No Gun Intended (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

I saw Nancy outside before I got in the car. When I asked her if Phillip would be returning to Portland from Miami sooner than planned, since Claudia was awake, she said he was rearranging his schedule and would be in Portland later or the next morning. I also said it was smart for her to go back to the hotel.

She looked at me suspiciously. “Why do you say that?”

“To be perfectly frank,” I lied, “you look completely worn out. I'm just hoping you'll be able to get some solid sleep.” I plastered what I hoped was a caring smile on my face. I couldn't believe this woman was going to leave her daughter's bedside at this point.

“Well, that's very nice of you,” she too-sweetly responded, “but don't you worry about me. And don't bother Claudia anymore. I don't want her stress to compound while she's in the hospital. We need to give her some time to regain her strength.”

“I'm sure you're right. She's lucky to have you in her corner,” I lied again. “By the way, I think you know all about Greta from the Uptown Billiards Club. The working theory is that it was her gun that was on its way to Claudia, and it was her gun that murdered her ex-boyfriend.”

“Yes, yes, the police have told me.”

“Well, I want to make sure you understand that your daughter could still be in danger.”

“Well, of course I understand that!” She fumbled with her car keys. “I really must go now.” She rushed off.

After we got in the car I told Mickey and Mom what Claudia had said to me. I also told them about my conversation with Nancy.

Mickey sighed and rubbed his face.

“What, Mickey?”

“Nothing. Just too much information, maybe. You don't know that the police already told her all of that about Greta. It's better to keep the information we have to ourselves until we know more.”

“I think she knew, Mickey.” But I wasn't sure. Mickey was right. Me and my big mouth again.

Mom drove while Mickey called Luis from the car to let him know about Claudia and to find out if there was any progress made on Wesley Young and his friend Ricky. Apparently there was, based on the amount of time Mickey was silent, listening to Luis. We were exiting the parking lot when Mickey hung up.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Luis called your friend Perry at that bar, the Rowdy something?”

“Yeats.”

“Right. Clint meets William Butler. Anyway, he asked him about Ricky, gave a description, told him it was in relation to Hank Howard. Perry seems to think he's seen Ricky around, so your Dad and Luis are on their way over there to show him Ricky's picture.”

“We have Ricky's picture?” Mom asked.

“Luis found him on Facebook. Printed his photo.”

“Are you sure he didn't find the wrong Ricky Martin?”

Mickey chuckled. “Yeah. This Ricky is twenty-four years old and lives in Seattle. And he's friends with someone who's friends with Claudia.”

“Let's go to The Rowdy Yeats. I like Perry, and I feel like playing pool again.”

“If it's okay with Sylvia, it's okay with me, Fats.”

“Don't call me that ever again.”

***

Dad and Luis were already at the bar when we arrived, beers in hand. Perry was peering at the photo of Ricky. He looked up when we approached. “Just heard about your trouble at the hospital. Glad you're okay.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Beers?”

Mom nodded. Mickey held up three fingers.

“Oh, Perry, this is Mickey Paxton. He's partners with me and Luis.”

Perry held his hand out across the bar and Mickey shook it.

“And this is my mother, Sylvia Starkey.”

Perry shook her hand, too. “Pleasure.”

“All mine, Perry.”

Introductions made and beers supplied, Perry focused on the picture again. “I'm pretty sure this is the guy I saw in here a week or two ago, and he definitely was with another guy. You're thinking it could have been this Wesley Young dude?”

Every time someone said Wesley Young's name I thought about Wesley Snipes, the actor. I mean, how many Wesleys can one know about in one lifetime? And whenever I flashed on Wesley Snipes, I thought about the movie
Brooklyn's Finest,
when he played a bad guy trying to be good, and I had to stop myself from imagining that our Wesley was in the same predicament.

Luis asked Perry if he could describe Wesley, and if he could remember anything the two friends talked about when they were at the bar. Perry leaned against the back counter. “I can tell you this. The other guy, not Ricky, was nervous. Slugged down three shots of tequila in short order. Was fidgety. They didn't stay long.” Perry looked at the floor for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “They paid with a credit card. You want the number? I can find the receipt.”

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” said Luis. Mom followed with, “Now we're fucking getting somewhere.”

That made Perry do a double take, but he went in the back room to find the receipt.

No one was playing pool, so I slid quarters into the table slot, chalking my cue stick while the balls rolled into view. I set them up in the triangle and positioned the cue ball to break.

Kablam.

Damn, I love that sound.

The ten-ball dropped in the far corner, while the fourteen fell in a side pocket. “Whoo hoo! I'm stripes! Who wants solids?”

Dad, Mom, Luis, and Mickey were all on stools, backs to the bar, beer bottles in hand, watching me. Mickey leaned over and said to Dad, “Tough kid you've got there.” They clinked bottles. Dad was about to stand up to play, but Mom beat him to it. “Who do you think taught her?” She winked at Mickey.

Yup. I was screwed. Mom is the real shark in the family.

She picked out a cue stick just as Perry came tearing out of the back room. “Outside!” he yelled.

“You want us to leave?” Mickey stood up and faced him.

“Look outside!”

We all rushed to the window. “See that guy, across the street? He's the one who was in here with Ricky!”

I was out of the door in a flash, with Mickey and Luis close behind me. I heard Dad say, “No, Sylvia, let them do this. You stay here with me.”

Wesley—at least we hoped it was Wesley—saw us tearing down the sidewalk at him, and he did what any sane person would do in that situation. He ran.

My feet didn't hurt so much anymore, and I had on my running shoes instead of my new cowboy boots, so I was gaining on him, ahead of my
compadres
.

I finally got close enough to take him down.

With my pool stick.

I tossed it like a javelin—I guess, though I've never thrown a javelin in my life—and its point hit him in the small of his back. It wasn't hard, but it surprised him and he lost his balance and fell. I pulled up next to him, panting, and Mickey grabbed him when he started to clamber to his feet.

“Are you Snipes?” I yelled at him.

Mickey and Luis looked confused.

Wesley did, too. “What? No! I'm Wesley Young!”

“Right. That's what I meant.”

Mickey shook his head and he and Luis led Wesley back to The Rowdy Yeats. I picked up my pool cue, dusted it off against my jeans, and blew on its tip, for good luck.

***

“Please don't call the police, please!” Wesley begged us. We were all gathered in the back room at The Rowdy Yeats, courtesy of Perry, who remained at the bar, serving his customers and probably trying to act like it was a normal to have a pile of detectives and parents and a wanted man hashing it out on one's premises. We had gone over everything with Wesley, including Ricky getting shot and about me being kidnapped. He had not been cooperating.

“Maybe we won't call the police,” said Mickey, straddling a chair and looking so macho and cool that I was having a hard time taking my eyes off of him. “That will all depend on the answers you give us. Stalling will only increase our desire to bring the police in on this. So, shall we start over?”

Wesley nodded reluctantly.

“Okay, then. Did you kill Howard Hanks?”

“NO! I don't even know someone by that name!”

“How about Hank Howard?” I asked.

“No!”

“Next question,” Mickey continued. “Do you know Loren Scranton?”

“No.”

“What about Greta and Julius at the Uptown Billiards Club?”

Pause. “I've been there.”

“And?”

“That's all. I went with Ricky. Drinks and pool. He might know them. I think he goes there a lot.”

“Why were you afraid to visit Claudia last night?” I was tossing the pool cue back and forth between my hands.

“What? I wasn't afraid. I've been seeing her every night!”

“Ricky said he checked up on her because you asked him to.”

Pause. “No shit. Wow. I didn't send him. I told him I was careful when I visited. I didn't want to be there when her mother and father were around. They don't like me.”

“I should say not. You hit their daughter.”

Wesley started to spring out of his chair but Luis was standing behind him and pushed him back down. “I never hit Claudia! Ever! Mrs. Bigelow is crazy and she's making Claudia crazy.”

“Well, they say you punched her, and I suppose she was exhibiting some evidence to that effect.”

Wesley looked bewildered and panicky. “When? She never told me she was hit.”

“The Bigelows say you hit her.”

“I DIDN'T!”

Mickey took over. “How did you find out she had been mugged and was in a coma? Did you follow her there?”

Pause. “Okay. I did know she was going to the garden. She posted a picture of it on Instagram. I texted her that I'd find her there, but she told me not to come and that she'd meet me later. I decided to go there anyway to make sure she was all right, because she'd been acting all jumpy the last few days. When I got there the ambulance had already arrived. I saw them putting her in the back.”

“That's pretty lame, Wesley,” Mom jeered. I don't think anyone here believes you.”

I thought,
Well, I sort of do believe him, and are my parents really partners in Asta Investigations now, or should I suggest that they leave?

“Why did Claudia need a gun?” Luis asked.

“I didn't know she needed a gun. Honestly, like I said, she had been acting a little cagey, that's why I showed up at the garden. She didn't tell me anything about a gun.” Wesley turned his head around to Mom. “I'm not lying, ma'am.”

I walked to his side to block his view of my mother. “Had you planned to get together in Portland? You both were meeting in secret, away from Seattle?”

“Yes. Like I said, her parents don't like me.”

“One more question.” I squatted down next to him, the pool cue upright on the floor providing a prop for balance. “Why would someone shoot Ricky? Who would shoot Ricky? Do you think whoever it was thought Ricky was you?”

“That's three questions.”

Luis flicked Wesley's head. “Watch it,
idiota
. Answer the
senorita
.”

“I don't know, any of it.”

Mickey stood up. “We have to call the police, Wesley. They're investigating Claudia's attack, and they've been looking for you. If it makes a difference, I believe you.”

“You
do
?” Mom was incredulous. “I think this kid is a lying loser!”

I held my finger to my lips to quiet her and was about to say something when Wesley cut me off. “About Ricky.” We waited. “You told me about being kidnapped?” I nodded. “He drives a van sometimes.”

“Dark green?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“He's a good pal of yours, this Ricky?” Dad ventured.

Wesley shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“That's the smartest thing you've said all afternoon,” commented Mom, while Mickey pulled out his phone to call the police.

Chapter Twenty-five

“Mickey, what are we going to do about my parents?” I was sitting with him on the back porch, speaking quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't want them to be our partners.”

He laughed. “I think Jeff is involved mostly to look after Sylvia, who seems very invested in solving everything as fast as possible. But I doubt they want to start up the West Coast office of Asta Investigations.”

“Oh, don't even joke about that!”

“It will all be over soon. Wesley's with the police, maybe they'll find the van since Ricky's still in the hospital. He'll have to come clean, I think, since Wesley basically ratted him out. It must have been Ricky who was with Julius.”

I shrugged. “Seems like the most likely explanation, though I didn't recognize him when he came to the hospital room. But he ran out of there so fast. Actually, I didn't get a good look at him when I kicked him in the face at the back of the van, either.”

He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “I've always said you have great legs. Look, we still don't know why Claudia wanted that gun, but I bet the police can get more information out of both Ricky and Wesley, and even Claudia. She's young. She'll get scared and spill the beans.”

I didn't respond.

“Babe?”

“Claudia wants to spill the beans to me. I want to go back to the hospital tonight.”

“Okay. Luis and I will go with you.”

I pulled away from him. “No, Mickey. She was clear. She wants to talk to me alone. She'll clam up if you guys are there. This is a girl thing.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yup, I think I do. For some reason she thinks she can trust me, and it's probably because I agreed to meet her, and because I'm female. Look, we can handle this like before, only this time both you and Luis will be outside in the car. That way you can keep an eye out for any other visitors while I'm inside.”

“Okay.”

“I just have one other condition.”

He brushed the hair from my face and kissed my cheek. “Mmm. What.”

“You don't bring Mom or Dad with you.”

He kissed my other cheek. “Deal.”

We went inside. Luis was on the front porch talking to Ruby. Mom and Dad had gone over to Sal and Drew's. “How shall we kill some time?” Mickey's eyes twinkled.

I faked a yawn. “Damn, I'm super tired. Nap?”

We raced each other up the stairs.

***

After Mickey and I, um, “woke up,” we found Luis and Mom and Dad gathered around the coffee table, perusing some more restaurant supply catalogs. Luis was pointing to a picture, saying, “I like this one very much.”

The things you find out about people. Luis? An interior decorator?

I nudged him over on the couch and took a look.

It wasn't a restaurant supply catalog after all.

It was a handgun catalog, and he was pointing at a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, clearly identified in bold type.

“What the hell!” I bolted upright, darting my eyes from my mother to my father and back again.

“Easy, muffinhead. We're just investigating, learning a little about firearms. Maybe for home protection. Maybe for the bakery.”

Mickey squatted by the coffee table and peered at the open pages. “Not a bad idea, and I agree with Luis, that one would do the trick.”

“THE TRICK? SHOOTING SOMEONE IS A TRICK?” I howled.

Luis tugged on my arm and brought me back to sitting on the couch. “
Amiga
, why are you so upset? Mickey has a gun. I have a gun. You even have a gun. Your parents, they are thinking about it. That is all.”

I made my voice calm. “My parents have never liked guns and have never wanted a gun in their house.” I leaned over and shut the catalog. “This is all because of us, because of me, right? You're scared now, of home invasions? Because I got kidnapped? Have you forgotten that there were
two
guns in the house when I was kidnapped, and they didn't offer any protection at that moment? Did you also forget that if you had just LOCKED YOUR DOOR slimebag Scranton wouldn't have waltzed in here to leave his goddam calling card?”

“Babe…”

I held my palm flat out toward Mickey. “No, I'm not finished. It's one thing for you and Luis to carry guns. You're police, ex-police. You're highly trained. It's entirely different for my parents to become vigilantes. All of you know that accidents with guns happen because
people have guns in their houses
! No guns, no accidental shootings!” I flopped backward on the couch. “What the hell?”

“Darling, we haven't decided to buy a gun. Sal and Drew had this catalog…”

“Mom, what? They have guns, Sal and Drew?”

“Gay people shoot, too, sweetheart.”

“That's not what I meant. I just, well…” I stopped because I realized it
was
what I meant. I couldn't imagine Sal and Drew or any gay men that I knew wanting to own a gun. And I couldn't think of any movies where the cops or the good guys were gay and shooting guns. I couldn't think of any gun-toting bakers, either. Of course, gay men would have plenty of reasons to own guns, what with homophobic maniacs running around convinced that homosexuals are out to ruin civilization. So call me a stereotyper. But Sal and Drew?

“They have guns?” I repeated.

Luis jumped in. “I understand Annabelle's concern. When we leave here, you will not have the disturbing events of this week continuing. We will have resolved them. You should lock your doors, put an alarm on your bakery, and leave it at that. And,” he smiled at Mom, “you have your own built-in firepower, Sylvia. I have seen it and heard it myself. You are very strong, and you have your fine husband here who is also very strong.”

“And an arsenal right across the street!” I added.

Dad chuckled. “An arsenal of flour, muffin. I think they have just one gun, not a closetful.”

I flashed on the scene in
Witness
when Harrison Ford hides his bullets in the flour tin at the Amish family's house, so the little boy won't end up playing with a loaded gun.

And I thought,
Who knows what's in that kitchen across the street from my precious parents?

Mickey stood up. “I'll toss my hat into the no-gun-for-the-Starkeys ring. My guess is you'll never be involved in a violent episode again in your lives.”

How I wished that to be so. But wishes are as reliable as movie reviews posted on Yelp by sixteen-year-olds who love Justin Bieber.

***

I begged for the Brussels sprouts pizza for dinner, so Dad picked it up along with a more conservative pepperoni model. I made a salad, and we all munched comfortably on our food while gathered in the den in front of
The Graduate
. Mom and Dad had it on DVD, and Luis, I remembered, had never seen it. Near the end, in the church scene, Mom and I hammed it up, yelling “Elaine!” along with Dustin Hoffman in our most pleading voices, until Dad joined us by yelling “Ben!” with Katharine Ross. Then we howled with laughter while Mickey and Luis tolerated our silliness with bemused looks. It felt good to let off some steam.

Before we left for the hospital, I was gathering my hat and gloves from the bedroom when I saw the rabbit chopsticks I had purchased at the Japanese Garden. I picked one up and rubbed it between my fingers. Nice and smooth, lacquered wood. The tip was not sharp, but it was pointier than other chopsticks I had seen. The little rabbits painted on the ends were white and sweet as could be. I wondered about their symbolism. Then I thought about how they are said to proliferate quickly and abundantly.

Maybe these were the wrong chopsticks for Mickey and me.

My hair was long enough to twist on top of my head, so I used two of the chopsticks to hold it in place, feeling a little silly but a little pretty, too. I had to add some bobby pins to secure my 'do, but after inspecting my handiwork in a mirror, I decided it wasn't half bad for someone who usually solves hairdo issues by wearing hats.

My sock-monkey hat wouldn't fit over this new head of mine, so I dropped it on the bed and trotted downstairs.

Mickey did a double take when he saw me. “Cute. The sticks are kind of long, aren't they?”

I scrunched up my nose. “Shall I trade them for the sock monkey?”

“Please don't. Absolutely not. You look fantastic, I mean it, really.”

Luis was waiting for us outside. As Mickey and I headed out, I cautioned my parents. “Lock the door.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “You are such a pain in the ass,” she said, right before she shut it.

And locked it.