Cliff Hanger

by Mary Feliz

  “What was that?” asked Nell. “Were they butchering animals? What would cause a stink like that? I searched for a dead body. Why haven’t the neighbors complained?”

  Nell’s questions were the same as mine had been. I could only speculate. In the meantime, I dialed Renée and had started to leave a message when my phone rang. I accepted the call from a breathless Renée, with the sounds of happy kids in the background. “Sorry, Maggie, we were outside. These babies bounced back fast. You’d never know they’d been up vomiting all night. What’s up?”

  I took a deep breath. “I hope you budgeted for a hazardous material cleaning service for this apartment,” I said. “It’s way beyond anything that I’m willing to handle. Your staff shouldn’t try either. It’s a definite biohazard, and you’ll need a qualified expert to tackle it as soon as possible. I can’t believe the neighbors haven’t complained. Nell and I lasted only a few moments without rebreathers.”

  “It’s really that bad?”

  “Nell assumed it was a crime scene. So did I when I first saw it.”

  “No way,” Renée said. “Mrs. Nesbitt? She’d never—” I heard strange sounds from the other end of the phone. “No, Aiden. It’s not a teething toy. Here.”

  Renée began again. “Mrs. Nesbitt fell and broke her hip. After a stint in the hospital, her daughter Barbara helped her move into rehab. The plan is for her to go to an assisted living facility in Soquel. Cute place. Great staff. Barbara told me she was waiting for her brother to help her move Mrs. Nesbitt’s furniture, and then they were going to put the unit on the market.”

  “At this point, they’ll need to gut it. It’s a mess.”

  “Seriously?” Renée paused. “I guess time got away from us. But come to think of it, Mrs. Nesbitt’s fall was back before Christmas. Yikes! It’s been nearly six months. I’ve been so busy with the new job. I should have sent a cleaning crew in there long ago to empty out the fridge and garbage.”

  “I think the power is off, so any food is long since rotted. Mrs. Nesbitt must have been preparing a meal when she fell because there were moldy green items on the floor and the counter.”

  “Gross!” Renée said. Now that she was finally beginning to grasp what I’d been trying to report about the condition of the apartment, I shifted gears. “Could the former resident have been involved in drug smuggling?”

  “Mrs. Nesbitt? Never.”

  “There are cartons of plastic-wrapped white packages stacked in the living room.”

  I’d expected shock or disbelief, but Renée snorted once, twice, and followed up with gales of laughter. Her delight was confounding but also contagious, and I smiled without wanting to. “What’s so funny?”

  “Mrs. Nesbitt had a cottage industry in her unit, but it wasn’t drugs.” Renée snorted again. “Sorry, I can’t help it. Mrs. Nesbitt and drugs. That’s priceless. She was recycling. An eco-warrior.”

  “Those bags don’t look like any eco project I’ve ever seen.”

  “Kapok.”

  “Kapok?”

  “You know, the stuffing from those old bright orange life jackets we all wore when we were little. They don’t use it much anymore, but it’s a natural, sustainable product, and there’s a guy in Southern California who is mixing it with rayon remnants from the fashion industry to make those floating berms for oil spills. Recycling material to clean up the ocean. Genius.”

  I thought of the pile of orange canvas and fingered the swatch in my pocket. “There’s a market for that?” I asked.

  “Not much, but Mrs. Nesbitt felt like she was doing some good.”

  “Where’d she get the old lifejackets?”

  “I’m not sure. Someone sent her a box or two a month, and everyone who lives here year-round and walks the beach knew about her project. If we found one washed up on the sand, we’d wash it off and drop it in front of her door.”

  I smiled at the quaint and hopeful neighborliness of the story Renée was spinning, but I wondered how much of it was true. Was kapok really used for oil spills? Was there truly a market for mildewed material that had been soaking up seawater for months or years? Or was Renée covering up a drug trade that thrived in this quiet community out of the reach of the sheriff’s routine patrols? I needed more details.

  “So she removed the orange covers and all the straps and buckles and saved the kapok pouches,” I said. “How did she get the plastic packets to her buyer? I didn’t see any mailing materials other than the cardboard cartons. It sounds as though she was essentially housebound before her fall.”

  “I’m not sure of the details, but some young kid from town, maybe her grandson, did her grocery shopping every week or so. He brought cartons of lifejackets, too, and took away the kapok pouches. I think he drove a silver pick-up. Or maybe it was covered with primer paint. I never paid much attention. Vik might know, since he had to let the kid in through the gate.”

  I wondered if Grandson Nesbitt was the youth I’d seen in the parking lot, but I waited to ask until we’d tested the contents of the packages. If Renée was naïve enough to believe her far-fetched story, I didn’t want to shatter her innocence, nor her adoration of the great icon of green living, Mrs. Nesbitt.

  “Wow, that sounds like a nifty set-up,” I said, cringing when I heard the false note in my voice. I doubted I was fooling anyone. Nell rolled her eyes. “But as homey as that sounds, her apartment is no longer cozy and safe. It’s a biohazard that needs immediate cleaning before it attracts rodents and other pests I don’t want to even think about.” Nell crinkled her nose, but I heard nothing from the other end of the phone.

  “Renée? Are you there? This is serious. It’s becoming a public health issue. A liability problem for the association. If you deal with it now, I can avoid calling the health department.”

  “You’d rat me out? You’re supposed to be working for me.” Renée sounded angry, hurt, and scared. But it couldn’t be helped. My professional ethics and my insurance policy dictated that I promptly report dangers to public health and safety.

  “Let’s take care of the problem so I won’t need to bother the authorities,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was nearly time for Stephen and Max to arrive, and I’d promised I’d be dogging the footsteps of my offspring. “Renée? I’ve got to go. Do you want to call a hazmat team or do you want me to? I don’t have any contacts in the area, but I can look into it. Police departments usually have lists of services that are licensed for this type of activity. I can call Sheriff Nate.”

  “No, no. I’m about to feed the kids their lunch. After that, they’ll nap. I’ll have time to call. I’d like to see if I can negotiate an exclusive contract that would snag us a lower cost introductory service.”

  “Good idea,” I said, still wondering whether Renée was as squeaky clean and honest as Tess had told me she was.

  I ended the call and waved the kids in from the beach, where they seemed to have given up body surfing in favor of digging giant pits in the sand. Belle helped.

  Nell and I dashed upstairs and set the kitchen to rights while we waited for Max and Stephen. On a whim, I texted Renée with an invitation to dinner, kids and all. I wanted to see what Stephen made of Mrs. Nesbitt’s story. Thanks to his law enforcement experience with the military, and his close association with the Orchard View Police Department and its chief, Stephen Laird had a finely tuned ability to separate fact from fiction.

  The kids came up from the beach, interrupting my melodramatic train of thought. “How’d the leg encasement work?” I asked Brian, meeting him with a chair he could sit on outside to remove the sandy wrappings. David, shivering, made a bee-line for the shower.

  The sound of ripping duct tape nearly obliterated Brian’s words as he called out. “Dry as a bone,” he said. “No sand. No water. And I bet I can get out of this faster than David can get out of his wetsuit.”

  I congratulated
him and added garbage bags and duct tape to my grocery list. Brian hopped inside, stashed a ball of plastic and tape in the garbage, and collapsed on the sofa. I pulled the bag of white material from my pocket and plopped it on the counter, but then immediately lifted it off, fearing whatever contaminants might have adhered to its service.

  Nell ripped a length of paper towels from the roll on the counter and used them to pick up the plastic-wrapped package. “I’ll take it back to my condo,” she said. “We need to get it tested.”

  “Does Forrest have a lab he uses? One whose results will stand up in court? I don’t know who we can trust down here. If a little old lady is part of a long-standing drug ring, who else is involved? Renée seems to have at least been aware of the comings and goings of Mrs. Nesbitt’s operation, and the sheriff and ranger could be in on it too.”

  “I’ll get a messenger from the lab Forrest uses down here tonight,” Nell said, opening the front door and preparing to leave. “There’s no secure chain of evidence here, but if we find something, no doubt the other packets in the condo could be tested.”

  Before she closed the door, she poked her head back inside. “I think after handling this I should take a shower before I come back down here for lunch if that’s okay? Do I have time?”

  I nodded. But just as the door closed behind Nell, she opened it again. “If you suspect Renée, why did you invite her for dinner?”

  “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” I said, realizing I wasn’t sure Renée belonged to either group. She was my client. “Whoa. That sounded way more dramatic than I intended. The truth is, I don’t really suspect Renée. My friend Tess put me in touch with her, and I trust Tess’s judgment but…”

  “But?”

  “I still want those packages tested for drugs. I want to get to the bottom of this, for my own peace of mind and the safety of my family.”

  Chapter 22

  Assigned seats in the car may forestall arguments over who sits where. Hanging a storage organizer with each child’s toys, activities, and snacks nearby may help establish ownership over each kids’ territory.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Saturday, June 22, Lunchtime

  Max and Stephen arrived with Stephen’s elusive friend Rocket, whom I spotted in my peripheral vision as he moved silently, like a shadow, past our apartment to the one next door that I’d rented for our security team. Stephen didn’t bother to explain. I suspected Rocket would do a quick reconnaissance tour of the area and then grab some rest to prepare for a sleepless night spent assuring our safety.

  “Any trouble getting Munchkin through the gate or the rental agency?” I asked, rubbing the soft ears of the giant mastiff.

  Stephen smiled. “Rocket glared at the desk clerk, who hastened to tell us that you’d explained Munchkin was a service dog and retired marine. She thanked him for his service, handed him a biscuit, and then discreetly removed dog slobber from her hands with a tissue.” Munchkin was a quiet, dignified gentleman, but he left a trail of slobber wherever he’d been. Snails would be envious. It was his superpower.

  “Any more threatening texts?” asked Stephen.

  I handed over my phone, saying, “Not yet, anyway. Maybe he had a wrong number?”

  Stephen clicked and scrolled. “I’m looking to see if there’s any clue to his identity, but I’m going to have to get someone more techie to take a look.”

  “Want to help us dig more sand pits on the beach after lunch?” Brian asked, knocking back a pain pill that was well earned, seeing as how he’d just completed his most active morning since his injury. “We were going to dig pits for fires for marshmallows, but we got a little carried away. We’re thinking they’ll be great for spying on pirates or smugglers.”

  “Seriously or pretend?” asked Stephen.

  Brian and David looked at each other, then back at Stephen and shrugged.

  Stephen glanced at Max and I before replying. “Rocket’s getting the lay of the land right now. We’ll confer. If we think you’ll be safe, then it’s up to your mom and dad whether they want to let you watch for bad guys tonight from the safety of your bunkers.”

  The boys could have sustained whiplash from the speed with which they swiveled their heads. “Puh-leese,” Brian said.

  “We’ll see,” I said, even knowing they were among the most annoying words parents could use in response to their offspring’s requests. “But there’s no reason you can’t make those pits bigger and deeper while we decide.” They disappeared to refashion the duct-tape and garbage bag protection for Brian’s leg before heading out again to the beach. With any luck, and with all the fresh air and exercise they were getting, they’d be safely asleep before any smugglers arrived on the beach.

  Max picked up his backpack from the floor near the door and brought it to the table. He pulled out a paper bag and placed it in front of him with a metallic clunk.

  “The chunk of metal David found?” I asked. “Did Howard finish his report?”

  Max nodded. “He thinks it’s part of a propeller. Says the size is right for a small ultralight with limited range. The sheriff will pick it up this afternoon.”

  “Can we trust the sheriff?” I asked.

  Max raised his eyebrows and Stephen leaned forward. “Can’t we?” Max asked.

  Nell and I filled them in on everything we’d seen and learned since I’d last spoken with Max. I told them of our growing sense of wariness. Sitting around our table in the company of friends, our anxieties seemed silly. But Max and Stephen appeared to accept them at face value.

  “Howard took a ton of pictures and measurements using a scanning electron microscope,” Max said. “We’ve got a copy of the report for the sheriff, but we also sent a copy to Jason. This piece”—he pointed to the evidence bag—“really needs to go to the NTSB, but Jason suggested that, for political and chain-of-command reasons, we let the sheriff pass it along to them.” He glanced at Stephen for confirmation.

  “Too bad we can’t make a copy of a chunk of metal, just to be safe,” Stephen said, rubbing his beard. “But Jason believes that the report, along with testimony from David about where he found the part and from Howard about his findings, will hold up in court.”

  “So you already considered what might happen if the propeller piece vanished in the sheriff’s custody,” I said. “Does he have a reputation for shady dealings?”

  “Not at all,” Stephen said. “But you know Jason. He likes to consider every eventuality.”

  I nodded. “Did Howard have any idea what happened? Does his report confirm our suspicion that someone tried to sabotage Jake’s ultralight?”

  “Yes and no,” Max said. “He said the piece of metal was tampered with in a way that might have allowed a little plane to operate properly for a short period. But with continuous pressure on the propeller blades, the tip could have bent or broken off. Any propeller that’s not balanced will cause problems for the pilot and the plane.”

  “Enough to cause a crash?” I asked. “Enough to charge someone with murder?”

  “That’s where Howard’s report gets a little fuzzy,” Max said.

  “Could he explain how David found the chunk of metal so close to the crash site?” I wasn’t completely clear on the physics of the situation, but I couldn’t figure out how a piece of the propeller could have broken off and caused a problem in flight, but still have been found so close to Jake and his downed craft.

  “Howard wrote that the sample appeared to have been tampered with by someone who expected it would fail mid-flight. He didn’t think the damaged propeller could have held up for more than a few minutes. But, he said he couldn’t say how long it took for the blade tip to completely separate from the rest of the propeller. Based on his findings, Howard said it was possible that the tip had been badly bent and
the jarring of an emergency landing or a crash could have caused it to separate completely.”

  I sighed. “That’s a relief.” Then I replayed my words and felt a need to clarify my thinking. “I mean, it was obviously dreadful for Jake, Jen, and the Petersons. But I’m glad to know there’s a way to explain how David could have found the part among the wreckage instead of somewhere along the ultralight’s flightpath.”

  The clomp of footsteps on the stairs followed by a knock at the door saved me from further explanation.

  Max answered the door. It was Sheriff Nate Sanchez, who’d apparently arrived to take possession of the evidence. Max introduced himself and invited Nate to join us at the table. I grabbed a clean mug and poured him a cup of coffee. Nell passed him cream and sugar, but he took it black.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s been a long day.”

  Stephen offered Nate a cookie from the few remaining on a plate that had been piled with treats less than a half-hour earlier. Stress and over-indulgence in carbohydrates always go together, in my experience. If the cookie plate was any indication, we were all way more anxious than was good for us.

  Max handed Nate the paper bag and started to explain its contents. Nate waved his hand in the air. “I’ve read the report. I’ll make sure this and the paperwork get to the NTSB, but I doubt it will change their findings. I’ve heard they’re expected to rule the crash an accident.”

  I wasn’t sure who the sheriff could have heard from. From Max and David’s report on their conversation with the mechanics at the Watsonville airport, NTSB reports were closely held secrets until the findings were released, months or even years after a crash occurred. Most events were deemed accidental, but it was the cause of the accidents that the federal agency hoped to uncover. Their ultimate goal was to propose evidence-based safety measures to prevent future lethal failures of our transportation systems. Was the sheriff trying to allay our fears or throw cold water on our interest in the case? Either possibility could prove to be true. And both would be within his job description. I was so used to our friends in the Orchard View Police Department sharing details of their cases with us, that I wondered if I’d imagined Sheriff Nate was hiding something when, in reality, he was just doing his job. I sighed and topped off my coffee mug, then lifted the pot to the others. Nell pushed her cup toward me. I filled it.