by Nina Wright
I drifted back to the cluttered kitchen table where I skimmed tabloid headlines about the latest celebrity couplings, breedings, and break-ups. Had Twyla lived vicariously by reading about the rich and famous? Maybe their melodramas made her feel better.
Several of the tabloids were open, pages scattered. I sifted through the loose piles, remembering much too late that Chester had urged me to wear gloves. By now my prints were on several knobs, doors, and assorted papers…mixed with Twyla’s and the kids’ and whoever else had recently visited.
A detached tabloid page caught my eye. On it something was hand-printed in bright green ink. I imagined Twyla groping for a pen or pencil and finding only a child’s water-soluble crayon. The markers had probably been cleared with the children, but Twyla’s note remained. In a short article about internet billionaires she had circled the name “Vivika Major.” Next to it she had written “Call García.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
García? As in the security guard at Druin? Could he be the man Yolanda had seen in Twyla’s driveway?
Her wall phone was an older model; it didn’t display incoming or outgoing numbers. But it did have a “redial” feature, which might connect me to the person Twyla had tried to reach in her last-ever phone call. I punched the button.
Somewhere a phone rang. Once.
“García,” a man replied.
Stunned, I realized I had no cover story. No plan for ascertaining whether this was the García at Druin and whether he knew Twyla.
The man said, “Who’s calling?”
“Hello,” I said. “I’m . . . trying to reach . . . Vivika Major—”
“Not at this number,” he said and hung up.
What did that mean? That I had the wrong number, or that part of his job was to block unauthorized calls?
If that was the García who worked at Druin, how did Twyla know him? Maybe he was her old boyfriend. Or her new boyfriend. For all I knew, he—and not the travel magazine in the dead dentist’s office—could have been the reason she moved to Magnet Springs. She hadn’t moved in with him, though. And if the García I’d redialed was in fact the García in Vivika Major’s employ, he worked twenty miles from here. There were several small communities closer to Druin.
I didn’t speak Spanish or know much about Hispanic culture, but I guessed that García was as common a surname as Smith. Thus, I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that the García I’d redialed was the one who worked for Vivika Major. Or could I? If I immediately called the security guard, I should be able to tell whether his voice matched the one I’d just heard.
Unlike the outdated wall phone, my cell phone tracked all calls and contained a directory of currently important numbers, including the number for Druin. I would ask the factotum who answered to connect me to García, the security guard.
“Hello,” a young man said. “May I ask who is calling?”
I had forgotten the drill and failed to prepare.
“Hello. . . .” I scanned the tabloids for a name. “This is . . . Scarlett . . . Cruise returning a call to García.”
I’d quickly blended two names from two different tabloid articles. If I’d learned anything in my first thirty-four years, it was that you can bluster your way through damn near anything. If you act like you know what you’re doing, people tend to assume that you do.
The receptionist said, “I’ll put you right through, Ms. Cruise, but you might get his voicemail. If that happens, you can leave a message. Or you can hit O for Operator. That will ring my phone again, and I’ll try to find him for you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Ryan.”
I thanked Ryan and waited for him to forward my call. It never rang; García’s recorded voice announced that he was unable to answer at the present time. Something had changed in less than a minute. That was the same voice I’d just redialed. Only now García was busy. Was something going on? Something as routine as García’s lunch hour . . . or as troubling as visitors entering Druin? According to my watch, Odette and Fenton should be arriving at the property. Was Felicia Gould still blocking Mattimoe Realty’s attempts to bring Vivika Major a qualified buyer? If so, why?
And that brought me back to my original question: What connected Twyla and García? Once I figured that out, I might just know what had happened to almost a dozen unnamed children.
Without a clear plan, I pressed O for Operator. Ryan answered promptly and asked me to hold while he tried to locate García. Boring instrumental music played in my ear; then Call Waiting beeped: Odette was on the line.
“Are you with Fenton at Druin?” I said.
“We’re at Druin, where we couldn’t get out of the car if we wanted to. And trust me, we don’t want to.”
Hell of an opening line. I listened to the background noise and made a wild guess.
“You’ve got a problem with a dog?”
“We’ve got a problem with a pack of dogs. They’ve surrounded my car and won’t let us move.” Though loud, Odette’s voice was calm.
For my benefit, Fenton shouted, “There are at least twenty attack dogs. Rottweilers and Dobermans. We’ll have to wait them out.”
“I vote for running them over,” Odette told me. “Although it would be messy.”
“And very bad for our karma,” Fenton said. “We’ll wait.”
I said, “Do you think somebody forgot to secure the kennel?”
“Ha!” Odette said. “I think somebody waited for us to get here and then opened the kennel. And I think you know who.”
“Felicia Gould?” I asked.
“With a little help from the not-so-nice man in the security booth,” Odette added.
“García?”
“You’re good with names, Whiskey. Yes, García made us wait while he placed a couple calls. No doubt one was about opening the kennel for us. Now—what would you like us to do?”
I groaned. “You’re going to make this about my karma, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to make this about showing a property,” Odette said.
Thinking fast, I asked if she’d called Vivika Major. She had; Ryan the receptionist had told her that Ms. Major was in Australia. And Ms. Gould was unavailable.
“Major may be gone,” Odette said, “but I’m sure Gould is here, doing things her way. God only knows why.”
“Did you tell Ryan about the dogs?”
“I did. He said he would notify security. Something tells me that won’t help.”
“Let me see what I can find out,” I said. “Sit tight.”
“Like we have a choice?” A chorus of snarls sounded alarmingly close to Odette’s phone.
“Are you all right?” I asked quickly.
“We’re fine. But my sideview mirror is a chew toy.”
I clicked back to my other call; on-hold music was still playing. Then Ryan returned to the line.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cruise, but García isn’t answering right now. May I take your number and have him call you back?”
“Actually, it would be simpler if I just spoke with Felicia Gould, so please put me through to her.”
Ryan seemed taken aback. After a brief pause, he stammered, “Ms. Gould is unavailable. I could connect you to her voicemail, however.”
“Cut the crap, Ryan,” I said, my confidence blooming. “This is Detective Scarlett Cruise with the Michigan State Police. If Felicia Gould isn’t expecting my call, she should be. I know what’s going on at Druin, and I’m on my way there now. With back-up. You’d better let me talk to Ms. Gould.”
Another pause. And then a dial tone. Either Ryan was following instructions, or he had choked.
“What’s going on now?” I asked Odette, breathless. The dogs’ howls and snarls were like the soundtrack of a horror flick. To think I had found Velcro’s cries alarming.
“Same old, same old,” she replied. “We’ve lost the exterior mirrors and most of the bumper. Dogs like plastic, you know.�
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I told her I would call Jenx and the State Police.
Suddenly Fenton announced, “The security guy’s not in the booth anymore. He’s coming straight toward us.”
“That’s great!” I cried. “He can round up the dogs and then you can get on with the show.”
“Didn’t you hear Fenton, Whiskey? García’s coming straight toward us—at about forty miles an hour.”
I screamed because Odette didn’t. Or maybe she did, and I couldn’t hear her over the howls of the dogs. In my terror, I dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor of Twyla’s kitchen. Nothing looked broken. How I wished the same would be true for Odette and Fenton. I snatched it up, expecting to hear only my own blood pounding in my ears.
“Are you all right?” Odette asked.
“Am I all right? What do you mean? You’re the ones who just got hit by a car!”
“You screamed,” Odette reminded me. “And then you dropped your phone. We ‘almost’ got hit, as things turned out. By a Lexus that looks like yours.”
“So you’re all right? You and Fenton?”
“Our heart rates are a bit elevated, but we’re intact. Apparently that was García’s way of being heroic. When he came barreling toward us, he terrified the dogs even more than he did us. He’s using his vehicle to herd them back to the kennel. Hang on, Whiskey. Fenton wants a word.”
“We’re fine, Dear,” he began. “It looks like Odette will get her chance to show me this property after all.”
He sounded good, and not the least bit pissed off about Norman and Abra—or even Velcro.
“About Velcro,” he began.
“Gone! History! Finito!” I said. “That teacup dog will never bother us again.”
I heard Fenton’s startled intake of breath. “Surely you don’t mean that you—. Whiskey, that’s the worst thing you could do for your karma. . . .”
“I don’t mean that,” I said quickly. “The little guy’s alive. I found a new home for him. Chester wants Velcro.”
“I thought Chester wasn’t allowed to have dogs.”
“That used to be true. It’s why I got Velcro in the first place. Then Chester learned to bribe the housekeeper. And now—problem solved!”
Fenton said he didn’t like bribes. Bad for one’s karma.
“I just had a revelation, Dear,” he announced. “I used to prefer big dogs. But now I see their corrupting gestalt. Consider: when Abra and Norman are together, she’s a wanton hussy, and he’s a worthless whore hound.”
“She’s always a wanton hussy,” I said.
“Odette and I were trapped by a pack of Dobermans and Rottweilers,” Fenton said. “Also big dogs. There’s a karmic lesson here, Dear. Something we all need to see. And the lesson is…small dogs rule.”
“Small dogs are a pain in the ass.” I said.
Fenton disagreed. “I have to face the fact that Norman may be gone for good. Even if he returns, I’m not sure I can trust him again. Three strikes and you’re out, whether you’re a ball player or a medical companion dog. It’s high time I adopt and train a new canine. And the Universe is telling me that his name is Velcro.”
“But—“
“Think about it. He’s the perfect size to go anywhere I go. And he’s smart.” Fenton’s voice turned husky. “He figured out how to get into your camisole, didn’t he?”
And the rest of my dirty underwear. . . .
“He’s vocal, too,” Fenton went on. “Just what I need to alert me when it’s time to take my meds.”
“Oh, Velcro’s vocal all right.“
I detected new commotion on Fenton’s end, not dogs this time, but car doors closing and human voices blending. From the quality of Fenton’s voice, I surmised that he had cupped his hand around the phone for privacy.
“Listen, Dear, about last night. I was…distracted…by the little guy. That won’t happen again, now that my eyes have been opened to his place in our destiny.”
I was quite sure that my destiny did not include a camisole-wearing teacup dog with graduated step stools and a stuffed Floozy. Anyway, I had more or less promised Velcro to Chester.
Right now, though, I just wanted to know what was going on at Druin. I asked Fenton to hand the phone back to Odette. She announced that Felicia Gould had personally come out to meet them and apologized for the confusion.
“’Confusion’? Nice euphemism,” I said. “I trust her boss will cover the cost of your car repairs, if not your post-traumatic-stress therapy. Did she say why the receptionist had insisted she was unavailable?”
“More confusion,” Odette said. “The receptionist is new. Apparently he doesn’t yet know all the players. Got to go, Whiskey. The chatelaine is finally ready to show us Druin.”
I wished her luck.
Then, through Twyla’s screen door, I heard Chester—back from his mission, apparently. Although I couldn’t catch every word, it sounded like he was giving instructions, and not to a dog. More like to a human who worked for him. I peered through the screen.
Chester was talking to his driver, the cleaner.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chester was still undercover. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but what can you do with a puny, pale-skinned boy with thick wire-rimmed glasses . . . and the vocabulary of a middle-aged professional? He was wearing a faded oversized T-shirt, hugely baggy jeans, and high-tops without laces. As he talked to MacArthur, Chester kept absentmindedly yanking up his pants. Oh yeah, he was cool.
MacArthur was standing alongside the Maserati, which must be a very quiet car. Either that or it had arrived while I was on the phone, screaming. After listening to Chester, MacArthur nodded respectfully, said something I couldn’t hear, and walked around to the driver’s side, where he got in. Chester yanked up his pants again and, attempting some version of ghetto swagger, turned toward the back door.
“Yo, Whiskey! Whassup?” he said, when he spotted me on the other side of the screen.
“Yo, yourself. You can cut the act now, Chester. The Maserati blew your cover.”
I let him in, and he nearly tripped over his big pants.
“Guess what I used as my alias?” he asked.
“White-bread Boy?” I was being a smart ass, but Chester’s face fell. “Don’t tell me I guessed right?”
“It was Mrs. B’s idea.” He brightened. “If you both thought of it, then the name has to fit.”
Chester recounted how he had quickly found his way into a play circle of kids a few years younger than himself. “The under-seven crowd is the least judgmental. They let me join their game.”
When I asked what game that had been, Chester didn’t know the official name. Or, for that matter, the objective. “Basically, we were throwing rocks. Turns out I have a pretty good arm.”
Turned out he also had a fair aptitude for being a spy. Chester knew how to get information and then get out before he blew his cover. He’d befriended six-year-old Xavier, who was Puerto-Rican. Xavier said he had talked with one of the kids in Twyla’s care.
“Are you sure?” I said. “Those kids were too scared to talk to anybody.”
“It wasn’t about being too scared,” Chester said. “It was about knowing the language. Xavier talked to the biggest kid—in Spanish. His name was Pedro, and he knew a little English, but the other kids didn’t.”
I pictured the bright-eyed boy who had hefted the rock at my Lexus. He’d grinned during my “lecture” while the others stared blankly. No doubt he’d understood some of what I said.
“Pedro told Xavier that all the kids were from Bogotá.”
“Colombia?”
Chester nodded.
“What were little kids from Colombia doing at Twyla’s house?”
“Waiting,” Chester said.
“For what?”
“For Señora García to tell them what to do.”
“You mean, Señor García,” I said, my heart racing. This was proof that the security guard was involved.
Che
ster shook his head so hard his pants slid down. Hiking them up, he exclaimed, “Señora García is what the kids called Twyla.”
I knew my mouth had dropped open because I could feel my tongue getting dry. Was Twyla married to García the security guard? Or was that her alias?
Someone knocked on the back door, and I jumped.
“It’s just my driver,” Chester said. “He got my clothes back from Mrs. B.”
Sure enough, MacArthur was holding a brown paper bag. I let him in.
“Since when does the cleaner knock?” I asked.
“Since I became a licensed Realtor. I passed the exam this morning.”
“Congratulations.”
I wasn’t sure I meant it. Hell, I wasn’t sure I believed a word he said. Whoever he was, though, he was still damned handsome in his crisp dark suit. When Chester excused himself to change, I decided the time had come to be blunt.
“Are you running a shuttle service for children?”
MacArthur smiled ever so slightly. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Me. I’m asking. And here’s another question that goes with that one: Did you know Twyla Rendel?”
“Yes—to both your questions.”
“Then you know where her kids are! And you know what happened to Twyla!”
MacArthur said, “I know where your kids are. And I know Twyla’s dead.”
“You mean, Leah and Leo?”
“Unless you have other grandchildren I don’t know about.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I’m taking Chester home to the Castle. Why don’t you drive to your office and do what you need to do. I’ll pick you up at half-past one. There’s a property you need to see. . . .”
* * *
I hate being told what to do by other Realtors, especially ones who don’t work for me yet. But I was too tired to argue with MacArthur, and of course I wanted to find out what he knew about Leah and Leo. Frankly, I was also intrigued by the prospect of viewing a property.