Monkey Wrench (5 page)

She reached into a tote bag behind her desk and handed me a stack of Quilters Crawl maps. I opened one of them.

“Thanks for helping us this year with the map. I really like the new design,” I said. “You did a great job.”

I pointed at the logo she’d designed. It was a convertible, speeding down the highway, filled with three attractive women and a grinning sea otter.

“I liked that you gave us some quilters with attitude. Those women look more like my customers. My crowd doesn’t relate to the stereotype of the pudgy, gray-haired quilter. It turns them off. They don’t recognize themselves.”

Sonya shrugged. “I just tried to imagine what kind of women would drive hundreds of miles to twelve shops in one weekend. Someone fun, obviously.”

“Are you a quilter?” I asked.

Sonya shook her head. “I’d never set foot in a quilt shop before I did the brochure. I’m interested, though.”

“Are you an artist?” I asked, kicking myself as it came out. Of course she was. She taught art for a living. “What’s your medium?” I said, trying to recover.

She smiled. “In a perfect world, oils. I’m fascinated by the old Italian masters. Some day I’m going to go to Florence. In the meantime, I supplement my income with graphic design jobs and web design. I did that work for the Quilters Crawl to try and find more work.”

Surprise must have shown on my face. She flipped her hair back, gathering the long locks in one hand and shifting her entire body to accommodate. “You wouldn’t believe how little money I make. The schools only hire part-timers, so that they don’t have to put out for pensions and benefits. In addition to State, I teach classes at Mission, Foothill, and DeAnza.”

Those schools were all over the map. Fremont, Cupertino, Los Altos. Literally.

“Yikes, that’s a lot of driving.”

“Like your shop hop,” Sonya said. “Only I do it every week.”

Talk of driving brought me back to the Crawl. “Let me have another hundred maps,” I said. “I’ll bring them to Freddy Roman’s.”

I took the second pile from her awkwardly, adding them to the ones already in my hand.

“You’ll need something to carry them in,” Sonya said. She dumped the rest of the maps out and handed the tote bag to me. “Here, use this.”

The bag was canvas, like the kind readily available at the craft stores for a few dollars. But it was no longer the boring beige generic canvas. Every inch of it had been decorated. Brightly colored swirls, paisleys, flowers made the bag look like it was made from wonderful fabric.

“Your handiwork?” I asked.

Sonya nodded. “I was doodling, testing out some fabric pens.”

Some doodles. My most careful drawings didn’t look as good. “I’d love to know which ones you use. I’d like to carry them in my store, but am never sure which ones to order. I don’t want to disappoint my customers.”

Sonya reached into a mug on the desk and handed me a pen. “I love this brand. Take it.”

So many gifts. She was the generous sort. “Well, thank you. I hope you can come by during the Crawl. We’re giving away some great stuff.”

“I’ll do that,” she said.

———

Once home, I took a shower, changed into my softest pajamas, and crawled into bed. It was only nine o’clock but my body craved my pillow and quilt. A good night’s sleep meant I could get up early and get a head start on my busy day.

Comfort didn’t come. The weight of the quilt felt stifling and the pillow wouldn’t fit the contours of my body. The pj pants rode up uncomfortably. I was too hot.

I sat up, pushing aside the covers and leaning against the headboard.

The real problem was I couldn’t shut my brain down. Worry about what was going on downtown popped up like an unwelcome instant message.

I checked my phone. Nothing from Vangie.

I grabbed the laptop to see if the demonstration was still going on. The local news station had live coverage. The reporter was standing near the Fairmont Hotel.

“Now students from other schools have joined the State kids in the protest of the drug bust on campus today. The police will not tell us how many people have gathered, but I would guess there’s at least fifteen hundred kids filling the Cesar de Chavez park and the streets beyond.”

The camera panned to the crowd. People leapt in front of the lens, throwing up horns and waggling their fingers like they were at a punk rock concert. I couldn’t see Wyatt or Vangie from that vantage point.

The news report switched over to a fire in an apartment building in Sunnyvale.

I flipped to other sites, but found nothing. News about the drug bust was sketchy. One place mentioned only that it had happened, with no details.

Buster’s ring tone broke through my concentration.

I grabbed the phone off the nightstand. “Hey, you,” I said.

“Hi yourself,” Buster said, his voice low and tired. “Sorry I missed dinner,” he said. “How’d your day go?”

My shoulders dropped. I closed the laptop and hugged my pillow. The sound of Buster’s voice seeped into my pores and relaxed every part of me. I would be able to go to sleep after I talked to him.

“Quiet,” I lied. There would be time to fill him in tomorrow. I wanted to know only one thing. “Are you finished work? Coming home soon?” I let the questions pour out of me, unedited.

I wanted him home. I didn’t care if Buster was too tired to talk or anything else. I just wanted my arms around him, to feel him sleeping next to me. Wake up with him. It’d been too long.

“Not yet,” he said.

My hand jerked, knocking my laptop to the floor. Dang it. My own fault. I’d let my hopes soar for a moment. I reached over and pulled it back into my lap.

Buster said, “We’ve got a lot of people still to process. As usual, we do the grunt work, the FBI and DEA get all the glory. They’re off giving press conferences and reporting to the governor. We’re stuck here doing input,” Buster said.

I made commiserating noises. Buster must be so tired.

Buster continued, “I’ll be here for hours. I’ll probably go to my place and crash.”

That stabbed my heart. Even if I didn’t get to see him, I’d rather he was in my bed alone than in his.

My voice thickened. “Try to come here. I don’t care how late it is. Truly, I don’t. Wake me up when you come in.”

He agreed.

I didn’t want him to hang up. “Was it a good bust?”

Buster’s voice strengthened. “Ridiculous good. We got some bad dudes off the street. Caught at least thirty low-level drug runners and several higher up.”

“Any really big fish?”

“Not yet, but these guys will lead us to the fellows at the top sooner or later. In the meantime, it just got a lot harder to score drugs on the San Jose State campus.”

“Did you hear about the protests?” I asked.

“Sure did. Makes me think we were on the right track.”

“Vangie’s one of the demonstrators.”

“Really? How do you know?”

Oops. “I was there, too. Since nobody was around tonight, I decided to walk to the quilt museum for First Friday. I walked right into a mess.”

Buster was a cop, a protector. He knew he couldn’t shield me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t struggle with his impulses. “Did you get out okay?”

“I did.” I got out of the spotlight in the quickest way I knew how. “Turns out Vangie’s friend was the one leading the demonstration. Wyatt got on Twitter and called for the students to protest the drug bust. Down with the pigs and all that. I got out of there before it got too crazy.”

“I’m glad. Is Vangie still there?”

“As far as I know.” I pushed him. “Buster, what if she gets herself arrested?”

“Don’t worry. No one was booked. The uniforms pulled a few kids into their cars, but mostly to shake up the group, make them lose momentum.”

That didn’t soothe me much. “But what if Vangie is caught around drugs?”

“She’s a grownup, Dew. She knows the consequences. She’ll be careful.”

I wished I was as sure as he was.

I heard someone calling, “Healy, you’re up.”

“Gotta go,” he said. “I love you bunches. You get a good night’s sleep cause as soon as this is over, I’m going to …”

His promise trailed off and I heard male voices getting closer.

“You’re going to what?” I said, lightly. Buster would never be inappropriate at work, but I liked to test his resolve. “Would you please be more specific?”

“Can’t. I will say this. I won’t fall asleep this time. ”

I giggled and hung up.

I leaned back against the pillow. Buster was right. I had to let Vangie make her own mistakes. She’d be fine.

Five

My phone rang. I
pulled myself out of a deep sleep. I knew the ring, but could only think that it wasn’t Buster’s. I flung a hand on his sheets. Cold and empty. He was still working. I tried to open my eyes but succeeded only partway. They felt glued shut.

I unlocked the phone and muttered something. My mouth didn’t want to open wide enough to actually utter a coherent sound.

The person on the other end was having trouble speaking too. I heard guttural noises but nothing I could make sense of.

“What?” I said. “Who is this?” I pulled the phone away but my eyes wouldn’t focus on the name on the screen. I put it back to my ear.

“Dewey,” I heard. My throat closed up. This was not a random wrong number or drunk dial. That was Vangie’s ring.

“Dewey, I need some help.” The voice got a little stronger.

I turned on a light.

“Vang …” I said loudly. “Are you okay?”

“Can you come here?” she asked, her voice so low and icy cold, I shivered and pulled the covers up higher. The sick to my stomach feeling doubled. I rubbed my belly to soothe myself.

“Where are you, Vang? What’s going on?”

“My car … Wyatt …”

“Did you have an accident? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. But I need you to come. We’re … I’m at Tenth and St. James Street. You’ll see my car.”

“Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

I tossed on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt over my tank top. My fingers hovered over the keyboard of my phone, starting to text Buster to tell him where I was going. But if I told him, and Vangie’s trouble was drugs, he would have no choice but to report her.

He wasn’t going to be home tonight. He’d never know.

I grabbed an antacid on the way through the kitchen. I knew the pit in my stomach had no physical reason but I needed relief.

———

Vangie was sitting on the curb, her head hung low. Her face was hidden by her curls. She didn’t look up. Her car, a fifteen-year-old Chevy Caprice was parked in front of her, the passenger door open, the interior light on. I pulled in behind her.

I approached from the street side and looked inside the car. The keys, dangling from the ignition, caught the streetlight.

Wyatt was slumped in the passenger seat, his dreads spread across the headrest. He wasn’t moving.

I ran to Vangie, grabbing her chin, making her look at me. Her face was wet. She wasn’t crying now.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyes fluttered shut. I squeezed and she looked at me, squinting as if it hurt to fully open her eyes. Her voice was hoarse. “I’m fine. I didn’t know what to do, Dewey. He’s not answering me. Is he …?”

Her shoulders heaved. She twisted away from me, and picked at the wet grass on her shoes.

I looked back at the car. Wyatt was not moving. My stomach flopped. This was not good. But I was as worried about Vangie as I was about Wyatt. She seemed out of it.

“Vangie, talk to me.” I remembered the smell of marijuana at the rally earlier. “Have you taken anything?”

She snapped her head up. “No. You know better. I don’t do drugs.”

Vangie stood, shaking off her lethargy. She started toward the car. I followed her.

We were in a quiet residential neighborhood. The night was clear and our voices seemed to carry. I looked around to see if anyone had woken up. No lights were on anywhere except for a porch light on a small house across the street. Wind chimes dangled from the cross post and tinkled in the light breeze.

I couldn’t have been more than ten when my grandmother Pellicano had told me to hang wind chimes on the porch to keep my man from roaming. My mother had laughed when I’d asked for a set. She assured me my father wasn’t going anywhere. She’d been right. She was the one who left too soon.

Vangie paced.

I heard nothing from Wyatt. “Did he take something? Has he been sick? Does he have allergies?”

He’d looked like a healthy kid a few hours ago, but that didn’t mean much.

Vangie moaned, “No. I don’t know. I was driving him home. He was having trouble breathing. He threw up on himself, and …”

Her trunk twisted as if reenacting what Wyatt had been through.

“I tried to save him, but I didn’t know what was going on, and then he was gone. Like that.”

I realized I’d not been hearing what I expected—sirens. “Vangie, did you call 911?”

She shook her head sheepishly. “My phone is out of juice now.”

“Take mine.”

I watched to make sure she called, then went to Wyatt. I reached in to feel for a pulse but couldn’t find one. His body was warm but he was so very still. His chest wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t feel any breath.

I felt completely inadequate. I didn’t know CPR. If Wyatt
was
alive, there wasn’t anything I could do to save him.

He didn’t seem alive to me, though.

I couldn’t see any blood, although I knew that blood could have soaked into the black upholstery and I wouldn’t be able to see it. At least from the front, he didn’t have any knife or gunshot wounds.

He might have died of natural causes, but there was nothing natural about dying in the front seat of Vangie’s car.

Wyatt had been in the midst of a huge crowd the last time I’d seen him. Now he was alone and dead. What had happened between now and then?

I grabbed a picnic quilt from the trunk of my car and wrapped it around Vangie, pushing her until she was seated again. She clutched at the quilt and I realized she recognized it was one my mother had made. The pink flowers had long ago faded to soft white. It was limp from repeated washings.

Vangie’s other hand picked at a zit on her cheek.

What had she and Wyatt been doing since I saw them? I peeled away her fingers to stop the mutilation of her face. “Is there something you want to tell me?” I asked.

Vangie shook her head but I couldn’t tell if it was voluntary or not.

The siren noise grew closer and Vangie closed her eyes and rocked on the curb. I put my arm around her. Once the police were here, I’d lose her. She’d be taken downtown and questioned. For hours.

Vangie’s long brown lashes were wet with tears. I needed her to wake up and clue me in.

“Vangie,” I said, keeping my voice low but finding a serious tone. I sat down next to her. “The cops will be here any minute. Is there something you want to tell me? I promise I won’t tell Buster or anyone else if you don’t want me to.”

Vangie’s head slumped farther. I squeezed her upper arm. She brought her eyes to mine but still no sound came out of her mouth. Her hands dangled by her knees. She was in the perfect position to puke. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. I felt my own stomach roiling.

A siren squealed, getting closer until it was cut off in mid-scream. I felt Vangie shudder as a black and white slewed around the corner. A uniformed cop got out of the car and approached us, keeping one hand on his belt near his gun. From our vantage point on the curb, he looked improbably tall and lean.

Suddenly, Vangie pressed something into my hand. Small and round. I looked down. It was a prescription bottle. I squinted at it.

“It’s Pearl’s prescription,” Vangie said. “Take it to her.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but the cop spoke first.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. He stood at an angle to us, taking in the street, the car and the nearby yards. His eyes didn’t rest. I didn’t like the feeling of being small and started to rise. His fingers tapped the handle of his gun. “Stay seated, please. Put your hands on your knees.”

I complied. No sense making this cop nervous. I closed my fist tight.

Since Vangie wasn’t talking, I said, “My friend found her boyfriend in her car. He seems to be dead.”

The cop shone his flashlight inside. “How did this happen?”

I looked at Vangie. She nodded. Her voice was rusty at first and she had to stop twice to clear her throat. “I was driving him home, and he had a seizure or something …” she dissolved in tears. Her dark curls spilled over her cheeks, hiding her face.

The officer reached in and pressed his fingers against the boy’s throat.

“Were you drinking?”

Vangie shook her head without removing her hands. I couldn’t blame her. If my boyfriend was lying dead … I shook off that thought. Buster was in danger all the time. I usually managed not to imagine scenarios like this.

But sometimes in the middle of the night, I couldn’t help it.

I hugged Vangie close. She leaned against my shoulder. While my body was hidden, I shoved the pills into my pocket. A second police car rolled to a stop and a woman, looking stuffed into her shirt, got out. She was short, even with thick-soled boots on. I couldn’t tell if she was heavyset or if her equipment made her look like a Weeble.

The officer acknowledged the new arrival with a curt nod. She barely glanced in our direction. She waved her flashlight around the car, the light strobing. I turned away so I wouldn’t see Wyatt’s head illuminated again.

“ID, please,” the first officer said.

Vangie and I pulled out our driver’s licenses and he jotted down
our names and addresses.

“Were you two together?” he asked.

I returned my arm to Vangie’s shoulder. She felt so thin and vulnerable. “No. I just got here. Vangie called me. My boyfriend is on the force. Ben Healy.”

He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Don’t know him.”

So much for goodwill between fellow officers. The thin blue line was very skinny around here. These were patrol officers. There was no reason they would know Buster, who’d only been on patrol a short time before being moved to Homicide and now the Drug Task Force. His attitude made it clear that there would be no special treatment tonight.

“Ma’am.” The officer addressed Vangie loudly, leaning down. “I’m going to need you to stand up and answer my questions,” he said.

“She’s upset,” I said. “Her friend died in her car. Can’t you cut her some slack?”

He ignored me. Something about Vangie’s demeanor had awakened
his suspicions. Vangie stood.

“Are you on anything, miss?” He let his flashlight play over Vangie’s face.

I caught my breath, hoping her eyes weren’t dilated. Hoping she hadn’t taken anything.

The officer seemed to be satisfied with what he saw—or didn’t see—in Vangie. I felt my shoulders come down a notch.

“Is there anyone else in the car?”

Vangie shrugged. “No.”

The officer returned his pad to his pocket. “I’m going to need to search your car, ma’am. Do I have your permission?”

Vangie gulped. She wouldn’t look at me. I held my breath as Vangie fought with herself. I was glad now she’d given me Pearl’s prescription earlier. She wouldn’t have been able to explain to the cops that Pearl was her seventy-four-year-old friend.

She nodded. The cop opened the trunk, letting his light play over the contents. “Clear,” he said to the policewoman. “Don’t disturb anything but make sure there’s no one in the back seat.”

I squeezed Vangie’s hand.

The ambulance arrived. Two attendants jumped out and hurried to Wyatt. They pulled him out of the car and onto the ground.

The taller one strode over to the patrol officer “Why didn’t you just call the ME? This guy’s been dead for a while.”

I didn’t listen for the officer’s answer. He was covering his ass. I grabbed Vangie.

“Vangie, how long have you been out here?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was scared, Dewey.”

They bundled Wyatt into the back of the ambulance and took off.

The silence they left behind filled the space. Now there were lights in the houses around us. Several people in robes and slippers gathered on a front lawn, watching.

“Ladies, I’d like you to come to the station. My sergeant will want a word with you.”

Vangie pressed against me and I pulled the quilt closer and tucked in around her armpits. I felt the cold curb against my
thighs and was glad I’d worn a sweatshirt.

_____

Once at the police station, Vangie and I were separated. I’d known that would happen, but when the officers indicated we should move apart, Vangie clung to me. I patted her between her shoulder blades.

I put my finger on her lips and caught her gaze. I held her eyes so she understood the seriousness of my next sentence. We didn’t know how Wyatt died. Even if Vangie wasn’t involved—and I prayed that she wasn’t—his manner of death might lead to the cops suspecting her of murder. I couldn’t have her contributing to their case.

“Tell the truth, Vang. You’ve got a right to a lawyer. Let them get you one.”

She nodded. The policewoman grasped her elbow and started to steer her down the hall.

She got smaller and smaller and I wondered if she would make it through the night.

_____

I was sent home around eight. I intended to shower quickly but I lingered, finding it impossible to leave the warm flow of water. It was a half hour before I felt human again.

Out of the shower, worry about Vangie wouldn’t quit. What did Vangie know about this Wyatt? I racked my brain for the first time she mentioned him. She’d met him during orientation a few weeks ago. Or was it in her summer school class?

I couldn’t remember. Was he the real reason she got too busy to help at the store and with the Crawl?

I didn’t want to go to work yet. I needed someone to talk about what had just happened. Buster was still at work. And Vangie? I couldn’t talk to her.

I grabbed a banana and a cup of coffee, the tote bag of Quilters Crawl maps and headed to Freddy’s.

Freddy’s store opened an hour earlier than mine, at nine. I had to be back by ten to open QP.

I’d given Jenn the week off, and Ursula was working four hours a day this week. During the Crawl, they’d both work ten hours straight. I couldn’t afford to pay overtime, so I’d shortened their hours beforehand. It would be all hands on deck during the Crawl.

Once I crossed the threshold of Roman’s Sewing Machines, a ding,
sounding a lot like my parents’ doorbell, let Freddy’s employees know someone had entered.

Like Robert Palmer, Freddy liked to hire a type. His sales force was made up of two women, both taller than he was, with broad shoulders and over-arched eyebrows. Rebekah was blond, with clear blue eyes and a Swedish heritage. She looked like she could ski for miles. While carrying a shotgun. Inez was German, with tight curls and a tight mouth to match. They dressed alike, black skirts with black vests and white shirts with low pumps. Both had worked for years for other dealers in the area.