Secondhand Stiff (10 page)

At this point I half expected Mom to jump in and provide the who and what, but she didn't. Instead, she answered, “I wouldn't mind staying here in California a bit longer. But I don't want to be a burden.” She looked straight at me when she said the last bit.

“You're not a burden, Mom,” I heard myself automatically respond. I turned and met her eyes so she'd know I meant my next words. “You're welcome to stay.”

“Okay, then it's settled,” Clark announced. “But Odelia, I don't want you getting mixed up in this murder thing, and I especially don't want you dragging Mom along for the ride.”

“Clark,” Mom admonished. “Stop worrying like an old biddy. We're on our way to go shopping. Odelia's only investigation involves getting a good deal and showing me more of Southern California. Didn't you read my piece about the food trucks?”

“Yeah, I did,” Clark admitted. “Maybe having you there will keep Odelia occupied.”

I slapped the steering wheel. “Stop talking as if I'm not here.”

Mom gave me a raised brow. “You and Clark do it to me all the time.”

I shot Mom a dirty look—one I hope conveyed that she was a heartbeat away from being shuttled back east on her own. But Mom wasn't interested in doing battle. Her face was relaxed, almost happy. It mellowed me considerably, at least for the moment.

“Don't worry, Clark,” she said, changing her scowl to a half wink aimed in my direction. “I'll keep Odelia out of mischief. I'll stick to her like a second skin.”

I turned my head to look out my side window. Next to me was a silver Mercedes. The driver was on his cell. I couldn't hear his words, but it looked like he was shouting. With his free hand, he was shaking a fist at the snarl of traffic in front of us.

Maybe
I
should use Mom's plane ticket. A quiet retirement home in New Hampshire was looking pretty great about now.

eleven

“So what did you
want to talk to me about?”

I stared at the bumper of the car in front of me. On it was plastered a bumper sticker touting the legalization of marijuana. In some ways Clark's call would help ease me into the topic on my mind, but inside I was chickening out. Then I remembered the look on Mom's face when she'd agreed to stay in California longer. I took a deep breath and jumped off the cliff.

“Are you happy where you live, Mom?”

“Why wouldn't I be? I picked the place.”

Mom lived in a very nice place. It was one of those full-service retirement communities that offered independent living, assisted living, and nursing home services on one large property. It was located in a lovely part of New Hampshire surrounded by rolling hills and plenty of trees, not far from shopping and other services. It even had a van to shuttle residents to the mall and various appointments, and offered numerous activities geared for all levels of physical abilities. As residents became less able to care for themselves, they could change to a more full-service facility without actually moving off the property. Mom had a spacious one-bedroom apartment in the independent living section. She was on a plan where she could go to a common dining room for one hot meal a day, usually dinner. The rest of the time she fixed her own food. Every day someone looked in on her to make sure she was eating and active and taking her medications.

“Yes, you did, but that's not what I asked.” I took another deep breath and asked the question again. “But are you happy there? If you're not, you can always move. We'll help you find another place.”

“Like where?”

“How about here?” There it was, out of the bottle and unable to be taken back. “Greg and I have talked about it and wanted to offer it as an option for you.”

“Greg may not mind my moving here, but I'm not sure you feel the same way.”

We drove along, each encased in our own weighty thoughts on the subject.

“I guess your silence is my answer,” Mom sniffed.

“Not so fast, Mom. I'm mulling it over. You want an honest answer, don't you?”

I glanced over at her. She was turned so all I saw was her profile. Her lips were tight, her chin uplifted in defiance. She looked ready to face a firing squad, and I held the rifle.

I cleared my throat. “Okay, here goes: the unvarnished truth.”

Mom remained perfectly still, eyes ahead, chin still tight and lifted.

“Do I want you to come live with Greg and me? Absolutely not. I don't think any of us would be happy with that arrangement.”

“I'm—,” Mom began, but I cut her off.

“However.” I paused for effect. “However, if you want to move to California and live
near
us, I'd be all in favor of that.”

Mom's head snapped in my direction so fast I heard her old bones crackle and pop. “You would?”

“Yes. Greg and I discussed this before we invited you and Clark out for Thanksgiving, and we discussed it again last night. We worry about you. We know Clark travels a lot for his job, and you're up in New Hampshire pretty much on your own. Depending on how this visit went, we—I—was going to ask if you might consider moving out here. There are lots of very nice retirement communities in Southern California. There's even one right in Seal Beach.”

She looked at me with suspicion. “Did you discuss this with Clark already? Is that why he's not coming to get me, so you'll have more time to convince me?”

“No, Mom, I haven't discussed it with Clark, and I don't think Greg has either. But I think if you left New England, he would relocate too.”

Her jaw loosened and started moving in a circular fashion, like a cow chewing its cud on a sleepy summer afternoon.

After a few moments, she said, “He's always said he wants to live somewhere where it's warm.”

“But don't do it for Clark, Mom. He'll be fine doing whatever. Do it only if you want to. I'll understand if you don't want to leave your friends behind or deal with all the congestion and people here. It's lovely where you live.”

“It's boring is what it is.” She nearly spat out the words. “It's nice and all and they treat me well, but some days I feel like I'm waiting at a bus stop for Death to come fetch me.”

Mom turned to me. “Do you think I could see a few places while I'm here? You know, just to check them out and get an estimate of the cost.”

“Of course. And we'll have more time to do it now that Clark has been delayed. We could even ask Ron and Renee about it. I'm sure they have lots of friends who live in such communities and who'd give referrals and recommendations.”

“As long as it doesn't interfere with the investigation.”

I sighed long and deep, the frustration starting in my feet and working its way up to be expelled from my mouth in a single gust. “Mom, there is no investigation. I'm just asking a few questions that might help Ina.”

“Uh-huh.” Mom turned back to stare out the window. “Remind me to call home in the morning and let them know I'm extending my stay. They get worried.”

We crawled along the freeway a few more yards in silence.

“I think I could get used to this,” Mom said, more to herself than to me.

twelve

closed
.

I looked at the sign on Goodwin's Good Stuff and wanted to bang my head against the glass door. All that time in traffic only to meet with a dead end. I probably should have called to make sure they were open, but we were well within the hours posted on the website.

Eventually we'd made it to Torrance. It had taken twice as long as usual. The cause of the traffic jam had been a very bad accident involving a couple of vehicles. It looked like a pickup truck had slammed into the middle divider and flipped. Two cars were near it, upright but smashed on their fronts and sides. One had spun around and was facing traffic in the far lane. A fire truck was standing by, along with two ambulances and several cop cars. Craning my neck like everyone else, I studied the carnage as we passed but couldn't tell the status of the drivers or any passengers. Once highway patrol waved us slowly past the accident, the road opened up and I hit the gas to our destination, but the damage had been done to our schedule.

“The little clocky thing on the sign says he'll be back a little after three,” Mom pointed out.

She was right. The closed sign also displayed a small clock face. The little hand was on the three and the big hand was positioned somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes after the hour. I consulted my watch. It was almost three o'clock now.

“A lot of store owners don't bother with that, though,” I said. “But since it's almost that time, it wouldn't hurt to wait and see if Buck returns.”

I looked around the strip mall. It was good sized, with lots of the usual shops and services, including a liquor store, nail salon, and dry cleaners. There was also a sub shop, a donut shop, and a mailbox place. Next to the donut shop was a weight-loss clinic. Except for a major grocery store standing alone and taking up the bulk of the lot, Buck's store was the largest. It was located on the end of the line of stores, closest to the street. On the far end of the lineup of shops, closest to the grocery store, was the donut shop. Next to Buck's was the nail salon. Its door was open. I stepped inside, with Mom in tow. Like the shop I patronized, it was operated by Asians.

A petite young lady with jet-black long hair greeted me. “You want mani-pedi?” she asked in broken English.

I looked at her trendy American clothing and wondered if the accent was real or embellished for clients. It was a thought that often occurred to me at my own salon. I'd been going there for years, yet old hands and new employees alike, both young and old, spoke English like they'd just arrived in the country on a broken-down fishing boat.

“Thank you, but not today,” I told her with a smile. “I'm looking for Buck Goodwin, the man who owns the secondhand store.”

She tilted her head to one side like a puppy who didn't understand the command “sit.”

“Buck Goodwin,” Mom repeated. “Big guy who owns the store next to you.” She pointed in the direction of Goodwin's Good Stuff, then pantomimed his size by holding her hands high and wide.

A slight middle-aged man stepped forward from the rear of the salon. He and the girl exchanged words in their language before he turned to me. “How help?” His English was better, but not by much.

I repeated my question. At Buck's name, I saw recognition flash in his eyes.

“Yes, know Buck.”

“Have you seen him today?”

He thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “We busy. Not notice.”

Realizing we weren't getting anywhere, I thanked him and the girl and left the shop.

On the other side of the salon was the liquor store. I headed in that direction.

“Are you going to hit every store in this mall?” Mom asked.

“If I have to. Buck's been here a long time. He must be friends with some of these people.”

“When we get to the donut shop, I'd like a cup of coffee. It's getting a bit chilly.”

I stopped just outside the liquor store. “You can go there now, Mom. You can get a coffee and wait for me if you're cold or tired.” Mom putting her feet up with a cup of coffee would certainly speed up my questioning of the local merchants. Every time I asked a question, I'd be wondering if Mom was going to interrupt with her own inquiries.

“I didn't say I was tired,” she clarified. “Just said I wanted a cup of coffee.” She made no move to head for the donut shop. “But it can wait,” she added. “We have work to do first.”

We
. I silently groaned and headed into the liquor store.

With its windows nearly blocked by ads, the store appeared small, dim, and crammed, like a tiny cave hidden in the side of a hill. Besides alcohol, it sold all kinds of beverages. It also displayed a lot of snack foods, tobacco products, and lottery tickets. My father always referred to these tiny liquor stores as package stores. With the convenience of buying booze at the grocery store or from one of those mega-beverage chains, I wondered how a place like this could stay afloat. Mom and I stood a moment on the threshold, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dim light.

“Can I help you?” The question, uttered in a thick accent, came from a small brown woman stationed behind the counter. She appeared to be somewhere between Mom and me in age.

I approached the counter. “I'm looking for the man who owns the secondhand store. He's not there right now, and I was wondering if you saw him today?”

The woman looked at me with large, dark eyes but said nothing.

“Do you know Buck Goodwin, the owner of Goodwin's Good Stuff?” I pressed.

“We do not,” came another accented voice.

I turned to see a male counterpart to the woman behind the counter. He was standing by the small vertical cooler that held soft drinks. In his hands was a small box. He approached, put the box on the counter, and nodded in our direction. “I am very sorry, but we do not get involved with our neighbors. We are too busy trying to run a business.”

I looked from him to the woman, who was probably his wife, and saw that neither was going to say more. It was stamped on their faces along with very polite but closed smiles. I smiled at both in return and thanked them.

“Just a minute,” said Mom as I was about to leave. “I want some of those lottery tickets.”

I turned to her in surprise but said nothing as she surveyed the line of colorful scratch tickets behind the counter. “Give me five of the green ones and five of the red ones,” she told the woman. “And five picks for SuperLotto.”

“You're not playing Mega Millions?” I asked, stepping closer.

Mom looked over the advertisement for the lottery games, checking out the current jackpots. Obviously, she didn't catch the sarcasm in my voice or was choosing to ignore it. “Sure, why not?” She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and plopped it on the counter. “And give me five picks for that Mega game.”

“I meant the question as a joke, Mom, not as encouragement.”

“What's the harm? And who knows, I might win.” She took the tickets from the woman and thanked her, giving both the store owners a rare smile.

Outside, I said to Mom, “I didn't know you played the lottery.”

“I don't, but you can't go barging in questioning people without buying something; it's not polite. Not to mention you yourself said buying something during investigations looked more natural.”

While I didn't like having my words thrown back in my face, Mom had a very good point. I'd bought many an item while trying to squeeze information out of people. I'd even submitted to a breast exam once. Mom's presence was definitely putting me off my game.

The next storefront was the dry cleaners. I was about to again suggest Mom go for coffee when she surprised me with the idea herself.

“If you don't mind,” she began, “I think I will walk down to the donut shop for that cup of coffee.” She pulled her jacket closer.

“Not at all, Mom.” I tried not to show my enthusiasm at going solo. “I'll work my way down the line of stores and meet you there.”

I got the same polite but stony response from the woman working the counter at the dry cleaners as I did from the liquor store. Next was the sub shop. Manning the counter were two teenage boys. One's nametag said his name was Luke and identified him as the manager. He couldn't have been more than nineteen—twenty, tops. There was only one customer, a man, who sat at one of the two tiny tables eating a sandwich while reading a newspaper.

“Do you know Buck Goodwin, the man who owns the secondhand store?” I aimed the question at the kid named Luke but hoped the other was listening too. Following Mom's example, I thought about buying something, but if I did that at every store in the mall, I'd be getting a manicure, eating sandwiches, and buying booze all the way down the line. And heaven only knows what I'd do when I reached the weight-loss clinic.

“The big guy?” he asked.

“Yes. Blond hair. Tattoos.”

“Sure,” Luke answered. “He comes in all the time for lunch.” He turned to the other kid, who only nodded in response.

“Did he come in today? You see, his store is closed, and I'm wondering if he's coming back today or if it's closed for the day.”

“No, he was in today,” Luke answered. “I made his sub myself—turkey and ham with all the trimmings. I remember because usually he gets a meatball sub or a Philly steak sub.”

“Did he say anything about closing early today?”

“Nope. Just grabbed a sub, some chips, and a drink, and left.”

“Do you remember when?”

“Yeah, because that was odd, too. It was around eleven thirty. Usually he comes in around one.”

Eleven thirty would have been shortly after returning from court—about the time Greg was home having his lunch.

As I made my way down the line of small stores and shops, I had no further luck. Even if people knew Buck, they knew nothing about his whereabouts. Skipping the weight-loss clinic, I doubled back to Goodwin's Good Stuff before entering the donut shop. I wanted to see if Buck had returned while I was checking with the neighboring merchants and before I reconnected with Mom. He hadn't returned, and it was now after three thirty.

I walked around to the back of Buck's store and found a wide service alley with access to the back of all the shops in the mall. This was where they took deliveries. Large commercial trash bins were lined up against the back walls. A quick glance told me none of them appeared full. While I was checking out the area, someone came out of the back door of one of the stores. It was the kid from the sub shop—not Luke but the other one. In his hand was a plastic bag full of trash. He heaved it into the trash bin behind the sandwich shop, where it landed with the hollow thunk of a near-empty container. The trash pick-up must have been yesterday or today. The alley was wider than I expected, and there was room for one or two parking spaces behind some of the businesses. These were
probably
for employees. Buck's shop was the only one with a garage-type door at the back.

Seeing nothing of importance, I returned to the front of the strip mall and called Greg. I reached his voice mail so simply left a short update about the bad accident on the 405, Buck's store being closed, and so far hitting a dead end. Finished with my message, I wandered down the sidewalk, past the shops I'd visited. It had grown cooler, and the promise of rain was in the air. A coffee or hot chocolate was sounding pretty good.

When I got to the donut shop, I saw that Mom was not alone. Sitting at a small, round table with her was an elderly man who instantly reminded me of a Hobbit, specifically Bilbo Baggins—the older one from
Lord of the Rings
. The image wasn't dispelled any when he politely got to his feet as I approached. He was short and portly, with thick, curly white hair and compelling blue eyes that twinkled from behind square-framed glasses. It took everything within me not to check for pointed ears and bare, hairy feet.

Mom introduced us. “This is my daughter, Odelia.”

The pixie man held out his hand. “I'm Bill Baxter. Nice to meet you, Odelia.”

Huh. Bill Baxter. Bilbo Baggins.

Bill indicated for me to join them.

“Let me get something first,” I said, giving him a curious smile.

“No,” Bill said, stopping me. “You sit down. I'll be happy to get you anything.”

“That's not necessary,” I protested.

“But I insist.”

“Let the man be a gentleman, Odelia,” my mother admonished. “It's so rare these days.”

I hesitated, then said, “Okay, then. I'd like a hot chocolate. Very light on the whipped cream.”

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thank you. Just the hot chocolate would be great.”

With a nod and a wink, Bill left and went to the counter. It was then I noticed he used a cane and had a slight limp. I also noticed that for an old guy with a cane, he was pretty spry.

“Who is he, Mom?” I asked in a whisper as I hung my handbag on the back of my chair and slipped out of my windbreaker.

“He's a locksmith,” Mom explained, her hands holding a paper coffee cup. “That's his shop in the parking lot.”

I turned to look out the window of the donut shop and noticed for the first time a tiny shed almost on the edge of the mall parking lot. It was painted green, with white shutters. On top of it was a large sign that said “Keys—Locksmith.” The diminutive house wasn't helping me rid my brain of the Hobbit reference. Next to the shed was parked a tan Honda Element. On its side was a smaller version of the same sign.

Before I could find out what Mom had told Bill, he was back with my drink and several napkins. I thanked him and wrapped my hands around the warm cup.

“I hope you don't mind my intruding on your time with Grace,” Bill said to me. “But I saw this charming lady come into the shop all alone and couldn't help but introduce myself.” He smiled across the table at Mom.