Blood Orange

by Karen Keskinen

“Oh, let me tell you.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “The first two doctors said nothing could be done. But I took him—the whole family, actually—down to UCLA. And they told a different story. They won’t be able to completely remove it, but it will be better, so much better that people will just ignore it.”

  My throat tightened. “This will change Beto’s life. He’ll be able to go to school and have friends.…”

  “Yes. It’s going to be entirely worth it. And it will be safe: he’ll have one of the best cosmetic surgeons in the world.”

  “I told my assistant I was coming here to eat humble pie. I didn’t know how true that was.” I met her gaze. “Sorry for my rush to judgment.”

  “It’s easy to accept your apology, Jaymie. Because if it hadn’t been for you and your work…” Darlene laughed. “Let me put it this way: if it weren’t for you, I’d still have perfect hair. I never seem to have time anymore for the stylist.”

  She patted my arm. “Let’s go inside. I do have something to tell you, something connected to the murder case. It won’t be easy to say, and I don’t want one of these pint-sized tornadoes interrupting us.”

  * * *

  “What a wonderful bedroom, Darlene. A separate apartment, really.” I looked about me, admiring the peach walls and warm cherry cabinets. Lime-green and rose-colored protea flowers drank from a crystal vase, and beside the arrangement, a heap of glowing lemons filled a matching crystal bowl. In the far corner, a bevy of bright tropical fishes darted about in a large cylinder-shaped saltwater fish tank.

  “I created this little world for myself when my husband was alive. Frederick was … intrusive, shall we say. I put a lock on the door, and at night I used it.” She motioned for me to sit in a turquoise club chair and settled herself on a matching love seat draped with a bright paisley shawl.

  “Well. I hope you understand what I’m going to tell you. You seem like such a strong person, Jaymie. I don’t suppose you’d let anyone take advantage of you.”

  “Maybe it’s that way now. But when I was a kid, it was different.”

  “I know what you mean. Somewhere along the line, I made myself tough too. I had to. But you pay a price for toughness.” She laughed a little. “Do you remember the story of the children who brought springtime to the giant’s garden? I believe it was written by Oscar Wilde.”

  “Sure.” I smiled. “Kids will do that to you if you let them.”

  “Yes, they certainly will. Beto and his sister have changed me.” Darlene folded her hands and studied them. “It’s not easy for me to tell you this. I’ll say it, and then if you don’t mind I’ll go outside and get Beto. Sylvia will be here soon, and I want to fix them their afternoon snacks.”

  “You’re babysitting the kids?”

  “While their mother’s at work.” She drew the bright shawl over her lap. “You know, for twenty-five years, I’ve carried this inside me. I haven’t spoken of it ever, to anyone. I’m not even sure how to begin.”

  “You’ve already made a good start.”

  “Yes, maybe I have. Well, here it is: in 1983, I was chosen to be Daphne.”

  The room grew suddenly still. I could hear Beto through the open window, singing a song out in the garden. “I didn’t know.”

  “Yes. And when I walked into your office that day and saw the photos on your wall.… It all flooded back to me, all the anger and shame.” Darlene balled her hands into fists. “I won’t stop now. I owe myself that!” She threw back the shawl and got to her feet.

  “I grew up in a poor family. My father was an alcoholic. My mother barely existed, caught in a cycle of abuse. All I ever wanted was to leave King City and get away from my family. And I did make it down here to Santa Barbara. I got a job as a maid at the Biltmore, and started my first semester at City College. I planned to become a beautician.” She walked to the window.

  “Oh dear. I see Beto has pulled the beekeepers’ hat off his head. Maybe I should go out and—no. What I should do is finish this, once and for all.” She turned and faced me.

  “Have you noticed that Daphne is often poor and alone, as I was, or from a single-parent family? So there are no repercussions if—” She let the half-uttered thought hang in the air.

  Nearly a full minute passed before Darlene completed her sentence: “If she is raped.”

  “Christ!”

  “Oh, I’m not saying there’s a conspiracy or anything.” She shrugged. “I’m sure most of the Daphnes go their merry ways. But the opportunity is there, isn’t it? Opportunity, power and entitlement, and a sick sort of tradition. And every once in a while, some twisted bastard decides to act on it.”

  Oh, Lili, I thought. Lili … “Why don’t the victims go to the police? Are they afraid?”

  “Certainly. In my case, the threats were veiled, yet made clear enough. Besides, the girls would get nowhere with the police, believe me. But you know, there’s something else.” She made a face of disgust. “Something that still makes me ashamed.”

  “You’ve no reason to be ashamed, Darlene. None at all. And I think I know what you’re about to say.”

  “I’m sure you do. After the crime is committed, the victim is somehow rewarded. With money, or a scholarship, or, in my case, with a wealthy suitor. So the girl finds herself trapped in a double bind: she’ll receive a great deal if she keeps silent, and she’ll be punished if she talks.”

  “Who committed the crime against you?”

  “Samuel McDermott.” She laughed harshly. “Good God, the man was a zombie. I thought he’d never pass on. I seemed to run into the old half-dead bastard everywhere I went. And he always enjoyed reminding me of ‘our little secret.’”

  She curled back into her love seat. In the softly filtered light, Darlene Richter looked like the vulnerable girl she’d once been.

  “Thank you for talking to me about this. I’m so mad at myself for not listening to you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jaymie. I wish I could have been more help.”

  “Darlene, listen to me. You’ve given me a key to the lock.” I got to my feet. It was time to go.

  * * *

  A no-papers Mexican girl with a dead father—Lili would have appeared to be the perfect rape victim, I thought as I piloted the barge through the downtown streets on the way to the office. But in fact, Lili wasn’t as vulnerable as the rapist had thought. For one thing, the Molinas were on track to become citizens, thanks to Teresa’s engagement. With Lili, a threat of deportation wouldn’t have worked, and she wouldn’t have wanted anything the killer could offer her. But more than that: Lili Molina was brave.

  Maybe Lili had said something the rapist didn’t like. Maybe she’d infuriated him by simply saying no.

  * * *

  The moment I stepped into the office, a tornado engulfed me.

  “Miss Jaymie! She says you called her. She says you told her to come over and poke around in the computer. But I said”—and Gabi’s eyes flashed me a warning—“I said, no boss would do that without telling her PA first.”

  “Hey!” Claudia popped up like a jack-in-the-box in the kitchenette doorway. “You’re lucky I waited. I don’t put up with this kinda shit. I—”

  I raised my hands in the air. “Stop. For the love of God, both of you stop.”

  To my amazement, they fell silent. For the moment, I held back the twin walls of roiling water. “You two listen to me. We have to pull together. We’re in the home stretch.” I turned to Gabi. “This girl, pain in the ass though she is, has lost her only sister.”

  Gabi blanched. “Oh. Oh, I know that, and—I’m sorry, mija.”

  I looked over at Claudia and saw she was listening, at least. “Claudia, let me tell you something about Gabi. She’s lost her nephew. And Danny is still accused of a murder he didn’t commit. By the way, Gabi offered to work for me for no money if I’d help him. So see?” I looked from one to the other. “We’re all on the same side.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Gabi rushed ove
r to Claudia and wrapped her in a hug. For a moment Claudia was stiff as a board, but then she hugged Gabi back.

  I sat down in the hot seat and waited for the hugs to subside.

  “Thanks, Jefa. We both needed that.” Gabi returned to her driver’s seat, and Claudia perched on the corner of the desk.

  “Claudia, before you get started, fill Gabi in. Do you understand your assignment?”

  “Yeah, course I do. When do you need it by?”

  “Yesterday. So if you have to bring a sleeping bag here, do it. This may take time.”

  “I’ll keep her company,” Gabi volunteered. “I got two fold-out pads I can bring over. What else can I do?”

  “Keep Claudia fed. Pizza should do it. And keep your phone on, 24/7, in case I need help.”

  “If it’s dangerous,” Claudia piped up. “You need me along.”

  “Me too,” Gabi added, though she sounded a little less sure.

  “Thanks. But right now, I need both of you here.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Charlie, you’ll have to forgive me, no horehounds today. Too distracted, I guess.”

  “Course I forgive you. What’s on your mind?”

  “The murders. Let’s face it, I’m a rank amateur. I’ve cracked open Pandora’s box, and now I don’t know what to do next.”

  “Slow down, Jaymie. Cuppa joe?”

  “No thanks, Charlie. Not today. Here’s how it is: I think I know who killed Lili and Danny.”

  “Good for you.” The curtain swayed. “How’d you figure it out?”

  “A dash of intuition, and help from my friends. But if I told the authorities I’d solved the case based on intuition and chats with my buds, I’d get laughed right out of town.” I dropped my head into my hands. “What do I do now?”

  “You already know the answer to that one.”

  I felt like I deserved a dunce hat. “I have to … find evidence?”

  “Yep. You gotta go out and rustle it up. Got any good evidence in mind?”

  “Uh, well—” At that moment, a spark leaped a gaping synapse in my brain, and—at long last—the lights flashed on. “As a matter of fact, it so happens I do.”

  Evidence. Lili’s medallion. Hadn’t I known it from the beginning? When I found the Virgen de Guadalupe, I’d find the killer, too. Thing was, I’d gotten it the wrong way around: I knew the murderer’s identity but hadn’t yet found the medallion. And I needed it. I needed that proof.

  I hadn’t discovered its hiding place yet … but I could make a damn good guess.

  * * *

  “You just don’t go away, do you?” Cynthia Wiederkehr stood before one of the narrow tank room windows, smoking. Several squashed butts lay at her feet. She glanced sideways at me as I entered, then returned her gaze to the window.

  “Hi, Cynthia.” I pulled the door shut behind me. “I thought you hated cigarette smoke.”

  “Oh, I do. With all the hatred of a recovering addict.” Cynthia was dressed as classically as always. But everything about her looked rumpled and out of focus, as if she’d been picked up and savagely shaken.

  “Explain something to me, Ms. Zarlin. Why did I agree to meet you today?” She dropped the cigarette to the rough unfinished timbers, and ground it out with the toe of her polished pump. “Masochism, I suppose.”

  “I doubt that. You’re a smart woman, and my guess is you’re trying to piece the puzzle together. You want to know the whole truth.”

  “The truth?” Her laugh was a whinny. “What truth is that? The truth that my daughter’s having an affair with an older man, and I knew nothing about it? The truth that my husband’s a fag—smitten with some bleach-haired bimbo of a boy?” She half turned to glare at me. “Thanks to you, I already know about as much of the truth as I can stomach.”

  “I’m not interested in your husband’s sex life.” I softened my voice as best I could. “I’m interested in identifying a killer. And as it happens, all the suspects on my short list used you and your party as an alibi.”

  “You call yourself a detective?” She cast a look of scorn on me. “If you want to find the killer, look at Jared Crowley. Actually, I was wrong just now when I called him a bimbo. Crowley is sharp, a con artist. Hardly the choirboy he appears.”

  “I know plenty about Jared. He looks guilty, all right—because he was so expertly set up.”

  I watched Cynthia as she circled the room. She was hurt, but something more was going on. She seemed almost afraid.

  She halted in front of me. “Look, I know you want something from me. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Say it and go.”

  “I want you to show me Sarah’s jewelry box.”

  Cynthia paled and her mouth fell open. “Sarah’s—but why—” A dull dark tide of blood crept up her neck. “No. I will not let you get your dirty hands on my daughter. That’s where I draw the line. You won’t drag Sarah into this!”

  If there’s one emotion you need to treat with respect, it’s the passion of a mother protecting her young. I’d have to find a way to turn Cynthia’s fury to my advantage, or cease and desist.

  “Cynthia, I’m not accusing Sarah of anything. The opposite, actually. I suspect your daughter was used to hide evidence without her knowledge. You’ll be helping her if you let me look at her jewelry.”

  “But who—” Then she gasped. “How dare he! How dare Bruce use his own child—” She stuck a pointed finger in my face. “You. Come with me.”

  * * *

  Sarah’s room was oddly juvenile. All yellow and pink, decorated with fanciful butterflies and birds. A big canopied bed, swathed in acres of blush-colored netting, stood at the center.

  “We haven’t got long.” Cynthia closed the door behind us. “Sarah’s taking a summer school class, and she gets out in ten minutes. She’ll come straight home to change.”

  I watched as Cynthia went to the nightstand, opened the middle drawer, and removed a miniature key. “She keeps her jewelry chest locked, of course. To avoid tempting the maids.”

  I gritted my teeth. Eyes on the prize, I reminded myself. Eyes on the prize.

  The mint-green jewelry box sat on a long dresser. I stood beside Cynthia as she opened the leather box with the tiny key and lifted the lid. A melancholy ballerina twirled to a twangy waltz.

  “I don’t see anything unusual in here.” Cynthia stirred the jumble with a finger. It was all fine jewelry: I saw three or four diamond tennis bracelets, an emerald set in a platinum ring, a sapphire and diamond pendant, and warm glowing pearls.

  “Do you want to take a closer look, or are you satisfied now?” Cynthia was obviously relieved.

  Satisfied? I was disappointed: so much for my vaunted intuition. “Sarah doesn’t keep her valuables anywhere else, does she?” Actually, I doubted it. What I’d just seen was a king’s ransom. Surely there wouldn’t be more?

  “The really valuable pieces are in a vault downtown. Her everyday earrings are on a stand in her bathroom, but other than that—oh. Sarah does have a miniature treasure chest. She used it when she was little—I doubt she’s opened it in ages.” Cynthia closed and locked the jewelry box, and carefully replaced the key in the nightstand drawer.

  “Listen. After I show you the treasure chest, you’ll have to go.” She opened a door leading into a large walk-in closet and switched on a light.

  “I’ll have to speak with Lupe,” Cynthia muttered. “It doesn’t look as if she’s cleaned in here for some time.”

  I followed her into the long narrow space. Clothes were wedged into tightly packed racks, and a jumble of shoes littered the floor. The closet was filled with the smell of Sarah: a brash perfume covering the fuggy odor of sweats.

  “How funny. I thought I’d have to rummage for it, but here it is, right out on this shelf.” Cynthia raised the lid of the carved wooden box, and paused.

  “Where on earth did she get this?”

  In a flash I stood beside Cynthia. And there it was, nestled in a child’s collection of tr
inkets: a gold medallion on a gold chain. I leaned closer: the medallion was etched with the image of La Virgen de Guadalupe.

  “This medallion belonged to Lili Molina. She wore it night and day.” I took it into my hand. “Look: you can see where the chain has been repaired.”

  “Bruce—how could he. How could he!” Raw fury sprang up in Cynthia’s eyes, and she let out a thin scream.

  Quickly, before the situation could deteriorate further, I turned back to the box. I nudged aside sparkly rocks and old pennies, objects a young and innocent girl had collected. A moment later, a chill ran through me like a surgical knife.

  There, at the bottom of the treasure box, lay three more pieces of jewelry. I picked up each item in turn. A gold engraved cross. A cheap expansion bracelet, chrome with rhinestones. And a tarnished silver necklace, finely wrought, of interlocking x’s and o’s. I cradled all four items in the palm of my hand and met Cynthia Wiederkehr’s stricken gaze.

  “I don’t recognize any of those things,” Cynthia moaned. “I’m done with that man, done!”

  “Cynthia,” I began. “There’s something I should tell—”

  “Those were gifts to me,” Sarah Wiederkehr said icily from the closet doorway. “To me from my boyfriend, do you hear? Put them back. And get out of my room this instant, both of you hags!”

  “Sarah! I don’t understand. What—”

  “I’m so sick of you, Mom. You still pretend I’m a little girl, and you know perfectly well I’m not!”

  I was trapped in a closet between a livid mother and her enraged teenage daughter. Before the Molotov cocktail exploded, I needed to get the hell out. “Excuse me, Sarah. I need to go.”

  “Not with my stuff you don’t.” She moved to block me. The golfer needed a lesson, and I forced her aside with a sharp elbow in the ribs.

  “Hey, that hurt! And you’re stealing!”

  I stared her down. “You aren’t hurt and I’m not stealing. I have four objects here I’m turning in to the police as evidence in the murder of Lili Molina. If you cooperate, I’ll say the killer asked you to keep these for him. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll tell the full truth.”