don’t know that the Peninsula even exists. They may have a vague idea of where Silicon Valley and San Jose are, but news coverage? It’s nearly nonexistent for anything outside the city and county of San Francisco.”
“Maybe the local paper will cover it next week. Everyone I’ve talked to says he was a wonderful man.”
Mr. Bloom coughed. “Hmm. Maybe. He had a dark side . . .” He stood and took my teacup and his and placed them in a sink next to the credenza.
I started to ask what he meant by a dark side, but Mr. Bloom interrupted. “You should let the police take care of this. The homeless people may be troubled, hungry, and dirty, but they are not stupid, and they do what they must to survive. If they know something—and I’m not saying that they do—they are keeping quiet for a reason.” He shifted again, as if his chair were suddenly uncomfortable. “Or maybe they feel entitled to take what they want from hardworking people. I don’t know.”