Grace Cries Uncle (7 page)

Flynn twisted in his chair to glower at Frances. “How kind of you to grant us permission to do our jobs.”

Rodriguez leaned forward to tap two fingers on my desk, thereby reclaiming everyone's attention. “Our victim,” he began, “the man who came to your door—”

“The FBI agent,” I prompted.

Flynn shook his head. “Not.”

“The dead man in my neighbor's yard wasn't the guy who came to my door?” I asked. “But I saw him. It was the same man. I'm sure of it.”

“Yeah, well—”

Rodriguez stopped Flynn with a look. “Slow down, amigo. One step at a time.” The older detective's eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. Although his mood had dampened a bit since they first walked in, he still maintained a cheerful demeanor. “I believe that the victim is the same man who came to your door. What we are here to tell you is that he was not part of the FBI.”

Frances gasped.

“And his name wasn't Alvin Clark, either,” Flynn interjected. “It's Emilio Ochoa.”

“I . . .” Wracking my brain, I tried to conjure up a memory. “That name means nothing to me. What was he doing at my house? What did he want?”

“That, Miz Wheaton, is what we're here to find out.” Rodriguez had already pulled out his notebook. “Let's go over your conversation with him one more time, okay?”

I repeated what I'd already told them, trying my best to remember any details that I may have forgotten to mention the first time. I came up empty.

“It was a really short conversation, mostly consisting of me trying to get him to leave so I wouldn't be late for the blood test.” I held my hands up and shrugged. “Did you talk with my neighbors? Maybe they have more to add.”

Rodriguez shook his head. “You seem to be the only person he visited.”

“Why my house?” I asked. “Why me?”

“Isn't that the big question?” Flynn said. “Have you ever lived in Los Angeles?”

“No.”

“But you've visited there?”

“Sure,” I said. “A couple of times. What does that have to do with anything?”

Reading from his notes, Rodriguez said, “Emilio Ochoa, age forty-two, multiple arrests for fraud, embezzlement, and international trafficking.” He gave me a sympathetic glance before continuing, “You had no reason to doubt him. Seems like he's an old hand at these games. Served a couple of stints in his late twenties but then disappeared.”

“Until now,” Flynn said.

“Meaning he went straight for a while?” Frances asked from the sidelines.

“Meaning he probably got smarter and flew under the radar,” Flynn said with a little snap in his voice. “No sign of
him in LA, nor anywhere in the state. His last parole officer recorded that Ochoa planned to relocate to Idaho to be closer to family.”

“What we need to find out,” Rodriguez said, “is what brought him out in the open and why.”

Their mention of Los Angeles set me on edge. “My sister was living in San Francisco for a while,” I said, repeating what Aunt Belinda had told me. “She showed up here, today, at Marshfield. Do you think that may be connected?”

In my peripheral vision I noticed Frances sit up straighter, but Rodriguez had already begun to shake his head. “I don't understand. What would your sister have to do with our victim?”

“I don't know,” I said. “That's what I'm asking you.”

Flynn's mouth had curled up at one corner. “San Francisco is not exactly next door to Los Angeles. It's a big state.”

“I know that, but I also know that my sister gets into trouble.”

“Runs in the family then,” Flynn said.

I ignored him, directing my words to Rodriguez. “I know it sounds wacky, but she showed up here today, out of the blue. I haven't talked with her in years but she turned up two days after a stranger—another person from California—was killed in a nearby backyard.”

“It's a little thin,” Rodriguez said. “But I'm not willing to dismiss your hunches, either. We know better than that, don't we, amigo?” He elbowed Flynn. “Is your sister staying with you?”

I gave a terse nod. Frances snorted.

“Ask her about this guy,” he said. “Give her both names. See if she recognizes either one. If she does, let us know. We'll come talk with her.”

“You seem awfully eager to throw your sister under the bus,” Flynn said.

Not willing to go there, I continued to address Rodriguez. “What else can you tell me about the victim?”

“He never married. Parents still alive, in Idaho. They swear he turned his life around and went straight. But they lost touch with him again about ten years ago.”

“This news has to be devastating for them,” I said.

Flynn piped up, “They also said that Ochoa was a fortune chaser. Took shortcuts. Thought that easy street was right around the corner, and wealth waited for him with the next big deal.”

This was sounding more like Liza every minute. “I'll check with my sister,” I said.

When they left, Frances sat across from me. “You don't really believe this murder is connected to your sister, do you?”

“I'm not ruling it out.”

Frances's fleshy face froze in horror. “You don't think
she
shot the guy? In cold blood?”

“No, no. She's not a nice person, but she's not a murderer,” I said. “Liza will do almost anything to further her own interests, but she's never physically harmed me, or anyone I can think of.”

Frances worked her mouth to one side, as though literally chewing on that information. “The Marshfield Hotel is booked up, isn't it?” she asked. “You're stuck with her at your house.”

“I suppose I could make a few phone calls around town to see if there are any open rooms this week,” I said. “The FAAC convention has eaten up all the good places.”

Frances adopted a singsong voice. “And you're too much of a soft touch to force your sister to stay in one of the seedy hotels.”

“It's not that, not this time at least,” I said. “Did you ever hear the famous saying? I think it comes from Sun Tzu, in
The Art of War
. He says, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'”

Frances smirked. “Words I live by every day of my life.”

I didn't quite know how to take that.

Before leaving work, I called Scott and Bruce to alert them to the Liza situation. They had both met her, briefly, before my mom died, and were as happy to hear of her return as I'd been. “Hang in there, Grace,” Bruce said before we hung up, adding, “Thanks for the forewarning.”

Liza wasn't at the house when I arrived. I wasn't surprised; she'd never been particularly prompt, especially when she had it in her power to make another person wait. The difference was this time it didn't bother me. If she'd changed her mind and taken off again for parts unknown—whether she bothered to notify me or not—I could live with it.

I parked on the driveway and let myself in the back door, cheered by the sound of Bootsie scampering down the stairs. Her paws slid on the floor as she spun around the corner to greet me. “How are you, baby?” I deactivated my alarm system then scooped her up and nuzzled her neck. Though she'd grown a great deal since she'd first arrived, she still held tight to kitten behaviors and now batted soft paws against my face, wanting to play.

When she bounded to the ground, I washed my hands. Though I'd dunked them under running water less than thirty seconds after I'd freed the little furball, it still hadn't been quick enough. My eyes began to water and I sneezed four times in a row. “Totally worth it,” I said aloud.

On my drive home I'd had time to think about Liza's stay here, time to come up with a few ground rules. I jotted them down on a notepad and dug out an extra key to the front door. If she needed to come and go, as I suspected she would, she'd require the means to get in. One key. Just one. That way as soon as she was gone for good I could call my buddy Larry the Locksmith to re-key one set of doors.

Moments later, as I was pulling out ingredients for ratatouille, Liza showed up. Keeping vigilant and watching for Bootsie, I opened the door.

“I'm back,” Liza said, extending her hands up, on either side of her head. “Party time.”

“I thought you might change your mind.”

“Not a chance, sister.”

“Come in.” I closed the door behind her.

She stomped her feet on the small braided rug we kept just inside the house, shaking the snow off her cotton flats. “Cold out there.”

She wore the orange trench and carried the filled-to-bursting saddle purse. “Your coat is too flimsy for this weather. Your shoes, too. Where's your luggage?” I asked.

“This is it.” She patted the bag's curled leather straps. “I left in a hurry.”

One second later, her eyes went wide as she focused on the floor behind me. “What is that?”

I turned. “I took in another roommate,” I said, scooping her up. “This is Bootsie.”

Liza recoiled. “You have a
cat
?” She reacted as though she'd spotted raw sewage running through my kitchen. “Mom hated cats.”

“Mom did not hate cats. She was allergic.” I sniffled. “Seems I inherited that.”

Putting her hands out as though to say, “Keep it away from me,” she continued to stare at Bootsie as though she'd never encountered a feline before. “Does it have the run of the house?”

“I'll keep her out of your room,” I said, “but remember, you're the guest here. She's not.”

“I'm probably allergic, too,” she said.

“Probably. I suggest keeping your distance.”

“Don't worry. I will.”

Bootsie, for her part, seemed content to study our visitor from the safety of my arms. She was usually eager to flirt with a new person. Not this time.

“One more thing—when you come in and out of the house, you need to make sure Bootsie doesn't get out. She's an indoor cat and wouldn't stand a chance against the feral ones, not to mention the coyotes and other hungry critters we have out here.”

“Fine,” she said as she pulled her coat off. “Any other surprises I ought to know about?”

I pulled up the list I'd compiled. “Basic stuff. Housekeeping. I reserve the right to add new rules as I see fit.”

“What's happened to you, Grace?” she asked. “I haven't been back here in years and you don't seem to be the least bit concerned about what I've been through.”

I bit my tongue before rising to the bait, before jumping down her throat over her “all about me,” question.

Instead, I turned away, letting Bootsie go. As she ran into the dining room, I washed my hands again. “I'm about to make dinner. It'll take a while.”

She dropped her coat and bag on one chair and lowered herself into another. “I knew you were finally home because your car was on the driveway. How come you don't use the garage? Is it still chock-full of garbage?”

“Mom's papers and a lot of her belongings are still out there, yes,” I said. “I'd hardly call it garbage.”

“You knew what I meant.”

I began slicing zucchini and peeling eggplant, watching Liza out of the corner of my eye. She kept her head bent, quietly reading my list of rules. Every so often, over the sound of my knife hitting the cutting board, I heard her grunt. With amusement or disapproval, I didn't know.

Eventually, she raised her head. “Seems fair,” she said.

I'd expected pushback on a few of the items. “Good. Now that we have that settled, I need a few answers.”

“What if you don't like what you hear?”

I turned to face her, unable to prevent myself from sighing. “I don't care, Liza. I don't care what you did, what you didn't do. I don't care who you are, or where you plan to go next. All I do care about is the truth. On a couple of very simple matters.”

“What do you want to know?”

My big chef's knife in my hand, I gestured. “First, and most important, who is Alvin Clark?”

That was clearly not the first question she'd been expecting. “Who?” The look on her face told me that she wasn't faking bewilderment. That much I knew I'd be able to tell. Over the years I'd grown adept at recognizing when she was lying. The name didn't register with her.

“All right,” I said, still watching her. “What about Emilio Ochoa?”

She shook her head slowly. Again, I could detect no prevarication. “Where are you coming up with these names? Who are these people?”

“Is there any reason that a man from Los Angeles might be looking for you?”

She blinked. Surprised again? Yes, but this time there was something more behind her eyes. Fear? “No, I can't imagine . . . Why are you asking? What's going on?”

I fixed my gaze on her. “Let's try this again. Can you think
of any reason why someone would track you here? Are you in trouble again?”

“So high and mighty, aren't you?” She twisted her mouth to one side.

Remaining silent, I waited.

Liza stared up at me. “I left Eric.”

“So you said.”

“Maybe he sent someone here to find me.” She shrugged. “That's the best guess I can come up with.”

“Trouble in paradise?” It wasn't kind, but I needed to cut through Liza's stalling to find out what had really brought her back to my doorstep.

“I got tired of him.” She began making fingertip circles on the kitchen table.

That was an out-and-out lie. “Tired of him?” I repeated. “How so?”

“He's boring; you know that.” She made eye contact again with that truthful statement. Eric
had
been boring. I'd just been too busy with dealing with my sick and then dying mother to notice.

“Let's leave the ‘why' alone for now,” I said. “Why would he send a scout here to look for you? Why not simply call?”

“These men . . . they came here? Looking for me? What did you tell them?”

“One man. Two names,” I said. “And he never mentioned you. He didn't have the chance.”

“An alias?” Liza seemed genuinely confused. “Why would you think this has anything to do with me?”

I was about to answer when the house phone rang. Wiping my hands, I reached for it. “It's Aunt Belinda.”

Liza jerked in her chair. “Don't let her know I'm here.”

My hand hovered over the receiver. “Why not? She's forever calling me, worried about you. Asking for news.”

“Just . . . don't. Please? Not yet.”

The fleeting fear I'd glimpsed in Liza's eyes a moment ago had returned with intensity, whitening her lips as she
sat ramrod straight. She gripped the handles of the saddlebag purse on her lap, her knuckles pale as her face.

“Hello, Aunt Belinda,” I said when I picked up the phone. “So nice to talk with you again.”

She skipped right over niceties. “Have you heard from Liza?”

Aunt Belinda's voice was loud enough for my sister to hear halfway across the room. Liza shook her head, begging me with her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked my aunt. “You sound upset.”

“I've been trying her cell phone, over and over again. Usually when I call her it goes to her answering machine.”
Voicemail
, I mouthed silently. “There's nothing at all anymore. I get that loud noise and then a message that the number isn't in service.”

“Glitches happen,” I said. “I'm sure there's an explanation.”

“No, something is really wrong this time. Eric called here not five minutes ago, asking if I'd heard anything. When I asked him why Liza wasn't with him, he said that they'd had an argument a couple of days ago. She stormed off. Hasn't been seen since.”

Holding the receiver slightly away from my ear to allow Liza to listen in, I raised my eyebrows, asking the silent question, “What haven't you told me?”

“I'm sure she's fine,” I said into the phone. “Probably just working off some steam. You know how hotheaded Liza can be.” I delivered that last line with a smile. She stuck her tongue out at me.

“I don't know,” Aunt Belinda said. “He sounded really worried.”

“Let's not overreact,” I said, working to inject calm into my tone. “Did Eric give you any other information?”

“No.”

“Maybe Liza is coming to see you,” I said. “Maybe she's on her way right now.”

“You think so?” Aunt Belinda asked. The hope in her voice was unmistakable. “I don't have much to share, but if she came, I could offer her a place to stay at least.”

Watching my sister, who seemed to be growing more agitated by the moment, I said, “I'm sure she'd be happy to know that.”

But Aunt Belinda wasn't finished trying to convince me of the magnitude of this situation. “He was desperate, I tell you. I've never heard anyone so tormented in my life. You can't fake that kind of panic. You know what I mean?”

“I do,” I said. I was witnessing exactly that: the kind of panic that can't be faked. Liza had curled in on herself, fists covering her eyes, looking smaller than she had seconds earlier. She breathed hard enough for me to hear. In that instant I realized that my sister was in genuine anguish. And with that awareness, a small part of my resentment dissolved.

“Maybe there's more to the story than we realize,” I said into the phone.

Liza's head jerked up. She stared up at me with grateful eyes.

“Maybe,” Aunt Belinda said, “but there's no good reason for her to be out on her own. She ought to know she can reach out to family if she's in trouble.”

Liza continued to watch me, waiting.

“Let's hope she isn't in trouble,” I said, “and this is simply a lovers' spat.”

“I don't know . . .” I could tell Aunt Belinda wanted to turn this conversation into an endless loop of conjecture and speculation.

“I really ought to go,” I said before she could get rolling. “I'm in the middle of making dinner.”

“You'll let me know if you hear from Liza?” she asked.

I hesitated. “I've told you before, Aunt Belinda, the likelihood of Liza contacting me is slim. Less than slim.” I shrugged at Liza. She offered a weak smile.

“I'm just so worried about that poor girl. You could be a
better sister to her, you know,” Aunt Belinda said. “You could try to connect with her yourself. You don't have to wait for her to come begging at your door before you lend her a hand.”

“And with that, it's time for me to hang up,” I said before my temper flared again. “Have a good night. Talk soon.”

The second the receiver hit home, my sister erupted with thanks. “I didn't know if you'd cover for me, Grace. I can't thank you enough.”

She would have gone on longer, but I didn't want this gush of gratitude.

“Here's what's important,” I said. “The man who came here—Alvin Clark/Emilio Ochoa, whatever his name is—told me he was an FBI agent.”

Liza's jaw dropped. “And you thought this had something to do with me?” Moments ago she'd seemed buried under the weight of her secrets. Not so anymore. Indignant Liza had resurfaced. “The FBI? How could you even think such a thing? I may have had my share of problems but never anything that—”