Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  “I’ll suffer the risk of paper cuts to spend time with you.”

  I grinned and patted his hand. “Mrs. Bostwick will be thrilled.”

  We cleared the kitchen table and got to work in assembly-line fashion on the labels. Peeling and sticking in companionable silence, I got to thinking about what Stephen had reported about Rafi. Rafi was sure he’d heard one of the thugs say something about finding Mr. Xiang’s gold. I still needed to talk to the boy, but in the meantime, I needed more information about Mr. Xiang. Liz had scoffed at the idea that Mr. Xiang had any hidden riches. Stephen, on the other hand, had included the information in the note he’d given me, which meant there must be something to it.

  I pulled out my phone and called our friend April Chen, who was now the principal at Orchard View Middle School.

  “Hey, April. It’s Maggie McDonald.” We made polite small talk and caught each other up on our activities and the kids’ news before I got around to asking my questions.

  “April, did you know Mr. Xiang, the man who ran the Golden Dragon?”

  “Because I’m Chinese and we all know each other?” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous; you know that’s not what I meant. I’m working with Stephen Laird to help a boy who worked there. I can’t go into all the details, of course, because Stephen has sworn me to secrecy, but I wanted to check with you on a rumor that has to do with real gold being hidden at the Golden Dragon.”

  “I’d heard that rumor, too, from the kids at school.”

  “Could there be any truth to it? I know that people give out those red money envelopes for Chinese New Year. Could Mr. Xiang have had a lot of money on hand for that?”

  April laughed. “I don’t think so. Besides the fact that the New Year began in January and any lucky money would be long gone by now, no one gives gold for New Year. It’s all symbolic and metaphorical. The idea is to give one another luck, and the red envelopes are called lucky money. But it’s the gift, the good wishes, and the red envelopes that are important, not the money inside. Restaurants will often give away tangerines. In a sense you could say they symbolize gold, but the Mandarin word for tangerine is very similar to the word for luck, so they’re doubly symbolic.

  “I have heard about counterfeiters cashing in by printing fake bills with lucky serial numbers and selling them at a premium. Could this Mr. Xiang have been involved in something like that?” Before I could answer, April began speaking again.

  “The odd thing is that, at Chinese New Year, newly printed phony money with auspicious numbers might be considered as lucky as the real thing.”

  “From what everyone’s told me, he was a very quiet, sweet, honest man.”

  “Mr. Xiang? That’s what all the neighbors say about serial killers, you know.”

  April’s consistently irreverent attitude took some getting used to, but she had integrity down to her bone marrow, and her love for middle schoolers was authentic. Her students adored her, but more important, they trusted her implicitly, which was something most young adolescents found very hard to do with adults. “Tell me about business customs for Chinese New Year. What kind of connection would you assume two business owners had if one gave the other a money plant for the New Year—several years running?”

  April was silent for a moment. I was about to prompt her when she said, “I’m not sure, Maggie. Like my mom would tell you, I’m not really as up on all this as I should be. A lot would depend upon how traditional the two businesspeople were. It could represent anything from friendship to flirting, deference or degradation—since typically it is elders who give lucky money to children who can’t support themselves. The most you could say is that it meant they knew one another or wanted to know one another. Often a gift can be given as an introduction.” She paused. “What’s with all the questions? Maybe it would help if you told me what it is you’re really after.”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I was trying to find out if there was any truth to the rumor about there being gold stashed at the restaurant. But, like you said, maybe it’s just the name Golden Dragon that started it all. Do you know a boy named Rafi or Rafael Maldonado? From downtown Mountain View? He would have been in middle school maybe four or five years ago?”

  “That would have been before my time, and he would probably have attended the other middle school, unless he’s only recently moved from this part of town. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Sorry I couldn’t help more. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. And when you get this all wrapped up, we’ll have to have lunch.”

  I thanked April again and we ended the call.

  Max shrugged. “I heard most of that. Too bad. It was worth a try.”

  I nodded and turned back to Mrs. Bostwick’s files. Max straightened the stack he’d been working on and stood up. “My hands are getting stiff. I’m going to get a glass of wine. Would you like some?”

  “Please. And Max?”

  Max poked his head around the edge of the door between the pantry and the dining room.

  “Thanks for all your help.”

  His face softened, and he came back into the dining room to give me a hug. “Always.”

  We decided to skip the wine and go straight to bed. Upstairs, we said good night to the boys, reminding them to set their alarms for the morning.

  “Mom,” said Brian, “you’re going to keep working to help Stephen and this Rafi kid, right? It sounds like they don’t have anyone else.”

  I started to reassure him, but then looked at Max. I suspected that Brian really needed to hear that Max wasn’t worried about my safety. Max’s thinking must have been along those same lines.

  “We’ll make sure she’s safe, Brian. Even if I have to sew her up a set of Kevlar jeans myself. Do you think Yelp! rates local shops that sell spy gear? Is there a Kevlar bunny-suit pattern on the web?”

  Brian laughed, but I tucked him in a little bit, trying to give comfort without treating him too much like a small boy. “Is there enough room in that bed for both you and Munchkin, or is he stealing all the covers?” I arranged the blankets around him.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Me too,” I said. “Me too.”

  Chapter 13

  You’ll have more luck adapting your storage system to your family’s needs than forcing your family to adapt to the needs of your organizational schemes. For example, if no one in your family will rehang a towel on a towel bar, replace the bars with hooks. If that doesn’t help, a hamper or laundry basket in the bathroom may be your best bet.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Tuesday, February 21, Evening

  After dinner on Tuesday, while the kids got their things ready for school, Max and the dogs and I drove to the Y. I felt a tad guilty to be so close to the gym without planning a workout. But that’s not what we were here for.

  “I’ll take Belle and walk the path around the outer edges of the park,” Max said. “Give a shout if you need me. I should be able to see you most of the time.”

  I took a chilly seat on a hard metal bench near the Y entrance and marveled at how pretty the park looked. Thanks to the recent rain, the air held more moisture than usual.

  Streetlights lit up the water particles, and the scene looked a bit like Hollywood’s version of Sherlock Holmes’s London or the world of Jack the Ripper—but friendlier and cleaner.

  Small children and their parents came and went to swimming lessons. Packs of nattering teens came for exercise classes, and older adults in business attire carried heavy bags that almost certainly contained both workout and casual wear to change into later. Dog owners chatted while waiting to walk home with spouses or offspring. I kept an eye out for Harry Franklin, who’d promised to meet me here. I didn’t see him.

  Before long, I began to notice fewer people walking on the paths. Instead, slumped figures appeared one by one with overloaded backpacks. They surreptitiously entered the park, staking their
claim on a bench or under a dense bit of shrubbery. I was stunned. Here was a whole aspect of life in Silicon Valley that I knew nothing about—an underclass that existed amid one of the wealthiest areas of the country. It made me sad to realize that some of the best minds in the country studied at our local universities, but no one had yet been able to solve this growing problem. My conscience sent sheepish messages to the rest of my brain and fell silent, but I knew it would be back. Consciences are like that.

  A laughing woman with gray braids exited the Y, bantering with others from what must have been a swim class, because everyone’s hair was wet. Their faces were flushed with health, and they all looked happy. The woman I’d guessed was Annie hung back from the others. It seemed she wasn’t ready to enter the park while her classmates headed to their BMWs and Teslas. I admired her colorful knitted gloves and embroidered skirts, worn in layers. She carried a paper cup of steaming liquid in one hand, while a plastic bag weighed heavily in the other.

  She stooped to greet Munchkin, winning a sloppy kiss. He sniffed her hair and her clothing, probably getting more information about who she was and what she knew than the police or I could ever glean by questioning her.

  She looked up. “But you’re not Stephen.” She raised her eyebrows in question.

  I held out my hand. “Maggie McDonald. Friend of both Stephen and Munchkin.”

  She shook my hand, looked me up and down, and then peered into my face. “Forgive me,” she said, “but do I know you? When I left the building, you seemed to recognize me and now you appear to have been waiting for me. Have I forgotten that we met? Is there something I can do for you?”

  I suggested we move to the side of the path, to keep from blocking the entrance.

  I gave her the rundown on Stephen and Rafi and Mr. Xiang, not bothering to edit my remarks at all. Annie seemed capable of spotting any attempt on my part to skirt the truth, and I saw no way that she could be a threat to Stephen or to Rafi.

  “O . . . kay,” she answered. “That was a lot. Would you like to walk with me to my bench before someone snags it?”

  “Can I carry something for you? Or take your clothes to a Laundromat?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. I don’t own more than I can carry. I’m funny that way.” She giggled. “I’m funny a lot of ways, actually.”

  A cloud covered the moon and darkened the parking lot. A gust of wind created a dust devil, and I squinted to protect my eyes. “Will it rain tonight?” I asked. “Will you be able to stay dry if it does?”

  Annie peered at the sky. “There’s no ring around the moon. I’ve always heard that’s a sure sign of rain.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, though. I’ve got a tarp for the rain and if it comes down hard, I move to the parking garage and stay warm enough.” She laughed again. “We homeless people are probably the only California residents who’ve appreciated the drought and will be sorry to see it end.”

  Annie settled on a bench near the public bathrooms, explaining that if she ever felt unsafe she ran to the restrooms and locked herself in a stall. “This is a premium spot,” she said. “With a reading lamp, even.” She nodded to the lamppost that cast a ring of light around the bench. “I’ve got seniority.” She sipped at her hot drink and glanced at the grocery bags I held. “Watcha got there?”

  I unpacked some of the sandwiches and cookies and asked if she wanted any. I peered into the bag and told her I also had clean dry socks and fresh fruit. She looked at me and then at the bags. “Is it a bribe?”

  I tilted my head and pursed my lips. “Kind of.”

  She slapped her leg and laughed, nearly spilling her drink. “I like your honesty, Maggie. You’re a girl I can trust. Unless you’re one of those people who needs the warm fuzzy feeling of handing out your treasures in person, leave those bags with me. I’ll distribute them to the shyest among us. The ones that find it hard to line up to accept a handout.” She held out her hand. “I’m Marjorie. We have almost the same name.”

  My mouth fell open and I closed it quickly to avoid looking like a dying fish. “But . . . I was told your name was Annie. Do I have the wrong person?”

  “Annie’s my street name, I guess you’d say. I used to wear a cowboy hat and folks started calling me Annie Oakley. Now hardly anyone calls me Marjorie anymore, but I like you. You were honest, even when you didn’t want to be. I thought I should share something authentic about me in exchange.”

  “I have a few other questions I’m hoping you can help me with.”

  “Shoot!” she said, pointing her fingers like they were six-guns she’d pulled from a holster.

  “Stephen told me to find Rafi’s grandmother, but I haven’t been able to pinpoint an address for her. Do you by any chance know Rafi? Know where they live?”

  Marjorie shook her head, and my heart sank. She was my last hope of finding Rafi’s family.

  “Now, don’t panic. You people give up so easily. You aren’t used to any kind of hardship, are you?” She tsked, but went on without waiting for an answer. “I don’t know the address, but I can tell you where she lives. You got one of those fancy phones? I’ll show you on the map.”

  I handed her my phone without thinking, but she beamed. Her eyes twinkled and she made a motion as if she was going to stuff it in her pack. But I knew her well enough now not to fall for her jokes. I liked her. She typed away on the phone faster than I could, as if she’d spent her whole life with the latest model of this electronic toy. “Here,” she said. “I saved it as a bookmark.” She held out a gnarled hand and pointed to the screen. “They’re on Cedar Street, south of Hope. Three houses in on the right if you’re coming from Hope Street. If no one’s home, knock on the door of the fourth house. I don’t know the woman’s name, but they are good friends.”

  Munchkin hopped onto the bench on the other side of Marjorie and put his head in her lap. She patted him and rubbed his ears. He sighed. She was being so open with me, I hesitated to ask her any questions I didn’t absolutely need the answers to, but I was dying to know her backstory. With her sense of humor, bearing, and sparkling intelligence, why was she living on the street? I couldn’t resist asking how she knew the details of Rafi’s family’s life.

  “Rafi’s abuela used to walk here every day and sometimes brought me tamales. She would offer to let me sleep on her couch on rainy days, but I don’t like to be beholden and I don’t like to be indoors. I’m funny that way.”

  “Do you think it would be reasonable if I were to call on her tonight?”

  Marjorie cackled. “You’re asking me? The homeless witch in the park? You want my etiquette expertise? That’s a hoot. I can’t wait to tell the others.”

  I frowned. It wasn’t that I minded being the butt of the woman’s joke. Or even that I felt it wasn’t well deserved. But it was urgent that I connect with the grandmother, and I was running low on patience. I was also freezing, which didn’t help.

  Marjorie stopped laughing and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon. I really am. This is a serious emergency. I don’t think anyone would mind if you talked to her tonight, but she’d probably feel safer letting you in and talking to you in daylight.” She looked up at the moon and seemed to consider what she said. “Wait until morning. Everything is better in the morning. And now, if you don’t mind—or even if you do—it is past my bedtime. If you’ve got more questions, you can come back tomorrow.”

  “But I wondered if you saw Stephen that night? The night Mr. Xiang died?” I stood as it became obvious that Marjorie was preparing to lie down on the bench and would be asleep on my lap in an instant unless I moved.

  Munchkin sniffed at her blanket, as if tucking her in and saying good night. She took his big head in her two gloved hands and kissed him on his ample forehead. “Good night, Mr. Munchkin. You’ll get your Stephen out of jail soon. I know it. Maggie, you come ask me your questions tomorrow. Good night.”

  She closed her eyes and began snoring. I suspected her of faking, but as I tucked the bags of foo
d and socks under the bench, her breathing became deep and even and I was sure she was asleep. She coughed, but did not wake up, and I made a little wish, or prayer, for her continued good health. Munchkin and I set off to find Max and Belle.

  After I caught up with Max and we were settling the dogs in the car, Harry Franklin ran toward us, breathless. While he recovered, I introduced him to Max and offered him a water bottle from the stash I kept in the car for the kids.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “Did you get in touch with Annie?”

  “I did, but by the time we got around to talking about what she might have seen at the Golden Dragon, she wanted to sleep.” I frowned. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow night. But you were going to introduce me to Freddie, the man from the intersection. Have you seen him?”

  Harry shook his head. “That’s why I was late.”

  I furrowed my brow and waited for him to explain.

  “I was at the hospital. Freddie was hit by a car earlier this evening.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Max. “Is he okay?”

  I could tell by Harry’s expression that he wasn’t.

  “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

  “The poor man!” I said, and after a moment added, “I don’t suppose he said anything about Stephen or the Golden Dragon?”

  Harry shook his head. “The only thing he said was ‘Munch.’”

  Max gasped and I covered my mouth with my hand, shaking my head. I felt guilty, as if I’d caused his accident. When I’d first seen him at the intersection, I’d noted that it was a dangerous corner, but I’d said nothing. Not to Freddie and not to anyone who might have known how to help him, like Paolo, or the people at either the Day Worker’s Center or a homeless shelter.

  “That’s terrible . . .” I could think of nothing to say that didn’t sound trite or insincere given the fact that I didn’t really know Freddie and had been dismissive of him when he’d approached the car. Both David and Brian had suggested I talk to Freddie, but now I’d never be able to do that. And if he knew something about what had happened at the Golden Dragon, that knowledge had died with him.