Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  “You’re certainly focused this morning,” I told Munchkin as he continued to tug me toward the bus stop. “I’ll do my good deed and pick up the trash, but then I need to finish the grocery shopping. It’s part of the plan to bring Stephen home and I know you want to help.”

  As we grew closer, I saw a pile of old clothes and blankets on the bus stop bench and assumed someone was sleeping there. I didn’t want the dogs to disturb him so I turned back toward the car. With an uncharacteristic burst of speed and bad behavior, Munchkin pulled the leash from my hand and ran toward the bench. He snuffled through the pile of clothes, nudging them aside, and licked the face of the sleeping man he uncovered. Belle and I approached cautiously, but it was soon clear that Munchkin had found an old friend. His tail wagged with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen in days.

  As we drew closer, I called out, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” The man laughed and said in a rumbling bass voice, “Well, this old guy certainly intended to wake me.” Munchkin bounced like a puppy and wriggled with joy, licking the man’s face again, jumping on the seat next to him, and leaning until the man fell off the far end of the bench. Laughing and patting Munchkin, rubbing his ears and his chest, the man began to fold up his gear.

  “And where’s your companion, Mr. Munchkin?” he asked. “Where is your friend Stephen?”

  He looked up at me. “Hello, friend of Munchkin,” he said. “I, too, am a member of that club. Harry Franklin.” He held out his hand, which was clean and well kept.

  I took his hand, shook it, and introduced myself and Belle.

  “Would you like a seat?” he asked, waving toward the bench. Munchkin remembered his manners and jumped down, but continued to lean against Mr. Franklin’s leg and gaze up at him adoringly.

  I sat and noticed that the man didn’t smell. His clothing and blankets were well worn, but clean and cared for. Mr. Franklin chortled . . . a sound I thought I might never get tired of hearing. “Not what you expected from a bum on a bench?” he asked.

  I blushed, embarrassed that my inner thoughts had been so clearly and loudly projected.

  “I didn’t say that,” I protested.

  “Never mind. I’m not a bum. I live in veterans’ housing near the hospital where Stephen and Munchkin work. Stephen’s been gone for days, and I know he has a habit of walking around and keeping an eye on some of the nighttime crowd. I figured I could fill in. I don’t usually see Munchkin and Stephen except when they’re together. Has something happened? Is Stephen well?”

  Before I could reply, before the question of what to tell him had materialized in my brain, the man frowned. “Oh dear. I can see from your expression that something is terribly, terribly wrong. Can you tell me about it?” He peered into my face, his own lined with concern.

  We were both silent for a moment as he gave me time to work out what to say. Again, I decided to rely on Munchkin’s endorsement. I told him about Stephen’s predicament and my plan to talk to some of the street people who might have witnessed what happened on the night that Mr. Xiang had been killed.

  “I should have known Stephen’s absence and Mr. Xiang’s death were connected in some way,” Mr. Franklin said. He shook his head slowly and rubbed his face with his hands. “Stephen will not do well in a cage. You must get him out, and soon.”

  He was stating the obvious and I felt guilty that I’d still made such little progress toward releasing Stephen. The man leaned toward me and put his hand on my arm. I jerked away, partly involuntarily, but also in response to his unspoken rebuke.

  “No, no,” he said. “You misunderstand. I want to know if you will accept my help.”

  I nodded, wondering what he could do.

  “I can introduce you to some people. We’ll find Annie and Freddie, the guy who works the corner you were talking about. I know them both. You’re right to plan on talking to them after dark. And the YMCA parking lot is a good place to meet them, too.”

  “I was going to bring socks and sandwiches, and maybe some cookies.”

  “Cookies never hurt. I’m an outsider, too, but they’ll recognize me. If you bring your cookies and Munchkin, we’ll find you someone to talk to, even if Annie and Freddie aren’t there. In the meantime, there’s someone else you should meet.”

  He gathered up his blankets and stretched while his joints creaked and cracked. “I sat down for a moment last night, around 3:00 a.m., and here I am hours later. Anyone could have attacked or robbed me in the night. That’s the real danger. Folks on the street need to keep walking during the day, as they get rousted from one place after another. By the time they crash, they’re exhausted. They’re so soundly asleep they’re easy prey for thieves and the like.”

  “Lately, I’ve learned more than I thought was possible about the homeless problem,” I said.

  “That’s the tricky bit. It’s not a problem, but problems. Every person’s story is different, with a completely different solution, and a different agency or even several different agencies might be required to provide help. With families, it’s even more difficult. A shelter that takes Dad won’t take Mom and the kids, and vice versa. And none of the shelters will take animals, even though pets are often the only living connections these people can make. What can we do, except help where we can.”

  I shook my head. “I guess if anyone had the perfect answer, we wouldn’t still have a homeless problem.”

  “And that’s the most brilliant assessment I’ve heard in months,” he said. “Only the wise can admit what they do not know.”

  I laughed. “I can see why you and Stephen are friends.”

  “He’s one of the good ones.”

  As Harry Franklin led me behind the grocery store where I’d planned to do my shopping, I asked if he’d known Mr. Xiang. He shook his head. “Never met the man. Never ate in his restaurant, either, though people say his loss will leave a gaping hole in the fabric of Mountain View. He’s lived here for decades and understood our history unlike the dot-com newcomers who mean well but want to turn us into something we’re not.”

  As we approached the supermarket loading dock, I could see flies investigating stray leaves of cabbage and bits of dirty watermelon rind. Harry picked up the trash and placed it in a garbage can, making the world around him a little tidier. He approached the back door and rang the bell. In a few moments, a man in a tie, wearing heavy black steel-toed shoes and an apron covering a slight paunch came through the hanging plastic strips of the loading bay door already waving us off and shouting for us to leave.

  “We can’t have—” he began, before dropping his arm. “Oh hi, Harry,” he said. “What do you need?”

  Mr. Franklin turned to introduce me and I handed the man my card. Harry told me he was the manager, but didn’t give me his name.

  “Organizing?” he said as he read my card. “Like the union?”

  “Like making life more efficient,” I said.

  “I’ve got corporate folks like that. They’re always in here rearranging aisles and shelves to maximize sales.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “You’re all set then. I was wondering, though, if you’d heard about Mr. Xiang’s murder, and whether your late-night employees thought they might be in danger too.”

  The manager looked a little nervous and glanced up and down the alley on either side of the loading dock. “No, no, not at all.” He lowered his voice. “We save food for the homeless people in the neighborhood. Day-old bread, coffee, leftover deli items. In exchange, they kind of keep an eye on the place for us. Make anonymous calls to the police when something’s not quite right. That sorta thing.”

  “Wow,” I said, with a distinct lack of the wisdom Mr. Franklin had noted earlier.

  “We get to know them. As well as anyone does, anyway. Some of our employees bring them warm clothes when the weather gets cold and will give anyone interested a ride to the shelter. Most won’t get in a car, but some will when we get these blasts of Alaskan air or when the rain washes o
ut the culverts where they sleep.”

  “Don’t the police do that?” Ed Bloom had earlier implied that they did. It was interesting that among the people who lived and worked most closely with the homeless there was still a difference of opinion regarding the options open to them.

  “They used to. The current night-patrol supervisor is new to our police department, but he’s old-school. He treats the homeless like criminals.” He paused for a moment. “You know, the person you want to talk to, probably, is this old woman who is the closest thing they have to a leader. An elder, you might call her. She wears fingerless gloves, several layers of big skirts, braids, and either a headscarf shawl kind of thing or a striped knit hat with one of those big bobbles on it. I sometimes see her feeding squirrels at the park. Sometimes she knits, badly, but she always seems to know things others don’t, and she doesn’t mind talking to people.”

  “Would that be Annie?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Are you going over there tonight? If you are, I have some things you could take with you. Socks from opened packages, crushed bandage containers, recently expired pudding packets, that kind of thing.”

  “I was actually here to buy some of those items, along with my groceries,” I said. “If you give me a minute to get the dogs in the car, I’ll meet you at the front of the store.”

  He agreed, and Harry Franklin walked me back to the car. I got the dogs situated, and they both promptly curled up, their mission accomplished. Munchkin gave a satisfied sigh before resting his head on Belle’s back and closing his eyes.

  Mr. Franklin, who insisted I call him Harry, promised to meet me at the Y at dusk.

  “Can I drop you somewhere?” I asked. “After I’ve done the shopping?”

  “The bus stops right in front of the VA,” he answered. “I’ll be home before you’ve rung up your bananas.” He took off with a limping, loping run that indicated to me that he might be in need of a hip replacement. Before I was halfway across the parking lot, he’d reached the bus stop and climbed aboard an articulated transit bus that arrived at the curb at the same time he had.

  Chapter 11

  For me, hiring a housekeeping service to clean my floors, kitchen, and bathrooms twice a month means I don’t have to nag my family. I can overlook grubbiness between cleanings.

  If you can’t afford a service or don’t want to use one, try to find another way to let go of the need for a perfect home. I’m quite sure that even in the pristine fantasy photo displays found in interior design magazines, the everyday trappings of normal life are shoved to the side, just out of the frame.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Presidents’ Day, Monday, February 20, Morning

  On the way home from the store, I decided to try again to talk to the owner of the comic book store and maybe one of the other shops. I knew there was some piece of the puzzle that I was missing. Something that linked Rafi, Stephen, Mr. Xiang, the health inspector, and the shopkeepers together. Something more than proximity that would explain the pattern of damage to the shops, the attack on Mr. Xiang, and why Patty and Eileen seemed so nervous when I questioned them.

  It was still chilly and I found a shaded parking spot so I left the dogs in the car with the windows partially open. The comic book store was still closed. I hoped there was nothing wrong with the owner. It wasn’t like him to be closed on a weekend when all the kids were out of school. The knitting shop next door was open and the chimes rang cheerfully when I stepped inside.

  “Back here,” a voice called out. “Feel free to look around. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  Like the quilt shop, the knitting store was a delight to my eyes. Cubbies on the walls held every shade of wool, from deep reds to crystal sky blues, snowy whites, and a dozen shades of black. Bundles of yarn were divided into sections reserved for man-made fibers, blends, cotton, silk, and bamboo.

  I tore myself away to speak to the owner in the back.

  A gray-haired woman with a young but weary face looked up as I walked through the saloon-type doors to the back.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I should say the same to you,” I said. “Do you have another mop?”

  She pointed toward the corner and I introduced myself as I grabbed the mop and began swabbing at a foul-smelling, tea-colored puddle mixed with clumps of garbage. It covered the floor of the shop’s back room.

  “I’m Liz,” she said. “At least I thought I was when I woke up this morning. Now I’m hoping I’m someone else. Maybe someone in the witness protection program who is really an heiress. I’m waiting for the US Marshalls to whisk me out of here any minute.”

  I laughed. The mess was dreadful and the smell made my eyes water, but Liz’s sense of humor was infectious.

  “What is all this?” I asked. “Did your sewer back up?” I looked at my feet, for the first time realizing the kind of muck I might be wading through. I was wearing my white sneakers, which, thankfully, could be bleached and thrown in the wash. Or thrown out.

  Liz wore knee-high rubber boots. “Someone hooked up a hose to the tap out back and left it running in the dumpster overnight.”

  “Were they cleaning it?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Liz kept mopping without looking up as she explained. “They stopped up the drains in the alley. I think all this was exactly the result they were after. Luckily, I couldn’t sleep last night, so I came in early this morning. The water didn’t have a chance to get into the front room and soak the carpet or my stock.”

  She sniffed the air. “Though I’m afraid the smell alone may ruin everything and drive my customers away.” She shrugged. “One thing at a time. I can only worry about one thing at a time.”

  We worked in silence until we had all of the puddle mopped up. We rinsed out the mops and suspended them from hooks attached to the outside wall of the shop.

  Liz glared at the dumpster. “If there were any room in that thing, I’d just throw the mops away and get new ones.” Sunlight glinted off an oily sheen on the water flooding the alley.

  “How will you deal with that?” I asked. “Do you have a pump?”

  “I called the landlord and the police earlier this morning. I’ll let them figure it out. I came in early to get caught up and now I’m further behind than ever.”

  “I’m surprised I was your only customer.”

  Liz shook her head. “I had a big rush before the long weekend. The big-box stores get hordes of people in for their Presidents’ Day sales, but all the knitters are up in Tahoe skiing with their families this weekend. They’ll be back in here tomorrow asking for help straightening out the muddles they created attempting patterns that were just a little too difficult. I hope I can get the smell out of the store before then.”

  She brushed her hair out of her eyes and let out a sigh. “Please, pick out whatever you want. It’s on me. It was so nice of you to help.”

  “Oh, I’m no knitter. I don’t crochet either. I grew up with four older brothers and spent my time trying to keep up with them. They weren’t much into the fabric arts, so I never learned.”

  “Then what brought you into my store?”

  I told her about investigating the attack on Mr. Xiang at the Golden Dragon, explaining that a friend was a suspect and I was sure he was innocent.

  She offered me a seat at a round table. “What have you learned from the other shop owners?”

  I outlined the information I’d picked up from Wanda Daniel, Ed Bloom, Patty, and Eileen. I added that I’d tried to stop in at the comic book store, but the owner had been gone for at least twenty-four hours. “I’m surprised he’d want to miss the sales from such a busy weekend,” I told her. “I hope nothing’s wrong.” For the first time, I wondered if he was responsible for Mr. Xiang’s death and had left town to avoid being questioned by the police.

  Liz laughed softly. “His clientele is as likely to be up skiing as mine is. He’ll be back on Tuesday, I’m sure.
He lives and dies for the surfing in at Pleasure Point in Santa Cruz, and I suspect he may have a girlfriend over there who works more conventional hours than a retail store owner does. He was talking a few weeks ago about hiring someone to close up the store at night so he could leave earlier.”

  “You all work very hard,” I said.

  She nodded. “It can be a strain, particularly on families. The store hours are long, and that’s only the beginning. We track inventory, order stock, keep the books, and, as you saw, do the maintenance. We’re like teachers, nurses, and police officers, I guess. Our work involves so much more than what’s reflected in our take-home pay. If you calculate our hourly salary, we don’t make anything even close to minimum wage.”

  “Then why do it?”

  Liz blushed and looked like a small child caught doing something she knew she shouldn’t. “Because we love it. I miss my customers when I’m away from the store, and I feel more at home here than I do in my apartment. You know that old expression ‘a man’s home is his castle’? To a shopkeeper, the store is everything.”

  Which made me think that any of the business owners might have been willing to step outside the law to protect their stores. But how far might they go over the line? Could one of them have been driven to murder? I tried to pose the question delicately.

  “Something like flooding the dumpster, the alley, and your store . . .” I began slowly. “That’s more than a prank then. It’s an attempt to get at the heart of everything that’s important to you.”

  “I’ll say. But I wasn’t the target here. It was Eileen. I’m sure of it. She’s responsible.”

  I stared at her, uncertain whether she was joking. “Seriously? But why? She seemed so nice. She quilts, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Yes, she quilts, but that doesn’t make her any less guilty.” Liz pulled her chair closer to the table, leaned forward, and whispered, “I don’t mean she did this, but she’s responsible all right. And I’ll get her for it too.”