Chapter 28

I wanted to follow Bobby to his dad’s gift shop but knew Vargas would frown on such activity. So instead, I accompanied the detective back to the dinner. The boat launch where the ruckus had occurred was on the other side of the wharf, out of sight of anyone in the big tent behind Solari’s, and it didn’t appear that those in attendance had even heard the squad car’s siren as it arrived. But given the noise level at the dinner right now, this wasn’t surprising.

“So, what brought you down there to the landing?” I shouted over the roar as we rounded the corner of the restaurant.

“You did,” he said.

“Me?”

Vargas grinned. “Well, you among all the others. First Bobby left, and then a few minutes later I saw Angelo and Anastasia sneak out, too. That was one too many suspects for me not to check out what was going on, and then once outside I saw you take off across the street, so I followed.”

“Ah, got it,” I said. “So you’re not going back to the station now to interview Anastasia?”

“Nah. I think it’s best we let her stew for a while first. I’m gonna hang out here till the dinner’s over to make sure there’s no more fires to put out, and then I’ll head on down to talk to her.”

The detective stopped at the entrance to the tent and looked around. The Santa Cruz mayor had stepped up to the podium and quieted everyone down and was reading from a document he held in his hand:

“Whereas the City of Santa Cruz wishes to acknowledge its shared history with its sister city, Sestri Levante, and the debt it owes such city as a result of its citizens who first came to settle in Santa Cruz almost a century and a half ago; and whereas the two municipalities wish to acknowledge our shared appreciation of the arts and culture…”

“Do you see Angelo?” Vargas said, leaning over to speak into my ear.

I scanned the diners, who—from the glazed expressions most wore—were clearly more interested in their panettone and hazelnut gelato than the text of the mayor’s Proclamation. “No, I don’t see him anywhere,” I answered after checking out all fourteen tables. “The place he was sitting at before is empty. I guess he must have left.”

“Huh,” the detective said, and strode inside. I watched him skirt the canvas walls at the back of the tent, his dark eyes searching for the fisherman. Now was my chance. Slipping back outside, I made my way along the side of the Solari’s building and then down the sidewalk toward Stefano’s gift shop.

The lights were all off inside except for one at the far back of the store. I tried the front door. Unlocked. Turning the handle and opening the door as quietly as I could, I stepped inside and softly closed the door behind me.

A sound was coming from the back room. Someone talking. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light and then crept forward, doing my best not to knock into all the postcard racks and stands of knickknacks bearing images of surfers and redwood trees and the famous Santa Cruz roller coaster.

Once closer, I could tell that it was Bobby talking to himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was saying, though it came out as more of a moan than normal speech.

Sorry for what? Coming on to Anastasia, like she said?

He broke off speaking and started to sob once more. But after a minute the sobs ceased and all I could hear was panting, as if he’d been engaged in some kind of vigorous exercise, accompanied by the sound of rhythmic creaking. Listening to his rapid breaths, I stood frozen in place behind a rack of fishing lures wrapped in tiny plastic bags.

What on earth was going on with the man? He wasn’t acting like someone who was merely drunk. Could he be having some sort of allergic reaction to the liquor? I knew he’d had a lot of wine tonight, but …

And then I stopped myself. What exactly did I know? That Stefano had said that perhaps his son had had a bit too much to drink, and that Bobby had seemed drunk when he knocked over his wine glass.

But as I thought this, my painting teacher’s voice came into my head: “Forget what you know. Your preconceived thoughts limit your ability to truly see.”

So what, then, did I see? I risked a peek around the door. Bobby was slumped over on a plastic chair, still in his wet clothes, rocking rapidly back and forth. He had his back to me, so I took a few steps closer. What was that in his hands? A piece of paper. No, a photograph.

Standing as tall as I could, I craned my neck to see if I could make out the image he was staring at. And then I quickly stepped back, suppressing the intake of breath that threatened to betray my presence.

It was a photo of Bobby and Gino, standing at the prow of Gino’s boat with their arms about each other’s shoulders.

The sound of a scraping chair caused me to back off even farther. But no, he hadn’t stood up. I could now hear the rapid tapping of feet on the hardwood floor along with the creaking of the plastic chair, and he was back to his panting again.

Would simply being drunk cause this behavior? I didn’t think so. But something was certainly wrong with the man. And his behavior had been a little odd for a while, now that I really stopped to consider it. I thought back to the various times I’d seen Bobby over the past two weeks. How he’d seemed agitated and then depressed that day in Gino’s house; how he’d complained of lack of sleep when I saw him in front of Solari’s; how anxious he’d seemed of late, always tapping his feet; and the mood swings and crying I’d seen today.

All symptoms of copper toxicity, weren’t they?

I retreated to the corner of the store where the light from my new phone couldn’t be seen by Bobby in the back room. Pulling up the website I’d bookmarked before, I read through the list of copper poisoning symptoms once again: anxiety, depression and hypersensitivity, hyperactivity, insomnia, mind racing, and mood swings. And one I hadn’t paid attention to when I’d been focusing on Gino as the one with copper poisoning: dermatosis. Which would explain what had looked like acne on Bobby’s face that day at Gino’s house.

That had to be the answer.

But why would Bobby have gotten copper poisoning? Maybe he’d been eating the red sauce Gino had made in those copper pots, too. But then I remembered that he’d said he didn’t eat Gino’s cooking much, and that’s why he’d kept those burritos in his freezer. So what else had copper in it?

I punched in a query about the causes of copper poisoning and got the same ones I’d read before: drinking water, copper cookware, birth control devices … nothing that seemed particularly applicable here. But then my eye was caught by a note at the very bottom of the article: “Copper has been found to be toxic to bacteria and algae and is thus commonly used as an algicide, such as in the copper-based paint used as a marine antifouling agent.”

Of course. My dad had used that antifouling paint and was always fanatical about wearing a special mask when applying it. I thought back to the gleaming, black paint I’d seen on the hull of Gino’s boat the afternoon I’d talked to Bobby at the old fisherman’s house, and then remembered the black splotches I’d seen on his clothes that same day. He and Gino must both have been painting the boat with that antifouling paint, and if they hadn’t worn a protective mask …

An image came to me of Gino and Bobby, both of them anxious and paranoid from copper poisoning, arguing behind Solari’s the night Gino disappeared. Then when Gino pushes it a little too far and says something truly hurtful, Bobby loses control and goes for the old man.

But later, Bobby is “sorry” …

Shoving my phone into my slacks pocket, I emerged from my corner and crept toward the front door. I had to tell Vargas about this.

Bobby was now talking to himself again, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I tried to make no sound as I made my way through the dark shop, and was doing a great job of it until the sleeve of my silk blouse caught on a metal piece that was sticking out from one of the postcard racks. The stand teetered, but I was able to catch and right it before the metal frame went crashing to the floor.

Thank God. I steadied the rack with both hands and was about to turn back toward the front door when an entire stack of postcards that had slipped to the edge of their holder fell with a clatter to the floor.

The muttering in the back room ceased. Oh, shit. I needed to find a place to hide—fast. Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawled toward the edge of the shop. A display had been set up advertising the big surf contest coming to town next week, and I crouched behind the large cardboard poster depicting a young man in a bright blue wetsuit carving up a glassy wave.

Bobby appeared in the doorway, his tall body a silhouette framed by the light coming from behind him. This could be bad. Ducking back down, I pulled my phone out once more. I didn’t have Vargas’s number so instead I texted Eric, who was likely still sitting at the detective’s table, chowing down on panettone and hazelnut gelato. “Help! Come rt now to stefanos gift shop!” I typed and sent, then dropped to my knees and peeked around the sign to check on Bobby’s movements.

He had taken several steps into the room and was cocking his head, listening for further noises. After a moment he spoke: “Who’s there?”

No way was I going to answer.

He continued to stare out into the dark room and I held my breath, praying he’d decide it was nothing and go back into the storeroom.

I didn’t want to make any move, but I’d begun to experience a shooting pain in my right knee, and after another agonizing minute I had no choice but to change positions. Placing my hands on the floor to steady myself, I moved from my kneeling stance to a squat. As I did so, however, my bandaged hand bumped against the surf poster. It wasn’t a loud noise but certainly enough to tell Bobby my location. And I was a sitting—or rather, squatting—duck, backed up against the wall as I was.

Footsteps were coming my way. Think fast, Sal.

“I know what happened, Bobby,” I said, trying to disguise my voice by pitching it lower than normal. “I understand.”

The footsteps stopped. “No one could ever understand.”

“But I do. I know how much you loved him, and how hard it must have been to hear him say those things to you.”

Bobby made no answer to this, and I was afraid he was going to simply reach in and grab me from behind the surfing display. But several beats passed with nothing except the sound of his heavy breathing. And then I heard a muffled thud. I risked a quick peek around the poster. Bobby had slumped to the floor and was staring my direction but was making no move toward me.

“It’s okay,” I encouraged, still watching him from behind the poster. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt him.”

He was nodding now, and it sounded as if he’d started to cry again. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I just got so mad when I saw the two of them like that. I couldn’t help it. All I wanted was for him to tell me I was still important to him, that he hadn’t switched from liking me best to her.” Bobby’s voice caught, and he broke off.

I wasn’t sure if he was going to say anything further when he almost whispered, “But Gino just laughed at me when I told him that. Said I sounded like some kind of sissy.”

“That must have been awful,” I said, shifting my position once more.

Bobby nodded. “He didn’t get it at all. But he was like my dad. Better than a dad, ’cause he treated me like a real pal.”

“But then, that night by the bocce court, when he was being so cruel,” I prompted him. “You just couldn’t help it…”

“I didn’t mean to do it! But he kept fighting back, and he was laughing at me. So I hit him. And pushed him over the side.” More sobs, followed by harsh panting.

A car pulled up outside at this moment, and its headlights streamed through the shop windows, momentarily blinding me.

And, I realized with a gasp, illuminating my face for all the world to see.

The car lights shut off and Bobby jumped to his feet, as if brought back to life by the realization that it was me he was talking to.

A second later he was coming at me, arms outstretched and fury in his eyes.