Secondhand Stiff (17 page)

“About Paul?” Tiffany seemed very surprised. “Please—even if I was straight, he wouldn't be my type. He's one of those creepy goody two-shoes types, always kissing ass and sneaking around. Dad only gave him a job as a favor to his mother, and even Dad thought he was weird. Paul hated the resale business and sucked at it.”

“So his mother was a friend of Buck's?” Greg asked.

“Dad helped her out several years back when she lost her husband. Last year she and Dad started dating.” Tiffany looked thoughtful. “I think Paul was one of the reasons they broke up. Too bad, too, because I really liked Heide.”

Paul. Heide.
Was Buck Goodwin the Good Samaritan who came to Heide van den Akker's rescue after the accident that took her husband's life? My brain itched with possibilities.

“Maybe Heide had other children who objected to the relationship?” I was thinking of the surly Eric. He seemed more likely to cause a problem than the polite Paul.

“She has another son named Eric. He wasn't around much but seemed cool the few times I met him.”

I was on a roll and didn't want it to stop. “Does Heide have a third son, one named Bob or Robert maybe?”

Tiffany shook her head. “No, just the two, but I think her late husband's name was Bobby. Why?”

“No reason,” I lied. “I thought maybe it was a Heide I met once. She also has a son named Paul and is a widow. Did you tell the police about Heide?”

“No,” Tiffany said with defiant tilt of her chin. “They asked if Dad was seeing anyone, and I told them no. It's the truth. They broke up a while back, and I couldn't see dragging Heide into this mess if it wasn't necessary.”

Greg gave me a look that said he could tell I smelled a lead, even through an almost broken nose. He turned back to Tiffany. “We know you have to get back to work, but I want to ask you one more question. Do you think your father caused the blast that burned down his store?”

“Absolutely not!” Tiffany fixed Greg with a tough look. “As I told the cops, my father loved that store. He built it from scratch and made a very good and respectable living from it. He'd sooner cut off his arm than destroy it. And he certainly wouldn't do anything to hurt those other people at the mall or their businesses.”

Greg gave her a reassuring smile. “That's good enough for me.”

From down the lane, Roberto Vasquez waved to Tiffany. “I gotta go,” she told us. “Mr. Vasquez bought the last unit at auction today, and I still need to collect his money so he can start cleaning it out.”

After saying goodbye to Tiffany, I stood in front of the locker with the police tape and studied it, wishing it would talk to me. Give me a clue. Tell me what it saw that night like some oracle made of steel and concrete. “This is where Tom was murdered,” I told Greg. “I wonder what will happen to all the stuff in there?”

“If they still auction it off, I'm betting someone will buy it just for the ghoul factor.”

I turned to my husband and touched his hair, glad he was mine and fairly normal and with me for this journey. “I like it when we question people together. Makes me feel all Nick and Nora, but without the drinking.”

Greg laughed and took my hand, kissing it before releasing it. “Where to next? Comfort Foodies?”

“You read my mind. If Heide van den Akker is not the woman Buck was dating, I'm a twenty-year-old pole dancer. I'm also betting on one of her sons being Bob Y.”

“My money's on Paul,” said Greg. “He probably thought those reviews did his mother a service and harmed Buck at the same time.”

“Hard to say. Eric is the one with the bad attitude, but Tiffany seems to think Paul is the one with problems.”

As we moved back toward the front of Elite Storage, I pulled out my smartphone and started the search engine. By going to the Comfort Foodies website, I should be able to find out where the truck would be parked today.

I was looking down at my phone when my eye caught something on the ground. It was Leon Whitman's crumpled business card. I stooped to pick it up. Sure enough, on the backside he'd written a phone number. Then I noticed something else. I stuck Whitman's card into my pocket and squatted down again. We were in front of the unit purchased by Linda McIntyre. When Tiffany tossed the business card, it had landed directly in front of the left bottom corner of the door. On the corner, just above the pavement, a black
X
had been crudely marked on the metal door.

I stood up and looked at the doors of the units to the right and left. Neither had an
X
.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Checking something out.” I checked a few more. Still no
X
. I waved to Greg. “I want to go back to the other unit—the one with the police tape.”

Together, we traveled down the short road, turned left, and found the unit with the tape. I checked the lower left corner of the roll-up door: a black
X
.

“What do you think those mean, Greg?”

“Could be Elite marks the doors of the units up for auction.”

“Come on,” I said to him. “Let's find the other units in today's auction.”

We followed the short road in the direction where Tiffany had disappeared to help Roberto Vasquez. They weren't far. Tiffany was in front of the unit, speaking with Vasquez.

“If Linda doesn't claim that unit, I'll take it,” Vasquez was saying to her. “And for my last bid amount.”

“I'll make a note of that, Mr. Vasquez, but under the circumstances, I believe Elite is going to give her a day or so to take care of it. If she doesn't, I'm sure both Elite and Acme will come up with a fair plan to dispose of the unit.”

I was impressed. Tiffany looked like a tough young chick, but once in working mode she was very professional and knew how to handle customers. It was probably something she had learned at her father's store. Vasquez wasn't happy with the delay but seemed satisfied by her response.

We were in front of the unit he'd purchased. It was jam-packed with household goods that looked to be in very good condition—a much nicer unit than the one he'd lost to Linda McIntyre. Unfortunately, the door was up and I couldn't check for the mark.

Tiffany turned to us when Vasquez received a call and walked a few steps away. “Odelia. Greg. Did you guys forget something?”

“We were wondering, Tiffany,” said Greg, “how Elite notes which units are up for auction?”

“Each unit is numbered. The auctioneer gets a listing of the units up for auction.” To show us what she meant, she turned her clipboard toward us. On it was a simple list of numbers and columns next to each number. “This list tells us which units are up for auction. Once the unit is bought, we add the name of the buyer and what the winning bid is.”

“So,” Greg said, “they don't physically mark the units in any way so you don't miss them?”

“Nope. Everything is done by the unit number.”

Vasquez returned and said to Tiffany, “My truck is delayed, so I'm going to grab something to eat while I wait. We all through here?”

“Yes,” she responded. “Thank you for your business.”

Vasquez pulled a padlock out of his pocket. He lowered the door to the unit he'd bought and slapped the lock on it. The lock closed with a sound metallic click. With a nod to us, he left in the direction of the parking lot.

“We should be going too, Tiffany,” Greg told her. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Anything, if it will help Ina.” She hesitated, then asked, “Can she have visitors? I'd like to see her and give her my support.”

“She'd like that, I'm sure,” Greg said, “but don't be surprised if she refuses to see you or doesn't respond when you visit. She's not saying much to anyone.”

When we were back in Greg's van, he asked, “Did you see a mark on that unit Vasquez bought?”

“Nothing. But I do recall at the last auction, Linda told Ina not to bother bidding on the last unit they bid on, the one Tom was found in, because it was going to be hers.”

“Could be just smack talk.”

“Maybe—or maybe the marks are a signal to Linda to buy the ones marked.”

“But didn't you say she bid on the others last time?”

“Yes, but her bidding wasn't as lively or determined as today. Last time, Ina said Linda was bidding just to drive up the cost to those who really wanted it, especially her. And she did stop bidding as soon as Ina stopped and let someone else scoop up the unit. Today she was taking no prisoners to get that locker.”

I thought about the last auction and ran a replay of it against the information I now had. “In fact, Ina wasn't bidding very hot and heavy last time either.”

“Could be,” Greg said, “Ina was just going through the motions so no one would be suspicious about her leaving. Kind of like why she might have gone to the auction at all. She was giving the appearance of business as usual.”

He looked at me with concern. “You okay, sweetheart?”

I touched my nose with a cautious fingertip. It still hurt like hell. “The drugs haven't kicked in yet, but I'll be fine.”

Greg put the van into gear. “So, where to, boss?”

With this new possibility, I'd forgotten about the search to see where Comfort Foodies was dishing up food. I pulled my smartphone out of my purse and started running the search. “Let's see where Comfort Foodies is right now.”

I was checking out the truck's web page when my phone rang. The display said it was Cruz calling. When I answered, Cruz was in hysterics. I got a cold rush of worry that something had happened to Mom.

It took almost thirty seconds before I could calm Cruz down enough for her to speak clearly. When she was done, I turned to Greg. “Head home,” I ordered. “And step on it.”

nineteen

I sat on our
sofa and stared at the wall. Muffin hopped up next to me and nudged my hand for attention, but I couldn't lift it to pet her. I felt dead, emotionally paralyzed. Greg wheeled over to the sofa and gently pushed Muffin out of the way before lifting himself from his chair and transferring his body to the sofa so he could sit next to me. Without a word, he bundled me into his arms. I wrapped an arm around him and laid my head on his sturdy chest. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. I took comfort in the sound.

And then I cried.

I sobbed without consolation, soaking the front of Greg's sweatshirt. Cruz quietly brought me a cup of tea and set it on the table next to the sofa. I didn't need to look at her to know she was crying too. I could hear it—a soft, wet sniffle. She'd been the first to cry, even before it was over. She disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a box of tissues. Plucking a couple out, she tried to hand them to me, but I wouldn't let go of Greg long enough to grab them. He took the tissue and thanked her for me.

“Is there anything more I can do for you?” Cruz asked in her comforting voice with the soft accent.

“No, thank you, Cruz,” Greg quietly told her. “Why don't you go home. It's been a hard day for you too.”

On the way out, she laid a work-worn hand on my head and patted it softly and with affection. “I am so sorry. Please call if you need anything.”

The good news was the call from Cruz hadn't been about Mom. The bad news was there had been an illness.

The trip from Long Beach to Seal Beach had been short but seemed to take forever. Before the van came to a complete stop in our driveway, I was hopping out and running for the gate to the patio and through to the back door. Cruz met me, tears running down her face. Wainwright was agitated. Muffin peeked out from under the buffet. I'd told Greg to wait in the van and keep the motor running.

I returned to the van with a large bundle wrapped in a blanket. Tucked inside was Seamus. He was breathing, but barely. On our way home from Long Beach, I'd told Greg what Cruz had said: that Seamus was ill and not responding to anything. Greg had called our vet while I was in the house.

According to the vet, Seamus, our old codger of a cat, had had a stroke—a bad one. There was nothing that could be done, and putting him down was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever had to make. During his last few minutes on earth, the animal, unable to move, had stared at me with big, frightened eyes, not understanding what was happening to him. But there was also trust in those eyes. Trust that I would do the right thing. Trust that I would ease his suffering. Trust that I loved him enough to let him go.

I spent several of those minutes stroking his champagne fur, still soft and fluffy, and cooing to him. When he stuck out his little pink tongue and licked my hand, I almost lost my mind to overwhelming grief. Our paths had first crossed years ago on St. Patrick's Day, when some kids had tied him up and colored his fur green with food coloring. I had come to his rescue, and after that he never left my side, adopting me and winning me over. In a final gesture, I thanked the cat for his years of faithful company and love and kissed the top of his furry head, then I nodded to the vet to proceed. Greg and I were with Seamus until the very end.

I don't know how long our little family sat locked in a dark, heavy sorrow. Greg and I stayed huddled together on the sofa. Muffin was on Greg's lap. Wainwright was curled up on the floor in front of us. Even the animals seemed to sense what had happened. They were feeling the loss too. We didn't move from our respective spots until Mom and Renee walked through the door, chattering and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. Only Wainwright stirred to welcome them.

When Mom saw us, she said, “What's the matter? You two look like someone died.”

“Is it Ina?” a worried Renee asked.

“Sit down, ladies,” Greg said, not moving from my side. Both turned pale at the tone in his voice but sat as directed. “Seamus had a stroke today.” Greg tightened his grip on me. “We had to put him to sleep.”

“Oh, no!” Renee's hand went to her mouth.

Mom sat rigid, gripping the handles of her purse with white knuckles. She said nothing, but after a few moments she slowly got to her feet and shuffled down the hall to her room.

“I'll make sure she's all right,” said Renee, standing. “She was chattering about that cat a good part of the day. This is going to hit her hard.”

“No, Mom,” Greg told her. “I think it's best to let Grace be for now.”

“Yes, Renee,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Mom likes to be left alone at times like these. I'll check on her in a little bit.”

“Do you two need anything?”

“No, Mom,” answered Greg, “but thanks.”

“Then I'll go, but call if you do need something.” She got to her feet, then hesitated, the mother in her not wanting to leave until she'd made everything bad go away or at the very least slayed a few dragons on behalf of her offspring and his family. It didn't matter that we were middle-aged. She was a mother-warrior. “Are you sure I can't make you something to eat?” she offered as a last attempt to be helpful.

“We're good, Mom,” Greg answered for the both of us. “We'll call you later.”

Renee approached the couch, leaned forward, and stroked Greg's face before kissing his forehead. He kissed her cheek in return. She turned her attention to me and did the same, her hand lingering against my face, still warm from crying. “Oh, Odelia,” she said in a trembling voice, “I know you must be absolutely heartbroken.” Before leaving, Renee stroked Muffin's head and patted the faithful Wainwright.

Dinner that night was quiet and early since we'd skipped lunch. While Greg puttered in the kitchen, heating up the Chinese food from the night before, I went to check on Mom. She wasn't in bed, as I had expected, but was sitting in the upholstered chair we kept next to the window. Beside the chair a soft reading lamp glowed, but Mom wasn't reading. She was just sitting there, staring at the wall, her glasses folded in her lap.

“You okay, Mom?”

“I should have been here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should have been here. Seamus would be alive if I'd been here.”

I moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed closest to her. “That's not true, Mom, so don't blame yourself. The stroke hit Seamus hard and fast. None of us could have done anything. Even the vet said that.”

“Where's the cat now?”

“Still at the pet hospital. At our request, they are cremating the body. We'll pick up the ashes next week. Greg and I thought we might scatter them under the bougainvillea in the back. That was one of his favorite hiding spots.”

Mom continued staring at the wall. “I should have been here all along.”

“You couldn't have done anything,” I repeated. “And Seamus wasn't alone when the stroke happened. Cruz was here, and she couldn't do anything to stop it. Greg and I were with him until the very end. He died knowing he was loved.”

“No,” Mom said, without looking at me. “I should have been here, with you, all those years. I shouldn't have left you when I got pregnant with Grady. But I was a coward.”

Whoa. Where was this coming from?

I reached over and placed a hand on her knee. “You're here now, and I'm very glad you are. So is Greg.”

“I want to die like the cat, knowing I was loved.”

“You are loved, Mom. Clark and I love you very much. So do Greg and his parents. Clark's children love you. Didn't Lorraine visit you and help set up your iPad?”

If she heard me, she gave no indication. My grief over the loss of Seamus was battling with worry about my mother. Was she selfishly making the death of my beloved pet about her, or was there something else going on with her?

“Mom, are you okay? Are you ill and not telling us?”

She closed her eyes. She was so still, for a second I thought she'd nodded off or possibly died in the chair right in front of me. I'm not much on praying, but I sent up a quick petition to whoever or whatever might be in charge that Mom was just taking a snooze.

A few seconds later she said, without opening her eyes, “I
am
sick, Odelia. I'm absolutely heartsick.”

“Do you mean you have heart trouble?”

She shook her head. “No, I mean I'm heartsick with regret.”

I patted her knee. “I know you and Seamus bonded during your visit. Losing him will be difficult for all of us, even the other animals, but, trust me, you couldn't have stopped it from happening.”

Her hand covered mine, but her eyes remained closed. “I'm not talking about the damn cat now, Odelia. Please try to keep up.”

Annoyed, I started to pull my hand away, but Mom's closed over it like a claw in one of those stuffed-animal vending machines. She opened her eyes and looked directly at me. Her eyes were wet, and without her glasses they looked small and weak. “I'm talking about you. Do you remember what I said to you when you found me in Massachusetts?”

I eased my hand away. This time she let me. “Yes, I do.” I sat up straight and squared my shoulders. “You said you had no regrets about leaving me behind when I was sixteen, and you had no intention of apologizing for your actions.”

“I lied, Odelia. I have regrets—mountains of them. I had them when I left, when you found me, and all the years in between and after. I have them right now, this very second.”

I was speechless. Did Seamus's death unlock my mother's cold, selfish heart?

“I'd been wanting to visit,” she continued, “to clear the air. I came here to apologize to you but couldn't find the words until now. You didn't deserve to be abandoned like an old, worn shoe. You were my daughter, and I tossed you aside. I failed you. And in spite of everything, you turned out so lovely and wonderful.” She plucked a hankie from a pocket and held it to her eyes as she softly cried. “You've opened your heart and your home to me, and I don't deserve it.”

I sat on the edge of the bed in stunned silence. These were the words I'd been hungering to hear since I was sixteen years old. There were times I was sure if I ever came face to face with my mother, I'd beat the apology out of her. Then, when I did finally find her, all I could do was tell her how I felt. I'd beaten her with my words, and she'd taken the pounding and thrown insults back at me.

I heard a light jingle and recognized the sound as Wainwright's collar tags. Turning, I saw Greg in the doorway of the guest bedroom, Wainwright at his side. I don't know how long he'd been there, but from the look on his face and the tears in his eyes, it had been long enough. He blew me a soft kiss and rolled away, taking the dog with him, leaving me alone again with Mom.

Getting off the bed, I knelt in front of my mother and put both of my hands on her knees. “Thank you, Mom. I accept your apology.”

She raised her head. Cupping my chin in one of her hands, she stared into my face a long time, memorizing every line and large pore, perhaps searching for the teenage girl she'd left behind. We stayed that way until my knees ached and I had to get up. I took my place on the bed again.

“What happened to your face, Odelia?”

“I bumped into Linda McIntyre's fist.” I didn't say more, and she didn't ask. We fell back into a soft silence.

“Your hair looks wonderful, Mom.” And it did. The old permed ends had been clipped into a short, feathery silver bob. The new hairdo highlighted her bone structure and took several years off her lined face. Her lipstick looked new, too.

“Thank you, Odelia. We did have fun today.” She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief. “Can I still come live here in California? If you don't want me, I'll understand.”

“Do you want to live here?”

She blew her nose and nodded. “Very much.”

“Then consider it done.” I smiled at her. “Did you girls look at retirement communities today?”

“We saw two in the morning, then went to lunch—my treat. After lunch we went to the hair salon.” Mom bent close as if telling a secret. I expected her to say something about the salon, but instead she dropped a bomb. “By the way, I think we found that Buck person.”