Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 01 - A Brilliant Plan (3 page)

I scratched a worn patch on the old sofa fabric. “You bet,” I said, “he will never let go until he has found all the angles.”

“You know him? Ever met him before?”

“Did I ever? He is a pest. He is convinced that I am Jane Ruby, the cat thief, and that I am responsible for half of the jewel heists in this country.”

Mundy gave me an ‘As if you weren’t’ look. I threw my hands up. “Even if, it doesn’t matter. He has never been able to find a shred of proof, not even leads. What
is
disturbing though, is the fact that he knows that you are playing my boyfriend and that you are my standard alibi.”

Mundy looked stunned, he hadn’t thought of that yet. “So he knows everything about you?” I held up my hand, heard a familiar rumble from the front side of the house. “What is that, an earthquake?” Mundy looked into the garden and onto the shelves.

“No, my father,” I said.

Harry Moon was a big man and he came from a big family. When I was a small girl, I used to pray that I would grow up to be as strong and big as my dad, so I would be equipped against all the evil dangers of the world. However, after I discovered boys, around sixteen or so, I prayed that I would inherit Mom’s slender feline bones and that I would not develop into ‘Hilde, the Norwegian troll girl.’ A good mixture of them both had won.
 

With Mundy on my trail, I walked back to the kitchen to greet Dad. He still held his motorcycle helmet in one hand and had just finished kissing Mom, “Hello Calendar, my surfer girl.” He gave me a bear hug, lifting me off the floor and forcing all the air out of me. We held on to each other for a few seconds, and then he put me down again, the gentle giant.

“Dad, do you remember Mundy? I invited him over for Thanksgiving; otherwise he would have stuffed himself full of McDonald’s chicken burgers.”

Dad shook Mundy’s hand, a bear paw crushing the slender fingers of a boy. “Welcome to the House of the Moon, Mundy. Of course, I remember you. You turned to journalism, I heard.”

Mundy and Dad started a chat about working conditions at the
Washington Post
, one of Mundy’s former employers, while Dad took off his leather jacket and stored the helmet in the cupboard. He rode an old Harley from the 50s, meticulously restored during countless mornings in the garage. Although he was pretty wild in the old days, and he belonged to the hippie generation of Monterey and Berkeley, it was only a few years ago that he started restoring the bike. Before that, he was more into gardening and surfing.
 

Mom and Dad were very well off, an unusual thing for the hardcore hippie generation where many had taken the road to the American way of life quite late. Of all things, Dad had made some clever investments that turned out extremely well. He had only invested in outcast stocks as he called them—the likes of AOL, Apple and Yahoo had turned Dolores Stone and Harry Moon into rich people, who now held various social functions in San Diego.

The rest of the morning and early midday was rather unspectacular; we helped Mom prepare Thanksgiving dinner, even Mundy managed to peel his share of potatoes without jeopardizing his typing career. Later, I saw Mom and Dad in the garden. In low tones, she updated him on the detectives’ visit—while they pretended to pick fresh herbs. No further remarks were made about the visit or any possible predicaments of their daughter. The pact of silence and ignorance was intact. But it lingered between us all, unspoken.

SHORTLY AFTER NOON, peace came to a sudden end. My sister and her two kids arrived spilling out of their taxi with an endless stream of bags and cases. Hugs and kisses all around, little useless presents for most of us. Oohing and ahhhing at last year’s improvements on wardrobe, architecture and hairdos. After eight hours on the plane, my niece and nephew, Jennifer and Keith, were soon playing football with Mundy in the garden. They were screaming and shouting for the best throws and catches. The kids loved Mundy instantly; he was very natural around them. Something they had probably never experienced with their father or mother, since Sunny and Tom were both stiff and over caring parents, projecting a lot of their own fears and life ambitions into their kids. Jen was the older of the two, eight years old, she was a typical commerce driven child of this generation—iPhone, PlayStation and Barbie were her most uttered words. With her straight honey-blonde hair and coquettish looks, she took after my sister Sunny. In comparison, Keith, at seven years old, was a serious dark haired kid with glasses and a thoughtful hesitant manner. He had taken after his father, Tom Highler, an accountant with a Dallas oil company. Sunny and he had gone separate ways for five years now. Sunny looked a lot like me but she was the more mature one, sturdier frame and bones, a little more of the ‘Hilda’ genes. Where I had taken refuge in my diamonds, crafts and not-to-be-named adventures, she had rebelled against the hippie fraction by embracing capitalistic America to the fullest. She had become a corporate lawyer. Specializing in mergers and acquisitions, she prepared billion dollar deals that destroyed numerous jobs and economic microstructures. ‘Synergy’ was her favorite word and to the dismay of Mom and Dad, she was proud of her achievements. Define ‘dysfunctional’ in the new Millennium.

Mom finally announced, “We will eat in the garden under the trees,” and clapped her hands.
 

And so we did.

Thanksgiving dinner turned out to be pleasant with the occasional strained overtones that uniquely marked this family as my own. Mom had outdone herself with the cooking; the dishes she had prepared deflected any joke about non-tasty veggie food. Dad told story after story of San Diego’s social elite and their ways of ignoring the poor and underprivileged. Mundy behaved, not embarrassing me any further. Conversation circled around family affairs, catching up with neighborhood gossip and the ethical conflicts of corporate America.

Nearly two and half hours later, we finished eating, absolutely stuffed. Mundy was giving me a light neck massage; had he attempted such a stunt 24 hours ago, I would have slugged him. I bet he enjoyed the whole thing immensely. Well, my price for a good alibi. When this was over, it was my turn to let him suffer.

Sunny sat with Mom, sipping ice tea and chatting away. The kids played with the cats and helped their granddad fix something on the motorcycle. Later, Mom brought out her guitar and we sang Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez songs, the three Stone-girls in a strange sad harmony.

Mundy and I hadn’t finished our little chat from before noon so after we were able to move again and had done the dishes, we headed down to the waterfront to walk the vegetable lasagna into the ground. The sun was already gone and we wandered under yellow light, skaters and joggers buzzing by.

“Your folks are nice,” Mundy stated. His parents had been gone for many years, both taken by the Big C.

“No complaints. But you caught the gang in a good mood,” I nodded. “These family gatherings often end with loud quarrels, tears and inhabitations that last until the next time around. Your presence helped to keep us civilized.”

We were silent for a moment. Then I gave him a quick kiss.
 

“What was that for?” Mundy asked, rubbing his cheek.

“For being there,” I said, meaning it. He was my best friend after all.
 

“Did you have anything to do with the death of the watchman?” Mundy blurted out.

“Jesus, you must have been a pressure cooker all through the afternoon.”
 

“Come on, you can tell me, I have a right to know. I am your alibi but I won’t cover for murder.”

“Mundy, dear, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with the murder and the theft they are investigating. When I stumbled on the guy, I even checked his pulse… ”

Mundy gave a sharp breather; I could feel a hyperventilation coming up with him. “Touch! You touched the body, probably left hair and sweat, a million DNA cells and everything for the police to find.”

“I always wear gloves while I’m working, plus I am hooded up. He was already dead, though not for long, he was still warm to the touch. I finished what I was doing and left quickly,” I explained. “I’ve been in this game for a while now.”

“Game! You found him and you checked on him. Curiosity killed the cat burglar.”
 

“When I started, he was alive and doing his rounds. I was doing my business. I was preparing to get away when I stumbled on him dead. Did a check to see if I could help and then left. I didn’t see anyone else.”
 

“You know, it could have been you,” Mundy said and after I understood what he meant, realized that he was probably right. It could have been me left dead. A little scary. Actually, quite scary.

We walked a little further along the beach. Mundy stopped and sat down in the sand. “A close shave.”

“Yup, what a mess.”

“Think our alibi worked?”
 

I nodded. “For the police, yes, it is as good as it gets for now. The initial danger is over because a trustworthy person accounts for me and they will focus on other leads. Plus, since I was using my cash rental, they won’t find any record of my car being in this area the night before.” I hoped that they had other suspects on their list besides me.

“But this insurance guy, Flower?” We started skipping stones into the low evening surf.

“Fowler. Fowler Wynn. An old friend of mine.”

“Ironically spoken, I presume.”

“He is more like an arch enemy. Like one of those relentless detectives on TV, a fanatic when it comes to hunting down his prey. And somehow along the way, he set his sights on me as public enemy number one.”

“Sounds like a nutcase to me,” Mundy said.
 

“Oh no, not mad. He is sharp and thorough. Brilliant art knowledge, combined with a very suspicious mind. Ideal traits for an insurance detective. His company uses him for all of its tricky customers and major art and jewelry thefts worldwide. They probably have a file this thick on me,” I indicated with outstretched arms, “listing all the insane suspicions he’d collected over the years. But without proof, there is nothing Wynn can do to me.”

Mundy gave me a skeptical look. “Except to wait for you to make a mistake. Fingerprints, a DNA trace or an onsite arrest. A murder at the break-in perhaps?”

I looked out over the ocean. “Most likely, he will turn up tomorrow and conduct a short fused interview that ends in a shouting match between us. I hope they find the guy quickly who killed the night watchman. That will take the focus off me, again. Until the next time.”

Mundy and I kept skipping stones.
 

How wrong could I get?

SURPRISINGLY, MUNDY WENT out with Sunny and the kids to watch a movie. The new one with the Scientology actor. Mom and Dad went to a fundraiser. That left me home alone to make it an early night. I was dragging myself upstairs when the doorbell rang.
 

“Did you guys forget anyth… ”

My heart gave a little skip when I found Detective Ron McCloseky standing at the front door. Trick or treat?

“Detective, did you lose your gun in the upholstery?” I asked, looking over his shoulder. “Or your partner?”

“Miss Moonstone, can I come in for a second?” He asked, “I need to ask you for a favor.” Then he stood there as if he were asking me out on a date.
 

“What can I do for you? Coffee first?”
 

The detective nodded and muttered something about a long night and day.
 

I busied myself with the wonder of Italian engineering.
 

He started. “I discussed this with my partner, Detective Garcia. She does not share my opinion but she agreed to give it a shot.”

“Shot?”

“Don’t feel threatened. Anymore, that is.” Detective McCloseky downed the espresso and shook his head in bewilderment. “I thought no one could surpass the guys from Seattle but this is marvelous.”

I nodded in agreement. “That machine over there probably costs more than you earn in two months.”

“Wow, you put me in line,” he laughed and turned serious again. “We have a problem with the break-in and murder at the Altward Gallery in Downtown San Diego. The day is over and the initial forensics haven’t found anything at all that could even possibly lead us in the right direction. The usual suspects such as the local art pushers and gem traders all turned out to have alibis, same for the usual burglars.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” I said coolly.

He didn’t dare laugh because he could see that I was dead serious. “Sorry, that British insurance guy got to me,” Detective McCloseky explained.

I gave him a raised eyebrow, indicating that I had no clue what he was talking about. Why were the wrong people always murdered?

“Anyway,” he continued, “what I want to say is that the trail is cold. The first 24 to 48 hours after the crime are the most important. If you don’t have a serious suspect or lead within that time, chances are slim that you will solve the crime at all. And the first 24 hours are already over.”

“What does that have to do with me, Detective?” I inquired.

“Juanita has burglary experience. I handle the homicides. But there is a total lack of experience when it comes to jewelry and art crime in the department. The last serious crime regarding gem art was years ago and the detective working the case retired a while back.”

“There is no ongoing criminal activity regarding diamonds, gems and jewelry in San Diego? I can’t believe that.” I mused.

He nodded. “Of course, you have your average Joe Burglar who steals and pushes hot jewelry from Miss Socialite’s bedroom safe. But that is off-the-shelf stuff. Expensive, but not rare.”

“You think that the crime is connected with the art scene,” I stated, dropping my act, “jewelry art?”

“That’s right,” Detective McCloseky continued. “The gallery owner is preparing the list of stolen items for us, photos and all.”

I wondered what on earth that could be. “And why do you need me again, exactly?” I asked once more.