Blood Orange

by Karen Keskinen

  Almost tenderly, Nina folded back the heavy white sheet. There lay the small and delicate body of Lili Molina.

  “If you aren’t used to this, Jaymie, the trick is to not dwell on the victim’s face. Work to keep it impersonal.” She studied me for a moment, then turned to go. “You’ll be OK.”

  Mike watched me as I pulled on the gloves and approached the corpse. Against Nina’s suggestion, I examined the badly bruised face first. Next the neck, down to the slashed torso. I was determined to be methodical, unemotional. Several times I had to remind myself that the body was an object now, no longer a girl.

  When I’d looked at the hands and feet, I took a step back.

  “Finished?” Mike asked quietly.

  “Not quite.” I moved around to the other side of the tray. “I need to lift and turn the upper part of the body. I want to see the back of the neck.”

  “Here, I’ll help. Damn, these gloves are kid-size.” It took Mike a minute to wrangle them onto his hands. “What are you looking for?”

  “I want to confirm that the ligature marks match the bootlace.”

  “Hold on. Bootlace? I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  “Oh … I guess I forgot to tell you. I went back to the dressing room, Mike. I found a bloody bootlace buried in the prop bin.”

  “The hell you did! How could the police miss something like that?”

  “They didn’t. The killer returned it later on, after the police had searched the room. He needed for us to find it, don’t you see? Danny never left the dressing room, after all. If he’s going to be convicted as the killer, then the ligature has to be in the room.”

  “OK. But if the killer knew he was going to frame Danny, why did he take it away with him in the first place?”

  “He’s not perfect.” I shrugged. “In the heat of the moment he probably stuffed the thing in his pocket.” I bent over the body.

  “OK, Mike. You can see the marks … can you hold Lili right like that for a moment?”

  “You said her name,” Mike said uncomfortably.

  “Sorry. But look, there they are at the nape of the neck. And something else. Very faint, but you can see it in two places. There, and there.”

  Mike bent closer as I held Lili’s long dark hair out of the way.

  “That looks like a different kind of abrasion,” he said. “Something very thin.”

  “Right. Those are the marks of a necklace. The killer yanked it off, breaking it.” Together we eased the body back down.

  “Jaymie? I’ll tell you what I bet it was. A chain holding a medal of the Virgin Mary. When I spoke with Mrs. Molina, she told me Lili always had it on, and it was missing.” He met my eyes. “But you already knew that.”

  “Teresa told me too. La Virgen de Guadalupe. Know what I think? When we find that medallion, we’ll find Lili’s killer.”

  “Let’s see what Jorgensen says about it.” Mike grabbed the folder off the counter and flipped through the pages. “Yeah, here it is … but he doesn’t say much. Evidence of the links of a fine chain.”

  I held out a hand for the report. “Can I take a look at that?”

  After two or three minutes I closed the folder and laid it on the counter. “Well, I’ll tell you what is news: Lili wasn’t a virgin before the rape.”

  “That’s news? Come on, Jaymie. She was seventeen, and this is the twenty-first century.”

  “I’m getting to know this girl.” I shook my head. “She wore the medallion in honor of her father. And Lili was modest, not into boys. A serious kid.”

  “So you think the fact that she wasn’t a virgin means something?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’ve got an idea, don’t you.” Mike struggled to pull off the skintight gloves. “You going to share? Or is it going to be like the bootlace?”

  “When I’ve confirmed it, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “No. Let the PD do the confirming.” He frowned. “Jaymie, are you listening to me?”

  I took pity on him. “I will be careful, I promise you. And if I’m in danger, I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  There was one line of inquiry I was determined to run to ground. And I knew where to go for the answers: Dos Pueblos High.

  School had just let out, and doors were slamming on Porsches, Mercedes, and Lexus SUVs. Hormones and powerful motors revved. The contents of the DP parking lot spoke volumes: these days it was the teachers, not the students, who arranged to have someone drop them off down the street so nobody would see their cheap broken-down cars. Or maybe the teachers did what I was doing now: elected to ride a bike. They could call it green.

  I cruised up and down the aisles, scanning for a dark-red Mercedes. But I spotted Lance Stellato before I located his car. He was ambling along with three other kids, laughing at something. None of the group carried backpacks or books.

  I followed behind, pedaling slowly. When they reached the Mercedes, parked to one side of the lot under the spotty shade of a jacaranda, I sped up.

  “Hi, Lance,” I said rather loudly. All four teenagers turned and stared at me. The lone girl in the group found her tongue first.

  “Look at that bike—retro, how cool!” Her tone suggested my bike was anything but.

  The other two kids guffawed, and Lance sneered like James Dean. “You. What do you want?”

  “You know her?” the girl asked. “Wow, Lance, she’s almost as old as your mom!”

  I kept a calm face. “I need to talk to you, Lance.”

  “Maybe she deals,” one of the boys said. For a moment I thought he was kidding. But he gawked at me, looking especially thick-witted and hopeful.

  “Hey guys,” Lance said quickly. “Sorry, no ride today.”

  The kids grumbled but moved off. Then the girl caught sight of somebody else and shrieked. “Jazz! Jazzie!”

  “OK, lady.” Lance lounged casually against his car. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Know what, Lance? You do sound like your dad. Except with him the attitude’s real, and with you it’s an act.”

  “I should slap you upside the head.”

  The kid was a punk. I knew he’d back down. “Go ahead, try.”

  He hocked up some phlegm and spat near my shoe. Near it, but not on it. “Speak up fast, or I’m gone.” Unbeknownst to Lance, a purple jacaranda blossom chose that moment to float down and rest gently in his dark wavy hair.

  “I’m not the one who’s going to talk. Tell me, where were you on the afternoon of June twenty-first, between the hours of three and four?”

  “That’s easy. I was at that dumb-ass party we go to every year. The one Sarah Wiederkehr’s parents put on.”

  “Uh-huh. But I’ll bet you didn’t stay the whole time. You had better things to do, right?”

  “Nope. Sarah scored some weed. She took a few of us to that tank house they have in the back. We got stoned.” Lance was bragging, convinced he was cool.

  “You’re a very bad boy, Lancie. Now I want to hear what you have to say about what happened a year and a half ago, between you and Lili Molina.”

  “How did you—” Shock registered on his face. “Nothing,” he sputtered. “Nothing happened.”

  “You sure? Because maybe I do have something to say to you, Lance. Maybe I need to explain that Danny Armenta didn’t kill Lili. He was framed. My job is to find her killer, OK? And right now, you’re one of my favorite suspects.”

  An Austin Mini tooted as it raced down the aisle. “Hey Stellato, your mom’s hot!” someone called. A wolf whistle followed.

  “But I wouldn’t kill anybody.” Lance had turned white. White with shock, or was it with fear?

  “Well, you don’t seem like a killer. But I know you hurt Lili a while back, so until I understand what that was about, I can’t rule you out.”

  The parking lot had emptied. I noticed a female security guard watching us from the school steps. My time with pretty boy was growing short. “Speak up
. Otherwise I’ll take my suspicions straight to the cops.”

  “We had sex!” he blurted. “Sex, OK? Big fucking deal! Why would I kill her for that?”

  Let the señor have sex with you or else lose your job. Except it wasn’t the señor, after all: it was the señor’s son. And Teresa Molina had almost certainly lost her job over it, even though her daughter had given in.

  I studied the young man’s face. It was all written there now: anger, fear, shame. “Lance? So far you’re telling me half the truth. Let’s call it a start.”

  In the silence, a woodpecker thumped on the trunk of a frowzy palm. Thunk, thunk, thunk … The rotund guard pushed off and began to advance. I’d have to press.

  “You forced Lili, didn’t you? You got her alone, then you forced her. Lili Molina wasn’t a girl who’d give it up just because you asked—rich boy.” I carefully held back from one word: rape. I needed Lance to talk more.

  “No! You’re wrong, OK? I didn’t force her. Lili wanted it, for sure. She just—she—”

  “Needed a little push? Like you saying you’d get her mom fired if she didn’t cooperate?”

  “No. I don’t know! Maybe … something like that.” He yanked open his car door. “I don’t need this shit. I’m outta here.”

  “One more question, Lance. The truth, that’s all I’m after here. Who else knows about this?”

  “Nobody. Nobody except my dad.” He looked desperate. “I liked Lili, OK? She was nice. I liked her. My dad decided to fire her mom. That wasn’t me.”

  “Sure it was, Lance. Your dad found out what you did. He got rid of Teresa to protect his little boy.”

  “I don’t have to listen to any of this!” He threw himself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

  “Excuse me?” The security guard wore a polite but suspicious smile. “I know Mr. Lance here. But you look a little old to be a student.”

  Lance took advantage and peeled away.

  * * *

  I’d made a promise to Mike. But visiting Casa Arabe, yet another huge and beautiful Santa Barbara estate, hardly constituted danger. The morning after my consult with Lance, I paid the Wiederkehr family a call.

  Casa Arabe was a grande dame reposing in acres of lavish gardens. Moorish fountains and walkways, torrents of purple and white wisteria, and twelve-foot-high copper-clad gates all murmured of money, taste, and more money.

  To my surprise, Cynthia Wiederkehr had phoned me. She’d apologized for refusing to see me earlier, and suggested a time to come by. Well, maybe suggested was the wrong word, I thought as I waited beside a courtyard pond crammed with aggressive turtles. I’d been told precisely when to show up.

  “Ms. Zarlin?” A tall willowy woman opened the door, closed it behind her and extended a hand. “I’m Cynthia Wiederkehr. Sorry you had to wait out here. Lalo should have asked you to step into the foyer.”

  I was fairly sure Lalo had done exactly as he was told. “Thanks for agreeing to speak with me, Mrs. Wiederkehr.” I took her cool dry hand and felt it immediately slide from my own.

  “Bruce and I want to help all we can in this terrible business. Besides, when the most powerful woman in the city makes a call, it’s unwise to say no.”

  Surprise number two: Celeste Delaney had intervened.

  Cynthia Wiederkehr then smiled graciously, but like her handshake, the smile slipped away quickly. “I’m expecting guests for a luncheon at noon,” she briskly continued. “I want to answer all your questions, but I’ll need to do it in an efficient manner.” She nodded toward the path. “Let’s walk around to the kitchen. If you don’t mind, I’ll continue with the prep while we talk.”

  I followed Cynthia along a tiled path, in through French doors to a kitchen larger than my house and studio combined. The stainless-steel appliances were massive, restaurant-sized. Twin double sinks were filled with water and stuffed with bunches of roses and ferns. Clippers in varying sizes were arranged on the granite countertop.

  The lone sign of disorder made me smile: a big green inchworm looped along the bull-nose edge of the counter. Cynthia noticed it, pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and dropped it in the trash.

  “Ms. Zarlin, may I get you something to drink?” she asked as she rinsed her fingers and dried them.

  “A glass of water would be fine.”

  She tucked a strand of her artfully cut blond bob behind an ear and tied on a barman’s apron. “Please, fire away,” she said as she took a pair of clippers into her hand.

  Apparently the glass of water was not going to materialize.

  “I’m not sure what Celeste Delaney told you, Mrs. Wiederkehr. But I’ve been hired by the family of Danny Armenta to find Lili Molina’s killer.” I watched carefully, but the expression on Cynthia’s expertly made-up face did not seem to change.

  “Yes, Celeste said something like that.” Cynthia held a rose stem under the running tap and clipped it, then plunged it into a vase. “Does that imply you don’t think the Hispanic boy did it?”

  “The fact is, Danny Armenta is innocent.”

  “That’s what you’re being paid to think.”

  “Nobody pays to influence my thoughts, Mrs. Wiederkehr.” I held my voice steady.

  “But aren’t you the only one who believes in his innocence?” She continued to attack the roses, but color had flooded her cheeks. Blushing was the one thing Cynthia apparently couldn’t control.

  “Not at all.” I maintained my casual tone. “There’s the killer himself, to state the obvious. And there are others who suspect or know the truth.”

  Cynthia Wiederkehr’s forehead creased. I noticed permanent frown lines arcing down from the corners of her mouth.

  “What does the boy have to say for himself?”

  “Danny’s still traumatized. He discovered his friend’s mutilated body, after all. But he’s beginning to open up. Any day now, he’ll talk about that afternoon.”

  “Mom? Where are you?” A strident female voice sounded from another part of the house.

  “In the kitchen, dear,” Cynthia called. She seemed eager to break off our conversation.

  “Mom!” A cross-faced girl of around seventeen appeared in the kitchen doorway. This would be Sarah Wiederkehr, only child of the doctor and missus.

  Sarah was attractive enough, but she had a receding chin and wasn’t as good-looking as her mother. Her long blond hair was marshalled into a French braid and she was dressed in what must be golf attire, though both the top and shorts were spandex-tight. She stared hard at me, ignoring my polite smile.

  “Sarah, this is Ms.—I’m sorry, what was your name?”

  I knew damn well Cynthia hadn’t forgotten. “Jaymie Zarlin. You must be Sarah?”

  “Hi.” The girl had learned how to be dismissive from her mother. She’d no doubt learned a lot from Cynthia.

  “Ms. Zarlin is a detective, dear. She’s looking into the death of that Hispanic girl, the one who was killed at Solstice, you know?”

  “Oh … yeah. Mom, I’m going to be late. I tee off at one and we’re supposed to be there an hour and a half early, remember? My Lexie’s still at the garage, so you need to drop me off.” She shrugged. “Unless you want me to take yours?”

  “Why don’t you do that, dear. I’ve got my luncheon at noon, so I need to stay here.” Both women seemed to be working hard at ignoring my presence. Quite the mother-daughter act.

  “And why don’t I ask my questions right now?” I made my voice sugar-sweet. “Then I can let you ladies get on with your busy day.”

  “Oh.” Cynthia looked at me as if she were surprised I was still there. “Yes, all right then. Sarah, my keys are on the hall table.”

  “Actually,” I said quickly, “I’d like to address my questions to Sarah, too.”

  At last, the real Cynthia Wiederkehr began to show. “No, absolutely not. My daughter will not be—”

  “Mom, it’s fine.” Suddenly Sarah’s voice was every bit as determined as her mother’s. �
��Don’t treat me like a little kid.”

  “Oh, honestly. If it weren’t for Celeste—” Cynthia waved her hand dismissively.

  I decided to take this for an OK. “I want to ask both of you what you observed at the solstice party you hosted.”

  “Can you narrow your question?” Cynthia snapped. “We’ll be here all day.” Sarah said nothing—but to my interest, her face registered discomfort. She was a tough kid, but at seventeen, most people don’t know how to hide their feelings. It was an art Sarah Wiederkehr had yet to learn.

  “Sure. To begin with, I’d like to know if either of you saw anyone leave during the course of the party, and then return.”

  “How could I notice something like that? Ms. Zarlin, one hundred and twenty-three people attended. I was far too busy coordinating the event to—to monitor my guests.”

  “Let me be more specific, then. I’m asking about the Guild Triune members and their families.”

  “Unh.” Sarah had folded her arms over her middle, as if her stomach hurt. Cynthia glanced over at her daughter and froze. Then, like a dog on attack, she turned.

  “That is enough. I am not prepared to have a total stranger come into my home and grill me concerning my friends. Really, I shall have to speak to Celeste Delaney. I think you must have pulled the wool over that old woman’s eyes.”

  She was truly angry, and it was obvious why: Cynthia had sensed Sarah’s anxiety, and was now protecting her young.

  “Come on, Mrs. Wiederkehr. No one pulls the wool over Miss Delaney’s eyes, do they?” I shrugged. “I didn’t mean to upset you. My question was pretty straightforward.”

  “I just don’t appreciate invasions into my family’s privacy.” Cynthia’s glance flitted back to her daughter. “Though we’ve certainly nothing to hide.”

  “What’s all this about, dear?” A tall thin man in baggy shorts and T-shirt stepped into the kitchen. He was sweating a little and appeared to have been working out. “I could hear you from downstairs in the gym.”

  “I’m Jaymie Zarlin, Dr. Wiederkehr. I apologize if I’ve upset anyone.”

  “I’m not upset,” Cynthia interrupted. “I’m just in a hurry, that’s all, and Sarah has somewhere to be. Bruce, you could walk Ms. Zarlin to the gate.”