Grannies Investigate The Tunnel of Death

Chapter 1

…Five days earlier

The windshield wipers slapped away sheets of rain as Trixie fought to keep the Lexus SUV between the white lines. She was heading across the Golden Gate toward Marin County — to her cousin Joe’s mansion perched on the side of a cliff on the exclusive island of Belvedere. Joe hadn’t returned Trixie’s phone messages for several days now.

Once across the bridge, she piloted the Lexus through wisps of fog on the downhill side of the Waldo Grade, past Wolfback Ridge and Sausalito. Trixie didn’t like to drive at night. She couldn’t see all that well. She rubbed her right eye, which was starting to tear.

The closing on the McIver condo had been tedious. Normally, Trixie wouldn’t even handle such a small sale, but the market had slowed since the dot com days. Her accountant was flashing the cash flow warning light. She needed to make sure everything went right or she’d have trouble meeting payroll this month.

As she began her climb onto the narrow, twisting Belvedere roads, the question nagged at Trixie—why Joe hadn’t returned her calls? He was slow—Lord knows he was slow—but that still wasn’t like him. This was different. Since promising Grandma Cesarina years ago that she’d take care of Joe, he had managed to muddle along on his own pretty well. Then he married the gypsy. Then he got sick. For the past few months Joe had needed Trixie more and more. Ordinarily it wouldn’t be a problem. Trixie wasn’t married. Even though running a top San Francisco real estate company took lots of her time, she managed to do Pilates, travel, and squeeze in the occasional romantic adventure, plus stay in touch with her dear friends from junior high school, Cheryl and Diane.

Even when her daughter and granddaughter unexpectedly moved in with her two weeks ago, Trixie juggled a few things around in her schedule and coped. She was a survivor.

She was ready to reach for the notepad in her purse to remind herself to get a picture of Jillian when the gate to the mansion loomed through the rain in her headlights. Her hand plumped the front seat of the Lexus for her water bottle. Damn, her throat was dry. She parked the car and stumbled through the dark to the 10-foot black iron front gate. She rang the bell. Once…twice…three times. Rain crackled off the beak of her baseball cap.

Even though it was just after six, her cousin Joe never went out at night anymore. When his grandmother and mother were alive, he slept all day, then roamed all night to escape their ceaseless evaluations of him — You’re too fat…your clothes look weird…you need a haircut. Now that they were gone, he only went out during the day.

Trixie grew conscious of the smooth plastic under her finger as she pressed the bell a fourth time. The chimes. The foghorns. The silence. She decided to go in. Joe had given her a key for emergencies, and this seemed to be one. She opened the small service gate at the side of the massive house and came back around to the front entry. She pounded on the dark, ornately carved oak doors. No answer. Not a single light shone inside or outside the mansion.

Raindrops slid off Trixie’s trembling hand as she pushed the key into the front door lock. The bolt clanked open. The house was equipped with an alarm system, but Trixie knew Joe never learned how to use it. Pushing open the heavy door, Joe’s name echoed off the marble floors and walls when she called. It was pitch dark inside. She tried the wall switch. Nothing happened.

Her left leg bumped against something soft. A droplet of cold sweat slid down the hollow of Trixie’s armpit. She went stiff. Stifling an urge to scream, she fumbled a squeeze light out of her purse. A good real estate woman always has a light handy. It was a green garbage bag stuffed to capacity. She knew from other trips to Joe’s that he stuffed unopened mail into garbage bags. Joe didn’t like opening mail. It might be bad news, and it usually was. Two other identical bags rested on the expanse of marble in the enormous entry hall. Her wet shoes slipped on the marble.

Following the three-foot sliver of light Trixie passed the music room—empty—the library—also empty—the living room, dining room—empty—empty—and headed for the kitchen. Sculptures in the art niches that lined the hall seemed to move in the shadows as she passed with the light. Chandeliers hung like stalactites in some spooky cave. She followed the slippery marble path ahead of her.

Trixie’s feet felt glued to the floor as Joe’s immense form loomed in the tiny spotlight face down on the ceramic tile kitchen floor.

She knelt down and grabbed Joe feeling for a pulse. He was alive, but barely.

How could such a big man have such a tiny pulse? He was lying on his considerable stomach in a small puddle of water. Trixie couldn’t see his face. She yelled in his ear. Joe—Joey—wake up. He stirred slightly and moaned.

Because of his cancer medication, Joe in the past year went from size 2x to 3x to 4x and was heading for a pup tent with hole for the head. Trixie bought Joe’s clothes for him. She tried to stay a size or two ahead, but it was difficult. His weight gain was almost visible from day to day. Joe joked with his nurses at Marin General that everyone else with cancer gets skinny. Just his luck that hormone deprivation therapy puts pounds on. He weighed 350 if he weighed an ounce. There was no way Trixie could turn him over, much less lift him.

She sprayed her light around the kitchen to see if there might be some sort of miracle tool to help her lift her cousin. Instead, she saw empty sugar packets—the kind you get at fast food places—strewn all over the kitchen table. Mixed in were empty ketchup packets. Also strewn everywhere were California LOTTO tickets—hundreds of them, on the floor.

There’s nothing deader than a dead phone, Trixie thought as she pressed the wall phone receiver to her wet ear. So that’s why he didn’t call. She punched 911 into her cell.

You have reached Marin County Emergency Services. Please hold.

What the…this is unbelievable. Hold?

She knelt down. Her thoughts spun like wheels on a slot machine, then stopped on Joe. Two lemons and a plum. He seemed so helpless lying there in front of her. But then, he always seemed helpless. He was a target for almost anyone who wanted to take advantage of him.

She tried 911 again…this time they answered and took her information.

Trixie felt the hard tile pressing on her knees.

Thoughts jumbled, breathing hard, Trixie pulled herself up and drew a glass of water from the tap. Out the side window she saw lights flashing, reflecting off the trees. Heavy rapping shook the front door.

Mister Palumbo—this is the police. Come out, please. We want to talk with you.

Trixie splashed water on Joe’s face, and he moved and muttered slightly, …who’s there?

The pounding on the front door threatened to knock it off the hinges.

Mister Palumbo—open the door, please. Are you all right?

Trixie could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She hurried to the front door and opened it to find four Belvedere policemen with handguns drawn, pointed at the ground. Two others—back a ways—held shotguns pointing up. Dizzying lights from a half dozen emergency vehicles and police cars blinded Trixie as she stood in the doorway. Spotlights glared on the front of the house from vehicles parked on Belvedere Avenue, outside the gate and in front of the long driveway leading to the estate.

May I ask who you are? a round-faced policeman said, looking past her into the entry.

…where is Mister Palumbo? not waiting for an answer.

I’m his cousin…and he’s inside…but he’s sick…hardly conscious, Trixie blurted.

The round-faced policeman and two others brushed past her into the hallway. Their powerful flashlights lit up the Carerra marble and glass interior, etageres, objets d’art, artifacts collected by Joe’s mother, Marie, and his grandmother, Cesarina, from numerous trips around the world.

Their heavy black boots left a trail of smeared mud on the marble floor.

Where is he, Miss?

He’s in the kitchen, on the floor. He needs help.

He’s in better shape than his wife, another officer muttered as they knelt to the floor.

Fatima? Trixie asked, her face contorting. What’s wrong with her?

She’s spread out on the rocks 75 feet below here. Dead.

Whaaaat? Trixie said softly. She touched Joe’s arm hoping he’d answer. What was she doing here?

The round-faced officer barked into his shirt collar requesting the dispatcher send another emergency vehicle.

Has he taken something? the officer asked.

I don’t know. I think maybe he’s just malnourished.

He looks pretty nourished to me, another officer quipped.

It looks like he’s been eating ketchup and water from all this stuff on the floor.

The round-faced officer looked around the kitchen and tried to comprehend someone living in this estate eating ketchup and water.

The lights and noise by now had awakened Joe into almost full consciousness. The officers rolled his whale-like bulk over and helped him to a sitting position on the floor. He looked a little like Buddha, but with red women’s glasses. Joe had gotten fast-talked into them by the lady at Lens Masters. He wore a dark blue Hawaiian shirt with lots of white palm trees, a dirty tee-shirt peeking through at the neck, black sweat pants, and white socks. Pretty much his uniform.

Do you know where your wife is? the round-faced cop asked.

Where your wife is? Joe slurred.

Have you seen your wife tonight?

I’m hungry, Joe mumbled through thick, uncooperative lips. Can we get a cheeseburger, or something?

Trixie helped Joe sip some water. She looked into the refrigerator. Two jars of pickles.

What’s with the no lights? one of the officers asked.

I checked the breaker box in the back. The juice has been turned off by PG&E, another officer answered.

Did I win the Lottery? Joe said, as two large officers grunted and heaved him onto a stretcher.

How we gonna get him outta here? We had to hop the fence to get in.

I have a key, Trixie said. She led the way out.

Grunting, they loaded Joe into the ambulance. Trixie asked the round-faced policeman where they’d be taking him.

To Marin General lockdown, he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his beefy hand.

Lockdown? What’s that? Trixie held her hand in front of her eyes to block the glare from the flashing police lights.

It’s the secure floor at the hospital.

Why the secure floor?

Well, his wife is dead—and there are suspicious circumstances. He’s looking good for this.

Are you serious? He was passed out cold on the floor when I found him. You suspect Joe of killing Fatima? Trixie clutched the lapels of her baseball jacket together with one hand and put the other in her pocket. Her purse wedged in the crook.

You’ll need to discuss that with Detective Park, Miss. He’s the point man here. I’m just transportation. He splayed his palms out toward her in back-off mode.

Where will I find this detective?

He’s on his way.

Trixie had been running on adrenalin since she first found Joe. Now her knees were ready to buckle and she felt like she might pass out. She was always the strong one. She’d met problems straight on all her life. Suddenly she felt old. Helpless. Weak. She meandered around the back of the mansion, almost without realizing it.

She found herself standing at the edge of the cliff looking through the light rain down at the rocks and surf below. Portable fluorescent lamps illuminated the place where they had found Fatima’s body. Several uniformed cops scuttled over the rocks marking the crime scene with yellow tape.

The salty sting of sea air blowing in through the Golden Gate surged up images of a day at Stinson Beach over 50 years ago. Trixie and her mother were visiting from Illinois. Grandmother Cesarina was bundled from head to toe in black—black head scarf, black sweater, black heavily draped skirt. Trixie and Joey played in the surf while Cesarina sat with Trixie’s Mom who they called Little Marie. Joe’s mother, known in the family as Big Marie, talked with the other two in the afternoon sun behind a dune while Trixie and Joe played in the waves.

The surf pounded as they bobbed and jumped in the breakers. After a few minutes, Trixie realized she didn’t hear Joey laughing the way he always did. Then she realized she didn’t hear him because he wasn’t there. The undertow had dragged him out 50 feet from shore. Then she heard him screaming—between gulps of saltwater. She swam out, grabbed Joe, and the two of them struggled back to shore.

Cesarina, hands raised like she was hanging clothes on a line, proclaimed it a miracle. Big Marie hugged both kids ’til they wished they were drowning again. Joey cried the rest of the afternoon and could only be comforted by a soft swirl ice cream cone.

A special bond developed that day between Cesarina and Trixie. A bond that she’d never felt before, even with her mother. When later, as an adult, Cesarina asked Trixie to take care of Joe if anything should ever happen to her or his mother, Trixie accepted the role of Godmother in her mind and in her heart.

As the fluorescent lanterns below flickered eerie patterns on the rocks, Trixie re-committed to keeping Joey protected, safe from the forces that threatened him, just as she’d promised.

Are you all right? asked a tall man with glasses, in his 50s who had come up beside her. He clutched a yellow umbrella holding it by a heavy duck bill handle. She felt a dog nuzzling her ankles.

Hi—Pinky Collins. He saw Trixie looking at the umbrella and its heavy wooden handle. Oh, I just grabbed the first one out of the stand to go find Snoopy—must look a little silly. We live right next door, and we were good friends of Cesarina and Ann Marie…when they were alive. I’m Joe’s urologist. The doctor’s shoes were covered with a thick coat of mud.

I’m Trixie Hills…Joe’s cousin. I kind of look out for him. Trixie held out her hand.

Yes, I think I’ve seen you around here. Terrible thing, isn’t it? Poor Joe. He’s been through so much, now this. They shook. His hand felt warm.

Just then a large man wearing a tuxedo jacket under a clear plastic raincoat splashed through the puddles with his patent pumps. Trixie and Pinky turned toward him, as if choreographed.

I’m Detective Rand Park, I’ve been assigned to this case. Who might you be? Even in the near total darkness Park could see Pinky and Trixie looking at his attire. Putting his palm to his chest he said, I got this call at a fancy dinner in Sausalito from the police commissioner. A friend lent me this… pulling with his thumb and forefinger on the clear plastic coat. I didn’t expect to be running around in the rain.

Doctor J. Pincus Collins. Snoopy sniffed Park’s leg. It was Snoopy here who discovered the body. Pinky beamed with pride.

Hi—Trixie Hills.

Do you live here?

No, I live in San Francisco. Park’s look asked for more explanation.

I tried calling Joe for several days and didn’t get a call back. So I came over. Trixie never talked to a police detective before, much less one that was actually questioning her.

Just today? Just now? Park held a notebook and looked ready to write.

Why, yes.

Excuse me, Detective. Have you signed the log yet? A uniformed officer asked.

No—where is it?

In the kitchen.

Okay—I’ll do it later. His face indicated his response required further thought.

The rain had let up slightly, although drops still danced in the puddles, illuminated by the headlights. Officers’ shadows loomed against walls and shrubs all around the estate. They moved like shadowy spiders stringing a web of yellow plastic tape through the fence surrounding three sides of the property. Nearly a dozen uniformed police and emergency personnel swarmed over the area behind the mansion leading down to the rocks. It was by now a mudscape of footprints. All of this activity took place in the headlights of the municipal vehicles and amid the squawk, hiss and chatter of the police, fire and other emergency vehicle radios turned to full volume.

Why don’t we sit in my car, out of the rain…Miss Mills, is it? Park motioned toward the street.

Hills, Trixie Hills…please call me Trixie. What she really wanted him to call her was innocent and out of there. She forced a weak smile.

Yes, well, Doctor Collins—I think I’ve got all I’ll need from you—at least for the time being. However, if I need to get back in touch with you, I guess you’ll be around? Rain dripped off the end of Park’s nose.

Oh, yes. Feel free to call, Detective. I can’t believe Joe had anything to do with this. Not that he wouldn’t have had good reason to—with that woman. But, murder just isn’t Joe’s style.

Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Missus Palumbo? the detective asked Doctor Collins, seeming somewhat renewed in him as a witness.

Any of the people she fleeced, I imagine. Pinky