Old Maid's Puzzle (12 page)

Penises-so often more trouble than they're worth.

Mrs. Lamb shrieked, "I'm not having a granddaughter after all. I'm having a grandson. A baby boy! Jackson George."

Kym had rung up the sale but had yet to receive any money. To her credit, Kym looked as sick as I felt.

She tried. "Okay, Mrs. Lamb, that'll be four hundred and fortyeight dollars..."

She didn't get to finish. The customer waved her off. "Oh, no, this fabric will never do. I'm going to have to start all over. I saw some lovely blue and yellows over at Fabrics 'n' Fun that'll be just perfect."

Her cell rang again, and she went out the front door without another word.

Kym slumped over the counter. I took the pile of fabric out of the bag. There were some yard cuts, lots of half yards, and one big piece that was probably meant for the back of the quilt, at least four yards. Kym had sold this woman a lot of fabric. More than she'd needed for one baby quilt. Kym must have convinced her to make the kid a new pink quilt for the next five birthdays. She'd even recommended several books, and got the woman to add on thread and a ten-pack of new rotary blades.

"That was a good sale," I admitted. I looked over the receipt. I'd have to overring the sale so the drawer would balance tonight.

"Was," Kym said.

I had no time to cry over spilt fabric. "Take the biggest piece and wind it back on the bolts. The smaller pieces will have to be cut into fat quarters. I'll need to change the inventory." More make-work. Just what I needed.

Back in the office, Vangie handed me the purchase order for the scissors. The bottom line was over four-thousand dollars. If we sold them all, we'd make that much again in profit. I felt like a gambler in front of a roulette wheel. I was about to spin the wheel and let it ride. I had to take the chance.

I said, "I'm going to go to the bank."

"Go git 'em," Vangie said.

I stood at attention. "I shall return with a cashier's check in the amount of four-thousand, six-hundred and twenty-three dollars."

"And eighty-eight cents."

I saluted her. The company was asking for a cashier's check, which meant I had to visit the bank in person, not do my usual online transactions. The bank was several blocks away. The short walk would do me good.

Vangie said, "If you get the check to the post office by three, you can mail it without having to pay extra Express mail charges."

I checked the clock. It was almost one. "Will do."

"Do you want me to address an envelope for you to take with you?" Vangie offered.

"Nah, I'm going to walk to the bank, and the post office is in the other direction. I have to pass right by here anyhow"

"Okay, then," Vangie said. She'd already plugged her headphones back in.

One step out the back door, and I was reminded of Frank Bascomb's ugly death. The cops had been gone before I got to work this morning. The only sign that anything untoward had happened was a scrap of yellow tape that clung to the vines across the back fence. I pulled the piece off and stuffed it in my pocket.

How did the dead man get here? I looked at the gravel. If he'd been dragged, there would be marks on the ground. The police had preserved the scene until early this morning, so I looked. I didn't see anything. The area around the dumpster was pretty messed up. Mrs. Unites had been out here when she found the body, so it'd be impossible to figure out if she scuffed the gravel or if a dead body had been dragged back here.

There were hedges along the back wall. I looked to see if any branches were broken. I could see nothing. No way to tell how Frank Bascomb ended up dead in my alley.

My parking lot was still full. Most of the night class customers had day jobs and hadn't been able to get here to get their cars before work. Today's customers would have to park somewhere else. Lots of inconvenience to go around, as Zorn said.

Taking up a spot, plus half of another, was an old Econoline van. I hated it when people hogged spots.

To my surprise, the driver's door opened. Tim Shore got out. "Ms. Pellicano, I'm glad I caught you. Someone hit my car while it was parked in your lot."

I followed him as he moved around the car.

"Look here." He pointed at the passenger side door panel. I had to bend closer to see anything. There was a small indentation about midway up on the back door.

"Really?" I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but it was hard. How did that happen? He'd been the last person to arrive last night. "I'm so sorry. Did they leave a note?"

He shook his head. It used to be that I'd have called my dad and let him handle something like this. The insurance agent was an old friend of his, having written polices for my family for years. I didn't want to bring him into this. I wanted to stand on my own two feet. And that meant dealing with customers who were not happy.

I straightened. I walked around the car. "I don't understand how that happened. I mean, no one could park right here. Do you think it was a door?"

I could play sweet and naive.

"Maybe," he said.

His evasiveness made me angry. "Mr. Shore, no one else has parked here. In fact, the way you're parked, there's barely room for another car."

He said, "Maybe it was a key instead. What do you care? You're insured for this kind of stuff."

I looked at him. He was messing with the wrong girl today. "I've got business to attend to, Mr. Shore. If you file a claim with your insurance company, I'm sure they'll contact me."

I walked away, trying to inject plenty of attitude in my stride. First the taxi fare, and now this. This guy was turning out to be more trouble than he was worth.

I tried to shake off my concerns about the store, Tim Shore, and Frank Bascomb and just enjoy my time outside. It was a typical October day in San Jose, sunny and cool. The morning fog had burned off, and the sun shone brightly. Wind whipped up the Alameda, bending the branches of the newer trees and knocking down the leaves of the older ones. My footsteps were audible, crunching on the brittle leaves.

I welcomed the cooler weather and the rainy season that was coming. Fall meant clouds racing across the sky, giving the bland blue sky character. Summer weather was like an overly matched bedroom suite from Ethan Allan. I preferred my furniture with a few scratches and dents.

Just like I preferred Buster with a five o'clock shadow.

My neighborhood was great. Everything I needed was in a three-block radius. The Alameda was a mix of old buildings and new, chain stores and mom and pops. Right next door to QP was the burrito shop, beyond that a pawnshop. Across the street new condos were going up, with a Starbucks on the ground level. We already had a Peets a few doors down. The old Towne theatre now showed Bollywood movies with their brightly attired actresses on posters out front.

The bank was the old-fashioned kind, built when marble and gilt were meant to give the impression that hard-earned money would be safe here. Once the twelve-foot doors closed behind me, the sounds of the street were immediately muted. The ceiling was trimmed by graceful cove molding painted in light and dark shades of cerulean blue, giving the space a cathedral air. The marble floor was yellowed, but age had been good to the woodwork, leaving it soft and mellow.

The elevated teller windows were to the left. Years agod, the bank tellers had sat behind ornate brass scrollwork, but there was no sign of that now. Instead, each window was decorated for Halloween with faux spider webs crisscrossing the space.

A huge golden bank vault took up much of the back wall. It was open, the intricate workings of the lock visible. As a kid, I'd been afraid to get too close. Afraid that the heavy door would close behind me, and I'd be locked in for hours until the bank manager, then a dour woman with helmet-like hair, would let me out. Kevin, on the other hand, had been fascinated by the door, begging each time we'd banked to be allowed to turn the wheel. He loved to watch the levers move.

The bank was crowded, with a line snaking around the lobby. The commercial teller was closed, naturally. No point in having a teller dedicated strictly to businesses if she was going to be open all the time. I swallowed my resentment.

I settled behind a sun-burnished man in well-worn jeans and a cowboy hat. As soon as I took my eye off the beautiful architecture, the list of things I had to do back at the store began running through my brain, like the annoying scroll across the bottom of the TV. I'd covered the bottom part of my screen with sticky notes to block out the intrusive news. I tried to do the same now, mentally covering up the trailing thoughts with virtual post-its, but I failed.

In the cavernous lobby space, voices carried. I realized that the same little old lady in a stretched-out Irish cable knit sweater had been standing in front of Teller Window Four since I'd come in. The woman's voice rose and fell. "It's my money, and I demand ac cess to it. This is the second day in a row you've been difficult with me.

That voice. I took a step out of line to get a better look.

The college-aged boy with straight black hair and a maroon knit tie was getting flustered. He spoke louder. "I'm just following procedure, ma'am. You need to see the manager. As soon as she's finished with her customer, she will be with you."

The woman's gray hair was inexpertly dyed the same color as her brown polyester pants, and her shoes were broken down at the heel. She was carrying a tote bag with three-dimensional rabbit ears that read, "You're no bunny until some bunny loves you."

I knew that tote bag. Yesterday, it had been full of water bottles and fabric scraps. It belonged to Gussie Johnston, from the Stitch 'n' Bitch group. What had she done to her hair? No wonder I'd hadn't recognized her. It looked like she'd found a bottle of do-ityourself hair dye at the Goodwill.

Gussie drew herself up on her tiptoes in an effort to get level with the counter. She rapped on the wood, oblivious to the black plastic spider that tumbled out its web and onto her foot.

"Young man, I am not stupid or incompetent. Does the sight of an older woman set you off so much that you think I am incapable of handling my affairs? I've been trusted with the disposal of my money since before you were born. Since before your mother was born for that matter."

I'd never seen her angry before. I approached her, stopping just behind her shoulder.

"Gussie?"

Gussie didn't acknowledge me, her attention focused on a dressed-for-success woman making her way through the hidden door behind the other teller stations.

The woman stopped alongside the young man and addressed Gussie.

"Ma'am, please lower your voice," the manager pleaded. She checked the customers in line, smiled so that no one thought she was abusing this frail old woman. "We are required by law to ensure that you are not being swindled. There are procedures. Forms. You have requested a large sum of money."

The manager said that last sentence in a whisper. She was trying to be discreet. I looked around. Everyone was staring. Gussie didn't seem to care.

"To some people, perhaps." Gussie was channeling her inner Celeste, putting on her haughtiest voice.

I stifled a laugh, nudging her side.

She finally noticed me. "Dewey. Good, you're here. Tell them I'm in my right mind. I only want to withdraw funds from my account. I don't know why that should be such a big deal."

"And who is this?" the manager asked.

Gussie pulled me forward with her liver-spotted and gnarled hands. "This is my granddaughter."

Her granddaughter? I could only stare at her, amazed at how easily the lie came tripping off her tongue.

The teller and manager exchanged a look. The manager nodded silently with the air of someone who'd just been let off a legal hook.

"Is your grandmother okay?" the teller asked earnestly. The manager was watching me closely, so I put my arm around Gussie.

I thought about it. My living grandmother, Nona Pellicano, lived in Carmichael in a retirement community. If throwing devil horns at errant golf carts and spitting on the sidewalk and talking back to soap opera characters is okay, my grandmother qualified.

Gussie pinched my arm, hard. Startled, I looked at her. She was begging me to go along. This was more than a bureaucratic snafu. She needed this money. Badly.

"Of course she is. She's gray-haired, not harebrained."

I was pretty proud of my turn of phrase, and Gussie smiled triumphantly and patted her thinning hair.

The manager made a decision. "Go to the vault, Paul. I will help Mrs. Johnston with the paperwork at my desk. Follow me."

Gussie pinched me again, this time gentler. "Thank you," she whispered. She was excited, two red spots high on her cheeks. She'd attempted lipstick, but it had worn off except for a thick pile in the corner of her mouth. Going to the bank was a special occasion for her, too.

"I came in yesterday," Gussie said, as we left the teller window. "They wouldn't give me my money. Said they didn't have enough cash on hand, if you can believe that."

"How much money are you trying to withdraw?"

Gussie said, "Twenty-nine thousand."

My eyes widened, and I suppressed a gasp. I didn't know Gussie had that kind of money. She was always pinching pennies. This had to represent her entire savings.

The manager shot me a look over her glasses. I remembered my role as dutiful granddaughter and clamped my mouth shut.

Halfway between the teller windows and the manager's area, I stopped Gussie.

The line had disappeared, the customers waited on and out the door. No one was within earshot.

"Why so much cash?"

She leaned in. "You can't tell anyone. My grandson, Donna's son, Jeremy, is buying a house. Jeremy told the bank he had thirty thousand in cash for a down payment."

Her voice got quieter still, and I had to move closer to get it all. Her fingers closed on my arm, one ragged nail scratching me. "He lied."

She continued. "He needs my money to make up the difference. There's some problem-if I gave him a check, they would trace it back to me, and then there's tax implications. I don't get it all. All I know is he needs my help, so here I am."