Irish Chain Read online

  “Ramon?” I called, moving closer and peering into the shadows. “Is that you? Ramon?”

  He stepped down from the gazebo, rubbing the back of his neck. “Geeze, Benni, like why don’t you use a bullhorn or something? I think someone in Santa Barbara might have missed it.”

  “You should be helping at the dance,” I accused.

  “I needed some fresh air.”

  Standing on tiptoe, I peered over his shoulder. “Who’s in there with you?” Red sequins flashed in the moonlight. “She was just with—For Pete’s sake, does she have a twin?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Help me find Mr. O’Hara so we can crown the royal couple and get this dance over with. Then you and the lady in red can exchange saliva to your heart’s content.”

  He scowled at me. “Why don’t you just be blunt or something?”

  “I mean it. I’m not signing any of you kids off this project until everything is completely cleaned up. What happened to that wonderful altruism you all started out with?” I was tired and hungry and it was beginning to show.

  “Altrue-what?”

  “Forget it. Let’s just find Mr. O’Hara, then we’re all outta here.”

  After a short, intense conversation with his girlfriend, Ramon ambled up beside me.

  “Well, where do we look?” he asked in a grumpy voice.

  Ignoring his tone, I said, “We might as well try the obvious and check his room.”

  With its green tartan plaid bedspread and framed photographs of his travels in Ireland, Brady O’Hara’s large private room was as neat and precise as his natty toothbrush mustache. It was also empty. He was one of the few residents at Oak Terrace who could afford such posh accommodations, having owned O’Hara’s Department Store downtown for fifty years, and from what I’d heard, invested the money from its sale wisely. I’d spent many late August afternoons in the Smart Young Miss department of his store arguing with Dove about the real and imagined dangers of skintight jeans and whether bras were or weren’t a necessary clothing option for a liberated sixteen-year-old. In the late seventies, when the Central Coast Fashion Plaza opened up on the edge of town, he closed the store and retired to his huge Victorian house where he cultivated an English flower garden and worked on long, rambling articles for obscure historical journals.

  “Now what?” Ramon asked, jiggling one leg impatiently while I slipped my shoes back on my icy feet. The hallway, usually crowded with wheelchairs, walkers, nurses’ aides and various visitors, was empty, all the guests living in this wing apparently enjoying the dance.

  “Let’s try the nurses’ station.”

  We walked toward the center of the building, the heels of my pumps clicking across the shiny tile floor like tiny gunshots. A lone attendant sat at the central station, hunched over a Spanish comic book. The front cover pictured a buxom blond woman and a Latino-looking Dick Tracy.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the attendant, a middle-aged man with a stiff black pompadour and a silver religious medallion around his neck. “Have you seen an elderly man go by here recently?”

  “Yes?” His voice rose in question.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Yes?” He surveyed me with friendly black eyes. “No habla inglés.”

  I turned and looked at Ramon expectantly. He fired off a rapid question ending in “Señor O’Hara.” The attendant’s brown face remained blank. Ramon tried again. I understood the words gringo and viejo. Old white man. The man answered with a few words and a crooked smile, spreading his arms widely to encompass both hallways.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Basically that the place is chock full of them,” Ramon said. “Geeze, Benni, can’t we just crown someone else? They all look alike. Who’s going to know the difference?” I shook my head and turned to the attendant.

  “Gracias,” I said, then faced Ramon. “Let’s split up. You check the rooms down the west and east wings. I’ll take the north and south.”

  He heaved a dramatic sigh. “You’re the boss.” He started down the green-tiled hall, sticking his head unabashedly into the first room he came to and yelled, “Yo, Mr. O.”

  “Ramon,” I hissed. “Try and show some respect. Knock before you go into a room. Someone might be in there. And check the east garden too.”

  Without turning around, he flapped his hand behind him mimicking a quacking duck.

  “Smart ass,” I muttered and headed left to check the north wing first. I walked down the corridor peeking discreetly into the open doors, knocking loudly and waiting a few seconds before opening the closed ones. Most of the white doors, in preparation for tomorrow, sported Valentine’s Day decorations made in the weekly crafts class. Some enthusiastic residents had already gotten an early start and pasted green and orange shamrocks next to the hearts. The retirement home’s obsession with holidays reminded me of elementary school. Though most of the guests enjoyed it, some, like Oralee, found it condescending. The battle to keep the door to their room bare or decorated was a tug of war between her and Miss Violet who, as a former grade-school teacher, felt right at home with holiday-fixation.

  The last room in the north corridor was the crafts room, where I’d spent many hours in the last few weeks. It was a long shot, but I checked anyway. The cramped, windowless room held only the Steps to the Altar quilt the ladies started piecing a month ago, and our quilting supplies. Our next meeting would be this coming week at the co-op studios to stretch it out and start the actual quilting.

  I closed the door and walked back toward the south side of the building, thinking about the blue and pink quilt.

  “So, Benni,” Thelma had said at our last meeting. “Just how many steps does it take to get to the altar these days?”

  “I have no idea,” I’d answered, trying to concentrate on what had become my main job with these expert quilters, threading a ready supply of needles.

  “Just like in our time, no doubt,” Martha said, stabbing her needle as aggressively through the fabric as she gave her opinions to the world. “It probably depends on who’s doing the stepping.”

  Thelma reached over, grabbed a new needle and patted me on the shoulder. “You take your time, honey. And don’t you forget, the smartest thing a woman can do is stick her feet in a milk bottle and wait for a wedding ring.” Relaxed, time-softened laughter rippled through the room.

  I passed the nurses’ desk again, empty now, and couldn’t help but wonder about the security at Oak Terrace. What if someone suddenly became ill? It was a subject I should discuss with Mac, since his grandmother lived here. It seemed to me they should have someone around at all times, especially someone who could summon help in English. The community room revealed only one elderly lady with a Peter Pan haircut and two bulky hearing aids attached to her ears like small tan animals. “Never heard of’em,” she yelled to my question about Mr. O’Hara. Her eyes never left the green-tinted television turned to the show Love Connection.

  The last room at the end of the south corridor made me smile. The masking tape down the middle of the door told the whole sordid story. Hearts made of red and pink construction paper and white paper doilies covered half of it; the other side was as bare as a newborn baby. I knocked on the closed door. Asking Oralee about Mr. O’Hara was probably taking my life in my hands, but maybe she had seen him wander by.

  When there was no answer, I pushed it open.

  “Oralee, have you . . . ?”

  I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.

  The stench hit me first. Gamy, raw, suffocating. A body’s last attempt to clean itself out. The creature lay on the floor at the foot of the two beds, face swollen and suffused almost past recognition—a disgusting purplish color Crayola would never vote to include in their palette. Bulging eyes. As if someone was angry enough to squeeze them right out of his head. I recognized the tweed jacket and the gray wool slacks. Mr. O’Hara wouldn’t be wearing a crown tonight.

  I froze, staring
at his strangled body. Covering my nose and mouth with my hand, I swallowed convulsively and started backing out of the room. My shoulders hit something solid. I squealed in terror and swung around.

  “Oh man, oh man,” Ramon said, his dark skin mottled reddish-brown with emotion. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

  “Go get Gabe,” I said, giving him a shove. “Hurry.”

  “I can’t leave you . . .”

  “Someone has to get help. I’ll be fine. Now go! Quick!”

  “Wait,” he said. “Benni, look.” My eyes followed his finger to where it was pointing. There was something on one of the beds. The one with the red and brown postage stamp quilt that had at first glance appeared lumpy, unmade. Something else.

  Someone else.

  “Stay back,” I commanded, then lifted the hem of my skirt and stepped over Mr. O’Hara’s legs to reach the side of the bed, kicking a pillow that had fallen on the floor. Miss Violet stared up at me, her eyes as flat as the glass beads she always wore. The sour, greasy taste of the french fries I’d eaten that afternoon crawled up the back of my throat.

  “Miss Violet,” I said, trying to stave off the hysteria I felt bubbling up along with the french fries. I shook her gently. No response. I shook harder. “Please, Miss Violet.” Her arm fell out from under the bedspread. Knowing I should check for a pulse, that she might still be alive, I reached down and took her cool delicate wrist in my fingers, praying for a fluttering, a movement. Feeling nothing, I jerked back and stumbled over Mr. O’Hara’s legs in my haste to get out into the hall. Ramon stood dumbly waiting for me to speak.

  “I told you to go get Gabe. Now go!”

  He gave me a hesitant look, then sprinted down the hallway toward the exit.

  I leaned against the doorjamb and sucked in deep breaths, wondering if it was smart to stay there. But common sense told me that most likely whoever did this had long gone, and I didn’t want any of Oak Terrace’s residents to wander by and accidentally look in. I eased out into the hallway and braced myself against the wall. Gold stars sparkled in front of my eyes, and fear caused my mouth to dry up as surely as if I’d eaten a mouthful of sand. It seemed an eternity since I’d sent Ramon for Gabe. Unbidden, Mr. O’Hara’s purple face loomed up in my mind, and I felt myself start to quiver and give in to the urge to slide down. Firm hands caught my shoulders and stopped my descent.

  “Are you all right?” Mac asked. His grim face gradually came into focus.

  “How did you . . . I didn’t even hear you come up.”

  “I passed Ramon in the garden. He said someone had died.”

  “In there. I told him to get Gabe. He’ll know what to do.” When he started through the door, I suddenly remembered whose room it was. “Oh, Mac, don’t worry. It’s not Oralee.”

  “What are you talking about? She’s in the kitchen. I was coming to get her a sweater.” He stepped past me into the room. After a few seconds, I heard a sharp intake of breath and a soft prayer, “Oh, Lord, no.”

  I leaned back against the wall, my heart still pounding, feeling relieved that Mac, with his substantial physical presence and experienced spiritual calm, was handling the situation. I took deep breaths in an attempt to keep my lunch down while questions chased around my mind like a blue heeler after sheep.

  Who would kill Mr. O’Hara? And Miss Violet? They were two of San Celina’s blandest residents. I’d known both of them all my life. Law-abiding, proper, boring. Who could want them dead?

  Then something occurred to me. Was Miss Violet actually murdered? It was obvious, even to an amateur like me, that Mr. O’Hara was strangled. But Miss Violet, as far as I could see, didn’t have a mark on her. Did she see something, the murderer perhaps, and die of fright? Of course, I hadn’t pulled back the bedspread. I shuddered at the images conjured up in my mind and stuck my head through the door to ask Mac what he thought about it.

  He was kneeling next to Miss Violet’s bed, seemingly praying. I started to turn my head, embarrassed for intruding on such a private moment, when I saw him open her nightstand drawer, quickly search it and stick something in his pocket, his large body blocking my view of what it was. With only the slightest movement, he closed the drawer with his elbow.

  “Mac, what are you . . .”

  Steps echoing down the hallway distracted me. I turned to see Gabe approaching with a determined stride, Ramon double-stepping to keep up. Gabe already wore his Sergeant Friday look. Dead calm. No emotion. Just the facts, ma’am. Every last one of them. Right now.

  When he reached me, his mask slipped for a moment. He gently lifted my chin and searched my face with worried eyes.

  “I’m okay,” I said, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from flowing. “Really. Go ahead.”

  Satisfied, his cop look came back. “Where?”

  I pointed to the open door. “Mac’s in there.”

  “Who?” he snapped.

  “I know it’s a crime scene, but he’s a minister and . . .”

  A muscle jumped like a small fish in his clenched jaw. Crime scenes bordered on the sacred to Gabe. I knew that. But I would have no more kept Mac from going in there than I would have stopped a charging bull. There was a remote chance that Miss Violet might have still been alive and there are still some things more important than evidence. I tried not to think about seeing Mac remove something from the scene. Maybe it was my imagination. That was certainly what I wanted to believe.

  Gabe started through the doorway, wearing a look that said whoever was in the room, religious affiliation or not, was in big trouble. I followed him in, watching his face apprehensively.

  In an instant, his expression changed. Surprise, then incredulity covered his face. I moved closer to him, confused at his reaction. He had been a cop almost twenty years. I couldn’t imagine anything shocking him. Besides, he wasn’t even looking down at the body. I looked over at Mac. A similar look of amazement froze his broad features.

  “Pancho?” Mac asked.

  “Lefty?” Gabe replied.

  “A cop?”

  “A minister?”

  “You two know each other?” I said.

  4

  GABE’S FACE SWITCHED from surprise back to his blank, impenetrable cop look. “Nice to see you again. Please step out of the room.” His voice was pleasant but inflexible. “I hope you didn’t touch anything.”

  “Good seeing you too,” Mac said evenly, looking Gabe straight in the eye.

  “How do you two know each other?” I asked. They both ignored me.

  “Wait in the hall,” Gabe said. “I’ll need to speak with you both in a minute.” He slipped on his round, wire-rimmed glasses, clasped his hands behind his back and stepped closer to Mr. O’Hara.

  After Gabe’s phone call to the station, it didn’t take long before the hallway was full of police officers, uniformed and plainclothes, each jostling for room to perform their various crime-scene tasks.

  Once Edwin had been informed of the incident, he pushed himself into the thick of things, strutting around importantly, telling the crime-scene personnel how to do their jobs and trying to get in and see the room and the bodies. When a detective threatened to slip one of the extra-large plastic evidence bags over Edwin’s head and secure it with a rubber band, Gabe pulled Edwin aside. I watched with amusement as he sternly told him to take care of his own responsibilities and arrange for the elderly residents to return to their rooms with as little fuss as possible. Everyone at the dance who didn’t live at Oak Terrace was briefly interviewed by one of San Celina’s five detectives, had their photos taken and were asked to leave their names and addresses before departing.

  Over the next few hours, Mac and I helped the staff accompany the frightened residents back to their rooms, saw to it that all the kids made it to their cars and helped Oralee get settled in her new room in another building. Knowing his grandmother wouldn’t stand for anything less, Mac didn’t mince words when he told her what happened to Mr. O’Hara and Miss Violet.
<
br />   “Mac?” She gave him a sharp, inquiring look.

  “Everything’s fine, Grandma.” He took her rawboned hand in his. “Don’t worry.”

  “You’re a good boy,” she said, lying back on her bed and closing her eyes. The skin on her face looked as fragile as an egg shell and she lay so motionless, her thin-veined eyelids so still, it seemed for a moment that she’d died too. A lump lodged deep in my throat. We’d been so busy in the last few hours, I’d almost managed to push the reality of the two deaths to a dark, back corner of my mind. Miss Violet’s round, animated face as she read Charlotte’s Web aloud to my fourth-grade class flooded back to me in a painful Technicolor memory.

  “I’m going to see Gabe,” I said, suddenly wanting to look into his calm face, feel the security I associated with being in his presence.

  “I’ll come with you,” Mac said. He turned to Oralee. “I’ll be back before I go home. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.” She nodded mutely and turned her head. A tear trickled down into a seam of her tanned cheek. She swiped it away impatiently. I squeezed her hand before leaving, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears. It frightened me to see Oralee so vulnerable, and it frightened me even more that Mac had essentially lied to Gabe.

  We found Gabe in a small room off the nurses’ station where they were interrogating the comic-reading attendant. He had finally returned from an unauthorized break at a neighborhood bar and looked scared to death. Lieutenant Cleary, San Celina’s chief of detectives, towered over the nervous man, questioning him in a rapid flow of Spanish. The dark-eyed attendant gave staccato replies, appearing somewhat confused that a black man wearing a corduroy jacket and looking like a college professor was speaking to him in fluent street Spanish. Jim Cleary’s mild-looking exterior hid a cop who was a ten-year veteran of some of East L.A.’s toughest Latino neighborhoods. Jim took my statement next, then Mac’s, then Ramon’s. Mac and I lingered around the crowded nurses’ desk, listening to the retirement home employees carp about who was going to get stuck cleaning up the murder scene, when Gabe walked over to us.