Dragon Fruit Page 3

  For no good reason I could think of, I slipped the fruit into my sweatshirt pocket. I didn’t imagine they had anything to do with the case. But their presence on the beach was a mystery – and mysteries, great or small, made me wild.

  Angel Mendoza and I nearly collided in the courtyard. ‘Good morning, Miss Jaymie. How are you?’ Gabi’s boyfriend was a plain-looking guy, but he had the sweetest smile this side of heaven.

  ‘Hi, Angel. I’m good. Did you bring Gabi a rose today?’

  Gabi and Angel were sweethearts. But they were moving out of the courting stage to a deeper level, and I’d noticed Angel’s flurry of floral tributes had slowed.

  The gardener rested a hand on his carpenter’s belt, which was loaded down with half a dozen different types of clippers. Angel was as painstaking as a neurosurgeon when it came to roses: a single wrong cut, he’d explained to me, could take a full year to repair.

  ‘Yes, I gave her Mr Lincoln because next week is Lincoln’s birthday. In Santa Barbara he never stops blooming all winter.’ His expression grew somber. ‘Miss Jaymie? Gabi told me about the baby that is missing. Terrible.’

  I’d have to speak with Gabi about talking out of school. Still, I understood. She and Angel were close.

  ‘Terrible is the word. You won’t say anything about it, will you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Jaymie. Gabi already said to say nothing. I just … can’t stop worrying. You know?’

  ‘The best thing is to not think about it.’ This was me talking, the one who’d just visited More Mesa against her better judgment. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.’

  Angel dropped his eyes and looked at the ground. That was enough to tell me the man didn’t agree.

  ‘I gotta go to my next house now, Miss Jaymie. A problem with the irrigation.’

  ‘Angel, wait.’ I pulled one of the dragon fruits from my pocket. The soft spines stung my palm, like the bites of a tiny spider. ‘You know what this is, right?’

  ‘Yes, a dragon fruit. Where I come from, we call that pitahaya.’ He took it from me and cupped it in his callused palm. ‘They are so good. You know, I have one growing on my patio. Where did you get this?’

  ‘I found it on the beach. I think it washed in on the tide. Any reason you can think of, as to why it would be in the ocean?’

  ‘In the ocean? No, that is strange. Also, it’s not the right time, you know? The pitahaya is ripe in summer and fall, not February. This maybe came from South America.’ He gave me a little smile, forgiving me, perhaps, for what I’d said earlier about there being little we could do for Chucha’s daughter. ‘It’s like a puzzle, Miss Jaymie. A mystery for you to solve.’

  ‘This one could be beyond me.’

  Angel turned the dragon fruit over and looked at it once more, then shrugged and handed it back. ‘Gabi, she says you need a good dinner. We want to cook for you at our house. The citrus is blooming at La Rosaleda, and the air, it smells like lemon perfume.’

  As far as I knew, Gabi still lived alone in her tiny apartment, just off Haley. But in Angel’s mind, apparently, Gabi had already joined him in the guest house he occupied on a Hope Ranch estate.

  ‘I’d be honored to dine with you both, Angel. Just name the day.’

  Mr Lincoln flared forth in the sparkling bud vase on the corner of Gabi’s desk. The bright red rose expressed justice and courage.

  ‘Miss Jaymie, is that you?’ Gabi called from the kitchenette.

  ‘None other.’ I walked in and tossed my messenger bag on the table.

  Gabi was scrubbing the coffee pot with baking soda at the sink. She turned and looked at me. ‘You’re kinda late this morning. Something is wrong?’

  ‘No. I had somewhere to go first.’ I didn’t mention More Mesa. I didn’t want to get her hopes up, about Chucha and the case.

  ‘Somewhere? Oh sure, I forget. I am your office manager and your PA, but it’s none of my business.’ Her glance fell on the clutch of dragon fruit I’d pulled from my pocket. ‘Where did those come from, the Guadalajara grocery store?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I found them on the beach. Any ideas?’

  ‘Ideas, that’s your department, Miss Jaymie. My department is to keep all your ideas in one straight line.’ She turned back to the sink. ‘There’s a message for you on the office phone. Very important. But go listen for yourself.’

  ‘First I need some coffee. Was the pot dirty? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘It is no good to wait till you notice.’ Gabi turned on the tap and rinsed the carafe. ‘If you notice, then it’s too dirty. See what I mean?’

  I sighed, walked back into the front office, and punched a button on the phone.

  ‘Please, I have money to pay you. I need you to find my little girl.’ Chucha’s recorded voice was urgent, strained.

  ‘You know, I am thinking, Miss Jaymie.’ Gabi stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. ‘Sorry, but I am gonna say it again. You gotta do something.’

  ‘And what if Chucha’s daughter was lost at sea?’ My heart panged in my chest like a guitar string twisted too tight. ‘We could search for a hundred years and never find her. We’d look and look and never come up with an answer.’

  ‘Miss Jaymie? You and me, we don’t have no kids.’

  I waited, wondering what she was getting at.

  ‘I was a mother for my sisters and brothers, ’cause there was nobody else. And you, you never say it, but I think maybe it was the same for you and your brother?’

  ‘I protected him,’ I admitted. ‘Or tried to, anyway.’

  ‘Try, that is all we can do. Also I think, ’cause we don’t have our own kids, our job is to help other families, you know? The kids, the mothers, and the fathers.’ She paused. ‘And the mothers that are fathers, those too.’

  Gabi had me: my heart was convinced. But my brain ordered me not to give in. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Huh.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You know what I always tell you, Miss Jaymie. Don’t think about it too much.’

  An hour later the sky clouded over. Then raindrops began to tap on the thin old windowpanes. I looked up from the kitchen table and watched the drops palpate the leaves of the bougainvillea sprawling over the wall at the back. A goldfinch hopped from twig to twig, trying to dodge the drops – or maybe to catch them.

  The office front door opened. I swiveled in my chair and leaned back to face the open doorway. There, as I’d half-expected, stood Chucha. She wore skinny leg jeans and a raspberry-colored hoodie. She caught my eye as she slipped the bright hood from her long black hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, I had to come back. You know why?’ She tried a smile. ‘It’s like I said – there’s nowhere else I can go.’

  ‘No need to apologize. I’d have come back too.’ I got up from the chair and walked on through. ‘Chucha, I don’t think you’ve met Gabi, my office manager.’

  ‘And I’m also Miss Jaymie’s PA.’ Gabi walked around her desk and extended her hand. ‘I am happy to meet you.’

  Chucha inclined her head. ‘I think I’ve seen you before – do you live on Haley?’

  ‘One block away. I see you sometimes in the Guadalajara Market, you know?’

  Chucha nodded. ‘I live upstairs, above the store.’

  ‘It’s raining.’ Gabi looked out the window and hugged herself, as if the pitter-patter of warm raindrops threatened to freeze us. ‘Do you want some hot chocolate?’

  ‘Sure. That’d be nice.’

  I noticed Chucha’s wig was askew. I felt bad for her: the pain in her eyes was obvious. But it was nothing compared to the pain I feared she’d soon come to know.

  ‘So, Jaymie. I guess you think it’s no use?’

  I didn’t want to answer Chucha’s question. I walked over to the open doorway. The raindrops plopped on the giant bird of paradise leaves, bounced off to the ground. Rain in a dry climate: it was all about life, wasn’t it? This was the season of green grass, spring poppies, and lupine. Not th
e death of a child.

  ‘I wouldn’t say “no use,” Chucha. But if your daughter wasn’t in the boat …’ I steeled myself. ‘It’s possible she never made it to shore.’ I used the word ‘possible’ to be kind.

  Chucha stared at me. Then she held up a finger. ‘Before you say anything else, I have something to show you.’

  She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a small notebook with an elastic band. ‘They say a picture is worth a thousand words, right?’ She snapped off the band, opened the notebook, and took out a photo. She gazed at it for a minute as a ghost of a smile hovered on her lips. ‘Here.’

  Time stopped as I studied the photograph. For a long moment, even the rain hung motionless in the sky.

  ‘That’s my Rosie,’ Chucha said in a low voice. ‘The picture is from six weeks ago.’

  Somehow, I’d imagined an infant. But this bright-eyed child was at least a year old, maybe closer to two. There was no baby chubbiness about her. Like Chucha, her complexion was dark, her features fine. She stared straight into the camera. She met the camera’s eye, and yet, at the same time, something in her drew back. The child was hurt and bewildered, you could see that. But you could see something else: little Rosie was a long way from giving up.

  I swallowed hard. Then everything started up again: Gabi moving about the kitchenette, clattering cups and saucers, the traffic out on Mission, and the tap-tapping of the rain.

  ‘Your daughter is beautiful.’ I held out the photo.

  ‘Thank you. But keep it.’ Chucha took half a step back. ‘She has a birthmark, you should know that. It’s just here—’ She slipped her hand under her hair to the base of her neck. ‘It’s kind of shaped like a dolphin.’

  ‘Chucha—’ I began, but then I stopped. It didn’t matter if I kept the picture or not. I’d seen it, and I knew I wouldn’t be forgetting those black eyes anytime soon.

  ‘You two better sit down,’ Gabi counseled from the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m gonna bring you the hot chocolate now.’

  But neither of us moved. Chucha’s chin was tilted, challenging me. Challenging me to say no.

  At last, I gave in.

  ‘Let’s have Gabi’s hot chocolate. Then we’ll talk about how we’re going to proceed.’

  THREE

  Mike leaned back in the kitchen chair and tipped up a Firestone Double Barrel ale. ‘Jaymie, you’re sure about this?’ The chair rocked back onto all four legs.

  ‘Mister Mike, she already decided. Miss Jaymie did the right thing. Chucha, she’s got no papers. And only a little money. Also, you know, she is a woman but sometimes she looks like a man.’ Gabi counted off on her fingers. ‘That’s three reasons why Chucha cannot come to anybody else. And that’s why Miss Jaymie said yes.’

  I reached across the kitchen table, picked up the photo of Rosie, and handed it to Mike. ‘Try saying no to that face.’

  ‘A sweetie, for sure.’ He frowned. ‘She looks scared.’

  ‘Right now, if Rosie’s alive, I’d say she’s more than a little scared.’

  Mike handed the photograph back to me. ‘Any chance she never left Mexico?’

  ‘It’s possible, sure. But Chucha asked around. Her cousin’s friend was certain about one thing: Rosie was put on the boat, all safe and sound.’

  ‘Tucked into the marijuana bales, huh?’ Mike began to peel the label off his beer bottle. ‘Listen. Those drug smugglers don’t give a shit about anything.’

  ‘The jefe, yes.’ Gabi reached over and swept Mike’s label peelings into her hand. ‘But the ones in the boat, the pangeros, sometimes they are just kids. Kids who want a ride north and a few American dollars, that’s all. I think we gotta try and find those guys. They might talk to us, you know?’

  ‘Too late, Gabi. They’re in LA by now, if not farther away. The pangeros don’t just hang around town, waiting to get picked up by ICE.’ Mike lifted the tiny silver cross from the unfolded handkerchief. ‘I’m inclined to agree with Jaymie on this. It doesn’t look good.’

  ‘But Chucha thinks her daughter is still alive, Mister Mike. A mother can tell. And a father – I think maybe a father can tell, too.’

  Mike shot Gabi a grin. ‘Which is she, Gabi? A mother or a father? You’re making me confused.’

  ‘Stop teasing me please. Chucha’s a lady, that’s for sure. Wait till you see her. But the baby needs a father, and that’s gonna be Chucha too.’

  ‘I have to commend you, Mike.’ I’d decided to do a little teasing of my own. ‘You’re very cool about Chucha.’

  ‘I don’t think about it too much. I figure if she says she’s a woman, that’s what she is.’ He cocked an eyebrow in my direction. ‘I’m not saying she’s my type.’

  ‘No, your type is Miss Jaymie,’ Gabi instructed. ‘And Miss Jaymie, her type is you.’

  Time to change the subject. Ever since Gabi had fallen for Angel, she was an expert in all matters involving love and romance.

  ‘Until proven otherwise, we’ll assume Rosie’s alive,’ I said. ‘It’s the only way to proceed.’

  ‘If she’s alive, then she was abducted,’ Mike replied. ‘The question is, why? Chucha was ready to pay the remainder of what she owed the traffickers, right?’

  ‘Right.’ I polished off my own beer and set the bottle back into its water ring on the tabletop. ‘Maybe somebody else wanted her.’

  ‘But who? Rosamar has a papá already.’ Gabi flung a hand in the air. ‘And her mother, she’s in Mexico and treats her bad.’

  ‘I hear you.’ Mike opened his hand. ‘But how does this fit in?’ The silver cross gleamed in his wide palm.

  ‘Maybe it’s just what Chucha thought,’ I said. ‘One of the pangeros was carrying the cross for his own personal reasons and lost it. It could have belonged to his daughter, something like that.’

  Gabi pushed back her chair and got to her feet. ‘You know what? Let’s not call the baby MACB. Let’s call her Millie, for Milagros.’

  ‘Milagros – miracle?’ Mike shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t call any of this a miracle, Gabi.’

  ‘No. But we gotta think that way, you know? For Chucha’s little girl, we need a miracle. And also for the one we don’t know about, MACB. Maybe she’s OK, but maybe she needs a miracle too.’

  ‘Sure, we can call the missing one Millie,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t believe in miracles, Gabi. I’ll do my best by Chucha, but something tells me this won’t turn out well.’

  Gabi’s face fell. ‘Miss Jaymie. I hope you are wrong.’ She walked over to the kitchen sink and proceeded to wash out the coffee carafe yet again. We had the cleanest damn coffee pot in town.

  ‘I gotta go.’ Mike got to his feet and lifted his windbreaker from the back of his chair. ‘We’re working on a big meth operation way back in Los Padres Forest. I’m driving up tomorrow, hiking in the next morning.’

  ‘What, so soon?’ I stood too. ‘I thought it was going to be at the end of the month.’

  ‘We moved it up.’

  I knew that was all Mike would say about the investigation. When it came to sheriff’s department business, he worked on a strict need-to-know basis.

  I didn’t want to put on a show in front of Gabi, so I resisted stepping into his arms. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Four or five days – no more than a week. Anything you need me to do before I take off?’

  ‘Just one thing.’ I have to admit, I employed my most irresistible smile. ‘Can you get me in to take a look at the panga boat? The PD must have it in storage somewhere.’

  ‘Probably in the warehouse downtown, where they keep the confiscated vehicles. Sure, I can’t see why not. Let me look into it – but since I’m taking off, it will have to be tonight or tomorrow.’ He leaned forward and planted a kiss on top of my head. ‘See? When you ask nice, I’m putty in your hands.’

  I pedaled through the Westside on my way home. The rain had stopped, and a soft purple dusk glowed. The seductive scent of the Victorian box trees hung in the air li
ke a lux perfume.

  All the talk about mothers and fathers had me thinking aboutmy own. As a rule, Paul and Doreen didn’t manage to slip into my thoughts. Years ago, when I was a kid, I’d planted a thorny hedge in my mind. Over the decades it had grown into an impenetrable thicket, and my parents seldom passed through.

  I never talked about my parents to anyone, not even Gabi or Mike. Not because Doreen and Paul were evil or cruel: they weren’t. In fact, there was nothing dramatic to tell. And yet, they managed to hurt the people around them. But even that I couldn’t get angry about, not anymore. I knew my parents damaged others because they were damaged themselves.

  I turned into Loma Alta and leaned forward to pump up the steep incline. Near the crest of the hill I pulled over, straddled my bike, and gazed over the city. Already house lights were winking on the hillsides and hundreds of tail lights pulsed like corpuscles along the thick artery of 101.

  The truth was that Rosie – if she was alive – was a lucky girl. She had a parent that loved her, loved her deeply.

  My own mother had never seen me as anything more than a competitor or a nuisance. I was adopted as a baby, and her decision to adopt hadn’t been what you’d call mature. As far as I could figure out, all the other women her age were having kids, and Doreen decided she wanted one of those, too. But somehow I never filled her needs.

  She’d regretted my adoption and had taken pains to make sure I knew that. I’d grown used to rejection. Neglect had wound its barbed strands through my mind.

  Brodie, on the other hand, had come into the world as Doreen’s surprise natural son, her darling. But in the end he’d let Doreen down too, because of his mental illness. Even now, three years after Brodie’s death, she still took her son’s illness as a personal insult.

  Our dad, on the other hand, had worked hard to bestow gifts on Doreen, gifts she never accepted. She’d never stopped pushing him away, and he’d never ceased trying to get close. Dad was wounded too, of course, locked in an empty embrace, always too ready to give and never receive. Doreen and Paul: to those who didn’t know them well, they’d no doubt seemed like the perfect couple. At least, for a time.