Blood Orange

by Karen Keskinen

  Jaymie needed to hear it first, he decided. She’d know what to say to the family. But Mike wasn’t sure which bedroom Jaymie was using, now that she had a houseful of guests. He didn’t want to risk knocking on a window and having it be the wrong one.

  Debating his next move, Mike stepped onto the small concrete porch. He paused, listening. He thought he could hear the TV. The kids must be up already, watching cartoons with the sound turned low. He hesitated, then tapped softly on the door. What else could he do?

  Oh, man. It was the little guy who opened it.

  “Hi! I thought—I thought maybe you were my brother.”

  “Hey, buddy. No … no, it’s just me.”

  * * *

  “Jaymie, wake up!”

  I found myself looking into a pair of big round eyes, an inch or two from my own. “What is it, Chuy? Is something wrong?”

  “That man is here. He wants to talk to you.”

  Suddenly I was wide awake. “Man? What man?” I sat up in bed.

  “The really big one. You know, your boyfriend.”

  “Do you mean Mike?”

  “Yeah. Mike.” He nodded vigorously, then turned and hightailed it out the bedroom door.

  I grabbed my jeans off the chair and pulled them on over my underpants. Decided the T-shirt I’d slept in was OK, and didn’t bother to search for my bra. Damn, it was early. Why was Mike—but then I stopped still. Dread seeped into my body. He would have news, and it wouldn’t be good.

  The front door was open. I looked out and saw Mike standing beside the garage. He was examining the hinges, testing them. He turned and looked toward the house. When our eyes met, his hands fell to his sides.

  I walked quickly toward him, but I felt as if I was moving in slow motion. “What is it?”

  “It’s Danny, Jaymie. I got a call.”

  It made no sense. I looked over at the studio. “What about Danny? He’s probably sound asleep.”

  “He’s … not in the studio, Jaymie. He went out last night. And he didn’t come home.”

  How would Mike know? But then I saw. I saw how Mike was easing me into it, easing me into a bad world I’d visited before, a hurtful place I didn’t want to be. “Say it, Mike. Just say it.”

  “Danny’s dead, Jaymie. They found him down on East Beach at dawn. He drowned.”

  Why was Mike holding me? I could stand up on my own. But then the wave toppled over me, the tsunami, for the second time.

  * * *

  “I can open the door for myself,” I said when we got to the truck.

  “Jaymie, listen to me. What’s happened isn’t your fault.”

  I glared at him till he looked away.

  “After we view the body, we’ll go by and get Gabi. We need to be quick about it,” I said after we’d driven for a few minutes. “I don’t want the police informing Alma and the kids. I have to come back and tell them myself.”

  “Take it easy. You did everything—”

  “Why does this happen!” I exploded.

  Mike pulled into the beachside parking lot and reached for me. “Jaymie, listen—”

  “Don’t,” I hissed. “Don’t try to pretend.”

  “Pretend what?”

  “Pretend I’m not responsible for Danny’s death.”

  “Responsible? You’re the one who was trying to help.”

  “Trying. Yeah, trying, I’m always fucking trying.” Tears stung my eyes like sharp little needles. “If I hadn’t tried so hard, he’d still be alive.”

  I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, opened the truck door and stepped down to the loose dry sand. Mike was beside me, matching my stride as I plodded across the beach toward the green canopy.

  Half a dozen cops and techs were clustered together. One caught sight of us and said something. All the heads turned in our direction.

  “There’s Deirdre,” I muttered.

  “I’ll deal with Deirdre. You won’t be doing anybody but her a favor if you jump on her.”

  The gaggle was still staring at us by the time we were within speaking distance. “Mike? I expected you to come on your own,” Deirdre began. “Because actually, Ms. Zarlin here—”

  “Officer Krause? I’d like to speak with you in private,” Mike said evenly.

  Yesterday, I’d have bridled at the way Deirdre now cooed and melted toward him as he walked her away. Yesterday that would have mattered. Not today.

  I turned my attention to the body sprawled on the hard damp sand.

  That’s what I wanted it to be: just a body. An object, a thing.

  But no, it was Danny. My hand flew to my mouth, too late to hold in a moan.

  Danny lay entangled in his sweatshirt. A bit of tar-encrusted seaweed was stuck to his bluish cheek, a longer piece wrapped twice around his neck. And dear God, Danny’s expression: his eyes were open wide, staring up at the sky, and his face was frozen in a grimace of horror and shock.

  I promised myself, right then and there, I’d make certain Alma didn’t see her son before the undertaker had done his job.

  I knelt down beside him and reached for his free left hand.

  “Don’t touch,” one of Deirdre’s henchmen barked.

  I ignored him. I had to make contact, to warm Danny with my own flesh and blood. To pull him back to me, to his family, to the world of the living.

  “Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?” A rough hand grabbed my shoulder.

  Do your job, I ordered myself. You have only a few minutes here. Before Deirdre returns, observe everything you can.

  “OK, OK.” I released Danny’s hand.

  It was clear he’d struggled mightily against death. The zippered sweatshirt bound his arms and torso like a straitjacket. There were no visible marks on his neck, though the seaweed could be obscuring something. And … my attention returned to his hand.

  I bent close to examine Danny’s fingernails.

  “All right, lady, that’s it.”

  Another swift look, and I got to my feet. I’d seen all I needed to see.

  “This is the body of Daniel Armenta,” I stated. “He lived with me, and I’m making the official identification. For your information, he didn’t commit suicide. Danny was murdered.”

  I looked out over the channel, where the water glimmered like crushed foil under a mother-of-pearl sky.

  The ocean had flung Danny’s body up on the beach at high tide, then retreated. As if Mother Nature wanted we humans to witness just what we could do, to one of our own.

  * * *

  Mike switched on the big throaty engine. “We’re headed over to the Westside. I phoned Gabi, and she’s waiting for us.” He turned to study me, one hand on the wheel. “They’re saying it was suicide, Jaymie. But I just heard you call it murder.”

  “Right.” I stared out the window. A group of kids were seated at a picnic table on the edge of the beach parking lot, sharing a before-school joint. “Danny didn’t jump off the wharf, Mike. He was shoved.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He fought like hell against death. There are splinters under his fingernails, and a bruise on the back of his hand. Forensics will be able to compare the wood splinters with the timbers on the pier. Danny must have grabbed the edge as he went over and held on for dear life. But the crush of a boot or a shoe forced him to let go.”

  “Christ. What else did you see?”

  “The jacket, Mike. Danny struggled. He fought so hard in the water he literally tied himself up in knots.” My own voice sounded hollow, robot-like.

  “OK. But something doesn’t add up.” Mike backed the truck out of the lot. “If it wasn’t suicide and he was pushed, why didn’t he swim to shore? It seems like he could have made it, from the end of the wharf to the beach. Most kids in Santa Barbara know how to swim.”

  Abruptly I was sick of it all, sick to death. Danny, his blank glazed-over eyes staring skyward … “Mike, pull over.”

  I opened the truck door and leaned out, retching into the street. I’d had n
o breakfast, and nothing but a strand of sour spit dribbled from my mouth.

  Mike offered me a bandana. “Here. It’s clean.” I shut the door and took it, wiping my mouth and chin.

  “Well, not anymore,” he tried to joke.

  “I’ll answer your question. Then I don’t want to talk about it. I’m done.”

  “Sure.” Mike lifted my hair off my sweaty forehead, as if I were a little kid.

  “I’m pretty sure the coroner will find that Danny struggled and then drowned, with hypothermia being a contributing factor.”

  “This isn’t San Francisco Bay, Jaymie, and Danny was young. It’s cold, but people swim that distance all the time without wet suits.”

  “Yes, and how many of them are on an antipsychotic medication? Danny’s meds could have lowered his core body temperature. What do you want to bet Danny’s killer counted on that?”

  * * *

  The three of us sat packed together in the pickup. Nobody said much. Gabi, on my right, seemed shocked into silence.

  Mike slowed the truck to a crawl as we turned up my drive. How I dreaded what was to come: we were bearing the worst sort of news.

  Chuy’s pert face appeared in the window, then disappeared. A moment later, he banged open the door and hurtled down the steps in his red and blue superhero pajamas. “Hi!” he yelled. “Mom’s making pancakes!”

  “How do I tell them?” Gabi’s voice cracked. “What do I say?”

  “We’ll do it together,” I replied.

  The three of us climbed out. Mike picked up Chuy and gripped him in a bear hug, put him down gently, and turned away. “Damn…” He seemed about to break into tears.

  “Mike, can you stay out here with Chuy for a little while? Gabi and I will go in.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll pretend-drive the truck.” Mike gripped my shoulder. “Good luck.”

  Inside, Aricela sat at the small kitchen table. Her spelling homework was spread out on the yellow Formica top. It struck me I’d never seen such a sunny, unclouded smile as hers at that moment.

  Alma turned from the stove. “You’re both just in time for—” She stopped and searched our faces. “What—what—is it Danny?”

  When I nodded, her face crumpled, and the spatula clattered to the floor.

  * * *

  One week later, Alma, Aricela, and Chuy departed for Mexico.

  “I must take my children home. Santa Barbara has some very bad people, evil ones,” Alma muttered to me at the bus station.

  “I know we’ve talked about this,” I pleaded. “But I have to ask you again. Don’t you think you’d be better off staying here?”

  “What, for money, do you mean? Better clothes for the kids?” Alma shrugged heavily. “That doesn’t matter to me anymore. I have to go home, take my children back to where I was born.”

  The coroner had refused to release Danny’s body. I’d promised Alma I’d take possession of the remains when the time came, and ship them on to Michoacán for burial. Thank God, Alma didn’t seem to blame me for Danny’s death. But it didn’t matter: I knew.

  I knelt down to talk to Chuy and Aricela. “I loved having you live with me. When you come back, please stay with me again, OK?” I stroked Aricela’s satin-smooth cheek and gave Chuy a high five. I wanted to say something about Danny, but my throat swelled.

  It was quiet Aricela who found words. “Jaymie? Danny told Mom he wanted to stay at your place forever. He really liked you, I know that for sure.”

  But Alma had the last word as she boarded the bus. “You know what the gangs have always called it? Santa Bruta. I think that is this city’s true name.”

  * * *

  The house was an empty shell now, still as a grave. My work was little more than a cruel charade, of no use or good to anyone. It was time to move on.

  “Jaymie Zarlin! How are you, sweetie? Honestly, it’s been what—nearly three years since I sold you that cute little bungalow?” Tiffany Tang’s voice hadn’t changed a dot, and neither had she. “I was so surprised to get your message. Ready for an upgrade, are we?”

  “Not exactly, Tiff. Actually, I’m leaving town.”

  “You are? But where to, sweetie? Where could you possibly want to go after living here?”

  “I haven’t thought much about it. New Mexico, maybe.”

  “New Mexico? Isn’t that a little far inland? You shock me, sweetie. I always say we cling to our cliffs like barnacles here, they have to pry us off with crowbars.” Tiff was quiet for an unusually long moment. “Oh, I get it,” she said at last. “You’ve met a man. Congratulations!”

  “No.” I stared out the window at Santa Cruz Island, wrapped in its misty white scarf. “It’s not because of a guy.”

  “Are you sure? Because nobody leaves town unless it’s for love. Or because they’re broke, of course. But if you’re broke, just do what most people do. Take in lodgers. You could move into the studio, couldn’t you? Why, with that view, a two-bedroom on the Mesa? You could get at least thirty-five hundred a month.”

  “Tiff? I just want to leave town.”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard that before.” Her voice soured. “This is paradise, sweetie.”

  “Guess I’m sick and tired of paradise.”

  “Hm. I read something in the paper. It’s this Solstice murder business, am I right? Rough patch for you, sweetie. Tell you what. We’ll sell that bungalow of yours and you’ll be so impressed with the money, you’ll decide to turn around and buy—let’s see—how about a cute little condo? No upkeep, Jaymie. I’ve got a great one over on—”

  “Tiff? No thanks.”

  “OK, sweetie. OK. I’ll do some comps, we’ll talk. When do you want the sign to go up?”

  “Yesterday,” I replied.

  * * *

  Mike saw the sign at the base of the hill and slammed on the brakes. 12 EL BALCÓN, FOR SALE. An über-confident Tiffany Tang, purveyor of fine properties on the American Riviera, beamed forth in vibrant color. Through some trick of printing, she tracked Mike with her gaze as he committed a U-turn and barreled up the steep drive.

  The sagging garage door was open all the way, revealing an empty space. No El Camino, so Jaymie was out. Still, he drove on and parked in front of the house.

  Mike lowered his window and switched off the engine. He could hear the bark of a sea lion, probably coming from some unattended boat anchored in the marina.

  An uneasy feeling crept over him as he studied the house. The curtains were pulled across the windows, although it wasn’t yet dark. Had Jaymie jumped ship?

  He pulled out his phone and punched in her number. No reply. A mechanical voice said, The mailbox is full.

  “Fuck!” Abruptly, Mike felt punched in the gut. He shoved open the door and got out.

  He stood still for a moment and listened to the wind whistling through the big flat-topped Torrey pine behind the garage. “Girl, don’t you even think about running out on me,” he muttered as he crossed the gravel drive.

  When he pounded on the door, the grasshoppers fell still. He stalked around the corner of the house, ignoring the 270-degree view. The window off the kitchen was uncovered.

  He put his nose near the glass and peered in. To his relief, the yellow Formica table still stood under the window. And if Jaymie had left town, she hadn’t bothered to clean up first: the counter was stacked with dirty dishes.

  Mike felt relief for about one minute. Then a fresh wave of worry washed over him. Had something happened, something bad? He rapped hard on the kitchen window and shouted her name. “Jaymie! Jaymie, are you in there?” The silence scared him.

  In three strides, he was at the kitchen door. It was locked, but the old sun-and-salt-beaten wood was weak. He put his shoulder into it, and the door burst into pick-up sticks.

  Mike half fell to the floor, regained his feet, and slammed through the rooms. The house was dead empty.

  He returned to Jaymie’s bedroom and stood beside her unmade bed. Blankets were thrown back, and clo
thes were scattered around on the floor.

  Mike bent down and picked up a T-shirt he recognized. He pressed the dark blue fabric to his nose and mouth and breathed in. The fragrance of her, faint but unmistakable, only heightened his dread. Please, let her be OK.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  He spun around. Jaymie stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days, but a very self-possessed expression filled her eyes.

  “I thought you were—I—” He dropped the incriminating garment to the floor.

  “Let me guess. You thought I was missing, so you decided to sniff my shirt. What, you planned to track my scent?”

  “Uh—I—” He couldn’t think of one reasonable thing to say.

  “Yes?”

  “I was praying, I guess.” His throat choked. “Praying you were OK.”

  * * *

  “Everything I touch turns to shit.” I tipped back the amber bottle and let the last drip of beer trickle down my throat. “Can you take Dexter for a while, Mike? He’ll be ready to leave the vet’s in a day or so. I’m just not up to taking care of him.”

  “You’re giving away your dog? Jesus, Jaymie. That’s what suicidal people do.”

  “I’m not suicidal, and I’m not giving Dex away. I just—I think he might be safer with you for now.”

  “As far as that goes, I think you’re right.” The old aluminum lawn chair squeaked as Mike shifted his weight.

  “Anyway, it’s time for me to move on. Paradise just isn’t for me.” I cradled the empty in my hands.

  “Paradise—the American Riviera—that’s chamber of commerce crap, and you know it. The whole world is limbo, and this town’s no different. Stuck somewhere between heaven and hell.”

  “Tiffany Tang wouldn’t agree. You should read her copy: a little chunk of paradise fell to earth at 12 El Balcón.”

  “It’s what we make of it, I suppose.” Mike leaned forward. “Jaymie? What can I do to help? Besides cinching up your bootstraps for you, that is.”

  I ignored his jibe. “Do? Nothing. No, wait a minute.…” I worked at peeling the label off the empty. “There is something. It’s not for me, it’s for the case.”