“More wine?”
DISCARDS by Faye Kellerman
FAYE KELLERMAN’s series featuring Rina Lazarus and close friend Sergeant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police Department, including The Ritual Bath, Sacred and Profane, Milk and Honey, and her latest, Day of Atonement, usually incorporate Judaic themes, and have attracted a large audience. A recent novel, The Quality of Mercy, is a work of gripping suspense set in Elizabethan times. Ms. Kellerman and her author husband live in Southern California.
Because he’d hung around long enough, Malibu Mike wasn’t considered a bum but a fixture. All of us locals had known him, had accustomed ourselves to his stale smell, his impromptu orations and wild hand gesticulations. Malibu preaching from his spot-a bus bench next to a garbage bin, perfect for foraging. With a man that weatherbeaten, it had been hard to assign him an age, but the police had estimated he’d been between seventy and ninety when he died-a decent stay on the planet.
Originally they’d thought Malibu had died from exposure. The winter has been a chilly one, a new arctic front eating through the god-awful myth that Southern California is bathed in continual sunshine. Winds churned the tides gray-green, charcoal clouds blanketed the shoreline. The night before last had been cruel. But Malibu had been protected under layers and layers of clothing-a barrier that kept his body insulated from the low of forty degrees,
Malibu had always dressed in layers even when the mercury grazed the hundred-degree mark. That fact was driven home when the obituary in the Malibu Crier announced his weight as 126. I’d always thought of him as chunky, but now I realized it had been the clothes.
I put down the newspaper and turned up the knob on my kerosene heater. Rubbing my hands together, I looked out the window of my trailer. Although it was gray, rain wasn’t part of the forecast and that was good. My roof was still pocked with leaks that I was planning to fix today. But then the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice on the other end, but she must have heard about me from someone I knew a long time ago. She asked for Detective Darling.
“Former detective,” I corrected her. “This is Andrea Darling. Who am I talking to?”
A throat cleared, She sounded in the range of middle-aged to elderly. “Well, you don’t know me personally. I am a friend of Greta Berstat.”
A pause allowing me to acknowledge recognition. She was going to wait a long time.
“Greta Berstat,” she repeated. “You were the detective on her burglary? You found the men who had taken her sterling flatware and the candlesticks and the tea set?”
The bell went off and I remembered Greta Berstat. When I’d been with LAPD, my primary detail was grand theft auto. Greta’s case had come my way during a brief rotation through burglary.
“Greta gave you my phone number?” I inquired.
“Not exactly,” the woman explained. “You see, I’m a local resident and I found your name in the Malibu Directory-the one put out by the Chamber of Commerce? You were listed under Investigation right between Interior Design and Jewelers.”
I laughed to myself. “What can I do for you Ms…”
“Mrs. Pollack,” the woman answered. “Deirdre Pollack. Greta was over at my house when I was looking through the phone book. When she saw your name, her eyes grew wide and my-oh-my did she sing your praises, Detective Darling.”
I didn’t correct her this time. “Glad to have made a fan. How can I help you, Mrs. Pollack?”
“Deirdre, please.”
“Deirdre it is. What’s up?”
Deirdre hemmed and hawed. Finally, she said, “Well, I have a little bit of a problem.”
I said, “Does this problem have a story behind it?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we met in person?”
“Yes, perhaps it would be best.”
“Give me your address,” I said. “If you’re local, I can probably make it down within the hour.”
“An hour?” Deirdre said. “Well, that would be simply lovely!”
From Deirdre’s living room I had a one-eighty-degree view of the coastline. The tides ripped relentlessly away at the rocks ninety feet below. You could hear the surf even this far up, the steady whoosh of water advancing and retreating. Deirdre’s estate took up three landscaped acres, but the house, instead of being centered oil the property, was perched on the edge of the bluff. She’d furnished the place warmly-plants and overstuffed chairs and lots of maritime knick-knacks.
I settled into a chintz wing chair; Deirdre was positioned opposite me on a loveseat. She insisted on making me a cup of coffee, and while she did I took a moment to observe her.
She must have been in her late seventies, her face scored with hundreds of wrinkles. She was short with a loose turkey wattle under her chin, her cheeks were heavily rouged, her thin lips painted bright red. She had flaming red hair and false eyelashes that hooded blue eyes turned milky from cataracts. She had a tentative manner, yet her voice was firm and pleasant. Her smile seemed genuine even if her teeth weren’t. She wore a pink suit, a white blouse, and orthopedic shoes.
“You’re a lot younger than I expected,” Deirdre said, handing me a china cup.
I smiled and sipped. I’m thirty-eight and have been told I look a lot younger. But to a woman Deirdre’s age, thirty-eight still could be younger than expected.
“Are you married, Detective?” Deirdre asked.
“Not at the moment.” I smiled.
“I was married for forty-seven years.” Deirdre sighed. “Mr. Pollack passed away six years ago. I miss him.”
“I’m sure you do.” I put my cup down. “Children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. Both are doing well. They visit quite often.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “So… you live by yourself.”
“Well, yes and no,” she answered. “I sleep alone but I have daily help. One woman for weekdays, another for weekends.”
I looked around the house. We seemed to be alone and it was ten o’clock Tuesday morning. “Your helper didn’t show up today?”
“That’s the little problem I wanted to tell you about.”
I took out my notebook and pen. “We can start now if you’re ready.”
“Well, the story involves my helper,” Deirdre said. “My housekeeper. Martina Cruz… that’s her name.”
I wrote down the name.
“Martina’s worked for me for twelve years,” Deirdre said. “I’ve become quite dependent on her. Not just to give me pills and clean up the house. But we’ve become good friends. Twelve years is a long time to work for someone.”
I agreed, thinking: twelve years was a long time to do anything.
Deirdre went on. “Martina lives far away from Malibu, far away from me. But she has never missed a day in all those years without calling me first Martina is very responsible. I respect her and trust her. That’s why I’m puzzled even though Greta thinks I’m being naive. Maybe I am being naive, but I’d rather think better of people than to be so cynical.”
“Do you think something happened to her?” I said.
“I’m not sure.” Deirdre bit her lip. “I’ll relate the story and maybe you can offer a suggestion.”
I told her to take her time.
Deirdre said. “Well, like many old women, I’ve acquired things over the years. I tell my children to take whatever they want but there always seem to be leftover items. Discards. Old flower pots, used cookware, out-of-date clothing and shoes and hats. My children don’t want those kinds of things. So if I find something I no longer need, I usually give it to Martina.
“Last week, I was cleaning out my closets. Martina was helping me.” She sighed. “I gave her a pile of old clothes to take home. I remember it well because I asked her how in the world she’d be able to carry all those items on the bus. She just laughed. And oh, how she thanked me. Such a sweet girl twelve years she worked for me.”