by Leslie Karst
“We’re good on everything, except there seems to have been a run on the cabbage rolls. I was actually just coming out to get some more. Are there any left?”
“One more tray. Joe, you wanna grab it and take it out to the steam tables?”
“Will do.” The prep cook set down his soda and headed for the kitchen. Grabbing a pair of dry side towels, he removed the tray of cabbage rolls from the warm oven. I held the screen door open and he stepped outside. He’d taken just a few steps toward the tent when the sound of someone shouting rose above the clamor of the dinner guests.
“I guess someone in there must have had a bit too much to drink,” Joe said with a laugh.
“I don’t think that came from inside the tent.” But he didn’t appear to hear and continued across the courtyard with his hot tray.
I stopped to listen, turning my head different ways to try to discern which direction the shouting was coming from. Definitely not inside the tent, or the restaurant either. It was farther away. I jogged around the side of the building, at which point the sound became much louder. It was coming from the other side of the wharf. Where Angelo and Anastasia went.
Running full tilt now, I darted across the street and through the parking lot and leaned over the railing that ran along the far side of the wharf. A figure was thrashing about in the ocean, but the foul language streaming from his mouth conveyed anger more than fear. I know that voice, I thought, and squinted into the blue-black water. The setting sun had almost reached the horizon, and as its last golden rays illuminated the face of the man below me, I saw that I was right.
“Bobby!” I shouted. “What the hell happened?”
He stopped his swearing and looked up at me, then splashed his way toward the landing on the lower level. “She pushed me in!” he shrieked as I descended the stairway. Only then did I notice that Angelo and Anastasia were still down on the boat launch. The old fisherman was clutching the young woman’s arms from behind.
“You even look at me, I swear I’ll knock you in again!” Anastasia hollered as Bobby dragged his dripping body up onto the wooden boards. He didn’t seem like someone about to make any kind of move on her. He looked more like he was about to cry.
I was standing there gaping at the scene, trying to figure out what had just happened, when a deep voice boomed out from above. “Don’t any of you move!”
Detective Vargas trotted down the stairs, his left hand holding the phone he was speaking into and the right hidden under the flap of his suit jacket, ready to draw his firearm if need be. Behind him, a half dozen people crowded around the top of the stairway, gawking at the scene below.
“Okay, what’s going on here?” the detective asked, slipping the phone into his pocket but keeping his right hand where it was.
“It was her!” Bobby said, and pointed a wet finger at Anastasia. “She slugged me and then pushed me in the water!”
“Which he deserved,” she retorted. “The scumbag grabbed me someplace he shouldn’t have.” Angelo was nodding vigorous agreement to this statement.
“I saw what happened,” a new voice called out.
Vargas turned toward the man who’d spoken—one of the gawkers at the top of the stairway. “And what exactly did you see?” he asked.
“The two of them,” the man indicated Anastasia and Angelo, “and that guy who was in the water were talking, when all of a sudden without warning she just goes for the dude. Punches him in the face and then shoves him over the side.”
“You didn’t see him grab her first?”
The man shook his head. “I didn’t see anything like that.”
“But Bobby was standing behind her,” Angelo protested. “So that man couldn’t have seen how he grabbed hold of her … front.”
“Okay, look.” Vargas finally lowered his right hand, then reached into his jacket pocket. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you into custody,” he said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
“What?” both Angelo and Anastasia cried out in unison.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the detective said. “But you’ve admitted to striking Bobby and then knocking him into the water, and now we have a witness who says the battery was unprovoked. If the evidence proves otherwise, you’ll be released right away, I assure you.” He moved toward Anastasia, but Angelo stepped between them.
“No way, you can’t be serious,” the fisherman said. “She didn’t do anything—” At the howl of an approaching siren, he stopped. A moment later the police cruiser pulled up above, its red flashing lights imparting a bizarre disco feel to the now dimly lit boat launch area.
An officer jumped out of the car, pushed through the crowd above—which was growing by the second as more and more folks hurried over to see what the commotion was—and took the stairs two at a time, coming to a stop at the detective’s side.
Vargas and the cop spoke briefly in low voices, after which the police officer nodded to Anastasia. Jaw clenched, she turned around and placed her hands behind her back, allowing him to click on the cuffs. The cop then led her by the arm up the stairs and helped her into the squad car. Angelo stared after them as the car pulled away. After a moment, he frowned and shook his head, then slowly mounted the stairs to the wharf’s upper level.
The crowd above dispersed quickly once the police car had driven off, leaving the detective and me alone with Bobby. Vargas turned to the soggy figure, who was still slouched over near the edge of the wooden deck. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Bobby?”
He raised his head, mumbled something neither of us could understand, then dropped it back down again.
“What’s that?” The detective moved several steps closer.
“I dunno,” Bobby said in a slurred voice. It was clear he was still feeling the effects of that earlier wine. “I came down here to get some air, to sit a while and just check out the Boardwalk … and then they came down here, too.” He pointed to the spot where Angelo and Anastasia had been standing earlier. “So we start talking and next thing I know, she shoves me in the water.” This last bit came out almost as a wail, after which he lowered his head once more and began to cry in big, heaving sobs.
Vargas and I watched him for a moment, and then I asked in a low voice, “You think Anastasia might be the one who attacked me and Gino?”
“I think it’s possible. From what you told me this morning, she was the last known person to see Gino alive, at which time she admits he made unwanted advances upon her. She could have easily knocked him into the water in retaliation for that. And we now know she’s perfectly comfortable pushing people over the side of the wharf,” he added. “I’d been planning on having a chat with her tonight once everyone finished eating, but now, who knows? Maybe she’ll say something helpful while we have her in custody for this Bobby thing.”
Bobby stood up slowly and came toward us. The sobs had subsided, but tears were still flowing down his cheeks. “Gotta go to the shop and change outta these clothes,” he mumbled.
We watched him make his way unsteadily up the stairway and then head toward his father’s store. “What about him?” I asked as Vargas followed him up the stairs. “You don’t think it could be Bobby who attacked Gino and me?”
He snorted. “C’mon. Just look at the guy. He’s pathetic.”
Chapter 28
I wanted to follow Bobby to his dad’s gift shop but knew Vargas would frown on such activity. So instead, I accompanied the detective back to the dinner. The boat launch where the ruckus had occurred was on the other side of the wharf, out of sight of anyone in the big tent behind Solari’s, and it didn’t appear that those in attendance had even heard the squad car’s siren as it arrived. But given the noise level at the dinner right now, this wasn’t surprising.
“So, what brought you down there to the landing?” I shouted over the roar as we rounded the corner of the restaurant.
“You did,” he said.
“Me?”
Vargas grinned. “Well, you amon
g all the others. First Bobby left, and then a few minutes later I saw Angelo and Anastasia sneak out, too. That was one too many suspects for me not to check out what was going on, and then once outside I saw you take off across the street, so I followed.”
“Ah, got it,” I said. “So you’re not going back to the station now to interview Anastasia?”
“Nah. I think it’s best we let her stew for a while first. I’m gonna hang out here till the dinner’s over to make sure there’s no more fires to put out, and then I’ll head on down to talk to her.”
The detective stopped at the entrance to the tent and looked around. The Santa Cruz mayor had stepped up to the podium and quieted everyone down and was reading from a document he held in his hand:
“Whereas the City of Santa Cruz wishes to acknowledge its shared history with its sister city, Sestri Levante, and the debt it owes such city as a result of its citizens who first came to settle in Santa Cruz almost a century and a half ago; and whereas the two municipalities wish to acknowledge our shared appreciation of the arts and culture…”
“Do you see Angelo?” Vargas said, leaning over to speak into my ear.
I scanned the diners, who—from the glazed expressions most wore—were clearly more interested in their panettone and hazelnut gelato than the text of the mayor’s Proclamation. “No, I don’t see him anywhere,” I answered after checking out all fourteen tables. “The place he was sitting at before is empty. I guess he must have left.”
“Huh,” the detective said, and strode inside. I watched him skirt the canvas walls at the back of the tent, his dark eyes searching for the fisherman. Now was my chance. Slipping back outside, I made my way along the side of the Solari’s building and then down the sidewalk toward Stefano’s gift shop.
The lights were all off inside except for one at the far back of the store. I tried the front door. Unlocked. Turning the handle and opening the door as quietly as I could, I stepped inside and softly closed the door behind me.
A sound was coming from the back room. Someone talking. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light and then crept forward, doing my best not to knock into all the postcard racks and stands of knickknacks bearing images of surfers and redwood trees and the famous Santa Cruz roller coaster.
Once closer, I could tell that it was Bobby talking to himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was saying, though it came out as more of a moan than normal speech.
Sorry for what? Coming on to Anastasia, like she said?
He broke off speaking and started to sob once more. But after a minute the sobs ceased and all I could hear was panting, as if he’d been engaged in some kind of vigorous exercise, accompanied by the sound of rhythmic creaking. Listening to his rapid breaths, I stood frozen in place behind a rack of fishing lures wrapped in tiny plastic bags.
What on earth was going on with the man? He wasn’t acting like someone who was merely drunk. Could he be having some sort of allergic reaction to the liquor? I knew he’d had a lot of wine tonight, but …
And then I stopped myself. What exactly did I know? That Stefano had said that perhaps his son had had a bit too much to drink, and that Bobby had seemed drunk when he knocked over his wine glass.
But as I thought this, my painting teacher’s voice came into my head: “Forget what you know. Your preconceived thoughts limit your ability to truly see.”
So what, then, did I see? I risked a peek around the door. Bobby was slumped over on a plastic chair, still in his wet clothes, rocking rapidly back and forth. He had his back to me, so I took a few steps closer. What was that in his hands? A piece of paper. No, a photograph.
Standing as tall as I could, I craned my neck to see if I could make out the image he was staring at. And then I quickly stepped back, suppressing the intake of breath that threatened to betray my presence.
It was a photo of Bobby and Gino, standing at the prow of Gino’s boat with their arms about each other’s shoulders.
The sound of a scraping chair caused me to back off even farther. But no, he hadn’t stood up. I could now hear the rapid tapping of feet on the hardwood floor along with the creaking of the plastic chair, and he was back to his panting again.
Would simply being drunk cause this behavior? I didn’t think so. But something was certainly wrong with the man. And his behavior had been a little odd for a while, now that I really stopped to consider it. I thought back to the various times I’d seen Bobby over the past two weeks. How he’d seemed agitated and then depressed that day in Gino’s house; how he’d complained of lack of sleep when I saw him in front of Solari’s; how anxious he’d seemed of late, always tapping his feet; and the mood swings and crying I’d seen today.
All symptoms of copper toxicity, weren’t they?
I retreated to the corner of the store where the light from my new phone couldn’t be seen by Bobby in the back room. Pulling up the website I’d bookmarked before, I read through the list of copper poisoning symptoms once again: anxiety, depression and hypersensitivity, hyperactivity, insomnia, mind racing, and mood swings. And one I hadn’t paid attention to when I’d been focusing on Gino as the one with copper poisoning: dermatosis. Which would explain what had looked like acne on Bobby’s face that day at Gino’s house.
That had to be the answer.
But why would Bobby have gotten copper poisoning? Maybe he’d been eating the red sauce Gino had made in those copper pots, too. But then I remembered that he’d said he didn’t eat Gino’s cooking much, and that’s why he’d kept those burritos in his freezer. So what else had copper in it?
I punched in a query about the causes of copper poisoning and got the same ones I’d read before: drinking water, copper cookware, birth control devices … nothing that seemed particularly applicable here. But then my eye was caught by a note at the very bottom of the article: “Copper has been found to be toxic to bacteria and algae and is thus commonly used as an algicide, such as in the copper-based paint used as a marine antifouling agent.”
Of course. My dad had used that antifouling paint and was always fanatical about wearing a special mask when applying it. I thought back to the gleaming, black paint I’d seen on the hull of Gino’s boat the afternoon I’d talked to Bobby at the old fisherman’s house, and then remembered the black splotches I’d seen on his clothes that same day. He and Gino must both have been painting the boat with that antifouling paint, and if they hadn’t worn a protective mask …
An image came to me of Gino and Bobby, both of them anxious and paranoid from copper poisoning, arguing behind Solari’s the night Gino disappeared. Then when Gino pushes it a little too far and says something truly hurtful, Bobby loses control and goes for the old man.
But later, Bobby is “sorry” …
Shoving my phone into my slacks pocket, I emerged from my corner and crept toward the front door. I had to tell Vargas about this.
Bobby was now talking to himself again, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I tried to make no sound as I made my way through the dark shop, and was doing a great job of it until the sleeve of my silk blouse caught on a metal piece that was sticking out from one of the postcard racks. The stand teetered, but I was able to catch and right it before the metal frame went crashing to the floor.
Thank God. I steadied the rack with both hands and was about to turn back toward the front door when an entire stack of postcards that had slipped to the edge of their holder fell with a clatter to the floor.
The muttering in the back room ceased. Oh, shit. I needed to find a place to hide—fast. Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawled toward the edge of the shop. A display had been set up advertising the big surf contest coming to town next week, and I crouched behind the large cardboard poster depicting a young man in a bright blue wetsuit carving up a glassy wave.
Bobby appeared in the doorway, his tall body a silhouette framed by the light coming from behind him. This could be bad. Ducking back down, I pulled my phone out once more. I didn’t ha
ve Vargas’s number so instead I texted Eric, who was likely still sitting at the detective’s table, chowing down on panettone and hazelnut gelato. “Help! Come rt now to stefanos gift shop!” I typed and sent, then dropped to my knees and peeked around the sign to check on Bobby’s movements.
He had taken several steps into the room and was cocking his head, listening for further noises. After a moment he spoke: “Who’s there?”
No way was I going to answer.
He continued to stare out into the dark room and I held my breath, praying he’d decide it was nothing and go back into the storeroom.
I didn’t want to make any move, but I’d begun to experience a shooting pain in my right knee, and after another agonizing minute I had no choice but to change positions. Placing my hands on the floor to steady myself, I moved from my kneeling stance to a squat. As I did so, however, my bandaged hand bumped against the surf poster. It wasn’t a loud noise but certainly enough to tell Bobby my location. And I was a sitting—or rather, squatting—duck, backed up against the wall as I was.
Footsteps were coming my way. Think fast, Sal.
“I know what happened, Bobby,” I said, trying to disguise my voice by pitching it lower than normal. “I understand.”
The footsteps stopped. “No one could ever understand.”
“But I do. I know how much you loved him, and how hard it must have been to hear him say those things to you.”
Bobby made no answer to this, and I was afraid he was going to simply reach in and grab me from behind the surfing display. But several beats passed with nothing except the sound of his heavy breathing. And then I heard a muffled thud. I risked a quick peek around the poster. Bobby had slumped to the floor and was staring my direction but was making no move toward me.
“It’s okay,” I encouraged, still watching him from behind the poster. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt him.”