Blood Orange

by Karen Keskinen

  “Better? What, do you mean he’s communicating?” The old woman seemed more alert today. Or maybe the little drama with Ken had brought her to life.

  “Danny’s talking to me, yes. Until now I haven’t asked him what he saw on the afternoon of the murder. But I’ll be broaching the subject with him in a day or so.” I thought this would please Celeste, but she frowned.

  “I understand the police remain convinced he is the guilty one. I do read the papers, you know, and I have my connections. I am not unfamiliar with what is going on”—she waved vaguely at the draped windows—“out in the world. And I must admit I have asked myself: should I have assisted a possible killer to obtain bail?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that, Miss Delaney. Your decision to help was the right one.” I leaned forward in the backbreaking chair. “I’m certain now that Danny was set up. My job is to discover who did it, then obtain evidence of the killer’s guilt.”

  “If the killer was not the mad boy, then no doubt it was a drifter, someone passing through.”

  “I considered that, Miss Delaney. But I don’t think it was the work of a stranger.”

  Celeste turned her attention to the flickering wall. “Have you ever watched Chinatown, Jaymie?”

  I followed her gaze. Now the ghost women were waving long scarves, wrapping them around their long, snake-like necks.

  “The movie with Jack Nicholson? Yes, I saw it a few years back.”

  “Noah Cross in real life was Mulholland, you know. My father, Jackson Delaney, knew him well. Daddy also did business with the Chandlers of the Los Angeles Times.” She swiveled her raptor’s head and peered at me. “May I give you a piece of advice, my dear? The members of our Apollo Guild are powerful men. Hardly the sort to appreciate a little detective poking about in their affairs.”

  I caught my breath in surprise. Little detective: Celeste had delivered a sharp, stinging slap. Like Ken, I thought wryly, I’d just been shown my place. “Yes,” I said carefully, “I suppose I see what you mean.”

  “You suppose? Hmph.” She waved her stick dismissively. “Tell me this, then. Have you made any progress at all, with the case?”

  Was this why Celeste had summoned me here today, to receive a progress report? Well, half a mil in bail money entitled her to it, I supposed. “I think so, Miss Delaney. But these things take time. Right now I’m focusing on the Apollo Guild, trying to gain an overall picture of how it operates.”

  “I see. So is that why you went to see my nephew, Sutton—to gain an overall picture?”

  So that was what all this was about. I should have realized Sutz would tell his aunt about my visit to the Icarus.

  “Yes. Mr. Frayne was very helpful. I also spoke with the Stellato family.”

  “So I understand. You are curious about the Triune members in particular, it seems to me. Have you contacted the Wiederkehrs?”

  “I did, but Mrs. Wiederkehr turned me down. Too busy, she said.”

  “I’m hardly surprised she turned you away. I knew Brucie Wiederkehr’s father. The man was soft. But Cynthia Wiederkehr, she is in fact a Caughey from Montecito. My, my, her father was a tough old sot!” Celeste Delaney picked up a silver bell resting on the arm of her chair and rang it vigorously. “Did you know my father was once a member of the Triune? A founder of the Apollo Guild, as a matter of fact.”

  “Actually, I didn’t know that.”

  “No? You must do your homework, Jaymie. I’ll give you an introduction to the Wiederkehrs, but I will not do your work for you. What sort of detective are you?”

  I couldn’t help myself: I burst out laughing. “Sorry, Miss Delaney. The help just isn’t what it used to be, is it?”

  Celeste Delaney looked as if she was about to strike me with her silver-tipped cane. But then she laughed too. “You have spunk, I must give you that.”

  The door eased open, and a servant, the woman who’d helped Ken deliver the coffee to the garden, stepped into the room. Her face was acne-scarred, her figure voluptuously heavy. “You rang, Miss Delaney?”

  “Of course I rang, Nancy. What have I told you? Never state the obvious.”

  “I apologize, Miss Delaney.”

  “Yes, well. I’m not sure you can help it, but do try to remember. Now, there is an envelope for Miss Zarlin sitting on the demilune table in the east hall. Bring it here.”

  “Yes, Miss Delaney.” As Nancy backed out of the room, I half expected her to genuflect.

  “Now, I apologize, my dear, for revealing the less cuddly side of my nature today. I fear I am quite irascible. Arthritis of the neck—painful, you know.”

  Again the door crept open. “Ah. Here she is. No, not to me, silly woman. Give it to Miss Zarlin.”

  Nancy’s eyes met mine in the few seconds it took her to hand me the manila envelope. They were filled with hate. Was it hatred of Celeste Delaney, or of me?

  “A gift for you,” Celeste explained when the door had closed on her servant. “What they call a computer disc, I believe. I contains valuable information, information that my connections assure me will aid you in focusing your inquiries, as they say.”

  She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily upon her cane. “I find I rather like you. You’ve quite the dogged nature, haven’t you?” A corner of her mouth twisted up.

  “You know, little detective, I rather think I shall keep you on.”

  * * *

  The garden outside my open office window was dusted in gold. Deadbeat was either murdered at last, or stowed away undercover. In the peaceful quiet, I could hear a drowsy medley of birdsong.

  My old routine was to pack up and bike on home around five. If I had more work to do, I’d do it at El Balcón, looking out over the Pacific with a glass of wine close at hand. But now that I had guests, things had changed. Chuy and Aricela liked to spend the evenings tearing in and out of the house with Dex and generally fooling around. More often than not, they drew me into their shenanigans. I was learning to finish my work at the office.

  I removed the disc Celeste Delaney had given me from my messenger bag and inserted it into the computer. I whistled under my breath as I peered at the downloads: the files held nearly five hundred photos, all taken either during the Solstice parade or immediately afterward, in Alameda Park. I could hardly believe my luck.

  And how the hell had Celeste Delaney come by this treasure trove? The kids in the Guild had been asked to turn their cell phones in to the police. I stopped smiling as I realized Celeste’s tentacles had reached into the hallways of the SBPD.

  Sobered, I sacrificed a few dozen trees to the cause and printed all the photos snapped in the park. Then I knelt down and spread the nearly three hundred pages over the office floor in a wide arc. One by one, I studied them.

  Each photo had the name of the photographer printed at the bottom, together with the time the picture was snapped. I scanned through, smiling to myself. Five or six photos showed kids displaying their tongues at the camera, and several featured smart-alecky young women baring their breasts.

  Quite a few were of Lili Molina, and it wasn’t hard to see why: she’d looked stunning in her costume. But I thought I could see a troubled look in her sequined eyes.

  I pulled out all those of Lili and arranged them by time. The last photo of her was taken at 3:02 in the afternoon.

  Once more, I scanned all the other snaps to double-check: none showed any of the Guild Triune members or their relatives. What the rich guys were claiming was probably true: they’d all been engaged in their upstairs celebration of Solstice at the Wiederkehrs’ estate. As for Jared and Shawna … I pulled out twenty-three photos of the great god Apollo, yet only one of sour, unpopular Shawna. The snap of Shawna was taken at 2:33, the last shot of Jared at 2:43. So both were taken well before Lili disappeared from the park.

  I riffled back through the photos to see if I’d missed anything. Abruptly, my heart sped up as a squirt of adrenaline kicked in.

  My eye had fallen on a photo o
f three costumed guys hamming it up for the camera. On the far edge of the photo was Shawna Sprague, facing right. She was taking a picture with her own cell. Caught in the act.

  I went back to make certain: Shawna hadn’t submitted anything at all to the cops. So she’d been clicking away, all right, but hadn’t complied with the request to turn in cells. Why not?

  Maybe Shawna had something in her phone that implicated Jared. Photos of Jared—with Lili, perhaps?

  I returned to the twenty-three snapshots various kids had taken of Jared Crowley. In six of them he was talking into his cell. But there was no evidence he’d actually taken any photos—and why would he? Jared wasn’t interested in anyone but himself. Even so, all the Guild members had been asked to turn in their phones, and Jared, like Shawna, hadn’t complied.

  Jared had mentioned the French Press coffee shop the other day in the warehouse. I looked up the number in the phone book and punched it in. A dude-type voice answered. “Hey. French Pah-ress.”

  I raised my voice an octave, hoping I’d sound seventeen. “Yeah, can I like talk to Shawna?”

  “Shawna? Uh, she like works mornings. I think nine to noon.”

  “OK, thanks.” I hung up. In the morning I would treat myself to a fancy coffee drink. Now it was time to go home.

  I found myself wondering what was in the oven at El Balcón. In spite of her depression, Alma managed to cook like an angel. And after dinner, I’d let myself be talked into playing Wiffle ball in the dusk: kids-plus-dog against me.

  Maybe tonight we’d have a new participant. Last night, for the first time, Danny had stepped outside the studio to watch us play.

  * * *

  The next morning, the order line at the French Press extended out the door. This was the place to be: a pair of high-heeled, sharp-tongued business girls stood shoulder to shoulder with a dreadlocked homeless guy and some other fellow who looked screen-familiar. True to Santa Barbara tradition, the actor was studiously ignored.

  I observed a scowling Shawna while I waited in line. She wasn’t taking the orders, which, with her people skills, was no surprise. Shawna was good at working the espresso machine, though. She operated with precision and speed. A hapless coworker bumped her, and she snarled at the fresh-faced boy to give her space.

  Shawna was strong, and I noticed her hands were not small. I’d assumed a female couldn’t have inflicted the damage Lili Molina’s body had received. Now I found myself second-guessing my assumption.

  I ordered a dry cap, then walked around the corner of the bar to the espresso machine. Shawna glanced up at me, and her scowl deepened. She would have frown furrows by the time she was forty.

  “Did you want something?” she asked icily.

  “I’m not after an extra squirt of whipped cream, if that’s what you mean. I want to talk to you, Shawna.” I watched as she faltered. Shawna was, after all, still a kid.

  “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

  “I’m Jaymie Zarlin, and I’m investigating the murder of Lili Molina.”

  “Damn!” Shawna jumped back as a cloud of steam hissed from the machine. “Look what you made me do!”

  “Shawna?” An older woman with a bleached-blond ponytail, apparently the manager, appeared out of the back.

  “It’s under control.” Shawna glared.

  The woman turned away, then glanced back over her shoulder. I had a feeling Shawna would not last out the summer at the French Press.

  “Why should I talk to you,” she muttered. Her face was dark red.

  “Try this: because it would be better to talk to me than to the police. They might not understand why you didn’t turn in your cell like they asked.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. Look, I understand you want to help your boyfriend, OK? All I want is to ask you a few questions.” Jared wasn’t her boyfriend, any idiot could see that. But this was what Shawna wanted to hear, and if it helped loosen her tongue, I was happy to dish up the fantasy.

  Shawna glared at me a moment longer. Then she called over to the manager, who was rinsing a large carafe at the sink. “I’m taking a break.”

  The woman frowned. “OK, Shawna. But next time ask me, don’t tell me, OK?”

  * * *

  I followed Shawna out through the back entrance to a partly enclosed alley. The space reeked of fermented wine, or maybe the contents of a wino’s stomach.

  “It stinks out here. Let’s make it quick.” Shawna reached into her pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. She didn’t look at me, just lit up and took a deep drag.

  “Well?” she said shortly. She still hadn’t met my eyes. “My cell is my own private property. If I don’t want to turn it in, I don’t have to.”

  “Sure. It’s just that everyone else turned theirs in right away. I mean, why not, if it might help find Lili’s killer? That’s how the other kids saw it.”

  Shawna rubbed at the asphalt with her foot. “I don’t have anything to hide. I didn’t take any pictures, OK?”

  “I know that’s not true. Listen, the police have a photo of you taking a picture of Jared. I’ve seen a copy.” In fact, the photo of Shawna taking a picture didn’t show Jared. But who else would she have taken a picture of?

  Shawna dropped her cigarette to the asphalt and watched it burn down. A curl of smoke rose up near her toe. “OK, so I have pictures of him. So what.”

  I pricked up my ears. She’d said “pictures,” plural. “Maybe you have pictures of Jared and Lili leaving the park together,” I said quietly.

  Shawna wrapped her arms across her chest and bent forward. Her shoulders shuddered. I placed a gentle hand on her arm, but she wrenched away.

  “Believe me, Shawna, you don’t want to shield Jared. If he was involved in Lili’s murder, you could go to prison too.”

  “What do you think it’s like?” she blurted. “To be adopted and Asian, except you’re not skinny and cute, and not very popular—” Her eyes brimmed, but then she stopped. She shut it off like a faucet, just like that. “Jared loves me! And I love him. Is that OK with you?”

  “You think he did it, don’t you, Shawna?” I was sorry to do it, but I had to keep tightening the screws. “You think he killed Lili, but you really don’t care.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I’m going to tell you something, Shawna. Unlike you, I’m pretty sure Jared’s not guilty.”

  She looked at me in surprise.

  “I don’t think he’s guilty, but I know at least one cop who does. Show me what you’ve got and maybe I can help.” I was bending the truth a little. I was fairly sure Jared Crowley was innocent, but it was possible I was wrong.

  Shawna stared at me for a long moment. Then she reached into the pocket of her skin-tight jeans and tugged out her cell. “I’ll show you. But you have to promise me you won’t tell the cops. And I don’t want Jared to ever know I showed you this.”

  Did the cops include Mike? Surely not. This wasn’t his case, and he was a friend. “I promise.”

  Shawna punched a few buttons, then held the phone out for me to look. “No, you can’t hold it. I’ll scroll through. I’m not giving my phone up to you or anybody.”

  I stepped close, shielding the screen from the glare of the sun. “Angle your hand so I can see better.” And then, I did see.

  First in the sequence was a photo of Jared, the bleached Apollo, intently studying his cell in the park. Next, a picture of Jared talking urgently with Lili: Apollo imploring the goddess Daphne. Then the god and the goddess, walking away together.

  And a fourth photo, from a distance: Jared and Lili, getting into the old tan BMW. So there it was: evidence that Jared Crowley had most likely delivered Lili to her death.

  “Shawna, tell me something. Why did you take all these photos of Jared?”

  She shrugged. “At first I just wanted some pictures of him, you know? But then, when he started talking to Lili … I guess I got kind of je
alous.” She looked up and glowered at me. “Anyway, it isn’t a crime.”

  “No, of course it isn’t.” My fingers were itching to grab the camera and sprint off with it. Instead I pulled out my notebook. “Shawna, read me the times of those four photos at the end.”

  “This is the last thing I’m telling you.” Shawna bent her head, worked her cell, and intoned: “3:12 … 3:14 … 3:15 … 3:19.”

  She glared as she shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Now leave me alone! And if you tell the cops, I’ll wipe it all in a second, I swear to God.”

  * * *

  I needed to talk with Jared, fast. Shawna had no good reason to reveal our conversation to him, but I figured that wouldn’t necessarily stop her.

  I switched on my cell, ignored six messages, and punched in my office number.

  “Santa Barbara Investigations. Gabriela Gutierrez, PA to Jaymie Zarlin—speaking!”

  “By the time you spit all that out, the person on the other end of the line will be long gone.”

  “Miss Jaymie! Haven’t seen you today. What’s up?”

  “Right now I’m tracking Jared Crowley to his lair.”

  “Jared Crowley? Hold on.” I heard her shove her chair over the oak floorboards. “OK, I’m standing in the kitchen now, looking at the wall. Jared … Huh. Looks innocent. Nice and clean-cut.”

  “Those are the types you need to take an extra-hard look at, Gabi. I’ve got a few questions for Mr. Clean-cut. Grab the interview file there on the table, would you? I need his address—somewhere on Cota, I think.”

  “Cota, are you sure? He’d stick out like a sore thumb in that neighborhood. A white sore thumb. Hold on. It’s not on the table ’cause I filed it away like it should be.” I heard the squeal of the old filing cabinet drawer. “OK, here it is. You’re right: Jared Crowley, 441 West Cota.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Wait, I got something to tell you. Mrs. Richter called. She wants to know if you found out anything yet, about Minuet. She sounds very worried.”

  “Next time she calls, you can tell her I’ve picked up the scent and I’m hot on the trail.”