Monkey Wrench

Copyright Information

Monkey Wrench
© 2012 Terri Thayer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3318-0

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design
by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration © Cheryl Chalmers—The July Group

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

Midnight Ink

Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

2143 Wooddale Drive

Woodbury, MN 55125

www.midnightink.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my lovely critique goup—Becky Levine, Beth Proudfoot, Cyndy Furze, and Jane McBurney-Lin. Your encouragement and great ideas make all the difference.

Thank you to my steadfast pharmacist, Gene Togioka, for answering my silly questions with wonderful seriousness.

Monkey Wrench

Monkey Wrench is only one name for this traditional block. Other variations include Churn Dash and Shoo Fly.

One

“Kevin, you’re killing me.”

My brother grunted. That was no answer.

“I need that bathroom finished. We’re less than two weeks away from the Quilters Crawl. Do you know what that means?”

I felt free to yell at my contractor. Pellicano Construction was my dad’s company.

I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Those are the four days each year where hundreds of women visit multiple quilt shops to win prizes. Including my shop. Driving, Kevin. Long distances. That means potty breaks. Plenty of them.” My voice ticked up. I yelled. “I need a working toilet!”

I was standing in what was supposed to be QP’s new bathroom. As we were on our cell phones, I had no idea where my brother was standing. But he wasn’t where he should have been—in the bathroom of my quilt shop.

Here, there was no sink, no toilet, no tile floor. My voice echoed in the emptiness. There were only open walls and pipes. This remodel was taking too long.

“Not to mention the fact that Mom’s dresser is in the hall, taking up too much room. Someone trips over it once a day.”

“Mom’s dresser with the hole in it?” Kevin sneered.

“Get my bathroom finished already!” I hollered. He didn’t like the idea of changing the antique dresser piece into a vanity, but I didn’t care.

“This is on you, Dewey,” his deep voice booming. “We can’t go further without the city inspector signing off. You knew that. And yet, no one was at the store yesterday when he came.” My younger brother’s tone was way too smug for me.

I stopped in front of the empty hole where the commode would be placed. “What do you mean? Vangie was here. I left around five. She promised to stay and let the inspector in.”

“Well, she didn’t. He got there around five-thirty. Said he banged on the door for at least five minutes. Back and front,” he said, preempting my last argument.

My heart sank.

Kevin continued, “No rough-in inspection means I can’t finish putting in the fixtures—”

Which means I wouldn’t have a bathroom. A vision of dozens of quilters with their legs crossed flitted across my mind. “When can you get another inspector out here? Tomorrow?”

I walked into my office to check my calendar. I’d have to make sure
I’d
be here when the inspector came.

Kevin said, “I highly doubt that. I’d scheduled that one a week ago.”

A red circle reminded me. My throat tensed. Yikes. Never mind the actual Crawl. I had bigger troubles. I had twelve quilt shop owners gathering here on Friday for a Crawl powwow.

“No, Kev, no. I don’t have another week. I have a very important meeting in four days.”

The final Quilters Crawl planning meeting was being held here. I tried to picture the chairwoman, Barb V, peeing at the burrito place next door. She’d probably turn yellow first—and blame me when she got a bladder infection.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Kevin said. “Welcome to my world.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vangie heading in from the parking lot. Her steps were heavy as if she was carrying not just a lot of books but also the fate of the entire world on her hunched shoulders. I waved at her.

She started to say something as she entered the office we shared but I held up my hand, showing her the phone. She nodded. Her backpack thudded as it hit her desk.

“Call Uncle Joe,” I suggested to my brother. Our father’s best friend had risen through the ranks and was the city’s chief inspector now. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since Mom’s funeral, but certainly he’d be willing to help.

Kevin’s voice rose in a squeak. “No way. I can’t call in a favor like that. I might need him on a big job later.”

My job didn’t count. I got mad, just like when we were kids and Kevin would quit playing tag with me and run after our two older brothers. “Never mind, I’ll do it myself. Be sure your guys are ready to work Wednesday.”

I hung up the phone. Vangie looked up from booting up the store computer. Vangie had thick brown eyelashes framing her pretty eyes. Today though, the lashes only accented the brown circles under her eyes.

“My brother,” I explained. “This bathroom is going to be the death of me.”

Her hand went up to her mouth. I waited for her explanation but she shook her head.

I said, “What happened last night? The inspector came but you were gone.”

Vangie’s face turned red. “I’m sorry, Dewey. He was late. I couldn’t hang around. I had study group. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

It was my turn to flush. Buster had had a rare night off work and we’d gone device-free. Anything with a plug or an on/off switch was strictly forbidden. Well, most devices anyway.

Vangie slumped in her chair, feet splayed beneath her. She was wearing black denim shorts and an SJSU hoodie. I could see her legs hadn’t been shaved in weeks. “It’s so much harder being at State full-time than I thought it would be. There’s so much reading, I’m barely keeping up,” she said.

My anger faded. Vangie was the assistant manager at my quilt shop, QP, and I needed her here, but she was also a twenty-threeyear-old who was trying to secure her future by getting a degree. Neither of us had anticipated what the switch from community college to San Jose State would mean. It was only six weeks into the semester and already Vangie was struggling.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I know you’re trying. Don’t worry about it. I’m going to call a family friend. We’ll have a new bathroom before Friday.”

Vangie smiled. Her usually wide grin was somewhat stunted by worry.

“Was this the
Wyatt
study group?” I asked, teasing, trying to break up the gloom. She’d mentioned a guy named Wyatt more than a few times.

I regretted my words almost immediately. Vangie didn’t answer, stared at the computer screen instead. At thirty, I was much too young to be turning into my father. Next, I’d be asking. “So what does this Wyatt character
do
for a living?”

We worked in silence for a few minutes. This time together was rare. I missed Vangie when she wasn’t in the office.

An item on my to-do list caught my attention. “I hate to ask,” I said. “What about the presentation for Friday’s Crawl meeting? You know, the one about the special Twitter prizes?”

Vangie gathered her thick brown hair up in a ponytail and rubbed the back of her neck. She had blemishes on her cheeks. Stress-related I knew. Her eyebrows furrowed.

“I’ll finish it, I promise.”

She sounded so unsure I couldn’t resist emphasizing its importance. “Because this is my last chance to convince the committee to go along with our idea.”

Vangie nodded. She knew how much I wanted to put my stamp on QP’s first foray into this annual event. “I’ll email it to you in plenty of time. All you’ll have to do is open up your laptop. The slides will be up and ready to go.”

“I wish you could be at the meeting.”

She turned back to her screen and pulled the keyboard toward her. “I’ll try. Now let me just get these online orders filled. I only have about an hour before class.”

I left her to it and went next door to Mrs. Unites’s burrito shop
to use her restroom. I tried to only take advantage of her generosity once a day. This time, the price I paid was listening to her
theory that a toxic cloud that came from the dry cleaners across the street added to the demise of the long-time pet store next door. At least she’d waited until after I used the facilities.

When I came back, Vangie had her head on the desk. I could see the tension in her shoulders.

“What’s up?” I asked, laying my hand on her back. She dragged her head up and looked at me. More pimples had appeared on her forehead.

“Pearl,” she said, her phone in hand. “I was supposed to take her to the doctor but I wanted to come here and work so I asked a friend to take her. He did, but now she refuses to ride home with him. She wants me to come get her.”

“So go,” I said.

“He’s got my car.” Vangie’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t handle her right now.”

I patted her between the shoulder blades. Pearl Nakamura was a Quilter Paradiso regular. Along with her friend, Ina, she’d been an original member of the Stitch ’n’ Bitch group that met here every week for years. I’d often done my homework between their sewing machines. Vangie and I both viewed Pearl as a grandmother, although Pearl preferred to be seen as an older sister.

Even when she was well past her seventieth birthday, Pearl would race through the classroom, ear buds dangling, wheels on her sneakers out, her short black hair highlighted with red or pink or blue, depending on her mood. Her hands glittered with six gold rings and her eyes sparkled with a joy that age couldn’t diminish.

She was Pearl, one of a kind. Or she had been.

That Pearl disappeared when her husband of fifty years died eight months ago. She and Hiro had met as kids in the Manzanar Internment camp. Their bond was so strong that without him, the unthinkable had happened. Our Pearl faded away.

Vangie had spent a lot of her summer running Pearl’s errands and playing endless rounds of Blackjack with her. But now with school back in session, Vangie’s time was limited. Pearl’s needs were unlimited.

Vangie was caving under the pressure.

I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes after eleven. Uncle Joe, the city inspector, said he’d be here at noon.

“Tell me where she is,” I said. “Maybe I can go get her.”

Vangie’s face shifted as relief flooded over her. I saw a ray of hope in her eyes. “Would you? The doctor’s right in Japantown. Practically around the corner from her house.”

Japantown was a neighborhood in San Jose, close to downtown and not far from QP. It was the place to find homemade tofu, study Ikebana, or worship at the Buddhist temple. The surrounding streets were filled with neat bungalows and a lot of second- generation Japanese-Americans like Pearl.

“I don’t have much time,” I said.

Vangie broke in quickly. “All you’ll have to do is get her and drop her off. She’ll be okay at home. These doctor visits wear her out. She’ll probably want to nap.”

Vangie threw her arms around me. “Thanks, Dewey. I’ll get my life under control soon, I swear.”

I drove right past Pearl the first time through the medical complex. I was searching out the right building, and barely registered the old woman seated at the bus stop whose feet didn’t reach the pavement. Instead, I recognized Vangie’s car. A tall young man was leaning on the trunk.

Then I saw Pearl, wearing her favorite plaid capris. She didn’t usually pair them with a striped shirt. The orange Crocs dangling from her toes clashed with both and looked to be about two sizes too big.

I slammed on the brakes and stopped my car in a red zone. “Pearl?” I called.

She looked up slowly. I opened the car door and waved her in.

“Ready to go home?” I asked.

“Where have you been?” she said petulantly. Her face looked nearly as gray as the streaks in her hair. I hated seeing her like this.

Vangie’s friend came over, trying to help Pearl into my car. She shook him off and climbed into the back seat on her own. He shut the door after she was in.

I got out and approached him. “Thanks for bringing her. I’m sorry she’s being such a pill.”

He laughed. “Oh, I’ve got a grandmother. I know how they can be.”

“I’m Dewey Pellicano,” I said, offering my hand. “Vangie’s boss.”

“Wyatt Pederson,” he said. He shook my hand with a light touch.

Wyatt was pale. And skinny. His blond hair fell in shoulder-length dreadlocks. Not what I’d have called Vangie’s type at all. Her frequent lament was that Buster didn’t have a younger brother or even better, a clone. There weren’t many six-foot-three, black haired, blue-eyed boys out there.

Wyatt was the anti-Buster. At least in looks. Maybe he had Buster’s good heart.

Pearl rapped on the window. “Let’s go,” she barked.

I saluted her and smiled at Wyatt. “See ya,” I said.

“How was the doctor?” I asked Pearl as I settled behind the wheel.

I got no answer. In the old days, Pearl would have been the first one to yell, “Shotgun!” She always sat up front, usually with her head stuck out the window like a dog. She’d never wanted to miss a thing.

It was only a few blocks to her house.

I chattered to quell a tightness growing in my chest. “We’re so busy at the store, you know. QP is doing the Quilters Crawl next week. We haven’t participated in years.”

No response. I looked over my shoulder. Pearl’s eyes were closed.

“You used to work that with my mom, right?” I knew that she did.

Nothing. I kept up the small talk until I pulled up in front of her house.

Pearl’s cottage on Fourth Street was painted pale yellow. Ordinarily, only the purple trim and fuchsia door set it apart from the other bungalows on the street.

Today Pearl’s house stood out for the wrong reasons. Her lawn had gotten spotty, with patches of brown larger than actual grass. Landscaping had been Hiro’s domain. The evergreens in front of the bedroom windows were so overgrown, an intruder could get in without ever being seen from the street. Someone had mowed the remaining grass, but not for a few weeks.

A black cat sat on the edge of the koi pond, staring through a layer of dead leaves. She must know something I didn’t. I’d have bet the beautiful speckled fish that had once flashed through the depths were long gone.

“Did the doctor give you a prescription to fill?” I asked after throwing my car in park. I checked the time on the dash. I had ten minutes to get back to QP. I would need every minute of it, but if Pearl needed me, I wanted to help. I could come back later.

She shook her head and pulled open the door and scooted out of her seat. I got out on my side, but she was already halfway up the walk.

“I don’t need anything, Dewey,” she said over her shoulder. “Go on back to work.”

I wanted to at least see that she was settled inside. I caught up to her on the porch. She went through the unlocked front door without a word.

“Pearl?” I said. I’d always been welcome in her house.