Secondhand Stiff (6 page)

six

It was quiet around
our kitchen table. It was midafternoon. Mom, Renee, and I were picking at chicken salad sandwiches my mother had whipped up. She'd made the chicken salad the night before with the grilled chicken left over from dinner. Mom put chopped celery and almonds in it, and sometimes golden raisins, never the brown ones.

“When Odelia was young,” my mother said, trying to break the worry and tension that clouded the table like the odor of questionable food, “she loved my chicken salad. I made it for her quite often.” She looked at me across the table. “Do you remember, Odelia?”

“I do, Mom. That's why I picked up a box of golden raisins yesterday at the grocery store, just so you'd make it.” I tried a smile, but it was forced. All of us were thinking about Ina and what was going on at the police station. Chicken salad with raisins, no matter how good, wasn't bringing us any comfort.

“It is quite tasty, Grace,” added Renee with little enthusiasm. “Ron would love this. Please give me the recipe before you go.”

When the doorbell rang, the three of us jumped in our seats. Wainwright, our golden retriever, ran for the door, barking. From the tone of his bark, I knew it was someone familiar. Wainwright usually goes everywhere with Greg, but he'd been sent home with us while Greg went on to the police station.

I got up and answered, expecting to see my father-in-law. Instead, Mike Steele was on my doorstep. I groaned. “Don't you have any work to do?”

By my side, Wainwright was hopping with joy. He loved Steele, leaving it my job to growl through the screen door.

“Of course I do, and so do you. Since you won't return my calls, you gave me no choice but to track you down. Not to mention, I haven't met your mother yet and didn't want her to get away without the pleasure.”

Steele gave me one of his signature shit-eating grins. He was dressed in his usual designer suit and tie, with the tie loosened a bit. With both hands he gripped a cardboard box without a lid. One glance told me it contained expandable files bulging with documents. I was tempted to slam the door and might have if I'd been alone. Instead, I caved and unlatched the screen door, holding it open for him to enter.

Once he got past me, Steele put the box down on the coffee table and went straight to my mother-in-law, holding out his right hand. “Renee, how nice to see you again. I think the last time was at Greg's fortieth birthday party.”

In spite of her worry over Ina, Renee gave her hand to Steele with a warm smile. “Nice to see you again, Mike. Thank you for coming by to see how we're doing and for helping Ina.”

He took her hand between both of his. “Happy to help. Odelia and Greg are like family to me, so that makes you family.” Charm oozed out of Steele soft and slick, like a crayon left in the sun.

Wainwright was nudging Steele's leg with his nose. Usually when Steele visits, Wainwright is his first greeting. “Hang on, buddy,” Steele said to the dog, “ladies first.” I almost barfed.

From Renee, Steele made his way around the table to my mother. “Mrs. Littlejohn, I presume.” He held out his hand to Mom. She took it. “I'm Mike Steele. I work with your daughter. I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

“You're her boss, right?”

“Yes, though some would say it's really Odelia who's the boss.” Steele turned to me and grinned.

“I can believe that.” Mom gave Steele a warm welcome. “She can be a regular Miss Bossy Pants.”

Steele let go of my mother's hand and squatted down to rub Wainwright's head and neck. The dog was in Nirvana. “Bossy Pants. I like that,” he said to the dog. “Don't you, boy? We can add it to Corpse Magnet and Cheesehead Squirrel.”

I was ready to hit Steele over the head with a fireplace poker, except we didn't have a fireplace.

I cleared my throat. “So what's with the box, Steele?”

He stood up. “Nothing much. Just a little work to keep you busy.”

Steele had taken the position of managing partner of the Orange County office of Templin and Tobin over a year ago. I had joined him at T&T just after Labor Day of this year. With some negotiation, we had agreed that I only had to come into the office three days a week. The rest of the time I would telecommute or, if we weren't busy, would have the other two days off. If we were busy, I worked a full work week but did much of the job from home. The T&T folks had set up my laptop so I could connect to the firm's main server. For the past two months that arrangement had worked quite well. I loved being able to work from home part of the time. Even though T&T was a much larger firm than my last one, the Orange County office was small. Steele had brought over a few familiar faces from Woobie, like his assistant Jill Bernelli and Jolene McHugh, a senior associate. We handled mostly business matters in the OC office. In addition to Steele and Jolene, there were two other attorneys. Jill was one of two assistants. I was the only paralegal. It was nice and cozy, and the mothership in LA pretty much left us alone.

“Greg said you told him I could have the rest of the week off if I told you where the Billings file was. I was going to text you about that in a little bit.”

Steele held up an index finger. “No, what I said is that you did not need to come into the office the rest of this week. That doesn't mean this work doesn't need to be done. As for Billings, don't bother with the text—the file is in the box. I need you to do a preliminary draft of a shareholder's agreement between Billings and his new partner, as well as the other necessary documents.”

I glanced at the box again. “The Billings file is not that large. What else is in there?”

“Just the Wright Wood file and notes for the new corporation Ham Goldman wants to start. I think those should keep you busy until next week.”

I grabbed Steele's sleeve and maneuvered him into the living room by the box, away from the two sets of mom ears, which I knew was useless because everyone knows mothers have hearing that can beat a dog's into the ground, even elderly mothers. Still, I made the effort.

“What's up, Steele?” I asked in a hushed but stern tone. “None of this work needs to be done this week. In fact, Jack Billings is out of the country through the end of the year, and Goldman specifically said he did not want to file the Articles of Incorporation for his new company until after the first of January.”

“This is the day of technology, Grey,” Steele pointed out, arching one brow, “or are you still in the dark ages? Out of the country or not, Jack can still review and sign documents. And it wouldn't hurt to have Ham's documents ready ahead of time. And, if you haven't noticed, the end of the year is just a few weeks away. Not to mention, I'm going skiing over Christmas and want these matters taken care of before I leave.”

“Aha, and there is the real motive.” I paused, going through my recent memory. “Wait, you didn't have anything on your calendar about skiing. In fact, I remember you specifically telling Jill and me that you were sticking around over the holidays this year.”

“Things change.” He shot me another shit-eating grin.

I settled my hands on my hips in understanding. “So what's her name?”

“There is no
her
, Grey. If you must know, at the last minute some friends rented a chalet in Switzerland for Christmas and New Year's and asked if I wanted to join them.”

Even though I was still sure a
her
was involved, I let the matter drop. “Okay, I'm sure I can draft up the documents you need this week.”

“See, a win-win for everyone.”

I squinted at Steele. “And how do you figure that? I see a win for you and one for the clients, but where's my win?”

“The work will help keep your mind off of the situation with Greg's cousin. And you never know what might happen in the meantime to get in the way of your work. It has happened before.”

“You mean like a murder that might keep me from doing my job?” I aimed my best scowl at my boss. “Are you afraid I'll get bumped off and you'll have to do this stuff instead of me?”

“Actually, I was thinking that maybe this work would keep you occupied instead of fretting over this latest murder. Less fret—that's your win.”

I leaned in close. “My mother's here. I think that will keep me occupied.”

Steele put his head down closer to mine. “If she starts to drive you nuts, you can always use the work as an excuse for some alone time.”

I had to admit, that was a fairly decent plan. “She's been here a week. Who's to say she's not already driving me crazy?”

Steele laughed, straightened, and headed back into the kitchen and the moms. “Sorry, ladies, just some confidential legal stuff.”

“Would you like a chicken salad sandwich?” my mother offered. She was at the kitchen counter futzing with the debris of our lunch fixings. “I'd be happy to fix one for you.”

“Grace's chicken salad is quite excellent, Mike,” Renee added with a gracious smile. “You really should sit and have a bite.”

Steele consulted his Rolex. “I'm meeting someone for tennis in just over an hour.”

“On an empty stomach?” My mother appeared horrified with motherly concern.

If it weren't so rude and obnoxious, I would have grabbed my cell phone and recorded the exchange. Clark was never going to believe it when I told him about this.

Steele appeared to be considering something for a few seconds. “Is that chicken all white meat?”

“But of course,” Mom answered. “Just the breast, grilled last night by Greg himself. And it's made with low-fat mayonnaise, not that you have to watch your physique.” I swear, my mother almost giggled.

“Well, it's true, I didn't have lunch yet. I was too busy getting those files together for Grey.”

That settled it. Fireplace or not, I was buying a poker to keep handy for Steele's next visit. I'm sure he'll give me reason to wield it at some point in the future.

Steele eyed my mother and twitched his mouth. “Would you consider it terribly rude if I said yes to the sandwich but asked for it to go?”

“This isn't Burger King, Steele,” I said, snapping like a disturbed alligator.

“Odelia,” Renee admonished, “don't be so rude to your guest.”

“Yeah, Miss Bossy Pants,” my mother chimed in. “Especially since he's your boss and all.” She turned her attention to Steele. “But of course I can make the sandwich to go.” She started pulling two slices of whole grain bread out of the package. “I'll have it ready in a jiff.”

A few minutes later I was walking Steele to the door. In one hand he held a small paper bag containing the chicken salad sandwich, an apple, and a napkin. All that was missing was a juice box and a few cookies, and he'd be ready for school.

“Are you really going to eat that sandwich?” I asked him. “Or were you just wooing the moms?”

He winked. “I really do love a good chicken salad. Reminds me of my own mother. Is Grace's any good?”

“It's actually worthy of your elevated palate.”

“Then I can't wait.”

Steele started down the walk whistling a little tune. At the curb his Porsche, a new one, waited like a loyal steed. A large sedan drove up, parking directly behind Steele's car. It was Ron Stevens. Seeing him, Steele waited. When Ron got out of the car and approached the sidewalk, Steele greeted him with an outstretched hand and a smile.

From time to time, Greg tells me that I'm too hard on Steele, that he's really a great guy under all the fancy clothes, expensive trappings, and arrogance. And I know that. Really, I do. He's not only a brilliant attorney, but much of his character is built of higher quality materials than the suit on his back and the car he drives. He's annoying, it's true. He treats women in general as objects of amusement and turns a sarcastic nose up at the ordinary things the rest of us enjoy and love. But he's as loyal as the day is long to the people he cares about. If he weren't, I wouldn't have my job at T&T, nor would I have wanted to go there in the first place. If Clark is my big annoying brother, then Steele is my younger annoying brother, even if he isn't bonded by blood.

But I'm still buying that fireplace poker.

seven

The day after the
auction, I spent the morning taking care of some household chores. Although I work from home much of the time, we still maintained a housekeeper. Her name is Cruz, and she comes once a week on Wednesdays. Because she had a houseful of company for Thanksgiving, Cruz hadn't been to the house in two weeks and it showed. I try to keep it tidy, but Cruz works magic.

“Didn't you say your cleaning lady was coming this week?”

“Yes, tomorrow morning.”

Mom was seated at the kitchen table, watching me sort through mail that had piled up on the counter in the past several days. I was discarding the trash and stacking the non-trash into specific piles.

“I don't understand why you're cleaning before she comes.”

Mom had wanted to clean the guest bathroom this morning, but I had stopped her, advising her of Cruz's pending visit. “I'm not cleaning, Mom, just tidying up. Cruz is paid to keep the house clean, not to pick up our clutter.” I had already stripped our bed and the guest bed and had thrown the sheets into the wash—something I would normally leave for Cruz to do. Nervous energy was oozing out of me like an oil leak in an old jalopy, and in spite of what I was saying to Mom, I was tempted to grab a pail and start mopping just to burn it off. “As soon as I get this done, I'm going to dig into the work Steele brought by.”

“Why do you call him Steele when everyone else calls him Mike?”

I stopped reading the junk mail in my hand. “I don't know, Mom. He calls me Grey and I call him Steele. It's always been that way between us. At work Steele calls everyone by their last name.”

“But he calls Greg by his first name.”

I sighed and set the mailer with grocery coupons to the side so I'd remember to stick it in my purse. “Greg doesn't work for him. He also calls Clark by his first name.”

“Sounds very military to me. Like he's your commander and you're the troops.”

“Uh-huh. It kind of is that way to Steele.”

“Steele.” Mom said his name carefully, as if tasting hot soup. “Steele,” she said again. “I think I'm going to call him that, too.”

I kept my head down so Mom couldn't see me roll my eyes. “Knock yourself out.”

She got up from the table. “I'm going outside to read, if you don't mind.”

“Go ahead,” I told her. “But wear a sweater. It might be warmer here than back home, but there's a chilly breeze coming in off the ocean.”

Mom retrieved her sweater from the back of a chair and her Kindle from the kitchen counter and slipped outside. Greg and I had gotten the e-reader for her last Christmas when she complained it was getting more difficult for her to read as she got older. At first she'd balked about using it, but once Clark showed her how to change the fonts to larger sizes, she took to it in no time.

After I'd moved the sheets from the washer to the dryer, I grabbed my laptop and one of the folders from the box Steele had brought over and joined Mom on the patio. By her side in another chair was Seamus, our elderly feline. Muffin was off playing explorer among our shrubs. Wainwright was with Greg at work. Seamus is wary of strangers, usually spending most of his time on our bed or snoozing in front of a window, but in the past couple of days he and Mom had become close chums. Maybe Seamus sensed that, like him, Mom was in her golden years and just as cranky about it. Last night he even slept on Mom's bed. It had been the first time he hadn't slept with us since…well, forever. Mom was reading while her right hand gently stroked the cat, only moving it to change the page on her reader. I smiled to myself. Having Mom around longer wasn't proving to be the chore I'd thought it might be.

Mom looked up. “You doing some of that work Steele brought by?”

“I should be.” As soon as I said the words, I wish I hadn't. I should have simply said yes. My fingers flew over the keyboard of my laptop as I fired up a search engine and plugged in some information. I hoped Mom wouldn't pry further, but today was not my lucky day.

“You're snooping around in Ina's mess, aren't you?”

“I'm
not
snooping, Mom. I'm simply checking out a few things, like the names and locations of the secondhand stores owned by some of the people Ina knows.”

“That Detective Fehring told you to keep your nose out of it.”

“She said no such thing.”

“What I recall her saying as we left was ‘under no circumstances are you to get involved in this, or I may have to shoot you.' In my book, that means keep your nose out of things.”

Unfortunately, my mother's hearing and memory were not aging as fast as her eyesight.

“I saw you talking with Buck Goodwin yesterday. Did he happen to mention the name of his store?”

“So you're ignoring what the lady detective said?”

When I didn't answer, Mom pursed her lips and closed her eyes as she pondered the question and its possibilities. A good thirty seconds passed before she spoke again, making me wonder if she'd nodded off. “Goodwin's Good Stuff, I think,” she finally said, keeping her eyes shut. “Or something like that.”

I put in the name
Goodwin's Good Stuff
and up popped a couple of suggested links. One was to the store itself; other links were to review sites like
About Town
, which offered consumers the opportunity to review restaurants and other businesses they frequented, letting potential customers know if it was a good deal or should be avoided.

I opened the link to the website for Buck's store. Up popped a website that looked like it had been set up using an inexpensive service with preset templates. It was uncluttered and clean, giving basic details like location and hours. The store claimed to deal in used and vintage items, including furniture, appliances, and tools. The site also welcomed phone call inquiries about specialty items, proclaiming, “Looking for something special? We'll help you find it.”

I scooted my chair over and turned my laptop so Mom could see the website while I hit the print button and sent the page to our wireless printer.

Next I checked out the
About Town
reviews for Goodwin's Good Stuff. There were just a handful, almost all very favorable, citing excellent customer service and help in locating specialty items. One man had been looking for a specific hood ornament for a vintage car, and Buck had located it for him. Other reviews commented on the nice selection of items in the store and the convenient parking. There was a photo of the storefront on the website. Like the website, it appeared basic and uncluttered. It was located in a strip mall in Torrance.

“Look at that.” Mom was pointing to one of the reviews, the last one. Unlike the others, it had given Buck's store a bad review, saying the owner was surly and the store dirty and filled with broken junk. The review had been left by someone named Bob Y from Los Angeles. Unlike most of the reviewers on About Town, Bob Y did not use his photo but instead posted a cartoon of a goofy kid as his profile pic. I clicked the link to his profile and found it to be bare-bones. The profile did show, however, that he'd posted over twenty reviews and had given almost all of them one to three stars; only two had been given a four- or five-star rating. Based on the reviews posted on his profile, it looked like Bob Y frequented secondhand and consignment shops, along with Southern California–based food trucks. Food trucks had received the coveted four- and five-star ratings.

I scanned the list of reviews and saw that Bob Y had also reviewed Second to None, Tom and Ina's shop in Culver City. Like Buck's shop, Bob Y had found Second to None way under par, calling it a “rusty junk heap with rabid owners.” Greg and I had
visited
Second to None once, and it was hardly a junk heap. I'd found a lovely side table that proudly sits in our living room and an antique dresser for the guest bedroom. Tom and Ina may have been “rabid” from time to time, but they'd kept the shop orderly and well stocked. It was a vocation they'd stumbled upon and discovered it suited them.

I clicked over to see other reviews of Second to None. There were some four-star reviews, but none with five stars. Several gave the store two and three stars, with most citing surly customer service for the lower ranking but liking the store in general. One went so far as to say, “Have the chick wait on you. She's the nice one.” Only Bob Y had given Second to None the lowest ranking of one star.

“Does Ina's store have a website?” Mom asked. I was moving slower than normal through the information because she wanted to read it along with me.

“Yes, it does.” I found the website. Unlike Buck's, the website for Second to None was custom. I knew that because Greg had designed it for them and had showed them how to maintain it. It was clean and uncluttered, containing photos of the shop inside and out, including all the pertinent information like address and hours. According to the website, Second to None boasted vintage furniture in addition to used household goods. I could vouch for that. Besides the two items I'd purchased, there had been a small but nice collection of gorgeous pieces in the store when we visited. Ina told me that most of their antiques came from estate sales in nearby Beverly Hills and Brentwood. She would have liked to expand that part of their store, but they could not afford to buy many pieces at a time. With their store very close to Sony Studios and not far from the Fox lot, they'd also built up a clientele that collected movie and TV memorabilia, which lately had become Tom's passion. Those items were usually smaller than furniture and were easier to store and sell.

“You done reading?” I asked Mom.

When she nodded, I went back to Bob Y's profile and checked out some of the other stores, hoping to find one connected to Mazie Moore. I remembered Buck saying she had several locations, but I had no idea what they might be called. I was hoping, like Buck, she used her own name in the store's name. A store among Bob Y's reviews caught my eye. It was called Otra Vez. Like Buck's and Ina's stores, it had received a bad review and even an ugly racist comment saying the proprietor could “make more money running drugs like the rest of his kind.”

Following the links, I found the official website for Otra Vez, which I knew meant “again” in Spanish. The website was very basic, like Buck's, but was in both English and Spanish. It was located in Lynwood right off the 105 Freeway. Besides the usual photo of the storefront, there was also a photo of a smiling family—a middle-aged mom and dad, a couple of younger adults, and two small children—all waving to the camera. The caption under the photo read in both languages:
The Vasquez family welcomes you.

Vasquez. It sounded familiar. I searched my memory until a mental flash of a man being led away in handcuffs appeared, followed by another man yelling in Spanish into a phone. Vasquez. Roberto Vasquez. He'd been at the auction, and his nephew had been led away as an illegal. I looked again at the photo. The nephew was not in the picture.

Mom poked a finger at the family photo. “Wasn't that man at the auction? Was he the one the police took away?”

“Yes. That's Roberto Vasquez. But it was his nephew who was arrested for being undocumented.”

My attention went back to the About Town reviews. The reviews had been done by a Bob Y—Bobby? Could it be Roberto Vasquez was trashing his competition? He could have given his own business a bad review to put people off the scent, but it seemed counterproductive. I stored the possibility in the back of my mind for later consideration.

I continued going through the remaining secondhand store reviews by Bob Y, flipping back and forth between the reviews and searching for websites to the stores. In the few left, none appeared to be owned by Mazie Moore.

“Those shops have such cute names,” Mom observed. “It used to be stores like that were just called Used Furniture or Thrift Store.”

“Guess it's all about marketing these days and appearing to have better-quality merchandise.”

A search of Mazie's name on Google did bring up several mentions of a store called Ladybug Vintage. A quick click and I was looking at a charming website for a store specializing in “gently used clothing, furniture, and gift items.” A link at the top led me to Ladybug's locations. There were two: one in Pico Rivera and another in Inglewood, just as Buck had said. There was also an announcement of a third store coming soon to the Baldwin Hills district of Los Angeles.

Somehow Bob Y had missed Ladybug Vintage, or maybe he just hadn't gotten there yet. I looked again at his review page.

“Why do you keep going back to that guy's nasty reviews?” Mom asked with keen interest.

“I want to see how long ago his reviews were posted.”

“You mean it might be a clue?” She leaned closer.

I laughed silently at her enthusiasm. “Who knows, but I want to see if his attacks on these stores are recent or a phase he was going through.”

Going down the list of reviews, both for the stores and the food trucks, it looked like Bob Y had only recently started reviewing. All were posted within the past four months. Not a single review of any kind was posted prior to that, not even for a food truck.

Mom noticed that, too. “Does that mean he's a fake?”

“Not necessarily. He could have just recently started posting reviews, but it does seem suspicious that he only posts reviews for secondhand stores and food trucks.”

“We always called those ‘roach coaches.' You saw them around factories and places like that where there was no place for employees to go for lunch. They weren't exactly known for food that was good, just quick and filling.”

“They're big business now, Mom. And they serve up not only good food but great food.”

Looking at the list of reviewed food trucks, I saw that Bob Y had left a couple for one food truck in particular, adding a running commentary to his initial review. It looked like he frequented this truck often. It was called Comfort Foodies. The menu on the website for Comfort Foodies showed a mixture of traditional comfort food with a trendy spin. The truck was operated by a family—a mother and her two sons—and served up fancy burgers and sandwiches along with new twists on comfort food, like fried mac and cheese, a meatloaf and mashed potato wrap, apple pie ice cream, and something called Not Your Mother's Chicken Soup.