Cinco de Mayhem (24 page)

“Cash!” I crowed, carrying my find to Brigitte, who was pawing through what looked like a box of old cell phones.

“Et voilà!”
she said, clapping her hands.

This time I agreed. There was only one problem. What to do about the discovery?

“Is it like the envelope you saw the food inspector's son deliver?” Brigitte asked, turning a manila envelope over in her hands. She quickly counted the cash inside. “Nearly three thousand dollars. Quite a bit to sleep on each night.”

“It's a different color envelope,” I said, studying the plain manila paper. “Sure is a lot of cash to keep on hand, and not ones, fives, or tens that customers would pay with at the hot dog stand.” Using my cell phone, I snapped a few photos.

“It is a clue.” Brigitte started to tuck the envelope into her back pocket.

I'd broken in but I couldn't stoop to actual steal
ing. “We have to leave it here,” I said, hoping she'd see my point. “Don will become too suspicious otherwise, and plus, if we can get the police here, the evidence needs to seem untainted.”

To my relief, Brigitte agreed. “This is why you are the detective, Rita,” she said. “Me? I find nothing. Only that Don Busco collects too much electronic garbage.” She fiddled with a device that looked like a handheld speaker. “Testing,” she said. Her voice came out the other side sounding like a ghoul in a horror movie. She reared her head back and then puffed her lips in French disdain. “A grown man and he plays with such toys.”

I was feeling pretty proud of my sleuthing abilities. I should have known better. Mom always instilled midwestern modesty in my sister and me. Pride, she warned, never worked out well. In this case, Mom was right.

My cell phone buzzed. Addie had peppered her text message with emoticons in various expressions of anxiety and horror. The message alone was enough to terrify me.
LOST DON IN LOO. TRUCK GONE!!!

“We have to get out!” I said, grabbing Brigitte by the arm and stuffing my phone in my back pocket. “Quick, turn off the lights and let's go.”

Outside, the throaty sputter of a diesel engine approached. Was it Don? I wasn't waiting to find out. Brigitte and I ran through the dark hall to the back door we'd broken into earlier.

“How does it lock?” she asked.

Automatically, I hoped. If not, I prayed that Don wouldn't notice or would blame his own forgetfulness.

We slipped outside and pressed our backs to Don's house, the adobe still holding some of the sun's heat. Across the street, Brigitte's black sedan was in plain sight. “Not yet,” I said, holding her back. “If he drives in the driveway, we're toast. Quick, let's hide in the bushes along the side.”

Scrambling into Don's bushes, I thought of Flori. This is where she'd hidden to spy on his office. Indeed, we had a clear view, which would have been even clearer if Don pruned his shrubbery. In the room I had been saving for last to search, the kitchen, a light went on. I held my breath for as long as I could. Beside me, Brigitte seemed calm and composed even as more lights came on, suggesting that Don was moving through his home quickly.

Did he suspect that someone had been inside? Had we forgotten to shut a door or left handprints on some dusty end table? The lights in the office came on last. Through the sheer curtains, I could make out Don's wide shoulders stooped over the desk that Brigitte and I had just searched. Then, to my horror, Don drew back the curtain. He had a phone in his hand and leaned against the window frame as he dialed.

“We must go,” Brigitte whispered, grabbing my arm.

“He'll see our movement . . .” Freezing was my action of choice in such situations.

“Not if we stay behind these bushes and along the wall.” Brigitte was already tugging through branches. A dog barked at a nearby house and a porch light came on across the street.

When we reached the sidewalk, Brigitte brushed
a few leaves off her outfit. “There,” she said. “All safe.” She strolled across the street to the car. I tried to follow her calm lead, all the while tensed, expecting Don to run after us.

When we got to her car, I slid low in the passenger seat and reached for my phone, eager to tell Addie we were in the clear. I patted my pockets, absently at first, then frantically. Where was my phone? I'd had it. I'd gotten Addie's text and put the phone back in my pocket. Or had I? I patted myself again, every pocket and even my bra. It was no use. My phone was gone.

I
didn't dare tell Brigitte that I may have dropped my phone in Don's office or hallway or, best-case-scenario, his side garden. She was so happy in what she thought of as our sleuthing progress.

“We shall go out for a drink and celebrate,” she declared. “It is not even ten. Early.”

I hesitated only to be polite before declining. “I should get home,” I said. “I've had a long day, and I'm pretty stiff from my accident this morning.”

Brigitte made consoling noises. “Of course you are! You will not be jogging tomorrow morning, I hope?”

“I promised Jake that I'd avoid dangerous exercise,” I said with a forced chuckle. “I'm going home to relax in a bubble bath.” I doubted, however, that I'd do much relaxation even if surrounded by bubbles. What if my phone was inside Don's home? He had so many electronics, he might not notice it. Unless someone called. I tried to remember if I
had the ringer off. I was pretty sure I'd muted it as part of break-and-entering preparations. I tried to picture my last known moments with the phone. I'd shoved it in my pocket. I was pretty sure of that. It had probably fallen out when we scrambled through the bushes. I hoped.

“Which way?” Brigitte asked at an intersection of Canyon Road. She fiddled with the heat and stereo dials while we waited our turn at the light. “This is Napoleon's car,” she said, twisting a dial that turned on the back windshield wiper. “He left his vehicles in the parking lot and spare keys in the office, so I say to myself, why not use one? It is discreet for our spying.”

I agreed that this was a good idea, although little about our spying seemed good right now.
If Don found that phone . . .
But what if he did? He already knew I suspected him. That was no secret. And if he was the killer, would he go to the police? Likely not. I squirmed in my seat, feeling phantom cactus thorns prickle my skin. Who was I kidding? I was desperate to retrieve the phone, the evidence of my snooping.

Brigitte dropped me off at the top of the driveway. She waved and bid me adieu and waited until I reached my door.

I expected to find only Hugo at home. To my surprise, Celia sat at the kitchen table, sketching in fast, bold strokes on a drawing pad and plugged into her headphones. Hugo lounged on the chair across from her, meticulously cleaning a claw.

“Honey?” I said loudly, hoping not to startle her.

She stopped shading in a dark storm cloud long enough to say, “Hey.”

I gestured for her to take out an earphone. “I'm glad you're home,” I said, wondering how to delicately ask why she was back.

She shrugged. “Dad's got a date. I didn't want to get in the way.”

“My good luck, then,” I said. Something told me that Manny's dating wasn't the main issue. Celia got on fine with Manny's girlfriends, many of whom were closer to Celia's age than his. “Is there anything else going on? How are your friends?”

Celia shaded her storm clouds more aggressively. She'd drawn a desert landscape populated by spindly cactus and the wide-eyed fairy girls that were her artistic trademark. As usual, the fairy girls were in foul moods. These fairies, however, seemed particularly angry. “I'm not hanging out with those guys anymore,” Celia muttered. “They're lame. All they do is sit around downtown and do stupid stuff.”

“You're okay?”

Celia's steely look wavered. “Of course. I'm fine,” she said.

Her defiant, surly tone came as a relief to me. So did her next words.

“I called Sky. Hope you don't mind. He's staying at his Mom's this weekend and bored, and I thought we could watch a movie or something. I mean, it's a weekend, right?”

I thought this was a great idea and also a good moment for my “you can tell me anything” speech.

My daughter stopped drawing. “It's nothing
bad,
Mom. I thought this one guy was cool but his friends are jerks, and he does anything they say. I've got my own friends.” She stopped shading
and looked up. “You know, if you and Cass want to join us for the movie too, that's cool.”

Cass was a night owl, like our teens, and snacks and good company would keep me awake for at least the opening credits. There was one thing I needed to do, though, before I dug out the popcorn and cocoa. “Can I borrow your phone?” I asked Celia.

T
he next morning, I berated myself as I drove to Flori's house. Sure, it was her idea to meet at five o'clock, before the sun, and hopefully Don, were up. But it was my fault for losing the phone in the first place, and staying up late.

“I'm an idiot,” I said through a yawn, when I picked up Flori and her tote bag of spy materials up at her house. “Sun Tzu would say so too.”

Flori got in, flipped on the heated seat, and brushed off my self-deprecation. “Master Sun would be proud of you, sneaking into the enemy's lair to gather information. I bet we'll find that phone right where you dropped it in those overgrown shrubs.” Flori, a morning person, was as bright as the sun that wasn't yet up. She informed me that she'd packed cookies, “for later,” and a thermos of coffee in case we had to stake out Don's house for a while.

“He'll surely still be sleeping,” I said, mainly to reassure myself. I dreaded returning to Don's but I didn't have much choice. Like a fool, or a conscientious mom setting a good example, I'd taped an
address sticker on the back of the phone, a convenient way for any good Samaritans or potential murderers to find me.

Flori was fiddling with her own phone. “You're right. He's one of those up-late people. Addie called last night when she couldn't get ahold of you. Said she spotted Don at the Kiva Lounge and would tail him.”

“She shouldn't do that,” I said with a groan. Who was I to talk? I drove slowly so as not to break any other laws.

“Addie promised to call if anything went wrong. Otherwise, she said she'd text if it was past my bedtime.” Flori punched the screen of her cell phone. “Now how do I get to texts? Aha! Okay, here's her report.”

I was nearing Don's street. I parked a few houses away from his and listened as Flori read from the tiny screen, held inches from her nose.

“Don, drinking with mates,” she read out loud.

“More drinking.

“Blarmy! Boring.”

Flori summarized a few more “borings!” and “blokes and beers” and then held the screen out at arm's length. “Mmm . . . I thought I was reading that incorrectly,” she said. “Addie says that Don met with Gerald Jenkins Senior. Jenkins must be feeling better, if he's out at the bars.”

“Or he and his co-conspirator are getting nervous,” I said, trying to calm my own nerves.

“Exactly,” Flori said. She handed me the phone, and I read the series of texts myself.
Alert!! Junior's old man is here! Meeting Don. Looks sick. Drinking a wee pot o tea. Arguing?
See photo.
I scrolled down
the screen and squinted at the image of what appeared to be mostly Addie's knee in fishnet stockings and a red frilly ruffle. Beyond the ruffle, two blurry men stood by a high bar table. The shorter of the two—Gerald Jenkins Senior, I assumed—held a cup in one hand and appeared to jab his finger at the taller one, Don. I interpreted the scene as a blurry argument.

“Interesting,” Flori said, tapping her foot on the floorboards. “Very interesting. I wonder if Jenkins thinks Don tried to poison him? He must know that we didn't do it, regardless of what he told the police.”

I thought about this. “Even if I were a blackmailer, if I knew who had tried to kill me I'd go to the police and take my chances. Better jail than dead.”

“This is why we're not criminals, dear,” Flori said. “They have different values than you and me.” With that virtuous declaration, she produced two black hats, hand-knit and perfect for coordinating with any burglar's attire. She handed one to me.

“We
are
criminals,” I pointed out. “I've broken and entered. We're about to trespass, and is that Taser you're carrying even legal?” I stuffed the hat in my coat pocket. I didn't want to dress like a crook.

Flori smoothed hers over her silver bun. She didn't deny the criminal accusation or defend her Taser. “All for the good, though,” she said.

True, but Manny wouldn't buy that argument. I gave Flori back her phone, not trusting myself with it, and we got out. All noises sounded ampli
fied to me, the thump of the car doors, the crunch of our footsteps on gravel, the baleful howl of a distant dog. The streetlamp in front of Don's house was out, and his and his neighbors' houses were dark. Almost too dark. I worried about Flori. I searched for the right words to keep her safely on the sidewalk.

“Will you be our lookout, Flori? We need a wide view of the house. If you see any lights come on or someone walking by . . .” This is where my plan broke down. Should she bellow my name? Blow her police whistle?

“Then you'll hear my turkey call. If you do, hide,” my elderly friend said. She held what looked like a wooden whistle to her lips and gobbles filled the air. I was too surprised to worry about the noise.

Flori patted her heart. “Bernard thought of sending it along. He's a smart one sometimes, and thoughtful. That's why I married him.” She agreed to stand lookout at the end of the driveway, back against an elm tree so that she'd be out of sight in case someone drove by on the street.

“I'll retrace my steps,” I whispered, my heart thudding so hard I could barely hear myself. “Brigitte and I went into the bushes over there, after sneaking out Don's door. When I get over there, try calling my phone. The screen lights up when a call comes in.”

“Ten four,” Flori said. “Good luck.” She patted me on the back in a kind, grandmotherly off-you-go-to-trespass gesture.

With every step, I cringed at the racket of gravel crunching underfoot. I kept to the edge of the drive near the shrubbery, glad for the predawn
darkness. Some light, however, would be helpful. I dared turn on the penlight on my key chain. The narrow beam lit up gravel, dried branches, and the flash of metal. I aimed the beam at the metal. Don's truck and hot dog cart blocked the middle of the driveway. Skirting around the shrubbery side of the truck, I kept my eyes on the bushes. Nothing. Where was that phone? Had Flori tried calling yet? I risked flashing my face with the penlight, making a call-me gesture in Flori's direction. A soft gobble let me know she understood.

Still no flash of light appeared. No buzzing or ringing. No phone. I stooped and peered under the truck, again finding nothing. What if I
had
dropped the phone in the house? I tiptoed around the front of the truck and peeked through the open blinds of Don's office. My stomach bounced off my feet. Under Don's desk a cell phone lit up, showing familiar red and green icons. I flashed the light on myself again and made frantic throat-cutting gestures, hoping that Flori would interpret these as hang up now.

Did I dare break in again? No way. Not when Don was in there. I'd wait until he left for work and hope that he didn't pick this morning to vacuum his office. Maybe I could lure him out early by calling in a hot dog emergency or have Brigitte summon him for a food-cart meeting or . . . I hurried down the driveway, my mind whirling, my feet in automatic escape mode. I didn't dare turn on the light and I wasn't looking down anyway. That's why I didn't see the lump that caught my right foot. I tripped hard, the sickening feeling of falling overcoming me before I could stop myself.
I threw out my hands. One landed on sharp gravel. The other on something soft and rounded. Soft like clothes? Lumpy like a shoulder? I scrambled backward, not wanting to believe my initial impression. I was halfway tempted to gather up Flori and run, but I knew I couldn't. Shaking, I turned on my flashlight.

Don Busco lay in front of me. His arms were outstretched over his head. His eyes shut but not from sleep.

Flori appeared at my side. She assessed Don. “Is he . . . drunk?” she asked, her tone hopeful.

I wanted to believe he was passed out from a late night on the town, but once again I found myself touching a cold, pulseless wrist.

“He's dead,” I said shakily.

Her hand danced through the sign of the cross. She murmured prayers. I seconded her “Amen,” and I felt awful for adding, “My phone is in his office.”