Brush With Death (25 page)

“Beats me.”

“Are you psychic, my dear?” Mrs. Henderson asked Annette.

“I sure hope not. Not when you consider my line of work.”

“Wouldn't being psychic help you solve crimes?” Bryan asked.

“I deal with enough unpleasantness as it is,” Annette said, and accepted the chilled bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale that Ron handed her. “No way do I need to see a murder happen.”

“Maybe being psychic would help you win the lottery,” Bryan suggested.

“Maybe so. Except for one thing—I'm not psychic.”

“Getting back to my friend . . .” My crowd's conversational style veered toward the circuitous.

“Maybe it was a love affair gone sour,” offered Bryan. “That happens all the time.”

“Seems kind of drastic,” Ron said. “Why not just break up with him?”

“Perhaps she was involved with a married man,” Mrs. Henderson piped up, snacking on a sesame cracker. “I know someone who's involved with a married man.”

“She might have been pregnant and couldn't stand the shame!” suggested Bryan.

“This isn't the fifties, Bry. More likely she cracked under the pressure of graduate school,” Ron said. “I came close to dropping out and backpacking through Europe a couple of times when I was at Stanford.”

“That was before he met me,” Bryan said, beaming at Ron.

As Annette reached across the table for a slice of cheesecake, I noticed she wore a gold chain with a medallion of a cross with a rose at the center.

“Pretty necklace, ” I said. “I saw a cross like that at a cemetery recently.”

“My auntie gave it to me,” she said, fingering it. “I had dinner with her last night so I made a point to wear it. I'm not much of one for jewelry, but I like it.”

“Is it a special design?”

“It's Rosicrucian.”

“It's what?”

“Rosicrucian. The cross with the sign of the rose is the emblem of the church. Don't you know the museum down in San José?”

“I've heard of it, but never been.”

“I grew up in east San José, used to visit the Rosicrucian Museum all the time. They've got this recreated Egyptian tomb, with mummies and all, used to scare the you-know-what out of me. But I whined until my mom took me, of course. My aunt's a member of the church.”

“Why would a church be so interested in Egypt?”

“Supposedly there was a pharaoh who started part of the belief system . . . but then it's a Christian church, too. I never quite figured that part out. It's a bit mystical. The guy who founded the church and museum down in San José, H. Spenser Lewis, went on a whole bunch of Egyptian expeditions and digs in the twenties.”

“Spenser Lewis?” I repeated. “That was his name?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The other day I witnessed a grave robbery from the tomb of a Louis Spencer. And in his tomb there's a stained glass window with the same design as your necklace. And Egyptian paintings and a saying, ‘may the roses bloom . . . something . . .' ”

“ ‘May the roses bloom upon your cross,' ” Annette finished with a nod. “It's what they say, like a greeting or a benediction. Roses are symbolic of life, the cross is a sign of the human body. But what grave robbery are you referring to, exactly?”

“I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—”

“No surprise there,” Annette muttered.

“—and someone was robbing Louis' grave. I was with the woman we were just talking about, the grad student from Berkeley who died.”

Bryan and Annette exchanged Significant Glances.

“I know a graduate student at Cal,” Mrs. Henderson said, already catching on to the plan to change the subject whenever the tension at the table rose. “Oh! Look at Pete run!”

We all turned to watch as Pete loped along the shoreline and across the bridge to the island, trying to keep abreast of Mary and Evangeline.

“Why won't they let him in the boat?” Annette asked.

“He's afraid of the water,” I said.

“That poor man. He's besotted,” said Annette, shaking her head.

Mrs. Henderson nodded. “With that large lesbian.”

“What lesbian?” I asked.

“The one in the motorcycle jacket.” Despite the warmth of the day, Evangeline wore her riding leathers. Mary's ripped black gauze tunic, in comparison, seemed more appropriate to the occasion.

“Evangeline's not a lesbian.” At least, I didn't think so.

“She isn't?” Mrs. Henderson said. “I just assumed . . .”

“We all did, honey,” Bryan said. “Just goes to show.”

I noticed more Goths gathering by the lake and trooping across the footbridge to the island. A few held sock monkeys and flags aloft as they shouted to others ensconced in paddleboats on the water. The Goth fleet seemed to be swelling, the boaters clutching fluorescent green, blue, and pink plastic water cannons that contrasted sharply with their funereal attire.

As I turned back to the clam dip, a war whoop split the air. I looked up to see the Goth fleet dividing and engaging, the boaters' legs pumping furiously as they splashed toward one another, bellowing taunts and insults.

“Arrrrggghh!” the Goths yelled as they slurped up lake water in the plastic water cannons and stood, paddleboats rocking wildly, took aim at one another, and let loose great streams of the brackish water. A shaggy-haired woman armed with a water cannon half as tall as she was hollered a riposte and fired a stream of water that struck a bald, tattooed man in the chest, sending him tumbling backward into the murky lake. In one final act of heroism, he lobbed his water cannon to his boat mates before standing up in the four-foot-deep water and wading to shore in defeat. The shaggy-haired woman's boat crew threw their hands in the air and cheered lustily before their attention was drawn to a boatload of Goths clad mostly in pink.

“Arrrggghhh, beware the wrath of the Pinks!” the new arrivals cried, water spewing in great arcs toward the shaggy-hairedwoman's crew. Shrieks and shouts of vengeance issued from the beleaguered boat. From the safety of our picnic table, Miss Mopsy yapped furiously.

“My word,” breathed Mrs. Henderson.

“What in the world's going on?” I asked.

“Gommmphhtt,” Annette mumbled around a mouthful of cheesecake.

“Golf what?” Bryan asked.

She swallowed, took a sip of beer, and hushed the dog. “Goth naval battle. I assumed that was why we came today. Don't tell me you've never heard of it. It's a tradition.”

“Goths have traditions?” Ron asked.

Just then Mary and Evangeline rounded the bend of the island. Pete, taking in the scene from the top of the bridge, began to shout, “
Stop!
Evangeline, Mary! Stop!”

It was too late. With a bloodcurdling yell, the pirate crew descended upon our friends, soaking them with a water barrage. I heard Evangeline howl in outrage, and feared the consequences.

Pete ran down the bridge and waded into the soupy water. “
Evangeline!
” he called. “
Mary!
”

Bellowing defiance, Evangeline dove into the lake and swam to a nearby boat. Shooting out of the water like a killer whale, she seized a blond woman by the arm and tossed her into the lake, then grabbed the edge of the boat and flipped it over, sending its occupants to their soggy reward. Grabbing a water cannon from a sputtering Goth, Evangeline righted the overturned paddleboat and boarded her spoils of war. She maneuvered the paddleboat into position and took out the head Goth with a well-placed shot in the schnozz. Mary, still in her own boat, leapt to her feet and swore a blue streak, threatening all Goth pirates with lifelong vengeance.

“Aren't you going to
do
something?” I asked the representative of civil authority at our picnic table.

Annette looked at me as if I had grown horns. “Like what?”

“Like stop it.”

“On what grounds?”

“Well, because . . . surely they're breaking some law.”

“I'm eating cheesecake. Anyway, this is San Francisco, girlfriend.” Annette shrugged. “Goth naval battles are the least of our worries. And look—they're not involving the innocent,” she said, gesturing to a pair of cuddling lovers who paddled past the melee, unscathed.

“They involved Mary and Evangeline!”

“Bad day to go boating in black.”

I heard the roar of a hideous beast and saw Pete had climbed into Evangeline's boat, and the two of them were dunking all attackers. Standing back to back, Pete and Evangeline strafed anyone who dared come near. Mary paddled over and joined them in the boat, nearly tipping it over. She then provided the leg power as the trio made their way toward the shore, where a knot of irate pirates informed them that they had broken the rules of Goth naval engagement. Evangeline, unrepentant, flipped them the bird.

Our three friends sloshed over to the picnic table, dripping wet and spitting mad.

“Did you
see
those guys!” Evangeline bellowed. “What kind of place is this!”

“The attack was entirely unprevaricated!” Pete seconded. “They are maniacs, these Golfs! Miscreants! Misnomers!”

“You've got to hand it to them, though, they've got courage,” Mary said and slogged over to a patch of sunny lawn, where she lay down spread-eagled to dry. “Pink is the new black, you know. I wish I had the guts to wear it, but I'm not worthy.”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, amused. “How worthy does one have to be to wear pink?”

“When you're a Goth, it means a lot. It's a matter of principle. I can't in good conscience wear pink until I spend at least one night in that damned cemetery.”

“You shouldn't be in a cemetery at night,” said Mrs. Henderson, frowning. “There are strange goings-on there.”

“Lions, and tigers, and bears . . .” Ron chanted.

“Oh my!” Mrs. Henderson finished.

It sounded as though Mrs. Henderson was slurring her words a bit, though I knew she hadn't been drinking anything stronger than iced tea.

“Tonight's the charm, though, I can feel it,” Mary said, ignoring the warnings. “Right, Evangeline?”

Evangeline shook her soaked leather jacket and scowled. “I gotta take a shower. That lake smelled funky.”

“Nothing like a good old-fashioned Goth naval battle to top off a Sunday picnic, wouldn't you say?” Bryan said cheerfully, putting the food away. Miss Mopsy was on cleanup duty.

After helping to pack up, I wheeled Mrs. Henderson to the truck. Her head lolled a bit. “Are you feeling okay, Mrs. Henderson?”

“Fine and dandy, sweet as candy. Oh, look at the birdies!”

We zipped across the bridge to Oakland, and I pulled into the loading zone in front of Evergreen Pines. All the way back Mrs. Henderson had been singing “The Way You Wear Your Hat,” though most of the lyrics made little sense. I unloaded and unfolded her wheelchair, guided her into it, and whizzed her up the elevator and down the hall to her room.

“. . . oh no, you can't take that away from me . . . !” she crooned as I helped her onto the bed.

“Are you sure you're feeling all right?” I asked, worried now. I didn't know Mrs. Henderson well, so maybe she always went loony tunes after witnessing a Goth naval battle. Still, it seemed wise to check. “Why don't I get a nurse?”

“Nun-sense!” she said, and chortled. “Did you hear what I said? And I'm not even Catholic!”

“Yes, but—”

“I can check it myself, young lady. My insulin, I mean. I just need this glu . . . gluck . . . this thing.” She pointed at a machine marked GLUCOMETER.

“Sure you don't need help?” I persisted.

“I can do it!” Mrs. Henderson said in a tone I imagined she had perfected during fifty-one years of running a large staff. “It's a brand-new thingie, just got it this morning.”

“I'm just going to, um, get something to drink. Be right back.” I ducked out of the room and made a beeline for the nurses' station.

A Filipina woman looked up from some charts. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Henderson needs some assistance checking her insulin levels. And . . . she's acting a little loopy.”

“More than normal?” asked the nurse. “She saw the doctor just this morning. Do you know if she was drinking or eating sugar?”

“I think she was pretty careful.”

“I'll check her glucometer.” She headed briskly into room 327. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Henderson. Can I help you with that?”

“I've got it!” Mrs. Henderson said crankily.

The nurse smiled but did not budge.

“There. See? Perfect.” Mrs. Henderson fell back against her pillows as the nurse checked the reading. I looked at the reading, too, though I had no idea what was acceptable and what should send me scurrying to call 911.

“How do you feel?” the nurse asked.

“I'm a little peaked is all,” Mrs. Henderson said. “I think I'll just lie down for a few minutes. Then I'll be fine. Right as rain. Raindrops keep fallin' on my head . . .”

I drew a crocheted afghan over her legs. “Thank you for coming to the picnic.”

“Thank you, dear. I had a lovely time.”

“Goths and all?” I asked.

“Golfs and all.” She smiled, and closed her eyes.

Chapter 13

—Frida Kahlo (1910-1954), Mexican painter