Black Current

by Karen Keskinen

  Zave pulled a paring knife from the block and began to chop the onions. His big hands moved like an artist’s, deft and precise. “Guilty as charged. Let’s leave it at that.”

  After supper we moved into the living room. Zave handed me a glass of dry sherry. I wanted to ask him more about Tonayah, but I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere. He’d steered me away from that subject and shut the door.

  “All right, Jaymie. You said on the phone you’ve pinpointed the killer, but something’s not right. Fill me in.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I began at the beginning, and told Zave everything I’d learned.

  “Tactacquin’s attorney is Louis Gamboa,” he said after hearing me out. “Gamboa’s not bad, but he doesn’t stand a chance against the DA. And the guy coming forward to support the alibi? That’s a two-edged sword.”

  “But why? Millar’s a law-abiding man, hardworking—”

  “Hey.” Zave brushed a hand in the air. “Millar’s gay, but he lived most of his adult life with a woman, as a married man. The alibi will reveal that Tactacquin has done the same—hidden his secret life from his partner. Once the jury hears that, they won’t trust either one.”

  “Still, the alibi shows Tactacquin wasn’t there at the time of the murders.” I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s got to count for something.”

  Zave dismissed this with a shrug. “Look, let’s forget Tactacquin for a minute. I like Steinbach for it, I admit. But the way I hear you tell it, you’ve got a complication. The kid.”

  “Porter Logsdon.” I took a sip of the tawny golden elixir, felt its warmth trickle down my throat. “Claudia heard Vanessa practically accuse him of killing Skye.”

  “And you’re sure Vanessa was right about Logsdon’s alibi being false?”

  “Yes. I phoned the psych doc’s office pretending to be Porter’s mom, and asked about the billing. Porter didn’t show for his therapy session the afternoon Skye died.”

  Zave braided his hands behind his head, leaned back and studied me. “Motive?”

  “How about good old-fashioned jealousy? Skye was going places, Porter wasn’t. Porter likes to think of himself as a superjock, but Skye was the better athlete. And then there’s the desirable Vanessa. She doted on Skye and regarded Porter as just a friend.”

  “Mm.” Zave leaned forward and opened a hand-tooled leather box on the coffee table. “Cigar?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Do I look like a chimney?”

  “My dear, ’tis a pity you’re not a man.” He lit the cigar with a silver lighter, puffed several times, and set the lighter back on the table. “Want to know what I think?”

  “You know I do.”

  “I think you’re just about out of time. Proving Tactacquin’s innocence—or disproving his guilt—won’t get you anywhere, not fast enough. Even a good alibi won’t help at this point. Too little, too late.”

  I jumped up from the chair. “There’s got to be something I can do!”

  “Focus on Steinbach. Forget about Tactacquin. Forget about the kid’s involvement. Prove Steinbach’s guilt.”

  I circled the room. “How the hell do I do that?”

  Zave let out a long slow puff of smoke. “How stiff are Steinbach’s alibis?”

  “Pretty stiff,” I admitted. “Steinbach was at the aquarium board meeting when Skye was killed. And he was having tapas at the Figueroa Café with his wife and some friends when Cheryl Hobson died. Gabi checked up on that one—she knows one of the waiters and he looked through the receipts. Steinbach footed the bill.”

  “Have you got any physical evidence?”

  “No. No, I—wait a minute. Maybe I do.” I took out my phone, opened it to photos, and handed it to him. “There’s this.”

  “What am I looking at here? A squashed flower?”

  “A flower tracked into the aquarium on the bottom of a sneaker. It’s somewhat rare, a plumeria blossom called Eternal Flame. I spotted it on the wet deck when I went to look at Cheryl Kerr’s body.”

  “It could have been tracked in at any time.”

  “Over a period of about twenty hours,” I corrected. “The wet deck’s swabbed down once a day.”

  “I suppose you could check the Steinbachs’ garden. If the plant’s rare, as you say, and it’s growing there, you might have an argument.”

  “I drove by his place on the Riviera. I didn’t see anything that looked like a plumeria out in front. But there’s a garden around the back.”

  He shrugged and handed me my phone. “Something’s not adding up.”

  “I know.” I walked over to the old fireplace, and ran my hand along the painted Mexican tiles.

  “Two murders,” Zave mused. “Two drownings in the same unlikely location.”

  A chill crept through my veins. Time slowed as I reached out to the fireplace to steady myself. “Zave. Say that again.”

  He looked at me. “Two murders. Two drownings in the same unlikely location.”

  “Two murders … that’s it.” I sucked in my breath. “The aquarium setting—the circumstances surrounding the drownings—the murders were so similar, and so bizarre! I assumed both crimes were committed by the same person … but maybe … just maybe not.”

  “Hold on.” Zave stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and got to his feet. I could see he was excited, too. “Two different killers. It’s possible. But who?”

  “Don’t you see?” My heart began to rat-tat like a nail gun. “Rod Steinbach and Porter Logsdon. Porter must have killed Skye. I’ll bet they got in a fight at the top of the jellyfish tank.” I’d broken out in a sweat.

  “By God, you could be right. Logsdon killed Skye. And Steinbach—”

  “Yes. Rod Steinbach killed Cheryl Kerr.”

  “What, do you think Steinbach suspected her of killing his grandson?”

  “Maybe. Or Cheryl challenged him, spoke out about the death of her brother all those years ago. Steinbach’s a strong man in spite of his age. He could have shoved her over the wet deck, no problem at all.”

  “Jaymie, you clever girl!”

  Was I really so clever? It had damn sure taken me awhile.

  Together we walked through the front door and onto the porch. I turned to him. “Zave? It can’t be the same between us, not anymore.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “Because I’m married?”

  “Because you love her. I think you love Tonayah more than anything. How did you hide it so well, how come I never sensed it?”

  “Maybe I needed to hide it from myself.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “Still friends?”

  “Sure, same as always.” I managed a smile.

  * * *

  I got up at the crack of dawn, then forced myself to wait till nine before I hopped on my Schwinn and coasted down Cabrillo Boulevard toward East Beach. I wanted to arrive at Porter Logsdon’s place on Channel Drive after his mother went off to work.

  Porter and his mom lived in a modest town house complex wedged between the cemetery and Tye Warner’s sublime oceanfront estate. I pedaled through the condos, orienting myself. Once I’d delivered my message to Port, I’d little doubt he’d make a run for it. I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t get far.

  The Logsdons’ unit, 10B, was located away from the street. I moseyed over to the nearest carport and located the kid’s new Mustang, parked at an odd angle. A quick look around, and I bent to my task: stabbing toothpicks into each of his door locks, breaking them off, and jamming them home with an awl. Then I squirted in a few shots of Krazy Glue, just for insurance.

  Satisfied with my handiwork, I returned to 10B. I took note of a side door, and a slider at the back. Then I rode around to the front.

  The drapes were drawn wide open, and I could see into the Logsdons’ living room. There was Port, lounging in a big nest-shaped chair, watching a baseball game on TV. I dismounted and dropped the bike down on the small patch of lawn. When I looked up, Porter was staring straight at me.

/>   As our eyes connected, his expression changed. One minute his mind was caught up in the game. The next, he looked lost, frightened and alone.

  Porter stared at me a moment longer. Then, he bolted. He was off the couch and out of the room in a flash. I wheeled my bike around to the back.

  His car keys must have been in his bedroom upstairs, because it took a minute before he raced out the slider.

  I watched Porter sprint over to the carport, and followed at a leisurely pace.

  “You bitch! Fucking asshole!” Porter shouted as he yanked on the door handles and repeatedly pressed the beeping remote. Then he kicked the shiny red Mustang. The kick left a sizable dent.

  Porter turned toward me, and I could see him debate. Go for my throat, or run? Lucky for me, he chose to take off.

  He tore through the complex and out into the lane. I followed on my bike. Porter was fast and strong, but he was a big kid, carrying a lot of weight. I figured it wouldn’t be long before I ran him to the ground.

  It happened sooner than either of us expected. He tore into the cemetery, racing for the far corner where the grounds met the Delaney estate. I had to give him credit, it was a plan. But he didn’t watch his feet.

  Porter must have stepped in a sprinkler hole, because he tripped and went down hard. I stopped a few yards away and watched as he got to his feet and tried to stumble on. Then, with a scream of frustration, he collapsed among the headstones.

  I dropped my bike and approached him. “Porter. Listen to me.”

  “No.” He covered his ears with his hands. “Go away!”

  I stopped beside a Monterey cypress and rested a hand on the shaggy bark. And I waited, as reality trickled into Porter Logsdon’s terrified brain.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said at last. “It was his fault, not mine.”

  I walked up to him. “Hurt your ankle?”

  “Broke it last year in football. Feels like I broke it again.” He looked up at me, his face white with pain. “We got in a fight. Up there at the top of the tank.”

  I nodded. “You got in a fight. You were bigger than Skye, stronger. So you pushed him over the edge, into the water.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” Porter’s face contorted. “I—he fell.”

  “I know you didn’t think about the jellyfish. You didn’t mean to kill your best friend. But Skye didn’t just fall. You shoved him, right?”

  Porter covered his eyes with both hands. “I shoved him,” he echoed. “The jellyfish, it came out of nowhere—so fast. I should of—I should of—”

  “You should have helped Skye get out.”

  “It happened so fast! I couldn’t think straight—and then that—that thing grabbed him—” He began to weep.

  The cemetery was still. I could hear the waves crashing below.

  “Let’s take it from the beginning, Porter. So, you went to the aquarium after it closed.” I spoke quietly now. “How did you get in?”

  “I had the code. Skye gave it to Vanessa. She gave it to me. Vanessa and me, sometimes we went in there to smoke.”

  “Why did you go that afternoon?”

  “To talk to Skye! To fix it between us. I saw his pickup out on the street and I knew he was there. I thought, what the hell, Skye and Vanessa made up. Why shouldn’t Skye and me be friends? All the shit that came between us, none of it mattered. But Skye, oh no. He didn’t see it that way.”

  “Skye didn’t want to be friends with you.”

  “He said he didn’t want to hang with me anymore. He was too good for me, you know? That’s what he thought!” Porter was crying now, his voice a racked sob. “He made me mad, the fucker. It was all his own fault, he deserved what he got!”

  “I see what you’re getting at, Porter. Skye was too good for you all of a sudden. He couldn’t be bothered with you anymore … kind of like your dad.”

  “Fuck you!” He started to rise, gave out a sharp gasp, and collapsed back on the grass. “What’s—what’s going to happen now?”

  “You’re going to turn yourself in to the police. It will be to your benefit if you do. I’ll give you one hour, before I phone them myself.” It was the best I could do for him. I turned and walked toward my bike.

  “My ankle—how the fuck am I going to get out of here?”

  “One hour,” I repeated. Then I climbed on my bike and pedaled away, heading down to Cabrillo. I figured it was time Porter Logsdon started working things out for himself.

  * * *

  “Congratulations, Miss Jaymie!” Gabi handed me an ice cold bottle of Pacifico as I walked in the door. Before I could say anything, she’d ushered me into the kitchen. “You and me, we’re gonna celebrate.”

  I saw that my table was organized, the mound of papers arranged into discreet stacks. Each stack was labeled with a fluorescent green Post-it note.

  “Now sit down.” Gabi went to the refrigerator and removed bowls of guacamole, red and green salsa, refries, and a cheese dip. She set them on the table, added a big basket of homemade tortilla chips, and stood back to admire. “For you, Miss Jaymie. Cause you proved you are a real detective. This wasn’t no accident: only you solved the case.”

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as I tipped back la cerveza. Then I set the bottle on the table. “Gabi? There’s no reason to celebrate. Let’s just call this lunch.”

  “What are you talking about? Oh, no.” She raised a warning finger. “Don’t say it—please don’t. The police arrested that boy Porter. He confessed. And they said Cheryl’s murder was an accident, she fell in while she was dropping the octopus over the side. They let Taryn’s father out of jail! It’s over. I am begging you—”

  “What, let it go?” I stabbed the refries with a chip. “No. I won’t and I can’t. Thank God they released John Tactacquin. But Cheryl’s death was no accident, Gabi. She didn’t just tumble in. She wasn’t a tall woman, and the wall surrounding the wet deck came up to her waist.”

  Gabi set her bottle of Pacifico on the table and her hands on her hips. “Remember, I’m not just your PA. I am your partner. Miss Jaymie, please. You gotta move on.”

  The office phone rang out in the main room. Gabi went to pick up.

  I washed the tortilla chip down with a swallow of beer, and stared out the window at the scorching afternoon. I heard Gabi say something, then give a sharp cry.

  A second later she appeared in the doorway. “Miss Jaymie. That was Donna! You gotta go to their house real quick. It’s about Taryn—she has a knife, she says she’s gonna cut open her arms!”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I gunned the Camino up the narrow streets of the Riviera. Each corner I turned presented a sparkling view of the Santa Barbara Channel, blue tinged in gold. For the first time ever, I resented the flamboyant show.

  I should have been paying attention. Damn it to hell. I should have known.

  I slowed to a stop in front of the modest Craftsman. The Tactacquin home looked peaceful. The shades were drawn, and a tuxedo cat was curled up on a mat outside the front door.

  I got out and shut the door quietly. Then I eased the latch on the redwood gate, stepped into the front garden, and closed the gate behind me. The black and white cat jumped up and strode down the steps, meowing in a demanding tone.

  “Ssh, kitty. Ssh.” I bent down and stroked the cat, and he arched his back under my hand.

  I half expected the door to be opened by John Tactacquin. But it was Donna who peered through the gap, then lifted the chain.

  “Jaymie, thank God you’re here.” She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me inside.

  “Donna, is Taryn all right?”

  “No, she’s not. She’s out in the garden house. She has a knife. Jaymie, I don’t understand it. She won’t tell me why. She says she’ll really do it this time if I don’t stay away from her. And she warned me not to call the police. There was no one to call except you.”

  “What do you mean, she’ll really do it this time? Has Taryn done this before?”<
br />
  “Three days ago. The day they let John out of jail, she slit her wrists. Only the skin, not—not the veins. They called it a cry for help.”

  “I wish you’d phoned me. I would have come by.”

  “You couldn’t have made any difference. They put her in the psych ward at Cottage, on a seventy-two-hour hold. No visitors.” Donna wrapped her arms across her stomach.

  “She was only released a few hours ago. John went and got her, and dropped her off. She won’t talk to me, won’t say a word. They said she didn’t talk to anyone, the whole time she was in the hospital. Taryn—my little chatterbox!” She buried her face in her hands.

  I felt so bad for Donna. “Is John here now?”

  “John?” Donna looked up. A flash of anger showed in her eyes. “I sent him packing. Didn’t you know, Jaymie? My husband of twenty-two years is gay. He’s been gay all along, but he never bothered to tell me.”

  “I know. I didn’t think it was my place to tell you.”

  “I understand.” She shrugged. “You know, I was so ready to forgive him for having a lover … then I learned our marriage was nothing, a fake. All these years I’ve been providing cover for him, that’s all.”

  “I’d tar and feather the guy for lying to me,” I admitted. “But John does love you, Donna. He told me so, and he meant it.”

  “Yes. Like a sister. But what does it matter? Right now it’s Taryn I’m worried about.”

  The time had come. I couldn’t delay any longer. “The garden room’s out in the back?”

  “Through the kitchen door and down the side. I’ll watch through the blinds in the bedroom. I can’t go with you, Jaymie. Every time Taryn sees me, she holds the knife to her wrist.”

  * * *

  The side yard was picture-perfect. A red-leaf Japanese maple branched under a tall wispy stand of Mexican bamboo. Against the fence, a Cecile Brunner rose ambled over a trellis.

  The cat followed me, coiling his tail around my ankle as I descended a short flight of steps and followed the gravel path around to the back. He meowed, demanding attention. I shushed him and he glared at me, narrowing his green eyes.