Secondhand Stiff (11 page)

Charming? Mom?

I was about to remark that Bill didn't get out of his Hobbit hut very often but bit back the snide remark. After all, the man had bought me hot chocolate. Instead, I said, “I don't mind at all, as long as you're not a stalker or a serial killer.”

Mom kicked me under the table just as I took my first sip. “Ow!” Bill looked at me funny. “Sorry,” I explained. “The hot drink zapped one of my fillings.”

“Maybe it's going bad, dear,” Mom said, all sugar and spice. “At your age, teeth start to become troublesome.”

At my age? Grrrrr.
The fact that I was in my mid-fifties and had recently had not one but two root canals came to mind. Still, no one wants to be reminded of those things, especially not by one's eighty-plus-year-old mother who wears dentures. It's like looking in a dental crystal ball and not liking the reflection.

I was about to give Mom a little kick back purely on principle when Bill chuckled. “At my age I can hardly be either. You need stealth for those endeavors. An old codger hobbling along with a stick is pretty noticeable.”

“Speaking of noticeable,” interjected Mom, “I was telling Bill about our trip up to the secondhand store.”

I was getting worried about where Mom was going with this. How much had she told this stranger?

Bill said, “Grace told me how you two got caught in the backup from that nasty accident on the 405. I saw it on the news just before I came to get my coffee. There was at least one fatality.”

“From the look of the pickup truck involved,” I told him, “that doesn't surprise me. It was totally smashed.”

We had a few seconds of somber thought for the dead before Mom added, “Bill here said he saw Buck leave.”

I perked up. “When did he leave? And do you think he'll be back?” I toned down the eagerness in my voice. “I mean, if he's closed for the day, we might as well go home.”

“I don't think he's gone for the day,” Bill answered. “I could be wrong, but usually he pulls a security gate across the front before he leaves. A few years ago Buck had a short series of break-ins, so he had the gate installed. He's the only store with one and had to get permission from the mall owners to do it.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I see pretty much everything that goes on around here from my little shop. The days are long unless I have customer calls to open their car doors or change their locks. And people tend to forget I'm there. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I see.” He shook his head. “Some of it is amusing. Others, downright shameful.”

It was becoming clear to me that Bill Baxter could be useful. I glanced at Mom. She was watching me with a smug look, and I knew if I didn't tell her “good job” when we got back into the car, I would get an earful.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

He closed his eyes as if counting on imaginary fingers. “About ten years or so. Right after my wife died, I bought the shop from a locksmith who moved out of state. I used to have a larger store, but as I got older it became more difficult to handle, and I didn't want to retire. My son thought this would be perfect for me, and it is, though some days it can be lonely. I have a TV and DVD player in there—in fact, all the comforts of home, just smaller. And I watch all the comings and goings.”

“So you saw Buck Goodwin leave?” I asked, getting the conversation back on track.

Bill nodded. “Unusual day for him.”

Luke at the sub shop had said something similar, that Buck's food order and lunchtime today were unusual. Seems Buck was breaking a lot of his patterns. Was it because of worry over Ina or some other reason?

“He opened late,” Bill continued, “then went to the sandwich shop for his lunch, which he does almost every day. Shortly after, he got in his truck and left.”

Mom asked the next question. “Is he the only one at his store? Doesn't make sense for him to close up every time he needs to make a delivery or go to one of them auctions.”

“His daughter used to work at the store, but I haven't seen her for several weeks. She's a wild one. Boy, those two fought like cats and dogs. Not sure if he fired her or if she left on her own.”

“Daughter? So Buck's married?” I raised an eyebrow in Mom's direction as I remembered how chummy Buck was with Ina at the auction.

“Not that I know of,” Bill answered. “Though I have seen him with lady friends from time to time. He was seeing one particular lady for a while, but I haven't seen her lately. Tiffany—that's Buck's daughter—once told me her mother and Buck were high-school sweethearts. Her mother got pregnant just before he went into the service. They never married, but Buck has always supported and been close to Tiffany. She came to live with him after her mother died from a drug overdose. Tiffany was just a young teenager.”

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out two photos of Ina: one taken at Thanksgiving just last week and another of her when she had long brown hair. I placed them on the table in front of Bill. “Ever see this girl?”

His eyes lit up with recognition. “Sure. That's Ina, a friend of theirs.”

“Theirs?” Mom asked, looking for clarification.

“Yes. This girl hung around a lot with Tiffany. They're close in age. And I believe Ina and her husband are also in the resale
business
, like Buck. Ina drives a Honda like mine, just a different color. Hers also has a store logo on it.”

So far Bill was spot-on with his observations. “So you saw her here with her husband?”

He shook his head. “No, I don't recall ever seeing him, just her. But Ina was here off and on. She and Buck seemed to get on fine.”

Bill looked at the photos again, then up, giving me and Mom a closer look. “Ina's husband was found dead at a storage facility. I saw it on the news. Who are you ladies really?”

“We're Ina's family,” Mom answered. “Odelia is married to her cousin. We were at that auction when Ina's husband was found dead.”

So Mom hadn't told Bill everything over their intimate cup of coffee—until now.

Bill Baxter digested that bomb of information, taking a couple of small sips from his coffee. Mom started to say something, but a look from me stopped her. Normally a look from me would have enlisted a comment, but she seemed to sense we needed to give Bill a bit of space and not be too forthcoming with information.

“Do you think Buck Goodwin had something to do with that?” Bill finally asked.

“Buck was at the auction with us,” I told him. “And we know he was friends with them, at least with Ina. We just wanted to ask him some questions—see if maybe there is anything he can tell us to help Ina. Right now she's their prime suspect.”

“Yes, I heard she was arrested. Very sad.”

“She wasn't arrested for Tom's murder,” Mom clarified, “but they are trying to pin it on her.”

Bill's interest sharpened. “The news just said she was arrested. I assumed it was for killing her husband.”

I shook my head. “It was for carrying a concealed weapon and not having a permit for it.” I leaned forward. “We believe Tom was abusing Ina, and she was scared. The problem is, she's not talking, so it's easy for everyone to assume she killed him.”

Mom tapped a finger on the table in a staccato tune. “We should also talk to that Tiffany. She might know something if she was Ina's close friend.”

I turned to Bill. “You said you haven't seen Tiffany around?”

“Not for several weeks.” Bill rubbed his craggy chin in thought. “Now that I think about it, Buck used to have a young fellow who helped out in the store part-time. But I haven't seen him around for maybe, let's see…” He scratched his chin again, creating a raspy sound. “It's been maybe a month or two since I've seen him. He didn't work at the store long, just a couple of months. Started in the summer, as I recall.”

“Do you remember his name?” I asked.

Bill screwed up his face as he tried to conjure up the name of the part-timer. When he relaxed his face, the news wasn't good. “Sorry, but I can't.” He paused, then added, “But I would remember him if I saw him. He had dark blond hair worn short. Very tidy and clean-cut. He and Buck didn't seem to get along, which is probably why he didn't last long.”

Mentally I was working hard, jotting down this information on my internal hard drive for later use. “Any idea why he and Buck had problems?”

“My guess, from what bits and pieces I heard, is Tiffany and the boy were becoming close, and Buck objected.”

I played with my cup, turning it around and around. “Seems Buck has people problems. Does he have anger issues, too?”

Bill shook his head at my suggestion. “Buck's the kind of guy who either likes you or he doesn't. If he doesn't, he has no use for you. If he does like you, he'll give you the shirt off his back. I've seen him get angry at folks, but it's never for long and never to the point of violence. It's more like exasperation that turns into frustrated swearing.”

“And how does he feel about you?” asked my mother, voicing my next question before I could get to it.

Bill smiled. “Buck and I have always gotten along very well. Right after I bought the little shop, my son and I went into Good Stuff to see if we could find a few things. Buck was very helpful. I keep an eye on his store as much as I can.”

thirteen

“Mom,” I began once
we were back in the car buckling up to leave, “did Bill come into the donut shop after you or was he there when you got there?”

“Why?” Mom was fiddling with her seat-belt strap and only paying half attention.

“It struck me that he might have seen us in front of Buck's store, then watched us go down the line of other stores. He did say he watched Buck's store for him.”

Mom stopped playing with the seat belt and looked at me, her eyes owlish through her glasses as what I said sunk in. “Come to think of it, he did arrive shortly after I did. He struck up a conversation while I was at the counter deciding what to order. You know, decaf or regular? Donut or muffin? Takes me longer to sort these things out than it used to.”

I smiled. “I see you went with the bran muffin.”

“And the decaf. Bill and I shared the muffin.” She turned to me. “So you think he approached me to find out what was going on?”

“Could be he was curious.”

“You think that's why he wants to take me to Sunday dinner?”

“He asked you out?”

“Sure did.”

She reached into her purse and extracted a business card and showed it to me. It was for Bill Baxter, Locksmith.

“Bill gave me this when you went into the ladies' room and asked if I was free on Sunday.”

When Mom took her turn in the ladies' room after me, Bill had called Buck's store to see if he had returned. He hadn't. Bill never said a thing to me about seeing Mom on Sunday, not that he needed my permission. The idea of my octogenarian mother being asked out on a date threw me. On one hand, it was cute, and why not? On the other hand, did
Bilbo
Baxter have an ulterior motive?

“And what did you say?”

“I said I'd have to check and see if you and Greg had anything planned for me that day, and I'd let him know.”

“If you want to go, don't wait on us.” I shot a questioning look in her direction. “Do you want to go?”

“Could be fun, and maybe I could pump him for information.”

“You're on vacation, Mom. You're not here to pump anyone for information. Leave that to me.”

“Are you saying I couldn't do it?”

Sigh
. Conversations with my mother were like walking through a field of thick oatmeal laced with land mines camouflaged as raisins.

“I didn't say that. What I meant is, that's not your job. If you want to go out with Bill, just go out, have a nice meal, and enjoy yourself. My concern is he's going to be drilling you for information.”

“If he does, I can hold my own.”

“Of that I'm sure.” I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was almost four thirty, and I had a decision to make.

My original plan was to go from Buck's to the Vasquez store in Lynwood if we had time. The stores weren't close to each other, but with good traffic on the connecting freeways it was doable, especially since Otra Vez was open until seven o'clock. But the earlier accident on the freeway had put us way behind time-wise, as well as the time spent with Bill, waiting for a no-show Buck Goodwin. We were also at the beginning of rush hour; all the freeways would soon look like beach parking lots on a summer day, eating up more time. It would be bad enough heading straight home. If I didn't have Mom along, I might have given no thought to fighting my way through traffic to Lynwood, but she looked tired. And then there was dinner to consider.

Home it was.

I'd just started the engine when my cell phone rang. It was Greg.

“Where are you?” he asked as soon as I answered.

“At Buck's store. He never showed up. We're heading home now. I'm hoping the freeway isn't as slow as it was earlier today.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, his voice sounding tired. “About that accident earlier today—there was a fatality.”

“We heard that,” Mom added. “Bill told us.”

“Who's Bill?” asked Greg.

“We'll tell you later at home,” I said. “It's an interesting story. But first, what about the accident?”

“They identified the driver of the truck. It was the auctioneer, Redmond Stokes.”

I was speechless, but Mom wasn't. She leaned closer to the dashboard. “You mean the big man who ran the auction?”

“Yes, Grace. That's him.”

“That's awful. He seemed nice.”

I know my husband, and from his tone and hesitation there was something he wasn't telling us. “And?” I asked. “I know you have more to say, Greg. I can hear it in the pauses.”

“Ina's attorney called me. The police questioned Ina about Red's death today. A heads-up: they are probably going to question you two and my mother again just to see if there is anything else you can remember about the auction. They will probably question everyone again.”

Mom looked at me with surprise. I looked back at her with similar wide eyes while I responded to Greg. “But it was a car accident.”

“Yes and no,” my hubs answered. “The police haven't made this public yet, but they have reason to believe Red was murdered. They think he was killed or died while driving, and that caused the accident. Fortunately, the other drivers involved are okay.”

“That's really awful.” I shook my head, shocked that someone I'd just seen was now dead. It never ceased to leave me a little traumatized.

“You coming straight home or heading somewhere else?” Greg asked.

“Home,” I answered. I looked over at Mom. She really did look exhausted. “We're both tired and hungry.”

As if reading my mind, Greg asked, “How about I pick up some Chinese food on my way home? That way no one has to cook. You like Chinese, Grace?”

A wide smile crossed Grace's face. “Yes, quite a bit. Can we get some sweet and sour pork and egg rolls?”

I was going to comment about her choice again of fried food but stopped myself. Mom was old enough to police herself, and I certainly didn't want her calling me Chubs again. And I happen to love sweet and sour pork myself; egg rolls I can take or leave.

“Sure, and I know Odelia loves that, too. You like Mongolian beef?”

“Not sure I've ever had that,” Mom answered.

I backed out of the parking spot in front of Buck's store and turned the car toward the exit.

“Honey,” I said, “just get whatever you think goes best with the pork.”

I turned right out of the parking lot and headed in the direction of the nearest freeway on-ramp.

“It might take us a bit to get home,” I continued saying to Greg, “so why don't you plan on ordering it about twenty or thirty minutes from now?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” my hubby commented. “You girls get home safe and sound.”

“Oh, and by the way, Clark called. He's been delayed, so Mom's staying a bit longer.”

“Is that all right with you, Greg?” Mom's voice went from Chinese food glee to worried hesitation.

Without missing a beat, my darling husband answered, “Of course it's okay, Grace. You can stay as long as you need to.” He laughed. “You can even move here if you like.”

“Odelia's already asked me about that.”

“And?”

Mom paused, but there was a small smile on her face. “It has possibilities.”

Just as Greg's laugh came through the speaker, we heard a loud, head-exploding boom. Everything around us rocked and shook, including my car and eardrums. Around us, alarms on parked cars were set off, creating a symphony of honking horns. I fought to control the car as it vibrated and barely kept it from rear-ending the car in front of me that had stopped.

“What in the hell was that?” screamed Greg. “Odelia, are you okay?”

Mom clutched her purse to her chest, her eyeglasses crooked on her nose. “Was that one of them earthquakes?”

“Greg, we're fine,” I yelled into the phone. I shook my head, hoping to clear the ringing. “I don't know what it was, but it was not an earthquake, Mom. It sounded like some sort of explosion. And it was nearby.”

Around us, other cars had come to a stop. Drivers were looking out their windows, curious and worried about continuing. People came out of the buildings and businesses to look up and down the street. Seeing people yelling and pointing in the direction we'd just come from, I unbuckled and got out of my car, letting my eyes follow theirs.

My hand went automatically to my heart. Just a block and a half away, flames shot up from a building in the mall we'd just left. And it looked like it was coming from the end building, the one closest to the street. Goodwin's Good Stuff was going up in flames. Then came a second blast, smaller but still heart-stopping. I ducked out of instinct.

From inside the car I could hear Greg yelling at me, demanding to know what was going on. Not a peep was coming from Mom.

Mom!

My mother prefers using dainty handkerchiefs instead of disposable tissues, even though they require washing and ironing. She and Buck had that in common. When I ducked back into the car, she was partially slumped forward, holding one of the hankies to her face.

“Mom!”

“Odelia!” yelled Greg from the phone.

Around us, the noise of alarms and approaching sirens mixed with the honking horns of impatient drivers. They'd stopped long enough to see what was going on, and now they wanted to move along and get the hell out of Dodge. Spotting a parking space just a few feet ahead, I put the car in gear. As soon as the vehicles ahead of me started moving, I eased forward into the spot and turned off the engine. Mom was still bent forward, but I could hear small moans coming from her. I tried to check her out, but it was too cramped.

Hopping out of the car, I dashed to her side and yanked the door open. “Mom?” I scrunched down beside her and fought back the urge to scream hysterically. “Mom!”

“Grace!” yelled Greg.

Slowly Mom raised her right hand while continuing to hold the hankie to her face with her left. She held the upraised arm out to me, palm out in a halt motion. Around us, sirens screamed toward the burning secondhand shop, but all I cared about was my aged mother.

I reached in and placed fingers on her neck, hoping to find her pulse. She didn't stop me. I sighed in relief to feel her heart beating steady and strong.

Greg yelled, “Will someone answer me before I lose my mind?”

“Hang on, Greg, I'm checking Mom out right now.”

Slowly I eased Mom back in her seat until her head was against the headrest. Then I reached in further and unbuckled her seat belt. She didn't protest. I recognized the handkerchief. It was brilliant white with one corner edged with thick lace. I'd found it in a Celtic linen shop, bought a couple, and had them embroidered with her initials for her last birthday. It was then I saw the blood on the delicate hankie.

I took hold of her left hand and eased it away from her pasty face. Seeing her colorless complexion, my breath caught in my throat and refused to leave my body until I forced it out. Carefully, I removed her glasses and put them on the dashboard. The blood was coming from her mouth.

“Mom, you okay?”

She gave me a slow, slight nod. “I bit my lip,” she said with a slight lisp. She swallowed. “The last blast scared me so much I bit my tongue and lip. So stupid.” She pressed the cloth back to her mouth.

“She seems fine, Greg,” I called toward the phone. “Just startled.”

“Thank God!” he said with loud relief.

I returned to the driver's side of the car and popped the trunk. I always keep several bottles of drinking water in the trunk and was thankful it was there now. I retrieved two bottles and went back to Mom. She reached for the bottle as soon as I unscrewed the cap, but I stopped her.

“Don't swallow it, Mom. Swish it around and spit it on the ground. You need to clean the wound first.” She did as I directed. I steadied her as she leaned out the door to spit into the gutter. Around us the air was starting to fill with smoke. Even more people had filled the streets to watch the blaze, getting as close as the authorities would allow. Mom swished and spit a second time, oblivious to the chaos.

“Okay,” I said to her in a calm voice, relieved to see color returning to her cheeks, “now take a drink and swallow if you want water.”

After she took a drink, she opened her mouth so I could inspect the wound. It was getting dark so I snapped on the car's overhead light to its highest level. It didn't help much, but it was enough for me to see the bleeding was slowing down.

“I think it's going to be okay,” I told her, “but I can't tell in this light if you need stitches or not.”

She snapped her mouth shut like a mouse trap and shook her head back and forth. After a mixed sigh of relief and frustration, I took the hankie and soaked it with some of the water. After wringing it out, I handed it back to her. “Here, Mom, use this on the wound if you need it.”

I reached past her to buckle her up again, but she stopped me. “I can do it,” she mumbled.

“Okay,” I said gently, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. I handed her back her glasses.

To the dashboard I said, “We're on our way home, Greg. I'll fill you in on what's happened then, but in the meantime check out the local news. There should be something there about the blast.” He told us to be careful and ended the call.

After handing Mom the open water bottle, I pulled my head out of the car and returned to my side with the second bottle. I took the top off and took a long drink. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until the water hit my mouth. I took another long pull from the bottle and watched the chaos. If Mom hadn't been with me, I would have locked the car and wormed my way closer to the strip mall on foot to see what was going on. I tipped my head back and took another drink.

Then it hit me.

Minutes before the blast, Mom and I were parked in front of the building now in flames. If the blast had occurred while we were there, who knows what would have happened? It could have been far worse than ringing ears and a bit lip. It could have been…I didn't want to think about that. I couldn't. And what about those other stores? Were the people in the nail salon okay? That store was next to Buck's. And what about the closed-mouth husband and wife in the liquor store? And what about Bill Baxter? I wanted to know. I needed to know. And Redmond Stokes—what about him? Were his death and this blast just a coincidence—two people at the auction who happened to have horrible things happen to them on the same day?