Monkey Wrench Page 7

  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.

  The tallest one, Rebekah, I think, glided toward me. I geared myself to see her disappointment.

  She and her counterpart, Inez, hated wasting time on people not interested in buying a sewing machine. I knew she didn’t recognize me because she smiled and trailed her hand over the sewing machines seductively.

  “Good morning. What are you in the market for?” she asked, stopping by what I knew was a souped-up version of the machine I had at home. Not the most expensive machine in the place, but not the cheapest by far.

  This was a rerun of the first time I’d been in the store. That time it’d been Inez who’d tried to sell me a machine. These two were sharks. Customers did not escape their grasp easily. Freddy pitted his two saleswomen against each other, giving out prizes for the most machines closed, the best dollar amount, even keeping track of accessories sold. He ran his shop like selling was an Olympic sport.

  I had to nip Rebekah in the bud before she got too far into her spiel. Otherwise she’d be sticking pins in a voodoo doll that looked disturbingly like me before I got out of the parking lot.

  I held up the stack of maps. “It’s me, Dewey Pellicano. I’m here to see Freddy.”

  Something like contempt crossed her face before she rearranged her features into a wrinkle-free smile. She pointed to the back of the store. “He’s in his office.”

  Freddy called out. “C’mon back, Dewey.”

  Rebekah held her hand out. “I might as well take them from you,” she said. “He’s going to want them on display out here.”

  I gave her half and took the rest to Freddy.

  “You picked up the maps?” Freddy said. He spun around his desk chair. “How were you able to get through downtown? I saw on the news that it was a crazy night in San Jose. Was Buster involved in all that?”

  The protest seemed like it had happened days ago.

  I looked for a place to sit but there was no extra chair. Freddy didn’t believe in paying for space that wasn’t being used to sell merchandise. His office was a repurposed closet with the door off. When he worked, he faced the inside wall with the clothing rod still over his head, always watching how quickly he stood up. The desk was high with paperwork.

  I nodded. “But that was only the beginning. Vangie was at the protest. Her friend died later. In her car. While she was with him.”

  “What? That’s nuts.” Freddy pounded the arms of his chair. “Where is she now?”

  I crossed my arms and hugged myself, supporting myself with the doorjamb. “Still being questioned by the police.”

  Freddy reached for his desk phone, dialing a number from memory. He waited a beat, then left a terse message. “Larry, call me back right away,” he said.

  “Who’s Larry?”

  Freddy smiled, the reptilian one. “Did I never tell you about my brother—the defense attorney?”

  I clasped my hands over my heart like a heroine in an old movie. “Are you serious?”

  “Me? Not so much. But he is. Deadly serious.”

  _____

  Back in my car, I noticed the bottle of pills. Pearl’s prescription from Vangie. I’d forgotten about them. I spilled a few of the small yellow pills out into my hand and took a closer look. Ambien, the bottle said. I knew that drug was supposed to be a sleep aid.

  Insomnia had been Pearl’s friend. She’d always said that she was at her most creative in the middle of the night.

  Maybe these drugs accounted for some of Pearl’s spaciness yesterday. What to do about Pearl?

  I remembered the brochure on Sonya’s bulletin board.

  That GrandSons service brochure that I’d seen at the college might be a great answer for Pearl. Having another human being around would give her a reason to take a shower in the morning. She used to love to cook for Hiro; maybe a GrandSon would bring that out in her again. Any kind of interactivity could do her a world of good.

  I’d have to find out more.

  I got to QP right after ten, so I opened the front door to the shop, then returned to my desk. I could see the front through the little window that had been put in many years ago. Its original purpose had been to fill orders from the carpenters and plumbers that had purchased their supplies at Dewey’s Hardware. For me, it was a view into the retail space that allowed me to work in my office while keeping an eye on the customers.

  I called the police station to see if Vangie was still there. The first officer I talked to could tell me nothing. The second told me Buster wasn’t at his desk. I already knew he wasn’t answering his cell.

  I decided to try Roy Sanchez. He’d been Buster’s partner and the first homicide detective I’d ever met.

  Sanchez owed me. Because he believed quilters were too nice to kill, I nearly got shot. The fact that quilters had fooled even a veteran like him had shattered his belief in his abilities. After that, he and Buster had been knocked down to cold cases.

  Roy Sanchez felt like Buster had gotten a raw deal from SJPD because of him.

  I hadn’t called in that marker but I would now.

  “Detective Sanchez,” I said. “It’s Dewey Pellicano.”

  Sanchez sighed. “What’s the matter? Your boyfriend not keeping you up to date on the local homicides? You getting bored with selling fabric? Want to take the detective test?”

  Roy Sanchez was not a jovial guy. This lame attempt at humor was his way of keeping me at a distance.

  “Roy,” I said. I could practically feel his back stiffen. He was a formal guy. But I’d earned the right three years ago. “Do you remember my assistant, Evangeline Estrada?”

  He grunted.

  Sanchez w
as a good interrogator because he knew how to intimidate. I kept going before I lost my nerve. “She was brought in last night. Her boyfriend died in her car. They’re questioning her. I’m trying to find out how she’s doing, when she might be released.”

  “Hmmm … I wasn’t on last night,” he said. I heard him clicking on a keyboard. “That would have been Anton Zorn.”

  Crap. Zorn had been the lead detective on the case when a body had shown up in the alley behind my store. He had not been happy with me when I figured out what was going on before he did. Add that to a giant chip on his shoulder because Buster was the youngest homicide detective in the history of the department was strike two. Vangie was going to be strike three.

  I groaned. “Anton Zorn hates me. I hope he can be objective.”

  Sanchez said, “I haven’t seen Zorn this morning. He must be out working the case. What did the guy die of?””

  “I don’t know. Wyatt was the person behind that big protest yesterday. He might be a drug user.”

  “You suspect he died of an overdose?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is he wasn’t stabbed or shot. And he was young and healthy.”

  “Did you see his body? What did he look like?”

  “He looked okay, but Vangie said he had trouble breathing, then had a seizure and died. That could be natural causes, right?”

  “Is that why you’re calling me? Because you think he died of an asthma attack?”

  I was quiet. Young, white men don’t generally drop dead for no reason. Most of the time, they have a little help. In which case, Vangie could be in a lot of trouble.

  More trouble than just violating her parole. She could be in the middle of a homicide investigation. She could be a main suspect.

  And I had the feeling that she wasn’t telling me everything. My gut ached.

  Sanchez was clicking around on his keyboard. “Wyatt Pederson was checked into the morgue in the middle of the night. That the guy?”

  “It has to be,” I said. “How many dead Wyatts do you usually get in one night?”

  Roy had none of the gallows humor associated with cops.

  “Well, looky here. Mr. Pederson had a record. Intent to distribute.”

  Six

  “Drugs?”

  Sanchez said, “Marijuana. A few years back. He got off with probation. The laws were changing and our prosecutor wasn’t too keen on pursuing those cases.”

  “I didn’t smell anything on him. Or on Vangie. Early at the demonstration, pot was in the air, but not in the car.”

  “He wouldn’t have OD’d on marijuana. But there are a lot of other drugs out there.” It was clear he was done talking.

  “So I’m learning,” I said. “Thanks for your help, Detective Sanchez.”

  “Good luck, Ms. Pellicano. I hope your friend makes out okay.”

  Twitter had been the genesis of the protests. I logged on to see if I could learn anything more about Wyatt. I checked Vangie’s feed. Nothing from her since yesterday afternoon. Plenty of tweets about the riot from her followers but nothing that I could recognize as coming from Wyatt.

  She followed at least a hundred people. She followed Freddy and Lark, as did I. But then there were many names that I didn’t know. She’d told me her teachers used Twitter to put out the latest assignments and she and her lab partners and study groups often used it to keep in touch. I scrolled through.

  I got to a familiar name at the end. Sonya Salazar. Vangie must have had her for Art somewhere along the line.

  I went back to the top of the page. Vangie’s face came up. The picture had been taken a year ago, right after I got back from Asilomar. Vangie had started at the community college and she was happy and excited. Her face glowed. It hurt my heart to realize I hadn’t seen that expression for some time now.

  When this was over, I had to help her find some balance in her life.

  Suddenly a tweet popped up on her account. “RIP, @Wynottoke.”

  Wynottoke. What? I sounded it out. Why not toke. Wyatt. It had to be.

  There were many postings like that. Kids had retweeted the original announcement that came in from someone at five AM. “Wyatt Pederson died tonight.” News traveled fast on Twitter.

  I followed the link to his feed.

  Most of the entries were tributes to him. I had to scroll through pages to get his last tweet. At 11:33 PM, he’d written, “Good job, everyone. We will protest another day. Live free and toke.”

  I moved backward through his feed. So many entries. He had been tweeting every five minutes during the protest. About 10 PM, he was posting pics of the gathering. The pictures were fuzzy and showed a lot of upraised arms and not much else. He might have deliberately obscured faces in case the cops would see them later. If things got out of hand, the pictures could be proof of misdeeds.

  This need to put everything online was new to me. I was only a dozen years older than the college students, but I liked to have my private life remain private.

  A customer came in so I went up front. While she shopped, I unpacked an order of notions that had come in. I didn’t want Ursula lifting the heavy box, so I broke down the order and laid out the pieces on the cutting table for her to put away.

  Ursula had lived with an abusive husband for years and her body bore the scars. She was often in pain, but she refused to take medication. She was a valuable asset to QP so I worked around the fact that one of her shoulders was prone to bursitis and her elbow didn’t open all the way.

  The customer left without spending anything. I gave her one of the Crawl maps and encouraged her to sign up for the Twitter alerts.

  For a Saturday, the store was very quiet.

  I kept my cell nearby. Vangie would need a ride home from the station. I checked it again. Nothing from her so far.

  About noon, the door opened and Buster came through.

  “Look what I found,” he said, moving aside so I could see. Vangie was bringing up the rear. Her head was down and she was moving slowly. My heart softened. She looked so defeated.

  I hugged her tight and her tremble felt like it was my own. I stroked her back, but when I went to smooth her hair she shook her head and stepped away.

  Vangie threw her shoulders back and walked off toward our office in the back of the store. Maybe a little work would help. Distract her, keep her busy, make her feel useful.

  “Is she okay?” I asked. Buster gave a slight nod. I let out my breath.

  Buster said, “Detective Zorn is going to want to talk to her again, but for now, she’s done.”

  Vangie wouldn’t be free of this until the police knew what—or who—killed Wyatt.

  Buster said, jingling the change in his pocket, “The attorney made himself a pain in the neck. Zorn was happy to get rid of her.”

  Wow. Freddy had really come through.

  I gave Buster a kiss. “Thanks for bringing her here. I really needed to see her.”

  “She wanted to come here first.”

  He kissed me gingerly and stepped back. “Sorry, I stink. I haven’t been home yet. I’m going to shower and sleep for as many hours as I can.”

  “I’ll wake you when I get home,” I said.

  “As long as you’re gentle,” Buster said, whisking his lips past mine. Full of promise. “I don’t have a problem with you interrupting my beauty sleep. We need to catch up.”

  I hugged him close. He was pretty rank, but I didn’t care. I was so glad this Task Force investigation was over. The thought of Buster being among drugs and dangerous dealers had never left my mind.

  He yawned again, and left.

  Vangie was out back, unchaining her bike from the railing. She avoided my eyes. There was something about Wyatt she didn’t want me to know. Something she was ashamed of. I could see it on her face. I knew enough not to press her. Vangie always told me the truth, but only when she was ready.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m tired. I need my bike.”

  “Why don’t
you let Buster drive you? I can call him—” I started back in for my phone. Vangie’s mother’s house was at least five miles away, in East San Jose.

  She tested her tires, bouncing her bike on the pavement. “I didn’t want him to. I could use the exercise.”

  She hopped on her bike and left.

  The store felt empty after Vangie left. Ursula was due in soon to work the afternoon shift.

  I wandered the aisles, stopping to straighten a bolt of fabric. I found an empty rotary blades package tucked in between two bolts. I hated blister packs in my consumer life but they did help to cut down on shoplifting in my work life. I liked to believe it wasn’t my quilters who pilfered but I knew better. I tossed the empty packaging away.

  Vangie’s life was going to be turned upside down, unless Wyatt somehow died a natural death in her car. A congenital heart condition would be good. Or an allergic reaction to a bee sting. Something that would show up loud and clear in the autopsy.

  I propped open the front door to let the October breeze in. The air was as crisp as an apple. I breathed deep.

  I walked back through the store. I loved the way it looked now. It looked more like me.

  Six months ago, I’d had a huge sale and sold off all of our fabric inventory. Some of the bolts had been hanging around for years. I got rid of what I could and gave the rest to the guild to be used for their ongoing philanthropy projects.

  Then I’d closed the shop for two weeks and Vangie and I painted the entire store in a bright white. Kevin had nearly cried when I’d primed the century-old woodwork. The wall behind the register was filled with tiny drawers that were original to the first Dewey Hardware. I’d painted those too, despite the fact that I’d grown up with tales of how my mother and father had re-stained each tiny drawer front when they were courting.

  The result was a space that looked brand-new. Clean, fresh, and modern, exactly the look I’d been hoping to achieve.

  I brought in fabrics that spoke to that same aesthetic. I knew there were plenty of quilters my age, in their early thirties, who weren’t comfortable around the older crowd. They liked to use full lines of fabric from their favorite designers. They liked traditional patterns but used updated fabrics and colors.