Death by the Bay Read online

  “So I gather.” Cubiak pointed to the box. “What are you going to do with that?”

  Pardy shrugged. “Hold on to it for a while, I guess. I had to call the manufacturer for instructions on how to disengage it so I wouldn’t be shocked taking it out, and the rep said something about recycling the device. But I’d rather not do anything until I talk to the family or whoever is in charge of the doctor’s affairs.”

  At that moment, an adolescent boy in a T-shirt and baggy shorts whizzed toward them on a skateboard. “You need a helmet,” Pardy called out as he slid past. The kid didn’t even turn around, and they heard him laughing as he disappeared around the corner.

  “Another one. He’ll end up in the ER yet, but God knows you can’t tell these kids anything. I’m already starting to see that with my two. ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’ George Bernard Shaw,” she said and shook her head. She continued, “Speaking of Melk’s affairs, whatever happened with Sage? You said he didn’t want an autopsy performed and might try to intervene, but he didn’t come to the hospital and he hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “I’ve been leaving messages for him too. His secretary thinks he’s distraught over Melk’s death and taking some time off.”

  “You’d think he’d be busier than ever now.” Pardy finished her coffee. “Funny thing though, that journalist called. Cody whatever.”

  “Cody Longe. That’s her pen name. Her real name is Linda Kiel.”

  “That’s her. The young woman who was at the conference when Melk collapsed.”

  “What did she want with you?”

  “It was hard to tell. She was pretty evasive, just said she was following up on events of that day for her book on Melk and the institute. She asked a lot of questions about the autopsy. It sounded to me like she was trying to make a big story out of the doctor’s death. I told her the findings were confidential until the inquest.”

  A bank of clouds had moved in and covered the sun. The temperature had dropped noticeably, and even the sparrows had deserted them for a warmer spot. They carried their cups inside, and then Cubiak walked Pardy to her car.

  “I wouldn’t use the office again until you get the door repaired and the lock replaced. In fact, you might consider putting in a new door—something stronger. Maybe something made out of steel.”

  “Do you think I’m in danger?”

  “Not really, but there’s no reason to take chances. While you’re at it, I’d keep the defibrillator secured at the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  Because instinct says it’s the right thing to do, he thought.

  “Why not?”

  Pardy slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Yes, sir,” she said and saluted.

  10

  DISHONOR

  It was nearly four when Cubiak finished talking with Emma Pardy. He waited for her to drive off, and then he headed north to the Green Arbor Lodge. He had called earlier and been told that Francisca and Lupita worked the day shift and would be finishing up soon. He didn’t want to miss them again.

  Lodge guests parked in the paved lot out front and followed the stone path to the entrance. The help came and went by a rear door that abutted a small graveled patch near the dumpsters. Cubiak left the jeep in a sliver of shade and positioned himself near the back door.

  Five minutes after he arrived, the door banged open, and a dozen men and women emerged, all still in uniform. The men hurriedly lit cigarettes, and the women chatted and clutched the oversized bags that hung from their shoulders. It took the sheriff a few seconds to distinguish Francisca from the others. She recoiled when she saw him. Then she inclined her head almost imperceptibly and pulled Lupita aside. They waited until their colleagues had driven off to approach him.

  “This won’t take long, but I need to talk to you again,” Cubiak said.

  The women followed him back into the building, silently retracing their steps down the corridor. When they reached the lobby, they hesitated. A stylish, middle-aged couple in colorful resort attire waited near the front desk, a small mountain of monogrammed, matching luggage piled up behind them. The man glared imperiously at the trio as if he expected them to deal with the suitcases.

  “Enjoy your stay,” Cubiak said, adding to the man’s confusion. Then he motioned Francisca and Lupita forward.

  “Come with me,” he said as he led the way toward the conference center. He planned to talk to them in the Forest Room, hoping that Francisca would feel more comfortable there.

  But when they neared the door, she started to cry.

  “It’s okay,” he said again.

  Cubiak opened the door and stepped in. The women followed.

  As soon as she was inside, Francisca began talking in Spanish. Eyes downcast, she spoke hurriedly, and her words tumbled out in the soft, urgent patter of a confession.

  Lupita interpreted. “She is sorry for taking so much of your time. She thinks that perhaps she was mistaken. That perhaps she only imagined the boy in the photo was her brother.”

  “Why?” Cubiak said. This is not what he expected.

  Lupita started to explain when Francisca looked up. Her eyes were sad and heavy with lack of sleep. “It has been many years since I saw my brother.”

  “You speak English.” The sheriff was unable to hide his surprise.

  Francisca nodded. “Yes, I have learned.”

  “Why were you talking to me in Spanish before?”

  “I was very upset, very excited. All the English words I knew escaped.” With her hand, she mimicked a bird flying away.

  She faced him without flinching. There was something honest in her gaze, and Cubiak remembered how his mother reverted to her native Polish whenever she became flustered.

  “I understand. Please, sit.” He pulled out two chairs for the women. Lupita took a seat, but Francisca remained standing. She looked at her friend. The older woman smiled her encouragement. Finally Francisca crossed herself and perched on the edge of the other chair.

  As he had done at their first meeting, Cubiak sat facing them.

  “It is possible that you were wrong about the boy in the photo being your brother. But I am interested in knowing what happened to Miguel. I want you to tell me everything that you remember, from the beginning.”

  Francisca took a moment to respond. “My mother had six children. I was the oldest. I was thirteen when Miguel was born. He came in the middle of the night. There was no one to help.”

  “I don’t understand. On Monday, you told me that he was your twin. Now you’re saying you were a teenager when he was born.” Was she toying with him? How many versions were there to her story? He tried to stay patient.

  Francisca blushed. “My mother called him my twin because he was born on the same day, at the same time. We were like twins, she said. If he had been born when you were, he would be healthy, too. I don’t know if that’s true, but it comforted her to think that it would have made a difference.”

  She brushed a tear from her cheek and fell silent. When she tried to go on, she began to tremble. Lupita reached for her hand, and Francisca continued.

  “The rest of us were healthy, all except Miguel. He was different. My mother knew as soon as she saw him. My father did not want a son who looked like that, and he was very angry. He was a very proud man who could not accept the fact of having a deformed child. He said that Miguel was an insult and blamed my mother. He said that she must have sinned to bring this upon us. He refused to acknowledge Miguel as his son. He wouldn’t even let my mother have him baptized, and he forbade her from taking him out of the house. He made her hide him because he thought that the people in the village would scorn us. It was the curse of the devil, he said. We were to tell everyone that Miguel had been born dead and that we had buried him in the little garden behind our house. He even put a small cross in the ground, pretending to mark the grave.”

  Cubiak said nothing. Listening to her story, he remembered how as a boy of six or seven he had ask
ed his mother about the strange brother and sister who lived several doors away on their street. The first time he saw the two he realized that they didn’t look like the rest of his friends. He was even a little afraid of them. When he asked his mother if they could be his friends, she said no. He was to have nothing to do with them, as if whatever afflicted them could affect him. Not that it mattered ultimately, because he rarely saw them. They came out only in the evening, and they were never alone. One parent was always with them, guarding them, as they walked awkwardly, hand in hand, to the corner and back. They never crossed the street. What’s wrong with them? he had asked his mother. She said they were mongoloids, and it was years before he learned that the word was derogatory. When he asked why they stayed inside all the time, his mother said it was because their parents were ashamed. Why? he asked. They think people will say it’s their fault the children are deformed and that they are being punished for being bad people.

  “My father wanted his son to die. He waited for his death, maybe he even prayed for it. But Miguel lived, and when he was two years old, my father threatened to leave. He told my mother that he could not stay in the same house with Miguel and would come back only after the boy was gone.”

  A small handkerchief materialized in Francisca’s grip. The thin cotton square was white and edged with faded red flowers. Cubiak wondered if Lupita had slipped it to her, something for her to hold. Twisting the worn fabric between her fingers, Francisca went on with her sad tale.

  “I loved my father, but I could not understand his cruelty. He was forcing my mother to choose between him and her son. To pick him over the baby that had grown inside her. How could he expect her to do that?”

  She looked at the sheriff to see if he would come to her father’s defense. Cubiak said nothing.

  “She knew how difficult life would be for us if he left, and she begged him to stay. She said she would figure out some way to make things better. But he wouldn’t listen. Not to her, not to me, not to any of us. I thought we’d convinced him to change his mind, but a week later he was gone.”

  Francisca made a sound like a sob and lowered her head. When she looked up again, her eyes were fierce. “My father thought Miguel had brought shame to the family, but he was the one who dishonored us. It didn’t take long for the neighbors to discover that he had deserted us, and with him gone, we became objects of gossip and pity. My mother had to take a job working in the fields to earn money for food and rent. When that wasn’t enough, I quit school and joined her.”

  The young cleaning woman held up her hands. “You see how rough and swollen these are from the work I do here? This is nothing compared to the way they looked after five or six months of harvesting coffee and cacao.”

  She dropped her hands into her lap. “The only good thing that came of my father’s leaving was that Miguel was no longer a prisoner in our house. Before, my mother would take him out only on nights when there was no moon and the clouds covered the stars. She would talk to him in whispers, and she never went farther than our tiny yard. With my father gone, my mother had Miguel baptized and allowed him to play outside in the sun. I know there were people who made fun of him and said cruel things about my mother, but some of the neighbors were very kind. When they could, they gave my mother extra flour, and they’d give my brother a bit of candy after Mass on Sunday.”

  “Did your father ever come back?”

  “Perhaps.” Francisca shivered. “Perhaps he came many times. Who knows? I used to dream that he was home with us again, that he had slipped in through the door during the middle of the night and was at the window in the morning with his coffee, looking out to check the weather, as if he’d never gone away. But one day I actually saw him. I was in the back hanging up clothes to dry, and I saw him on the street. He stood there looking at me. ‘Papá,’ I said. He smiled a little as if he was uncertain what to do or say, and I started toward him. I had forgotten that Miguel was at a little table on the other side of the yard. I should have motioned for him to stay where he was, but I was so excited to see my father that I dropped the wet shirt on the grass and ran toward the gate. Miguel came up behind me, and when my father saw him, his smile disappeared. He made his face into a stranger’s mask, and then he turned and walked away.”

  “How old was your brother when this happened?”

  “He was around two. ‘Who was that man?’ he asked. ‘No one,’ I told him. ‘It wasn’t anybody.’ And I made myself believe that I had only seen a ghost. Two years later, I came to America to work. I hated leaving my home. In some ways I felt I was deserting my family just like my father, but my mother could not support the children on what she earned, and there were no good jobs for me or my brothers and sisters, only to labor in the fields. I had to come here and work so I could send money to my mother.”

  Francisca wrapped her arm around her companion’s shoulder. “Lupita helped me. She was my mother’s friend when they were little girls, and when I was a child she was like my tía, my aunt. She still is. Lupita had lived here for many years, and she helped me to get here and to get a job.”

  “You were not at home when the men allegedly came and took your brother.”

  Francisca’s nostrils flared at the word.

  “I was here for two years when I received a letter from my mother. One of my younger brothers had written it for her. What she said in the letter is the story I told you before about the doctors coming to the village and saying that they could cure Miguel.”

  “You said you were there when this happened. Why did you lie?”

  “I thought there was a better chance that you would believe me. I didn’t lie about what happened. Everything I told you is exactly what my mother told me happened, except that my father was already gone. She was the parent who was left to make all the decisions for the family. The men who came told her they were from a charity and that it would cost her nothing. Every word is the truth. I still have the letter, if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” he said. What he believed was that someone had taken an impaired child from a poor, uneducated woman and not for any good reasons that he could imagine.

  “You think that maybe what my mother did was wrong? Then you don’t understand. What they offered was the answer to her prayers and not just for Miguel. She had found a way both to cure her son and to get her husband back. She told me to pray for my brother but not to worry. The paper she had to sign, the doctor signed too, and then he gave it to her to keep.”

  Francisca reached into the denim bag next to her chair and pulled out a small cardboard folder. “Someone in the village had a camera, and they took a picture of Miguel with my mother before he left. Here,” she said, taking a snapshot from the folder. “I hadn’t seen him for four years and couldn’t believe how much he’d grown. But you see he looks like the boy in that photo, the one on the wall, doesn’t he?”

  The photograph was crinkled and worn; a crease ran across the boy’s face where it had been folded into the envelope. Cubiak could barely make out the child’s features.

  “When I saw the picture on the wall, I was sure it was Miguel. But maybe I was wrong. Others have told me that children with the Down syndrome can look very much like each other. I don’t know if it’s true because I’ve only seen my brother.”

  Francisca took the photo from Cubiak. She looked at it for a long moment, and then she slipped it back into her bag.

  “Have there been more letters?” Cubiak asked.

  The young woman moistened her lips and stiffened as if steeling herself to go on. “My mother has written me many letters. At first they were full of joy and excitement. After the doctor left with Miguel, she waited to hear news of his progress. She told the whole village what she had done, knowing how the story would spread and hoping it would eventually reach my father. When he learns of this, he will return home and we will be a whole family again, she told me. Every night she got down on her knees and said the rosary, praying to the Blessed Mother to l
ook out for her son and to forgive her husband. On Sundays she lit a candle in church, to thank God for the good fortune he had sent her way. She was almost bursting with happiness at the thought of how finally their luck had changed. Then one month, and two, and three passed, and she heard nothing from the doctors and nothing from my father. She tried to tell herself that she was being impatient, that these things took time. But after six months and she had not gotten any information, she began to wonder if she had made a terrible mistake. Every letter she wrote to me was the same: What have I done to Miguel? Why am I being punished again? I will burn in hell for my sins. Finally, she wrote and said she needed to talk to me. One of the neighbors had a telephone and said she could use it to receive a call from me if I would be the one to pay.”

  “Did you call her?”

  “Of course. I had to. I wrote back and arranged a day and time when she would be at the neighbor’s house. I knew the call would be expensive, and I did not want to waste time waiting for someone to go and get her. She was the one who answered, and at first I could barely speak. I didn’t realize how much I missed my home until I heard her voice. I was so happy I began to cry and almost forgot why she had wanted to talk to me. It was all about Miguel. How sorry she was for what she had done. How she wanted me to find him. ‘You are both in El Norte,’ she said, as if that was all that mattered. I tried to explain to her that this was a very big country, that I didn’t know where to start looking.”

  “Did she understand?”

  “The line went dead. I was too upset to call back, so I wrote to her instead. Of course I would try to do this, for her sake and for Miguel too. But I had so many questions: What was the doctor’s name? What city was he from? What was the name of the charity?”

  All the right questions, Cubiak thought. “You’d make a good detective,” he said.

  Francisca shook her head. “My mother did not need a detective. She needed a magician. She didn’t remember any of the details, and the paper that she’d signed was lost in a fire. All she knew was that her son was gone. ‘He is in America, and you are there too,’ she said. ‘You must find your brother and bring him home.’”