Blood Orange Page 3

Deirdre Krause’s sulky baby face scowled. “Zarlin? What the hell are you doing at my crime scene?”

  Her crime scene? “Just looking around.”

  “Well, you can just get the hell out. I could have you arrested for this.” She raised a viciously plucked brow and looked over at Mike. “I’m surprised at you, Michael.”

  My skin prickled. “Listen, Krause—”

  “Jaymie’s here at my invite, Deirdre. She’s—” He glanced at me, then made up his mind. “She’s investigating the case on behalf of Danny Armenta’s family.”

  “She would be.” Deirdre Krause trilled out a laugh. “Jaymie Zarlin, Patron Saint of the Insane.”

  “That’s uncalled for,” Mike said quietly.

  I clamped my mouth shut and ordered myself not to think of my brother. Instead, I stared the woman down. She was cute enough, theoretically speaking, with a face like a three-year-old cherub. But damn, she looked like a devil now.

  “This one doesn’t need defending, Michael. I wouldn’t bother.” Deirdre’s voice dripped with saccharin, the way a rattler’s fangs dribble with venom before it strikes. “Come find me in five, and we’ll get a coffee. I know the sherriff’s department isn’t involved in this case, but still, you and I have things to talk about.”

  * * *

  “Deirdre’s not as bad as she sounds.” Mike followed after me as I banged the cruiser out the door. “She’s always at her worst around you.”

  “I wonder why, Michael.”

  “Hey.” He stepped ahead and caught my bike by the handlebars. “Does it matter?”

  I looked down at Mike’s broad hands and remembered just how good they’d made me feel.… “Um, I—”

  “Jaymie…” He brushed my cheek with his fingertips, then snatched his hand back as if he’d touched fire.

  I smiled crookedly, then waved an awkward good-bye and rode around the corner into the alley. I shoved thoughts of Mike Dawson where they belonged, into a closet at the back of my mind.

  Only three windows were set in the entire rear wall of the warehouse. The dressing room window had to be the one at the far end. I pedaled down the asphalted alley, leaned my bike against the wall, and balanced upright on the pedals.

  Sure enough, someone had swiped away the dirt and grime on the outer sill, just as they had on the inner. Only a few flecks of dust rested there. And you could see where a flat tool, most likely a screwdriver, had recently been jammed under the edge of the frame to pry open the window. The tool had nicked the paint, and the bare redwood was bright.

  So Mr. June Bug had entered the dressing room while the window was open. Dumb as a chunk of wood, he’d fixated on the inside of the pane and hadn’t been able to find his way back out. And the killer? I wanted to think he’d come in through the window, too. Because if the killer had climbed in through the window, that pretty much took Danny right out of the picture. Cogitating hard, I shifted my weight on the pedals.

  It was true: I wanted Danny Armenta to be innocent. For his sake, for his family’s sake, and maybe for reasons of my own, I wanted it. And yet—and yet. Something was wrong with my theory. I glared at the bright nick in the redwood. Problem was, it was all a touch too obvious.

  I rolled out of the alley, rounded a few corners, and pedaled up Garden Street under what was now a ravishing blue sky and a hot yellow sun. A superior day for the beach: I was tempted to take the day off.

  I thought about Brodie and how much he’d loved the ocean. The die-hard surf guys had told me no one ever put in more time on the waves than my brother did. Day in and day out, he was the first one into the water and the last one to leave. When the world turned its back on Brodie, he turned to the sea.

  Mike had been right to recommend me to Gabi. How could I not get involved in this case? My throat tightened. I knew what Mike wasn’t saying aloud: the police, and then the citizens of this fair city, were going to railroad Danny Armenta straight to death row, due process be damned.

  Yet it also was true that this crime was outside my area of expertise. My business was to locate lost souls and reunite them with their families, for better or worse. What did I know about solving a brutally executed murder and rape?

  Danny Armenta needed an experienced investigator, someone who knew what to look out for, what pitfalls to avoid. An amateur could make matters worse for him, screw up what few chances he had.

  Palm fronds glistening in the breeze and the clanging of the Presidio bell failed to raise my spirits. By the time I rolled to a stop at 101 West Mission, I’d persuaded myself Danny Armenta was better off without me.

  * * *

  For the second morning in a row, the front steps of suite D were occupied. This time Gabi Gutierrez wore a black-and-white maid’s uniform. Like the tracksuit, the uniform was on the snug side.

  “Hola!” Gabi jumped to her feet and thrust a pink and purple spiral notebook aloft. “Remember the early bird? It got the worm!”

  Pink and purple must be her favorite colors, I thought sourly. “I’m a little surprised to see you again, Ms. Gutierrez. I thought I explained that your nephew’s case is outside what I do.”

  “It’s Gabi, remember? And never mind about that.” She swept my protest away with another triumphant wave of the notebook. “Investigator, you have a case!”

  I gazed at the roof. As I counted to ten, I noticed that the clay tiles were slipping. “And as I explained—”

  “No, no. A different case.” Gabi folded her arms across her chest. “And this one is your kinda job, you can’t say it’s not.” She opened the notebook, removed a check, and held it out to me. “You weren’t here, so I asked for a deposit.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I took the check and glanced at it. Then I peered more closely, to make sure I’d read the right number of zeros.

  The check, signed by a Mrs. Darlene Richter, was written for no less than ten thousand dollars.

  “That—well, that is good-sized,” I squeaked. It was by far the largest retainer I’d ever received. “And you say it’s my sort of job?”

  “Yup. You only gotta find Minuet. Easy! With all the people I know who work in Montecito, I could maybe find her myself.”

  “‘Minuet’? Hold on. Don’t tell me someone paid a ten-thousand-dollar retainer for a pet.”

  “Are you rich? Can you be choosy? This is Santa Barbara—some people are rich and some people are poor. Lucky for you, this one is rich.” Gabi opened the notebook a second time and withdrew from its pages a color photo. Heaven help me, I opened my hand and accepted it.

  A winsome King Charles spaniel, sporting a lavender collar and lace ribbons over each perky ear, gazed up at me with soulful eyes.

  “I’m not sure what to say,” I muttered.

  “Say yes! Don’t you like animals? How can you say no to that face? Besides, ten thousand dollars—I’m pretty sure you could use it.” She herded me into the office.

  “I need coffee,” I bleated.

  “Go ahead, take your time. There’s things I can do.”

  Gabi had opened the blinds, tidied the desk, and rearranged the chairs by the time I returned from the kitchen. I dropped into the desk chair, only to find myself looking at a page of neat handwriting, no doubt torn from the purple-pink notebook, resting on the blotter. What this office needs to run better: new lightbulb, fix broken string on blind, get rid of dirty old couch … I took a few swallows of coffee before I let myself speak.

  “Ms. Gutierrez? We need to talk before we go any further. This morning I visited the murder scene.”

  “You’ll help us,” Gabi said breathlessly. “I knew you would!”

  Dear God, what was I getting myself into? “I’ve said no such thing.”

  “Good, good,” she replied, plainly not listening. “And please call me Gabi. Now, I need to talk to you about how I’m gonna pay.”

  “Stop right there.” I held up a hand. “If I decide to take the case, and I’m not saying I will, you’ll need to understand something. I’m not an
invalid, I do my own cleaning. There’s nothing much to clean here anyway. So please, don’t ask if you can clean instead of paying cash.”

  “Who said anything about cleaning?” Gabi arched an eyebrow. “You want to live in dirt, that’s your business. But don’t forget I got you that check.”

  “Mm. And I wonder what strings you’ll attach.”

  “Well, I been thinking. And when I start thinking look out.” A cagey gleam shined in her eyes. “You need a PA. In case you don’t know, that stands for ‘personal assistant.’ Somebody to answer the phone, keep the books, welcome new clients, organize the desk. Most PAs won’t dust and vacuum and make coffee, but I’ll do all that too!” The gleam grew stronger. “If you let me be your PA, you won’t have to work out here. You can use that table in the kitchen with all the coffee rings on it. See? I already figured out you like that better.”

  I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing.

  “OK! I’ll tell my sister Alma you almost decided to do it. She’ll feel better, I know.”

  “You’re a good aunt and a good sister, Gabi. That I admire.”

  “Not good. Just … just average. You want the truth? Below average, even.”

  * * *

  Gabi hurried down the street to her car. She was late for her next job. And Mrs. Talcott did not like late.

  What Miss Jaymie said, calling her a good sister and aunt, it made her feel prickly with shame. Being praised for the wrong reason made her feel bad.

  Gabi had a secret: she was afraid of crazy people. If she saw somebody acting weird even a block away, she crossed to the other side of the street.

  A year and a half ago, when Danny got sick … well. She asked Alma and the kids to move out. Danny was OK, he never threatened anybody or anything like that. But he was so strange, talking to himself and seeing things in the mirrors. She was scared to be around him anymore.

  So she told Alma the manager complained there were too many people in the apartment. But that was a big fat lie.

  Shame. Shame on nobody but her.

  Hiring Miss Jaymie to help—even if it meant working eighty hours a week—was the least she could do.

  * * *

  The sun was angling low in the west, preparing to paint the sky in 1970s yellows and oranges, when I pedaled up to the ancient Vee-Dub bus parked in the beachfront lot. The vehicle was covered in what might have looked like graffiti to a casual eye. But to those in the know, a great American novel began at the driver’s door and continued down the side and around the back, concluding at the passenger’s door.

  I approached an open back window. The interior was concealed by a frayed Indian bedspread functioning as a drape. The ancient fabric stirred in the late-afternoon onshore breeze.

  “Charlie?” I tapped on the Vee-Dub shell. “It’s me, Jaymie.”

  “Course it’s you,” answered a voice burred by scarred vocal cords. “We’re glad to see you, Jaymie girl. Been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Come on, not that long. Ten days, maybe. I have to think for myself sometimes, you know.”

  “Oh, Annie and me know you do plenty of that.” The voice broke into a fit of strangled hacking. “Lift the folding chair off the hook there, Jaymie.… Stay awhile.”

  “OK. And here you go.” I opened my backpack, took out a small bag of candy, and held it up to the window. A hand bound with burn tissue reached around the drape and retrieved the bag. There was a sound of the packet being ripped open, then a cessation of the coughing and a phlegmy sigh.

  “Horehound drops, bless you. Annie and me, we like the old remedies.”

  Annie had died seven years ago, mercifully, in the same fire that had disfigured Charlie so badly. Mike had told me the horrific story: a faulty camp stove had ignited their tent while they slept.

  “Thanks for the blessing, Charlie. God knows I need it.”

  “Cup a tar? Got plenty of sugar to cut it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Your boyfriend the cowboy dropped by the other day. Good man, for a fuzz.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. You’ll be the first to know when I do.”

  “Oh, you got a boyfriend, all right. Like it or not, you got one.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to keep my expression neutral. I didn’t know if Charlie could see me through the threadbare curtain. I couldn’t see him. Never had, actually, although I’d met him nearly three years ago, when I’d first come to town to look for Brodie. Charlie stayed inside the van all day and drove out of the lot every night after sundown, to park in some driveway or vacant lot.

  “I’m not going to argue with you on the boyfriend thing, Charlie. I came to talk to you about something else.”

  “Figured you did. Listen, why don’t you set yourself in the passenger seat? That’s Annie’s seat, you know.”

  “I’d be honored.” I opened the rusted old door and climbed in. The front seat was separated from the back by another circa 1965 bedspread. I faced front and studied the dash, which was plastered with shells, dried starfish, and sea glass. There was even a touch of whimsy, a sun-bleached plastic fork with some sort of dried seaweed stuck to the prongs. The novel on the exterior was Charlie’s creation, but I knew the dashboard was Annie’s.

  “Let ’er rip,” Charlie coughed from the back.

  “OK. Did you hear about the girl who was murdered after the Solstice parade?”

  “I heard. They arrested a boy for it, a boy who’s a little different in his head.”

  I nodded. “The way Brodie was different.”

  “Your brother was a fine young beach bum and a first-rate surfer. What happened to him was a crime.”

  “Yes. And what’s happening to this boy is criminal, too. The cops have already decided he’s guilty. But I’m not so sure.”

  “They already tarred and feathered him?”

  “You got it. The thing is, his family wants me to help. I’ve tried to explain I’m out of my depth. Because if I step in, then mess things up—you understand, don’t you? I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  “But on the other hand, I’m guessing, who else’ll take it on?”

  “Yeah, I can’t argue with that.” I rubbed a finger over the rough skin of a starfish. “Know what? I need a vacation. Hawaii, the Big Island…”

  “Plenty of time for that later. Plenty of time for you and the cowboy to ride off into the sunset. Right now, I think you know what you gotta do.”

  There was silence, and the crinkle of another horehound drop unwrapping. I watched the play of the spangly waves, tinged gold by the light of the lingering sun.

  “Charlie,” I said after a time, “can I bring a hot-glue gun and reattach a few of these treasures? Think Annie would mind?”

  “Annie’d appreciate it mightily. And she’d say you already know the answer to your question. She’d most likely say you know the answer to the boyfriend business, too.”

  Chapter Four

  I thought over Charlie’s advice as I pedaled home along Shoreline. Locals and tourists mingled at Ledbetter Beach, clustering under bright umbrellas or leaping for Frisbees and Wiffle balls in the sheltering curve of the sandstone cliff. Just offshore, a dozen or more paddleboarders stood erect, looking as if they were walking on water.

  I turned up Loma Alta, crossed Cliff Drive, and entered Vista del Mar, dismounting when the road steepened. The sun had beaten down on the banks all day long, and now the sweet resinous odor of rockroses and sage saturated the air. As I turned to the left and wheeled my bike up El Balcón, the hill blocked the sun and the road was plunged into deep shadow.

  A clatter of feet approached from behind. I turned, but not before a tricolor blur nipped me on the Achilles.

  “God damn it, dog! You’re lucky I’m wearing socks.” I grinned in spite of myself: the heeler stood his ground, all four feet spread, ready to cattle-drive me on home.

  “OK, let’s go, Dex.” The mutt barked cheerfully. He could be trusted to keep his fang
s off my heels as long as I kept moving forward.

  El Balcón was a narrow track cut into a hillside so steep, it made a joke of the angle of repose. Three houses, built back when planning restrictions were lax, clung to three nearly perpendicular lots. My house was the third and last, an afterthought that hadn’t involved too much thinking. Somehow the builder had managed to carve out a terrace and construct a tiny house and a separate one-car garage, possibly large enough for a Mini Cooper. Then a previous owner converted the garage into a studio and wedged an even smaller garage, ramshackle now, against the bank.

  I’d never planned to own a house in Santa Barbara. The prices were astronomical. But one morning, biking along Cliff, I’d spotted a Realtor’s sign planted halfway up the oak-covered hill.

  “As is,” were the first words out of Tiffany Tang’s mouth. “And you’d need to sign some disclaimers. I won’t lie to you, that hill in the back could be unstable: I’m not saying it is, but just so you know.…”

  I didn’t really take in her words, because Tiff had wisely chosen to utter them while we were standing on the five-foot-wide strip of patio at the back of the house, looking out over the harbor, the Channel Islands, and damn near to China. It was a spot you could happily die in, I’d thought at the time. Of course, if there was a big earthquake and the hill came down, you might die in it sooner than expected.

  I turned up my drive and slowed as the climb steepened. Another nip found my heel, this one more gentle, encouraging. I left the cruiser in the breezeway, walked around the corner, and unlocked the studio door.

  Dexter streaked by me and shot onto the futon bed. The stubborn mutt had belonged to my brother. I’d found Dex weeks after Brodie’s death, living by his wits and charm around the marina—much as my brother had done, I’d later discovered. The mutt had kept his bad side hidden until he was certain he’d carved out a place in my heart.

  I flopped into the papasan chair and tucked up my legs. “Hey, Brod … how’s it going?” I tried softly. But as usual there was no reply of any kind, no reason to believe he was present.

  I knew what some people thought: It’s been three years now. Why doesn’t Jaymie move on?