Mariachi Meddler Page 12

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Yiolanda. Stefani. Shipping magnates. I decided the ocean provided the best chance for clarity. Squid Bay was a vacation favorite because the beach was wide and its shelf stretched far out into the sea. You could get into the cold water in gradual stages instead of diving right in.

  Most visitors didn’t get completely wet. They would wade out to their knees or thighs before deciding they’d rather spend the afternoon soaking in the sun. That’s what almost everyone was doing when I got there. Nearly naked people stretched up and down the beach in a rainbow of towels, angling toward the sun to get the best rays. I ignored them all and headed out into the water.

  When my fingers grew numb, I spread out on a bedraggled towel and studied the waves. Often they provided a calming effect, but today the warm wind chopped them up. They seemed frustrated. Instead of gently rolling towards land, the wind interrupted their pattern, and they were forced to redirect themselves.

  My thoughts mimicked the confusion of the waves. A male dancer, a hotel owner, and a businessman all lay dead. Yiolanda had been at the crime scene of the first, slept with the second, and consorted with the third. In the meantime, pairs of hit men and loan sharks wanted Yiolanda enough to come after her. I couldn’t see the connection. While Yiolanda never missed a chance to flirt, I’d never seen her in any real trouble. If I could help her, I wanted to. The problem was that I didn't know how.

  Eventually I stretched out and copied the rest of the beach-goers. From what Sergio and I had observed, Yiolanda had short-lived affairs with handsome, doting men, yet her liaison with the hotel owner had stretched over several years, and Gutiérrez had no obvious attractions unless her eyes were on his money. I didn’t get it.

  When the sun lost its strength, I headed back to town. On a whim I drove past Joey’s office. He’d already gone, so I left a note with his secretary: Do you know a quick way to find out about a company’s investors? If Gutiérrez had anything to do with Vegas, he might be tied to Yiolanda’s family. I can’t think of any other logical reason for her to be associated with him.

  Mrs. Harris’s curt apology about my brother’s absence suggested that she thought I was the one who should apologize, either for bothering my brother at an odd time of day or bothering him at all. She was a middle-aged woman who had no gossip of her own. She tried to eke some out of me, but I wouldn’t let her.

  I swung by the Squid Bay Library hoping to Google Chester Mathews and Stephen Leonard, but the few computer terminals were occupied by older patrons in no hurry and a pair of teenagers with no sense of other people’s time. I waited in line for a quarter of an hour before deciding I had better things to do.

  Stefani was right; there was nothing much to eat in my refrigerator. I stopped at Happy Times Market, one of the upstart health food stores. The organic foods were overpriced and probably not even organic, but I was too lazy to travel out of my way for anything as mundane as groceries.

  Somewhere between the five kinds of almond butter and row of whole-grain breads, I lost track of time. By the time I got back outside to my Vespa, I had to pray that it would start. I drove recklessly the short distance to my building, consulting my watch every few seconds. If I could get in and out of my apartment in five minutes, I would be moderately late to work rather than exceedingly.

  I pulled up to my building and ran up the five flights of stairs. Panting, I unlocked my door, but I stopped short at the doorway instead of entering the living room. My dress shoes, which I always kept next to the entrance, had been kicked to one side. I heard a faint click as someone turned off my closet light, and then I heard a small thud as someone moving awkwardly through the unfamiliar kitchen bumped against the table.

  Someone was in my bedroom, and someone else was in the kitchen. The visitors didn’t include Stefani; she would have called out to me. Mrs. Sfirakis was too kind to be sneaky. And neither of them had a key.

  I set my wet towel and trunks on top of the grocery bags as I surveyed my living room from right to left. By now the fading sunlight shone in through stilted angles. I was low on options. Not even James Bond could have rushed people in different rooms at the same time. The most dangerous weapon I owned, a kitchen knife, wasn’t very sharp, and I wasn’t in the kitchen.

  Another moment went by. The only sounds I heard were mine—my breathing, my heartbeat. My impulse was to run, but I needed my traje, the black mariachi pants that I’d draped over the couch, and the white shirt I’d worn the night before. I took one step closer, then another, nearly tripping on the dress shoes that I gathered in my arms. As I grabbed the pants, several coins fell out and rattled onto the linoleum floor.

  I hurried out, slamming the door behind me. At the same moment, Mrs. Sfirakis opened her door to see me standing in the hall with my pants and shirt in one hand, my shoes in another.

  “Is anything the matter, dear?”

  “I did a stupid thing,” I lied. “I opened my door to get a cross wind, but the door blew shut with my key inside.” I glared at my watch as if it were to blame. “I’m running late. I’ve got a spare key in my violin case, but I left that at the restaurant.”

  “Would you like to borrow my bathroom?”

  I didn’t even reply. As Mrs. Sfirakis opened her door more widely, I rushed inside the apartment. I marched into the bathroom, not bothering to latch the door. On top of the toilet a travel alarm clock blinked seven-ten. I hoped my colleagues would have the sense to start the evening’s entertainment without me.

  As I emerged, Mrs. Sfirakis’ open hand awaited my shorts and T-shirt as her eyes scrutinized the naked ankles that showed over my leather shoes. I hoped no one else would notice.

  “Run along,” she said. “Try to have a nice evening.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  As I exited her apartment, I saw a man disappear into the stairwell. I started running, but near the end of the hall I tripped. I slid into the stairwell and fell down the mini-flight of eight stairs, banging my head against the rail.

  I tasted blood in my mouth. I sprinted down the other sets of stairs, but by the time I reached the bottom, no one was in sight.

  At Noche Azul I came in through the back door, hoping we had a small crowd and everybody would be in such a good mood that no one would notice I was late. Instead we had two busloads from Hotel Reina del Mar, a fancy tourist place a few miles up the road. Worse yet, when Sergio caught sight of me, he started clapping, and the audience took his cue.

  I took my place next to Sergio and Hernando, not bothering to check my violin’s intonation. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “We’ve only played two songs,” said Hernando. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Besides,” said Pablo, pulling apart his trumpet to let out the moisture, “who knows the difference besides us?”

  “What did Rolando say?”

  “You lucked out again,” said Sergio, pointing to the entrance. “They’re arriving now.”

  Under the archway that separated the lobby from the restaurant, Rolando and his wife stood answering questions from friendly repeat customers who knew about Rolando’s trip.

  “There’s blood on your lip,” Pablo said. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, licking it off.

  “Classy shirt,” Sergio kidded me. “No time to do laundry?”

  “Hey,” said Pablo, “wrinkles look good on him.”

  An acquaintance of Sergio’s came up to the stage to greet him, so the rest of us milled around, stalling.

  “Nice socks,” Hernando said.

  “Be kind to me. I had a rough afternoon.”

  “Run into another curb?”

  “I fell down the stairs. Half a flight.”

  Pablo regarded me without comment.

  “I hit my elbow and my knee.”

  I wasn't sure he believed me. I pointed to the skid marks on my arm, but he showed no interest.

  “You didn’t fall without a reason.”

  “Lay off,” s
aid Hernando. “We all know he’s clumsy.”

  “Right,” Pablo said.

  The guys left me alone as we worked our way into the evening and paid more attention to the music. The Reina del Mar group was all fluff, asking for the traditional tourist songs we could have played while sleepwalking, but afterwards we got obscure requests from Mexican guests, so we had to concentrate to remember the words.

  I wasn’t much help to my companions. Instead of keeping my usual bright tempos, I started songs too slowly and then began dragging. I played the solo violin passages in tune but without any expression or even any vibrato. When I sang, I mixed up the lyrics or came in too early. Instead of smoothly announcing the next number mid-song as I usually did, I had to wait for suggestions from my companions or from the audience.

  While my fingers were on automatic, my mind went back to the scene at my apartment. Strangers had gotten inside, and I had interrupted their operation. The door looked intact and only Joey and the landlord had spare keys. I’d been in the apartment eight years already; perhaps the previous owner had retained a key for a future burglary? Perhaps the landlord who was slow to respond to emergency calls about electricity or water had an added agenda for managing apartment units?

  I had little worth stealing. My Roth still had a broken string, and its retail value was less than two thousand dollars. My guitar had a sweet sound, but it was full of scratches and the fingerboard was pulling away from the body. My huge music collection consisted of tapes I'd pirated from all my mariachi friends. I didn’t own any good clothes, my stereo was a boom box, and I kept any important financial papers at Joey’s office.

  Robbery was a poor excuse to enter my apartment.

  We were dividing the night’s tips when I saw Rolando head for the office. Since Yiolanda was safely ensconced with female customer friends, I followed him upstairs.

  I knocked even though the door was partially open. “Rolando?”

  “Come in, come in.” He looked up from some papers he’d spread on the table. “Did you get into a fight?”

  I touched the swollen part of my lip. “I fell.”

  “If you want to take a couple of nights off….”

  “It’s not about that. I wondered if you’d heard anything more about Gutiérrez.”

  “Helluva thing. And I went to grade school with him, poor guy. Squid Bay Elementary. Our mascot was a dolphin.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Not really. He was a couple of grades ahead of me in school, but over the years I’ve talked to him at mariachi functions.”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  Rolando shrugged. “Wrong place at the wrong time? Bad company?” His mouth twitched involuntarily.

  “Besides music, what was his line of work?”

  “Family business. Shipping.” Rolando’s face was blank.

  “Successful?”

  “As far as I know.”

  I wanted to stall so he would say more, but Dennis bounded in.

  “You better go downstairs,” he said. “Some policemen have come for Yiolanda.”

  I’m not sure which of us was more surprised.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In the lobby confusion reigned. Three sets of customers hovered at the cash register, having given up on their waiters bringing the bills. Other customers had approached to check out the commotion. Sergeant Innis and a couple of police officers blocked the door in an uneasy face-off with the busboy, a waiter, Pablo, and Sergio. Yiolanda, who for once had relinquished control, stood in the middle. As soon as she saw Rolando, she rushed him.

  “They think I have done something wrong! It’s not true! Tell them it’s not!”

  “Hello, Sergeant,” Rolando said. “What brings you here tonight?”

  “This woman is wanted for questioning. We need to take her to the station.” He spoke calmly and firmly; he’d been through such scenarios before.

  “This woman is my wife. May I ask what you wish to question her about?”

  “The murder of Stephen Leonard.” He reeled about. “Can you or anyone account for her whereabouts on the evening of July 6th?”

  “I was here on July 6th,” snapped Yiolanda. “I arrived at nine p.m.” The sergeant turned to Rolando. “Can you attest to that?”

  “I was at my sister’s house in San Carlos. I cannot say where Yiolanda was.”

  Yiolanda quickly turned to the headwaiter. “You tell him, Dennis!”

  Dennis strode to the cash register and reviewed the reservations book. “Mrs. Díaz, you must remember, you did not come in that night. You phoned at eight o’clock and asked me and Andy to lock up.”

  For a split second, Yiolanda glared at Dennis as if he’d had a memory lapse. “Oh! Then, the seventh was—why, yes. It was Thursday, not Wednesday. I had my dates mixed up.”

  “Can you account for yourself on that night, ma’am?” the sergeant repeated.

  “I was exhausted. I spent the night alone at my condo. It’s quite a lot of work to run a restaurant, and since my husband was out of town, I had to do all of his work too.”

  “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The sergeant shook Rolando’s hand and mine. “I apologize deeply, but I must perform my job.”

  Despite a round of verbal protests, Innis and his group escorted Yiolanda out the door. We looked after her dumbly, disbelieving what we’d witnessed.

  “Dennis?” Rolando pointed to the customers waiting for their bills. Dennis hopped to the cash register and started tabulating. The rest of us feigned normalcy.

  Yiolanda’s friends came up, wondering where their dinner companion had gone.

  “Yiolanda has been detained,” Rolando said. “She asked me to apologize. And don’t worry about the bill. It’s on us.”

  The women melted away.

  As Rolando spoke with other customers, Pablo pulled me aside.

  “Have a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  We went over to the bar where Johnny was re-wiping a clean counter. He leaned towards us and whispered, “Is it true?”

  “What?” Pablo asked.

  “That the cops took Yiolanda.”

  Pablo and I grimly nodded at one another. Johnny would find out soon enough anyway.

  “It seems like it,” I said.

  Johnny slid us each a shot of brandy. “Any idea why?”

  Pablo shrugged. “Because she’s a pain in the ass?”

  “Hey, I like that!” Johnny went to the end of the bar to serve a final pair of customers.

  “What do you make of all this?” Pablo asked me.

  “Which part?”

  “Yiolanda lying. Was she trying to get Rolando to cover for her or Dennis?”

  “Maybe she had the dates mixed up.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Even you know more about women than that.” Pablo swished the brandy around in his mouth. “Something strange has been going on since Rolando left. Can’t you feel it?”

  “If I were Rolando—”

  Pablo silenced me with a sharp glance as Rolando dragged a stool beside us. “Helluva night, huh?” I couldn’t read his expression.

  “Brandy?” Johnny asked.

  Rolando nodded and lowered his voice. “While I was gone, there were two nights when Yiolanda didn’t come in?”

  We nodded.

  “She told Dennis she was tired,” said Pablo.

  “Right.” Rolando clasped his hands to the bar counter as if holding onto a truth. “Have you noticed anything odd in her behavior? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Pablo rotated his glass. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I took Friday night off myself,” I said. “Joey covered for me, but I would have come in myself if I’d known Yiolanda wasn’t going to.”

  “Right,” Rolando said. “Did you guys notice anything else? Any strange customers?”

  “They’re all strange!” laughed Pablo.<
br />
  Rolando nodded towards the sea of empty tables. During the course of the evening, the tables had filled several times over. During our first set, customers languished in the lobby waiting for a place to sit down. “When you have this many people coming in and out of here, it’s hard to keep track.” He sighed as he slid off the stool. “I better find out what other catastrophes are developing. Sorry you had to go through all that.”

  “It was no problem for us,” Pablo said. “Let us know if there’s something we can do for you.”

  The corner of Rolando’s mouth curled. “Thanks. I will.”

  ***

  As I walked home my footsteps resonated against the closed-up buildings, each corner I passed was as empty as the last. The buzz from the street lamps generated the only other sound and the only source of light. Even the shopkeepers who lived above their establishments had turned off their bedroom lamps, and no pairs of lingering lovers shared Adeline Lane with me. Not a single car passed by. I’d never felt more alone.

  My building was dark and dead, but I picked up a broken bottle to carry as a weapon. I went up the stairs on the balls of my feet and stood quietly in the stairwell for several long seconds before entering the hall to the fifth floor. When I walked down the hall during the afternoon, I could detect the faint sounds of radios and TVs. By this time of night, as usual, the entire hall was silent.

  In the afternoon I’d been in too much of a hurry to notice, but in the electric light of the hall, I could see scratch marks around the keyhole where someone had toyed around with a metal tool. I opened the door slowly. I stood at the threshold for several long minutes, but nothing seemed wrong. When I turned on the lights, my living room looked the same as it normally did. My DVD player and fourteen-inch TV were in their regular spots. Although my sock drawer was ajar, nothing else in my bedroom seemed different. Chances were that I had left the drawer open myself. My vihuela was in the closet along with an old guitar. My stash of twenties was under the empty box of toothpaste on the top shelf under the bathroom sink.

  The intruders weren’t hunting for anything of mine. They had no interest in me other than my connection to Yiolanda. If I had been at my apartment at the usual time and left for work when I should have, I would have never noticed their visit.