Yes, I put that air tag in my daughter’s bag. Why? Because I don’t trust Asa to tell me the truth. It wasn’t that Asa was a liar. It was due to her job, whatever it was. I had a feeling her job’s mantra was, if I tell you, then I have to kill you.
I checked the tracking app on my phone and to my surprise, the car was heading toward the airport. Regardless, I was going to keep an eye on my phone. Going toward the airport and getting on a plane are two different things.
It was time I got the move on. Bess had given me two addresses for Juan Gomez—one for his former residence with his wife and the other a rooming house on the north side of town. While Baby was sleeping, I sneaked out of the house and took off in my VW bus. I had already talked with Juan’s wife. Now it was time to check out Juan’s bachelor digs.
I developed a low-grade headache during the forty minutes to get across town. Ignoring the ever-so-slight pounding in my head, I parked on the street and stared blankly at the address. It was a ramshackle two-story, white frame house in serious need of repairs and a fresh coat of paint. To be honest it looked spooky—the kind of house where axe murders take place. I’m not kidding. I sat in the van wondering if I should go in. I didn’t want to run into any drug addicts who would hit me over the head for the few dollars in my pocket. Taking a deep breath, I decided to go in—mainly because my van was creating attention. I saw people peeking out their windows. I would be quick in and quick out.
I walked with purpose toward the house with a clip board I kept in the van. It made me look like an official. At the very least, I could hit someone with it. It didn’t take me very long to find Juan’s room. It was the door with the yellow DO NOT ENTER tape crisscrossing it.
Reaching through the tape, I tried the door knob. The door was locked. Rats! I hate to be thwarted by such a minor inconvenience as a locked door. There was loud music playing down the hall. Hmm. Do I dare?
I knocked on the door where the music was playing. How bad could the occupant be? He or she was listening to George Jones, one of my favorite song birds. No one came to the door, so I knocked louder again.
Finally, I heard a shuffle of feet and heard someone say, “Who is it?”
“It’s Mary Combs.”
“Who?”
“Mary Combs. I need to get into Juan Gomez’s apartment. Do you know of anyone who might have a key?”
The door opened slightly with the chain attached. The smell of bacon frying wafted through the open door as an elderly woman with cat-eye glasses peered out. George Jones wailed in the background. “I’m the supervisor of this apartment house. Why do you need to get into Mr. Gomez’s apartment?”
I realized the lady must be from the mountains as she spoke with an Eastern Kentucky twang. I just lied right to this woman’s face—again. “Hello. I’m Mary Combs. I am helping the family with the insurance policy. I need the key to get inside Mr. Gomez’s room.”
“If you’re working with the insurance people, why don’t you have the key?”
“We don’t think the family would have the key as Mr. Gomez and his wife were estranged—and the police have not released Mr. Gomez’s personal items such as his keys.”
“Estranged, you say. I should say more like two enemies at battle with each other. Mrs. Gomez was always over here asking for money. Oh my goodness, the fights those two would have. One time I heard her say she wanted to kill him.”
“She what?”
The woman asked, “Do you have any identification?”
Startled with the quick change of subject matter, I fumbled in my purse and got out my driver’s license, flashing it quickly, not giving the woman enough time to read it. “You said Mrs. Gomez threatened to kill Mr. Gomez?”
“Wait a minute.” The woman shut the door in my face. A few minutes later, she opened the door wearing a brightly-colored, floral caftan dress. She looked very festive. “I had to take dinner off the stove.”
She pushed past me toward Juan Gomez’s room.
“Do you own the building?”
“Lived here for over forty years.”
Frustrated that the woman never seemed to answer my questions, I followed.
She pulled a key out of her pocket. “I don’t know if I should let you in. The police still have their crime scene tape up.”
“It’s all right,” I assured the lady. “This is just routine. I won’t take long.”
The caftan lady unlocked the door. “Here you go. Let me know when you leave. I’ll need to lock it back up.”
“Thank you, Mrs.—?”
“I’ll be in my room if you need me—and leave the door open, dearie.” Ignoring my question, she hurried back to her dinner of bacon and whatever.
Was her last name a secret? I was enamored by the caftan lady’s technique of avoiding inquiries. She was brilliant at it. It’s a skill I needed to hone.
Late afternoon shadows played on the walls of the hallway, and several people came in the back door, giving me a cursory glance before going to their rooms. It was getting late and people were getting home from work. Knowing I had to hurry, I ducked under the tape and entered the room. It was a sad little room with a stuffed chair by the window, a clock radio, and a chenille bedspread. The room looked like something out of the fifties. There was a small kitchenette by the door with a sink, two upper cabinets, three bottom cabinets, a college dorm refrigerator, and a hot plate. Near a small table sat a garbage can with takeout cartons spilled over onto the floor. The floor was covered by linoleum so old the linoleum skin had worn out in areas. A small bathroom was off to the side, while the main room served as the bedroom and living area. It was heartbreaking to see Juan Gomez reduced to living in this squalor. He must have missed his well-kept cheerful house with the colorful garden.
Since I was sure the police had been thorough, I skipped the usual places to look, concentrating on the back of pictures. Nope. Nothing taped there. Next I checked Juan’s closet. I went through every coat and pants pocket. Even the toes of every shoe. It wasn’t until I picked up Juan’s fancy Tecovas cowboy boots and searched the toes that I found a sliver of paper. I had to gloat a bit, appreciating Detective Drake would have a spasm if he knew I found something his men did not.
Tee hee. Tee hee.
I unfolded the piece of paper to discover a series of numbers. I deduced that it was a phone number and must have been important for Juan to hide it like he did. I tucked it in my pocket before searching the rest of the room. I looked in the garbage, under the mattress, the kitchen table, and his stuffed chair. I’m pretty sure I hit all the spots the police had looked because I saw their fingerprint powder over everything. Good thing I wore gloves.
I looked out the window. It would soon be the gloaming of the evening. It was time to go.
I knocked on the caftan lady’s door.
The caftan lady opened the door slightly. “Yes?”
“I’m finished, Mrs.—?” I had to try one more time.
“Okay.”
Drat. She foiled me again.
I said, “You need to lock the door.”
The woman stepped into the hallway. “I’ll follow you out. Did you get everything you needed?”
As we both walked toward the front door of the building, I asked, “Do you know why Mr. and Mrs. Gomez were separated?”
“It was because of Mrs. Gomez’s gambling.”
“You mean Mr. Gomez’s gambling?”
Mrs. Caftan Lady stopped to lock Juan’s door. She gave the doorknob a quick rattle to make sure. “No, it was due to his wife. She was a compulsive gambler. She liked to play the ponies.”
I scribbled this down on my clipboard.
“Is that important?”
I looked up from my clipboard. “Yes. Very.”
“Well, I could tell you stories.”
Oh, please do. “Such as?”
The lady pushed her cat-eyed glasses back up her nose with her index finger. “Juan told me she stole his paychecks and gambled them all away. He had to leave so she wouldn’t have access to his money. It got so bad with her gambling, Juan never had anything to eat at home because she lost the grocery money, the electricity was turned off, and finally, he skedaddled when some goon threatened to beat him up if Juan didn’t cover his wife’s bets.”
“A bookie?”
“Yeah, one of those. Juan kept it a secret where he lived.”
“But you said Mrs. Gomez visited Mr. Gomez here.”
“That’s right. She found out where he lived and was causing trouble here. I told her if she came back I’d call the police on her. That stopped her visits, but that’s the least of it.”
“There’s more?”
“One of Juan’s sons visited about a month ago. Said he found a recent insurance policy taken out on his father by Mrs. Gomez. He wanted to know if Juan had signed off on that.”
I leaned forward in anticipation.
Mrs. Caftan Lady said, “Juan hadn’t. Knew nothing about an insurance policy making his wife the beneficiary. It really frightened him.”
“What about the sons?”
“They are taking care of their mother. She is bleeding them dry like she did Juan, but what can you do? She’s their mother.”
“Have you seen them since their father died?”
“Nary a hair. But, of course, you must be investigating the insurance claim since you work for the insurance company.”
“Yes. That’s correct. Did you tell the police about the insurance policy?”
“They never asked.”
I tried not to show my surprise. Drake was usually on the ball, but looked like he dropped it here. “Is there anyone else in the building who was close to Juan?”
“Just me. Juan worked nights. Most tenants work during the day, so their paths didn’t cross.”
“You’ve been most helpful. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
The woman jabbed my chest with her finger. “You bet your bottom dollar that the hag of a wife had something to do with Juan’s death.”
I pushed her hand away as she was really poking me hard. “Just one more question. Did Juan ever talk about his car accident?”
Caftan Lady put her hands on her hips. “It was Mrs. Gomez who had the car accident. That’s when her gambling started. She injured her brain. Juan said her personality changed after the accident.”
Well, that lying . . . daughter-of-a-dog. I was completely fooled by Valeria Gomez, and she made me feel like a fool. I had been completely taken in by her performance.
I decided to take one last stab. “Just for my report, your name is?”
“Hazel Buford.”
Success at last!