THE next morning I tossed on a beige linen, Indian-inspired tank top and matching bell-bottoms from the ’70s. Both pieces were trimmed with a band of turquoise, coral, and white beads. I parted my hair down the center and braided both sides, and then pulled a turquoise and black beaded headband around my head under my bangs. After stepping into suede booties trimmed with fringe and tossing my keys, wallet, and phone into a fringed pouch that I wore cross-body, I made a kale, peanut, and banana smoothie and poured it into a to-go cup. Despite my best intentions, I didn’t get far.
Ebony’s Cadillac was still parked along the curb in front of my house, but even the most skilled driver would have had trouble with it today. The two tires facing me were flat. The driver’s side windows had been smashed out.
And the word Murderer had been spray-painted across the hood.
Chapter 5
I DROPPED THE smoothie. The lid to the cup popped off on contact with the sidewalk and the murky green concoction oozed out. I bent down to pick it up and saw a scrap of plaid fabric caught on the metal trim by the car’s window. I crept closer to the Caddy, feeling broken shards of glass crunch under the thin soles of my moccasins. As I bent forward to get a better look at the fabric, a dark gray RAV4 pulled up behind the car. Tak Hoshiyama hopped out.
Today he wore a blue oxford shirt and khaki pants. The Charlie Chan facial hair was gone, as was the slicked-back hairstyle. His shirt was rolled up a few times at the cuffs, exposing what looked to be an expensive watch on his wrist. His longish hair was pushed away from his face, but a few strands had fallen down and waved loosely by his cheekbone. His strong brows were drawn together in a look of concern.
“Greetings, Pocahontas, I come in peace,” he said.
I stared at him, having forgotten my outfit, braids, and beaded headband. When I didn’t answer, he continued. “That was supposed to be a joke. Is everything okay?”
“I don’t think so.”
He came around the side of the car and took in the broken windows and the flat tires. “Is this your car too?” he asked.
“No, it’s Ebony’s. What do you mean, ‘too’?”
“I knew you drove the scooter—that’s why I’m here.” He gestured toward the SUV with a hitchhiker-like thumb jerk. “You were about to get a ticket. I loaded it into my truck and brought it here.”
“How did you know it was mine?”
“I saw you arrive at the party yesterday.”
Translation: he saw my wig come off when I took off the helmet and then watched me wrestle a stuffed ocelot from where it had been bungeed to the back of the scooter. My hairline grew damp.
As if he could read my thoughts, he continued, “If I hadn’t seen the wig come off, I might not have known it was you in the costume.” I didn’t say anything, and an awkward silence grew. “Let me get it now.” He walked around to the back of his truck.
While he was gone, I picked the piece of plaid fabric from the door. It looked familiar, as if it had come from one of the costumes at the party yesterday. But more than one costume had been plaid, so which one? And what was it doing stuck on Ebony’s car?
A few seconds later, Tak returned with my scooter. I shoved the scrap of fabric into my fringed suede pouch while he rolled it—my scooter, not the pouch—up the sidewalk, right through the puddle of dumped smoothie. He made a face.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“It’s just a smoothie,” I said. “I dropped it when I saw the car.”
“What’s in it?”
“Banana, kale, peanuts, almond milk . . .”
“That’s what you eat?”
“For breakfast.”
I took the handlebars from him and rolled the scooter to the front of the shop. He opened the door and I steered it inside and parked it next to the rack of colorful boas that Blitz had fingered earlier that week. A trail of green sludge followed along, growing gradually more faint the farther I went.
“I need to call Ebony.” I looked at the phone on the counter and then back at Tak. “Can you give me some privacy?”
Tak stepped back. “Sure.”
He stepped outside. I pulled the shop door shut and flipped the dead bolt. Even though he said he’d wait, I wanted to ensure privacy.
I could tell from the sound of Ebony’s voice that I woke her up. “Margo, girl, I thought that Vegas lifestyle would have made you a night owl. And after yesterday, I’d just as soon stay in bed till noon. What’s so urgent?”
“It’s your car,” I said.
“I’m not ready to get up and face the day yet. You can drive my car over here this afternoon and I’ll drive you back.”
“No, that’s not it. I left it parked in front of the shop and someone vandalized it. I was about to call the police, but I wanted to tell you first.”
“Somebody messed with my Brown Sugar?” she asked, instantly alert. “The universe is sending me some kind of message. What’d they do? Did they key the doors? Don’t tell me they keyed the doors. I hate that.”
“They didn’t key your doors.”
“Thank the man upstairs for that.”
“They punctured your tires, smashed your windows, and spray-painted a nasty word on the hood.”
“Oh,” she said. “What’s the word?”
“Murderer.”
She cursed and then immediately apologized for her language, like she’d been doing since I was five. Considering I worked in Vegas, I’d heard much worse. “What did Jerry say?” she asked.