Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  A girl in the back sobbed and was comforted by a boy wearing a Berkeley hoodie. Becca shook her head. “It’s just a restaurant. Nothing complicated. There were private family parties where we all served as waitstaff, but nothing secretive. And he welcomed us here whenever we had the time to work, so he couldn’t have been hiding anything. Not from me, at least.” She turned to look at the other kids, but they all seemed confused and shook their heads.

  They all broadcasted misery with their dejected posture and I felt compelled to cheer them up. “I think it’s great that you all found a way to honor Mr. Xiang. I don’t know when any memorial services will be planned. I found an obituary in the San Francisco Examiner, but it just noted that a service would be announced later.”

  Becca and Daniel looked at each other, then at me, and back at each other. Becca nodded and Daniel explained. “We’ve been talking about getting all of the people together that Mr. X helped over the years. Maybe asking them to donate to a scholarship fund in his name. And holding a service or maybe a volunteer day to do something for the community. But we’re not sure where to start.” Daniel looked at me expectantly and hopefully.

  “Hmm . . . Are you asking for my advice?”

  Becca nodded.

  “If I were going to do something like that, I think the first step would be to find out if Mr. Xiang had a lawyer, someone who is handling his estate. The funeral director would be able to put you in touch with him, and I believe the funeral home was responsible for the obituary in the Examiner.” I dug in the pocket of my jacket for my card. “If that doesn’t work, please give me a call and we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  “Did you know Mr. X? Is that why you’re here?” Becca asked, taking the card.

  I dodged the question. “I’m saddened by his death. He seemed to do a lot of good in our community. And he was a friend of Stephen and Munchkin here.” Munchkin wagged his tail at the sound of his name. Belle had fallen asleep on Daniel’s foot.

  Becca thanked me and the kids dispersed. I watched them go and then walked slowly back to my car. I realized that although I’d said that Stephen was a friend of Mr. Xiang’s, I didn’t really know if that was true. Rafi was a trusted friend, and he worked at the Golden Dragon, but Stephen had never mentioned how he felt about the restaurant owner. Could it be that Stephen and Munchkin patrolled this alley at night because something wasn’t right here? I’d assumed they’d performed a protective role, but they could have just as easily been trying to prevent some kind of criminal behavior.

  I didn’t think it likely. I’d only heard people speak well of Mr. Xiang. But I needed to remain open to all the possibilities.

  * * *

  I was halfway home when my phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. McDonald?”

  “Yes, this is Maggie McDonald.”

  “This is Bruce Renwick, Mr. Laird’s attorney. I wanted to let you know that he’s asking for you. If you want to see him, you’ll need to come by within the hour. He’s being transferred out of the hospital and back into the general population.”

  “I’m in Mountain View, the traffic is terrible, and I have two dogs in the car. There’s no way I can get there in an hour. Are you sure they can’t stretch it to two?”

  “Mrs. McDonald, this is the Santa Clara County Jail we’re talking about here. You do understand that? Your friend is in jail and his life now runs on jail time. Jail time does not stretch, bend, contract, or otherwise accommodate itself to anyone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as if I actually had something to apologize for. “Can I see him in the jail after that, if I come straight down?”

  “Once he’s back in the general population, regular visiting rules will be in effect. You’ll have to wait for paperwork to go through and then apply to see him. You might be able to make all that happen by next Saturday’s visitation, but it will more likely be the week after that.”

  “Is there any way you can pass along a message for him? Do you know what he wants?”

  I heard a heavy sigh from Mr. Renwick’s end of the phone, and his next words were clearly forced out through clenched teeth. “That is what I have been doing, Mrs. McDonald, passing along the message that Mr. Laird would like to speak to you. And if you’re inclined to accommodate that request, you need to be here within the next forty-five to fifty minutes.”

  There was nothing I could do. I checked the clock in the car three times, then checked it again against my watch. If I turned around right this minute, I’d never make it in time. Even if I did, I’d have to leave the dogs in a huge unshaded parking lot that would probably make the car unbearably hot.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Renwick. I could break every traffic speed limit between here and Santa Clara and I still wouldn’t make it in time. I’m afraid I can’t overcome the laws of physics. I will phone the jail and do everything I can to get in to see Stephen as quickly as possible.”

  Mr. Renwick sniffed. “I guess Mr. Laird should have selected another friend to contact.”

  I was furious, hungry, tired, and frustrated. I was also stopped at a red light. I slapped the steering wheel and my eyes stung. I was doing everything I could think of to help Stephen and his public defender’s disdain was the last thing I needed. So I let him have it. But tried to remain unfailingly polite as I did so.

  “Mister Renwick,” I said, enunciating every syllable. “When I meet with Stephen, I will ask him when he spoke with you and what time it was when he asked you to relay the message. When I do that, what will Stephen tell me?”

  “I have no idea, Mrs. McDonald.”

  “Do you remember when you met with him? You attorneys keep careful notes on your billable hours. Could you consult those records and tell me what time you spoke with Stephen today?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “And that was six hours ago. Six hours in which you could have phoned me, giving me plenty of time to meet Stephen. Did you deliberately wait to relay the message to sabotage me or Stephen? Are you overworked, corrupt, or cruel?”

  “Er . . .”

  “Look, Mr. Renwick, I apologize. I don’t know what the problem is, but I am doing everything I can to help Stephen and I hope that as his attorney, you are too. We’re on the same side and I don’t need your disdain. Do you understand me?”

  “Erm . . .”

  “Is there anything you want me to ask him when I do get a chance to see him? Is there anything you or anyone else might be able to do to speed up the process? Anyone we could talk to?”

  “I can look into that and text or call you when I find out.”

  “Thank you. As I said, we’re on the same side.” I accidently ended the call by gripping the steering wheel too hard in the wrong place. I hoped that Mr. Renwick wouldn’t think I’d hung up on him.

  In any case, I was home shortly and let the dogs out. Belle ran circles around the yard before unearthing a muddy old tennis ball cleaved in half by the mower. She bounded up the back steps. Munchkin followed at a stately pace.

  The kitchen was filled with the comforting smell of slow-cooker beef bourguignon—one of Max’s favorite meals. Two loaves of crusty homemade bread rested on cooling racks on the counter. I sliced off the heel of one, slathered it with butter, and took a big bite.

  “What are you doing? Dad told us we couldn’t have any until dinner. We hiked the whole PG&E trail loop this morning and now he’s got us doing laundry and vacuuming.” While David’s voice was one hundred percent aggrieved teenager, he had the happy, healthy look of a kid who’d spent most of the day outdoors with his dad.

  “Are those clean clothes? Folded even?” I mumbled around the mouthful of bread and inclined my head toward the laundry basket David held in both hands. “A bazillion points for you. Kid of the week!”

  Brian came down the back stairs, carrying a garbage bin in one hand and a paper grocery sack full of recyclables in the other. “What about me?”

  I messed up his hair, kissed his head, and said, “I lov
e you, too, Bud. A bazillion points all around. You’re the kid of the week, too.”

  “Did you get Stephen out of jail yet?” David asked.

  “Or figure out who hurt Munchkin?” added Brian.

  I shook my head and sighed, thinking that I’d accomplished very little today despite all my efforts. “Unfortunately not . . .”

  Before I could elaborate, Max came through the pantry from the dining room. He gave me a hug and snagged the rest of my slice of bread.

  “No fair. Can we have a slice, since Mom took one?” David asked.

  “When your chores are finished,” Max said. The boys rolled their eyes.

  My phone rang. Startled, I dropped it on the floor in the process of trying to answer it. The ring tone cut off. My heart sank. The last thing I needed right now was a broken phone. I’d only recently become familiar with all its capabilities and did not have any inclination to upgrade to the latest version until I was forced to do so.

  Max picked up the phone, looked at the screen, swiped a few times, and pushed some of the buttons. “It looks like it’s working fine. Do you have a secret admirer in Texas? Area code 972. I think that’s Houston. No, it’s Dallas. Definitely Dallas.”

  I peered over Max’s arm and looked at the call log. “It’s probably Jason. He told me communications would be spotty. Did I tell you that his emergency team deployed to the flood zones after all those tornados?”

  Max handed the phone back to me. “Call him back. Over dinner you can catch us up on your investigation.” Munchkin woofed and wagged his tail.

  Max knelt down and rubbed the dog’s ears, laughing. “Good boy! Great tail wag. We’ve been worried about you, buddy. Let’s see more of that.” Munchkin complied. “I’m thinking he likes us talking about getting Stephen out of jail. Maybe we should be calling this his investigation.”

  I tried calling Jason directly, but the call didn’t go through. I wasn’t surprised. All of our earthquake preparedness exercises told us that between damaged phone lines and overloaded systems, contacting loved ones following a natural disaster could be difficult for days. The phone emitted a grating alarm before the mechanical voice began: “All circuits are busy. Please hang up and try your call again. We’re sorry. All circuits are busy. Please—”

  I sent Jason a text saying that I hoped the storms were ending. I added the news that everyone here in Orchard View was healthy and well. I wasn’t completely confident that Stephen was safe in the general population at the county jail, since he’d already been injured once. But, for now, it was the best I could do.

  Later, over dinner, we talked about Stephen and Jason. Max was still nervous about my plan to question homeless people, particularly since the shop owners had suggested approaching them at night when they seemed to be less skittish.

  “I know most of them are harmless,” Max said. “But what about the ones who are off their meds and might be hearing voices telling them you’re dangerous? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but neither one of us knows enough about serious mental illnesses to spot red flags that might predict violence.” I could hear the frustration in his voice. He stood to clear the table.

  “I’m not excited about it, either,” I said. “But I’d like to visit them in the park after they’ve had a chance to wash up at the YMCA and while there are still people coming and going in the parking lot. Ed Bloom suggested I look for Annie, a woman with long braids and colorful clothing who he says is friendly, talkative, and mostly stable in mind and body. He told me where she hangs out, so I’m hoping I can consult her quickly and then come straight home. I’ll also have Munchkin with me. Apparently most of the regulars know him and Stephen. Anyone who doesn’t know Munchkin is bound to be afraid of him, based on size alone. And you’ll be with me too. I promised I wouldn’t do any sleuthing at night without you.”

  Munchkin hung his head, uncomfortable with our concentrated attention, but then looked up at us from under the wrinkles that had collected on his brow. The boys laughed. “He looks like he ate all the cookies and half the cake but wants you to tell him it’s okay because he’s so darn lovable,” Brian said.

  “It’s a look you should know,” said David. Brian ignored his brother’s barbed comment.

  Max started the kettle and plunked tea bags into two mugs, one for him and one for me. “Do you boys want anything?”

  “Is there dessert?” David asked.

  Brian grabbed a tangerine from the fridge and tossed it to David. “Mom, I think besides this Annie person, you have to try to find the guy from the intersection. The one that recognized Munchkin. How hard can it be? Drive past the intersection again. What can he do, push you into traffic?”

  Max blanched, but I laughed. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t do that, would he, with all those witnesses? And we already know he wants to talk to you and that he has something to say.”

  “You’re right, Brian. I’ll check on Tuesday.”

  But David urged me to go sooner. “Let’s go tomorrow. Dad, you can come too, if you’re worried. What are the odds that a homeless person has an electronic calendar that reminds him it’s a national holiday?”

  “Are you going to go to the park now?” Brian asked. “It’s dark. They’d probably be there.”

  Max shook his head and opened his mouth to answer, but I interrupted. “Mr. Bloom suggested I bring sandwiches, clean socks, Band-Aids, and a few other useful items. I’ll get those together tomorrow so we’re ready to go.”

  What I didn’t realize then was how far away our cozy Sunday evening dinner would seem by the time Monday night arrived.

  Chapter 10

  Label your storage drawers, boxes, and bins. Some families need big labels (or pictures, for those who don’t yet read). For some, small reminder labels on the inside of the drawer will do.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Presidents’ Day, Monday, February 20, Morning

  I woke up to a call from Jason that again was cut off before I could answer it. I knew Jason wouldn’t be able to reach Stephen, and I wondered how many people besides me he was trying to reach to find out why his husband was not returning his calls. I sighed. Despite Stephen’s pleas not to tell Jason anything, I couldn’t hold out much longer and I didn’t think Jason could either. I was sure he was growing frantic, and I vowed that I’d provide a full report the next time he phoned. I wasn’t up to explaining it all in a text message.

  I went downstairs to start the coffee and went through the now routine list of calls I was trying to make. Trying and failing. Paolo: left message. Nell Bevans: left message. Bruce Renwick: left message.

  It occurred to me that Rafi’s family might be home, since today was a school holiday, but Stephen hadn’t given me an address for Mrs. Maldonado. The days of everyone having a landline were over, and I no longer kept a phone book, but I looked up Rafael Maldonado online, hoping the great and powerful Internet would reveal his grandmother’s phone number or street address. As usual, the Internet provided way too much information. There were hundreds of Maldonados living locally.

  I made a copy of the list and transferred it to a spreadsheet. Stephen had said that Rafi lived in his grandmother’s house. I double-checked the location of some of the less familiar streets, then highlighted and deleted all the Maldonados who lived in areas I knew were predominantly populated by apartments and condos. I circled the ones in neighborhoods with single-family homes.

  I spent half an hour on it before I was itching to do something more active. I phoned my friend Tess, but ended the call when I remembered that she was up near Lake Tahoe skiing with her family and wouldn’t be back until late evening. A number of local families, or “everyone,” according to Brian and David, were skiing over the long holiday weekend.

  I decided to get a start pulling together the cookies, sandwiches, toiletry items, and socks that I’d hand out to some of the homeless peopl
e. I began making a list of the grocery items we needed too.

  I glanced at the clock and the thermometer outside the kitchen window. It was cool, with a brisk breeze. Taking the dogs with me yesterday had been a big help in cheering up Munchkin. Though I didn’t intend to do any sleuthing today, I rattled their leashes to invite them to join me. I left a note for Max and the kids to let them know where we were headed and took off.

  A gust of icy wind blew the ears of the dogs and pulled my hoodie open as I walked to the car. That was February in the San Francisco Bay Area. It could be warm and sunny with a light breeze one day while the next would bring the high winds we called the Pineapple Express, with days of rain that flooded small streams and created mudslides before moving on. Other days, like today, it felt like someone had opened an enormous freezer door. Our air came straight from the Gulf of Alaska and taxed our wardrobes and heating systems to their limit.

  Outside the supermarket, I parked and grabbed my reusable grocery bags. But Munchkin looked exceptionally anxious, even for him. Belle whined.

  “What is it, guys? You don’t usually mind waiting in the car.” I looked at them closely, trying to figure out what they were struggling to communicate. I checked Munchkin’s wounds, remembering that I’d neglected this chore that the veterinarian had told me would be so important to Munchkin’s recovery. His left flank was a bit warm. I used my other hand to compare the temperature of the undamaged skin on Munchkin’s right side. Both dogs seemed uncharacteristically impatient with the process. “But I’m not going anywhere interesting,” I insisted. They literally pushed back.

  “Bathroom?” I asked. They both wagged their tails, so I shrugged and grabbed their leashes. They did a quick sniff around the parking lot, but then Munchkin pulled toward the street where a garbage can at the bus stop overflowed. “I’m sure it’s full of great smells,” I told him, “but you don’t need that trash in your system.” I smiled to myself, thinking that food scraps were literally “junk food” for dogs.