Jason’s nostrils flared. “Poisoned? That’s heavy.”
“No kidding. The death certificate said the cause of death was cerebral hemorrhage caused by a ruptured aneurysm. That’s all I know. I never saw the autopsy report, but I assume there was one.”
“Unattended death of a healthy woman in her fifties? They would have at least investigated, but they don’t always do an autopsy. Who do these people suppose would have poisoned her, and how?”
“I have no idea. The guy who told me is an environmental activist, and I guess Mom had become one, too. He thinks Katherine Russom’s father—who runs an agrochemical company in Goleta—was royally upset with my mother.”
“And somehow administered some kind of herbicide to her that made her brain bleed out?”
I winced.
“I’m sorry, Robbie,” he said. “Not being very gentle, am I? I put the old foot in the mouth every time. It’s why I stick to cybercrime instead of walking a beat.”
“Don’t worry about it. But, yeah. It’s what Paul suggested. Actually, a fumigant used on strawberry fields.”
“Who’s the dude?”
“His last name is Extraberia or something. I don’t know how you spell it. Zoe’s mom, Liz, told me about him, and sent me his phone number but she forgot to include his last name.”
“Zoe Stover. Poor thing.” He shook his head. “She’s got a big-time addiction problem.”
Oh. “That’s so sad. Liz told me Zoe didn’t come to the reunion because she’s not doing well. Her addiction must have been what she meant.” I levered in another bite of dinner with my chopsticks. “Remember how creative she was?”
“She snagged the Most Artistic Senior label in the yearbook.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten.” I took a drink of beer. “Back to my mom, I want to talk to the medical examiner. Or whoever would have determined my mom’s cause of death. Maybe read the report for myself.”
“We don’t have ME’s here,” Jason said. “The Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office handles death examinations. They have a sheriff-coroner and several investigating deputy coroners.”
“Interesting. I guess every state does things differently.”
“The sheriff’s office has a full-time pathologist on staff, a super-competent lady named Melinda Washington. Mel’s a force of nature—tall, flashy, no-nonsense—and she really knows her stuff. We’re friends. I can get you her contact info.” He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“Thanks. I would like to know how to reach her,” I said. “Do you think she’ll talk to me?”
“I can’t say for sure, but tell her I sent you. If she won’t share what she knows, you can order a copy of the coroner’s report by calling the office or going in. You might want to see it even if she will speak with you.”
“They must have a Web site, right?”
He grinned. “I set it up for them as one of my internships.”
“You rock, Jason. I’ll check them out tomorrow.”
“I can poke around for you, too, if you want. I have access to all kinds of search capabilities.”
I pointed a chopstick at him. “And some they don’t even know you can get into, am I right?”
He cast his dark, hooded eyes right and left with a wicked smile teasing his mouth. He held a finger to his lips. “Shh, don’t tell.”
I returned the smile. “Cross my heart and hope to, well, live another day.”
“You and me both, Robbie.” He drained his glass.
The waitperson materialized at our table. “Another round?”
Jason nodded.
“Me, too,” I said. “Please.”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “So what do you do for fun out there in whatever vowel-initial state you live in?”
Chapter 9
I took myself for a solo walk on the beach the next morning. A brisk onshore breeze was blowing, but five years of living in a cold climate had toughened me up. I zipped my windbreaker to my neck and walked barefoot on the sand, inhaling clean salt air and the reassuring, never-ending sound of breaking waves I had grown up with. I was determined to get some answers today about what Paul had said regarding Mom’s death. A squadron of long-beaked brown pelicans flew single file ten feet above the water toward the north, looking like prehistoric creatures with their wings steadily flapping. I had a purpose for the day, and they looked like they did, too. If I saw pelicans every day this week, I would fly home happy, albeit on an airplane.
Someone had drawn a huge heart in the sand and added two sets of initials joined by a plus sign. I smiled at it. Zoe and I used to come to the beach together with our mothers. Even as a child my friend was always making art in the sand, drawing huge pictures with her heel, saying the astronauts could see it if it was big enough. Or she’d collect shells and adorn an enormous dinosaur we’d formed out of the damp grains.
A heavenly breakfast burrito was my breakfast back at Nacho Average, overflowing with refried beans, peppery cheese, chunky salsa, and cubes of avocado, all wrapped around a cumin-flavored omelet and packaged in a big flour tortilla. I doubted I’d need to eat again until dinner. Carmen offered the same package I did to her B-and-B customers—breakfast in the restaurant downstairs was included in the price of the room. Unlike me, she kept her restaurant open on Mondays. I hadn’t yet put breakfast burritos on the menu at Pans ’N Pancakes, but I’d already decided to after I returned. I cut this one in half and snapped a photo of it, focusing on the insides.
After she topped up my coffee, Carmen asked, “How was your day yesterday?”
“Pretty interesting.” I beckoned her closer and kept my voice low. “Do you know an environmental activist by the name of Paul? Basque guy, kind of wiry, lots of nervous energy?”
Carmen nodded knowingly. “I actually dated him for a while last year.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Yeah. It didn’t work out,” she continued. “He was too much into his own stuff and not so interested in mine.” She shrugged. “Men.”
“I met him
