Blood Orange Page 10

  “That is a large check.”

  “Yes. I was glad he did it, and Teresa told me she was satisfied. So we parted friends, I’d like to think.” Maryjune looked over the garden, and fluttered a hand. “This little nook is my favorite spot.”

  “It’s lovely, Maryjune. You have an artist’s eye.”

  “Well, it’s all in grays and silvers, with shades of lilac. So many of my friends paint, you know. But I always like to say I—”

  “Paint with plants.” Lance Stellato ambled up to the bench and stood before us, blocking the sun. His face was in shadow, but I could confirm what I’d observed earlier: the kid was singularly handsome, with classic dark movie-star looks.

  “Lance? Did you want something, honey?”

  “Nope. Just keeping an eye on you, Mom.” He laughed. “When Dad’s not here, I’m the man of the house.”

  “Honestly, Lance,” Maryjune said with a small frown. “Jaymie and I are just fine.”

  “I’m sure you are, Mom. You’re fine with everybody, that’s the problem.” He shifted a little, and the sun shone in his face. He blinked, and I noticed his eyes were puffy and red. I glanced at the yellowish-brown stains on his fingertips.

  “So, lady—you’re a detective?”

  “An investigator. I’m looking into the murder of Lili Molina.”

  “I heard. How come you’re talking to my mom?”

  The question sounded casual. But I could hear anxiety in his voice, in spite of the load of cannabis he had on board. “Because your family employed Mrs. Molina. I’m just trying to get a picture of what the Molinas were like.”

  “Kinda like in a detective show, huh?”

  “Mm-hm.” I turned to Maryjune. “Tell me,” I said in an innocent tone, “did Teresa ever bring her daughters to the house?”

  “Yes, when we had parties, you know? Just the older one, Lili—the girl who died. Teresa would never ask her daughter to serve or anything like that, but she did have Lili help out in the kitchen. I don’t remember the younger girl at all, but Lili, yes. Such a sweetheart … In fact, not long before Vince let Teresa go, Lili was here.” Maryjune shielded her eyes and looked up at her son.

  “You remember her, don’t you, Lance? The sweet Hispanic girl. It was your birthday party. I think the two of you got on quite well, if I remember. You and some of the others included her, didn’t you? That was nice of you, dear. And Lili, she—”

  “Mom.” Lance scowled. “Dad wouldn’t want you talking like this.”

  “Honey, if it will help, I don’t see the harm—”

  Lance turned on me. “So who hired you, lady? I thought they already caught the greaser who did it. Armenta, wasn’t that it?”

  “You’re misinformed—Danny Armenta didn’t do it. And to answer your question, I’ve been hired by his family.”

  A surprised “Oh!” escaped from Maryjune. “Goodness, I didn’t—I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Danny Armenta didn’t commit the murder,” I repeated.

  “Then who do you think—”

  “Mom. Shut up.” Lance turned on me. “You need to go, lady. Hear me? Scat.”

  “Lance, honey, please. There’s no need to talk like that!”

  I’d have loved to settle pretty boy’s hash, but this wasn’t the time to indulge. I rose to my feet. “Thanks for talking to me, Maryjune. Just one more question. Your gardener, Enrique—does he have papers?”

  “Enrique? No. No, I don’t think he…” I watched as an uncomfortable understanding dawned on Doris Day’s face.

  Lance took a step forward. “Lady, I said fuck off.”

  * * *

  On my way back to the office, sweet serendipity blew me a kiss.

  My mind was still on the Stellatos when I turned a block too soon and found myself on a quiet Westside street off San Andres.

  I coaxed the balky El Camino into a U-turn. That was when it happened: out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of two desperadoes. One was a small boy wearing flannel pajamas and purplish face paint, and the other was a tiny brown and white dog with floppy ears.

  I knew a King Charles spaniel when I saw one. I pulled up at the curb, but before I could get out of the car, the pair had scampered off around the corner of an old wooden house.

  I jotted down the faded house number stenciled on the mailbox, then sat for a moment and observed the property. It looked like no one was home: blinds were drawn over what was most likely a living room window, and a second window was draped with a sheet. The front yard was covered in sparse grass, neatly trimmed. A row of long-spined cacti, the edible type, bloomed in dainty apricot flowers all along an old wire fence.

  I shifted the El Camino into gear and gave the house one last look—just as the blinds were parted by a small brown hand.

  * * *

  The next morning, two loud male voices filled the courtyard at 101 Mission. One, in mellifluous Spanish, promised hi-gantic savings. The other trumpeted like an infuriated football coach reaming the troops.

  My office door was wide open, and both voices boomed from my private sanctum. I drew a deep breath and climbed the steps.

  “Miss Jaymie, it’s you!” Gabi cried out. She stood ramrod straight behind the desk, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest.

  A short, rather heavyset man wearing a lime-green golf shirt turned and glared. “Hey. You’re the one,” he bellowed.

  “Don’t shout at me.” But I couldn’t even hear my own words, due to the other bombastic voice filling the background.

  “Gabi,” I mouthed, “turn off the radio.”

  Gabi edged from behind the desk, stiff-legged as a terrier ready to fight. She circled the angry man, her back to the wall, reached out to the radio, and switched it off. For a moment, the room was dead still.

  “Sweet peace.” I sighed. “Mr. Stellato?”

  The guy seemed surprised I recognized him. It took the wind out of his sails, but not for long. He puffed himself up again and blared. “Yeah. And you’re the girl detective, am I right?”

  “Jaymie Zarlin.” I smiled nicely. “Your son Lance takes after you, Mr. Stellato. What can I do for you?”

  Vince Stellato took two steps toward me, which put us pretty much forehead-to-nose. My nose to his forehead, that is. “You can start by staying off my property, understand? Off my property and the hell away from my family.”

  Vince’s orange golf cap, which read Bandon Dunes, was soaked in sweat. Large half-moons showed under his armpits. The guy was stressed. Who was he protecting—his wife, his son, or maybe himself?

  “You have the right to ask me not to return to your house, Mr. Stellato. As to my speaking with your family members, that would be up to them.”

  “They don’t wanna talk to you, get it?”

  “Maryjune seemed happy to talk. And I never asked to speak to your son. Lance approached me himself.”

  “Cut the crap. You get the message.” He took a step toward the door. Then for some reason he turned back, stuffed a hand in his trouser pocket, and jiggled change. “I just don’t get it,” he barked.

  “Get what?” I kept my voice neutral. I wasn’t sure what it would take to get Vince Stellato to open up, but being combative definitely wasn’t the answer.

  “Why d’you want to help Armenta? The little prick did it. He’s a nutcase. Even if you’re some kind of bleeding heart, do you want to put a killer back on the street?” He glowered at me. “Lili Molina was a sweetheart of a kid. Maybe you oughta think about her, huh?”

  “I’ve thought quite a bit about Lili, Mr. Stellato. But the fact is, Danny Armenta didn’t kill her, or do anything else to her. He’s innocent.”

  “How the hell do you figure…” Vince Stellato’s mouth shut tight. In the interval of silence that followed, the parrot screamed.

  “I don’t believe you,” he blurted at last. “You’re meddling, trying to drum up business or something. Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing it for the money.” He sneered into my face. “Wh
ore.”

  “That’s enough!” Gabi yelped. “My boss is not even getting paid.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, something’s in it for her. Look, I don’t give a damn.” He shoved past me and stepped through the open doorway. “Just stay away from my wife and kid. I’m warning you.”

  “Warning me?” I said quietly. “Is that some kind of a threat?”

  “You bet your sweet bootie it is.” A breeze freshened and lifted the bill of Stellato’s cap, flicking it off his head. I stifled a smile: except for a narrow rim of dark hair, the guy was totally bald.

  “To hell with you, Zarlin!” Vince Stellato hopped down the steps and raced after his cartwheeling hat.

  * * *

  Gabi held two cups of fresh coffee, one in each hand. “I was so, so happy to see you walk in that door. You’re pretty tough, I’m impressed!”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of bluff in that bully.” I glanced over at the old secondhand printer as I accepted the coffee. It was spewing out color printouts, groaning under the effort. A page wafted to the floor.

  “What’s this?” I set the mug on the desk and bent down to pick up the flyer. A soulful spaniel gazed up at me. Missing from Montecito!!! King Charles Spaniel called Minuet. Will pay reward for info leading to recovery. Guaranteed 100% confidential. Phone 987-6643, ask for Gabriela. The message was repeated in Spanish.

  “Actually, Gabi, I don’t think—”

  “Hang on, before we talk. You deserve a treat for what you just did. And guess what? Today I got your favorite, the chocolate-filled concha. Be right back.”

  While Gabi was in the kitchen, I pulled the stack of fresh paper from the printer, stopping the feed. Then I drew the client’s chair up to the desk and took a slow sip of the richly aromatic brew.

  “Here you go.” Gabi set the pastry, nestled in a pink saucer, before me. Then she glanced over at the silent printer. It flashed a yellow malevolent eye. “Huh? Something is wrong?”

  “No, I just took out the paper. The flyers look good, Gabi, but we need to hold off.”

  “What do you mean?” Gabi set down her coffee and fixed me with a keen look. “I was thinking sooner is better.”

  “There’ve been several new developments in the case. We need to reconsider our approach.”

  “Developments—you mean, like clues?” She settled herself in the desk chair. “OK, tell me.”

  “Well, here’s one. When I visited Darlene Richter, I discovered a hole sawn out at the base of her redwood fence. A few brown and white dog hairs were caught on the wood. The dognapper could have called Minuet over to the hole, then dragged or lured her through.”

  “Good work, boss. I guess it was hard to find, that hole?”

  “Sort of. It was hidden behind … hm…”

  “Behind what?”

  “Well, the hole was hidden behind some bushes. But in fact, you could see it if you just looked.”

  Silence filled the little room. Then the parrot struck up its favorite mantra: “Trust me, deadbeat. Trust me, deadbeat!”

  “Miss Jaymie, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking someone was meant to spot that hole. Maybe it was made to just look like an outside job.”

  “So it was really a inside job? The gardeners, you think?”

  “Could be.” But now it wasn’t a dognapping I was thinking of.

  I was recalling a window with chicken wire sandwiched in the glass, a window that had been pried open from the outside alley. I’d thought I was clever, discovering that. But maybe I wasn’t clever enough.

  “You said several developments,” Gabi probed. “What else?”

  “Hm? Oh. Nothing I’m sure of yet.” I’d decided not to tell her about the little boy and his pup until I knew more. Minuet wasn’t the only King Charlie in town, and I could be miles off base.

  “Even if you’re not sure, you can tell me, OK? I never—” Just then her cell erupted in a salsa. “Alma? Que? OK, OK!” Gabi leaped up from the chair.

  “Miss Jaymie, we gotta go right away! The cops are trying to get in your house! Come on, we’ll take my car.”

  “Alma’s been trying to call you,” Gabi scolded as we pulled away from the curb. “But your phone is off, just like always.”

  “I need peace and quiet to think,” I defended myself. “I do check it.”

  “When? At night after everybody who called is asleep, so you got a excuse not to call them back?”

  I ignored this. “I live on El Balcón. Do you know which way to go?”

  “El Balcón? I lived in Santa Barbara for twenty years, and I never heard of that street.”

  “Nobody has. It’s more of a goat track. Get to Cliff, Gabi, and I’ll direct you from there. Can’t you go a little faster?”

  “Yeah I can. Hold on to your horses, you’ll see.”

  * * *

  Deirdre Krause possessed a cherubic face and carried a layer of cute chubby-baby fat. One might even say she looked like a Renaissance angel. My, how looks could deceive.

  The oversized tot had planted herself on my front step. A very large cop stood a few yards away, chewing his cud.

  Aricela and Chuy peered around the partly open front door, eyes wide. I slammed the car door shut and crossed the yard in three bounds.

  “Get off my property, Krause, and take your Rottweiler with you. You have no right to be here, harassing my houseguests.”

  “Hey, you just call me a dog?” Krause’s slave boy looked at his senior partner for support.

  “Houseguests, Neil, get that,” she trilled. “Our guests say a lot about us, don’t they?” Krause took a moment to pet her wavy blond hair. “I have to hand it to you, Zarlin, you’re gutsy. Personally, I don’t think I’d invite a psycho to move in.”

  I forced myself to draw in a deep, very long breath. Breathe it in, let it out. Deirdre was trying hard to provoke me, but I was determined not to let her succeed.

  “Officer Krause, I repeat: you have no right to be here. I’m politely asking you to leave.”

  “Well, now, I’d love to.” Deirdre’s plump face fell into a pout. “But I have a responsibility to the citizens of our fair city. A responsibility to check up on the whereabouts of a certain suspect named Daniel Armenta who is out on bail—for a very brief time. I can and will obtain a search warrant if I have reason to think—”

  “Fine, I get it. Gabi, can you help me out?”

  “Anything,” she stiffly replied.

  “Who’s this?” Deirdre bleated. “Another houseguest, I suppose? Got a police record, sweetheart?”

  Gabi, with dignity, stepped forward. “I am Gabriela Rufina Martinez Gutierrez, Miss Jaymie’s PA.”

  “PA? That’s a hoot.” Deirdre giggled. “And on second thought, maybe you don’t have a record. In fact, maybe you have no records at all. Got papers?”

  “That’s harassment,” I snapped. I’d never asked Gabi if she had papers. Obviously she didn’t, because otherwise she’d be running some corporate office downtown. “Tell me something, Krause. Do you make it a habit to ask everyone who looks Hispanic if they have papers?”

  “Believe me, if I had the time, I’d do just that.”

  How I wished Mike could see his admirer now. Deirdre’s face was so pinched it looked shrink-wrapped.

  “Gabi, go talk to Danny. Ask him to come to the window. He doesn’t have to step outside, just show his face so the peace officer can see he’s here.”

  “Will do.” Gabi edged around the fuming Deirdre and shooed Chuy and Aricela in before her.

  “Speaking of Rottweilers, Zarlin,” Deirdre piped up. “I called the pound on that snappy little mutt you keep around here. They came right away.”

  In all the fuss, I hadn’t noticed Dexter’s absence. I had to fight to keep my voice steady as my blood pressure jackhammered. “That dog had better be all right.”

  “The safety of police officers, not to mention the public, comes before the welfare of canines. If I were you, I’d—”

>   An apparition appeared in the window. A pale face with large dark eyes stared out from the cowl of a hoodie. Then Chuy popped up beside his brother, chin on the sill.

  “There’s Danny Armenta. You have your proof. Now go.”

  “How do I know it’s him?” Deirdre whined. “He’s got that hood over his face. He could be any gangbanger in town.”

  “What, because he’s Mexican? Danny was never a gang member, not even close.” I stepped up to the window. “Danny, please take off your hood for a minute,” I called through the glass. But he only looked at me blankly. “Chuy, pull down Danny’s hood, OK?”

  Chuy nodded vigorously, and disappeared. It took him a minute to drag a kitchen chair up to the window.

  “There’s your proof, Krause: Danny’s red hair.”

  “I’ll just document this,” Deirdre sniffed. She snapped a photo of Danny—and of a grinning Chuy, making rabbit’s ears over his brother’s head.

  Chapter Nine

  “June gloom,” Mike observed as we slogged through the sand at Ledbetter Beach. “I like walking in the fog.”

  “The foghorn sounds like a sick sea lion,” I grumped. Pretended to grump, of course. Because actually I was in a good mood, happy to be with him.

  “A sick sea lion? I was going to say it’s romantic.”

  “Romantic,” I snorted. “Might be, if I hadn’t butted heads with Deirdre Krause this morning. Locking up my dog like that: I could cheerfully hog-tie the woman with baling wire.”

  “Jesus, Jaymie. Do we have to talk about Deirdre?”

  “Why not? I need someone to gnaw on.”

  “Look. I’m not defending her. But did you know she grew up poor in East LA, with a crackhead for a mom and an abuser for a stepfather? Her childhood was a living hell.”

  “Hey, don’t tell me that. How can I hate her?”

  “Sorry.” Mike grinned and tugged my ponytail. “Anyway, Dex probably appreciates you more after a few hours in the clink.”

  “He’s no worse for wear, I have to admit.”

  “Let’s go talk in one of the caves under Shoreline.”

  “OK. But you might have to dislodge an entrepreneur.”