Wednesday afternoon, September 20, 1989
I ate lunch at my desk, trying Poppy’s phone number at intervals to no avail. In the afternoon, to fill my time, I took the index cards out of my bag and typed up my notes, making a display of productivity to soothe my conscience. I was no closer to finding the McCabes’ extortionist than I’d been at the outset, and the lack of progress undercut my confidence. I was entertaining a teeny tiny wee regret that I’d agreed to the job in the first place. Whatever the problem, a desire to be helpful is a risky proposition, a lesson I never seem to learn.
At five, I closed up the office and headed home. Traffic was light through the downtown streets and I was on Albanil, searching for a parking place, when a little red Mercedes-Benz convertible whizzed by. I turned my head in time to spot Cheney in the driver’s seat and I felt a small jolt of happiness. Then I saw his passenger, the way-too-pretty Anna Dace. As I watched, he slowed and turned onto the parking apron in front of Moza Lowenstein’s garage.
He killed the engine, got out, and walked briskly to the passenger side, where he held the door for Anna as she emerged in a long white sweater and a skirt so short, it scarcely covered her underpants. His expression was grim. She kept her head down, dashing tears from her cheeks as the two proceeded to Moza’s front door. Neither seemed aware that I was in range, which suited me just fine. Anna took out her house keys and let herself in. She and Cheney chatted briefly through the open door and then he returned to his car and drove away. I hoped the poor dears hadn’t had a lovers’ tiff.
I changed clothes and went for my run, reflecting on life and love while my thigh muscles protested, my chest heaved, and sweat collected at the small of my back. As is true of so much in life, it was none of my business if the two of them had embarked on a relationship. Furthermore, if they quarreled, that wasn’t any of my business, either. I hadn’t planned to go to Rosie’s that night anyway and I certainly wouldn’t do so now. What if I were there and the two came in for dinner? Was I going to sit pretending not to notice while they kissed and made up or stared soulfully into one another’s eyes over plates of Rosie’s peculiar food? No, I was not.
I finished my three-mile stint and then used the three-block walk home to cool down. I passed through the gate and proceeded to the backyard. No sign of Lucky or Pearl, so I headed for Henry’s back door, which was open to the late afternoon air. I knocked on the frame, tilting my head to the screen. “Hey, Henry? You there?”
I heard “Yo!” but the voice wasn’t Henry’s. It was Pearl’s.
She came thumping into the kitchen from the hall, swinging her bulk between her crutches. She’d wrapped herself in an enormous apron. I watched her hump herself over to the back door and unlatch the screen. I stepped into the kitchen, noting the big pile of dirty dishes and utensils on the counter. Flour dusted the floor like a light snowfall. Henry’s proofing bowl had been placed on the back of the stove with a towel over it.
“I take it Henry’s not here.”
“Lucky asked to borry his car so he could reclaim his dog from the veterinarian. He’d just sucked down a six-pack of beer, so Henry decided it’d be smarter if he drove.”
“So now we’ve got a dog living here, too?”
“We gotta keep him somewheres. Animal Control was this close to putting him down, so Lucky had to fetch him or the poor thing would be dead.”
“Didn’t he have to license the dog?”
“So?”
“So that cost money. I thought he was broke.”
“Henry lent him the money,” she said. “What’s that sour look?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do, too. That’s why I asked.”
“I’ll tell you what bothers me. Having you camp in Henry’s backyard like it’s a national park. The rehab facility wants you indoors with access to a toilet. Not hobbling around in the dirt on crutches, peeing on the few plants Henry has left.”
“Who put a bug up your heinie bumper?”
“It pisses me off that you take advantage of him. When are you going to pay your own way? You have no ambition, no self-discipline, and no skills.”
“That ain’t my fault,” she said indignantly. “I’ve applied for jobs all over the place and no one’ll hire me. It’s discrimination and you know why? I’m a woman past forty and I’m mortally obese. Hey, I’m white and that’s a plus, but otherwise I’m screwed, which the government knows or they wouldn’t be sending me disability checks.”
“What disability?” I asked, exasperated.
“My hip is broke. Where the hell have you been?”
I closed my eyes, practicing self-restraint. “Once your hip is healed, what’s your disability?”
“I don’t know. Mental?”
“You’re not mental. Get serious. You’re healthy, you’re smart, and you have energy to spare. It’s time to pitch in your fair share.”
“My share of what? This ain’t even my house. I bet it was paid off years ago, so what am I pitching in for? Air and sunshine?”
“Food. Utilities. Washer and dryer. Hot showers . . .”
“I can get all of that for free at Harbor House.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing here, Miss Smarty-Pants. I was saving this for a surprise, but I can see I’ll have to let you in on a little secret. Henry’s teaching me to bake. That way I’ll have a skill and I can hire on as a baker’s apprentice.”
“You don’t have the patience.”
“I most certainly do! I’m putting up with you and that big mouth of yours, ain’t I? Anyway, I watched him put a batch of dough together and it’s no big deal. Just yeast, water, and flour. Mix her up, knead her until she’s smooth, and that’s it.”
I moved over to Henry’s bread proofing bowl and picked up the towel. In the bottom was a dispirited wad of ragged flour. “Is this ‘her’?”
“Yep! You set her in a warm place and Nature does the rest.”
I picked up the empty yeast packet lying on the counter. “I’ve got news for you. ‘Her’ is dead. You know the expiration date on this packet of yeast? June of 1984.”
“Well, no wonder! I had to hunt all over and finally found that at the back of the pantry.” She humped her way over to the counter and peered into the bowl. “That don’t look good at all. Guess I better start me another batch.”
“Why don’t you wait until Henry gets home and have him demonstrate?”
“Why can’t you do that?”
“I don’t know how to make bread.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. That’s the best incentive I ever heard. Conquer this and I’ll have me a way to lord it over you instead of the other way around.”
I let myself into the studio, took a shower, and then dressed. When I came down the spiral stairs, I sat down at my desk and tried Poppy’s number again. I really didn’t expect her to pick up, so when she answered after four rings, my instinct was to hang up. I didn’t want to put her on notice that I wanted to talk to her and I didn’t want to go through the awkward process of explaining my purpose on the phone. I depressed the plunger while she was still saying, “Hello? Hello?”
I got in my car and went around the block, coming out at Cabana Boulevard, where I took a right. She was only four blocks away, which I could have walked in the time it took. The eight cottages that formed her courtyard showed various degrees of domestication—potted plants on one porch, wicker furniture on another. One patch of yard sported a birdbath and another had a weed whacker lying on its side. I imagined a small insular group of folks who minded each other’s pets when someone went out of town.
I knocked and when she came to the door, I said, “Poppy?”
“Yes?”
Her response was so guarded, I thought she was lying through her teeth. She didn’t look much older than twelve, with pale blue eyes, lank blond hair, and pale cheeks overlaid with sunburn. She was so thin the knobs of her elbows stuck out like the wooden couplers in a set of Tinker Toys. The blue cotton dress she wore had cap sleeves and a sash that appeared to tie in back like garments I’d worn in fifth grade. It wasn’t even stylish at the time.
“If you’re selling something, I don’t buy from you door-to-door types,” she said.
“Sorry.” I reached in my shoulder bag and took out a business card that I handed to her. I don’t think I look anything like a door-to-door salesperson, but what do I know? “I chatted with Troy Rademaker and he suggested I talk to you. That’s me,” I said, pointing to my name like she couldn’t read it for herself. “Your stepmother was kind enough to give me your address.”
“A private investigator? What did I do? I didn’t do anything.”
“I’d like to talk about Sloan. I understand you were best friends.”
“Troy told you that?”
“A couple of other classmates as well. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Not until you tell me what this is about.”
“Fritz McCabe was recently released from CYA. You probably read about it in the paper.”
“I don’t read the paper. It’s depressing.”
“Has he been in touch?”
“What business is that of yours?”
This was going to be my punishment for the ease with which I’d extracted her stepmother’s poor opinion of her. I said, “He served his time and now he’s home again. A question’s come up about a videotape he was in.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did he hire you to come around here asking about that?”
“Not Fritz. I work for someone else.”
“What’s this have to do with me?”
“I was told the tape was in Sloan’s possession shortly before she died. I guess there’s still a chance it’s hidden in her room. The other thought was she entrusted it to you.”
As I said this, it dawned on me (belatedly, I grant you) that it didn’t matter who’d been entrusted with the tape. Maybe Sloan had given it to someone or maybe it was still in her room when her mother closed and locked the door. The tape’s whereabouts for the past ten years wasn’t the point. The point was, who had reason to do Fritz McCabe harm? Who wished him ill and who wanted to turn his newfound freedom into misery?
“Sorry, but she didn’t ‘entrust’ anything to me. I knew she had the tape and I told her I wanted to see it, but she said she’d left it somewhere. She was supposed to let me know when she got it back. She never got a chance. Anyway, right now I’m in the middle of something and I don’t want to take a break.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I picked up movement in her next-door neighbor’s window and I caught sight of the woman I’d encountered briefly on my initial visit. I realized Poppy had offered a response and I hadn’t heard a word.
I said, “I’d rather not go into it standing on your front porch. Your neighbor’s been listening to every word we’ve said.”
She glanced at her neighbor’s window. She and the woman exchanged a look that Poppy held, unblinking, until the woman withdrew.
She stepped back then, allowing me to enter her living room.
She’d filled her small house with an odd assortment of 1940s furniture: heavy blond pieces inlaid with dark laminate. The wooden arms of the chairs had rounded edges and the upholstery was dark plush. The fabric reminded me of the seats in movie theaters when I was a child: short, scratchy nap of some indeterminate color. Usually there were old boogers plastered on the undersides. The area rug was green, tone-on-tone, with a pattern of overlapping leaves.
She went into her small kitchen to the breakfast nook, and I followed like Mary’s little lamb. On the kitchen table, she’d set up a cutting mat, an X-acto knife, a pile of postcards, and a container of a milky substance I assumed was glue.
She’d dissected six or eight postcards, creating strands of color that she affixed to heavy-duty poster board. The design seemed to be abstract except for the occasional reference to one of the fifty states. It was interesting how decorative the word “Ohio” became when it was intermingled with “Wyoming.” Nearby, she had a photograph of Sloan propped up against a cereal box.
I picked up the photo of Sloan and studied it briefly.
“How much have you heard about the tape?” she asked.
“Just Fritz’s claim Sloan stole it from him. I’m wondering where it ended up.”
“Why don’t you ask Bayard Montgomery? They were big old buddies back then. I was just at a pool party at his house.”
She seemed to be loosening up and I wondered if I could press her for more. She was preoccupied with her project and it seemed to temper her initial hostility.
I said, “I’m not clear about the sequence of events. I remember reading about it in the paper, but that was ten years ago. As I recall, Austin Brown invited her to a pool party at his parents’ cabin up on the pass and things got out of hand. Were you there?”
“Sure, but I left before any trouble set in. Really, everything was fine at first. School was over and everyone was in a good mood. The cabin had a swimming pool and we were in and out of it, playing music and cooking hamburgers and doing stuff like that.”
She used the X-acto knife to tease an area of dark blue from the postcard from Arizona. I could see that she was re-creating the photograph of Sloan in pixels of color, but the image wasn’t clear at such close range.
“Why didn’t you party at Austin’s house? Didn’t he live in Horton Ravine?”
“He wanted privacy. He’d bought a keg of beer and a lid of dope and he didn’t want his parents to know.”
“Who invited Sloan?”
“He did. The way I heard it, she was jogging that morning in her neighborhood. He was with Troy in Troy’s pickup and asked if she wanted to join them. She said she had to take care of her dog and get cleaned up from the run, so Troy said he’d swing by later. Iris and I got there before they did, which was one forty-five or so.”
“I thought Sloan was being shunned,” I remarked, nudging the conversation back to the point.
“She was, but Austin agreed to call it off.”
“Where were her parents all this time?”
“They drove to Arizona to pick up her stepbrothers. The two of them spent summers here with their dad.”
“When you saw Sloan, did she seem frightened?”
“Not at all. It was a party. I didn’t think she was in danger and neither did anyone else.”
“Who was there?”
“Bayard and Troy and a few other guys.”
“Any other girls besides you?”
“Maybe four or five. Iris for sure because I gave her a ride up.”
“You’re talking about Iris Lehmann?”
“Right. She was my best friend at the time.”
“But not now?”
“I see her now and then,” she said cautiously.
“What about Fritz?”
“He was a show-off. He got everything he deserved.”
All-righty then, I thought. “So it wasn’t a big party; just a dozen or so.”
She shrugged, but offered nothing more. She’d reverted to her former caution and I wondered if something had happened that day that she didn’t want to talk about. I’d have to coax her back into the conversation before she shut down altogether. In the adjacent dining room, I noticed an old-fashioned Underwood typewriter with a rolling desk chair pulled up to it. The surrounding tabletop was covered with books, files, and typing paper, some of it wadded up and cast aside—the universal symbol of writerly angst.
I indicated the poster board. “Is this what you do for a living? I should have asked you earlier.”
Her eyes strayed to the typewriter. “I’m working on a screenplay.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Well, no. Not really. This is a movie about the murder.”
Her cheeks had acquired a pink tint and her expression was earnest. “People are always telling me I should put it down on paper since I was there and saw it firsthand. I don’t mean when she was killed.”
“Are you writing a fictionalized account?”
“Well, it’s not a documentary, so I guess you could call it true fiction or something along those lines. People swear a movie like this could be a box office smash, especially if I include a starring role for a big-name actor, which I intend to do.”
“Whose part do you see as the starring role?”
That was a stumper. She shrugged. “Austin’s, I guess.”
“Really.”
“He’s, you know, the antagonist and now that he’s a fugitive from justice, it makes him kind of an outlaw. Like an antihero.”
“In other words, someone the audience admires,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You have a literary agent?”
“I don’t need one. A couple of months ago, I met someone who works for a Hollywood production company and she promised to show the script to her boss as soon as I finish it. That way I don’t have to pay the agent’s ten percent off the top. She says in the film business, it’s all about who you know.”
“So I’ve heard. How far along are you?”
“Page twenty-six. It’s harder than I thought. You have to know all these technical terms.”
“What, like fade out, fade in?”
“Exactly.”
Talk about no hope. Her stepmother had loved telling me what a poor student she’d been, so the notion of her writing anything worth money seemed farfetched. “What are you calling the screenplay?”
“I was thinking about Yellowweed,” she replied. She paused long enough to study me. “Do you have siblings?”
“I don’t. I’m an only child,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.
“You’re lucky. You have no idea what it’s like growing up in a house where your sibs think they’re so smart. All my family ever cared about was money and prestige.”
“I understand your mother walked out about the time Sloan was killed.”
Her expression darkened. “Right. Thanks a lot, Mom. Way to go. My sisters were out of the house by then. They acted all hurt and upset, but what was it to them? They had their own lives. I was the one stuck at home. My family’s never had a clue who I am or what I care about. Forget creativity or the arts or anything original. They’re all science types.”
“You seem to be doing okay. This place is great.”
“My dad pays the rent, which irritates the shit out of Loretta because it’s money she could be spending on herself. She doesn’t say so, but I know she sees me as a big old loser. When my screenplay sells, I’ll at least have enough money to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I think it’s nice that they’re willing to pitch in financially,” I said, trying to inject an optimistic note. Meanwhile, I was thinking that her denying Sloan had given her the tape might be a big old lie. What if she’d had it in her possession all these years? If the tape had triggered the end of her relationship with Troy, wouldn’t she take pleasure in getting back at him? He hadn’t been approached for money, but if the tape became public knowledge, he and Fritz would be tarred with the same brush. Nice belated revenge for his betrayal of her. I pictured what she might do with twenty-five thousand bucks. Thumb her nose at Loretta, at the very least.
Miss Mopey was saying, “All they care about is getting me out of their hair. Emotional support would be nice, but I guess that’s too much to ask.”
I didn’t want to foster additional lamentations, so I shifted the subject. “Have you had a chance to talk to Fritz since he got out?”
“He’s stopped by a couple of times, which I try not to encourage. He acts all goofy, like he has a crush on me. Wouldn’t you know it? Cute guys won’t give me the time of day. Doofus like him is all over me.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions about Sloan? It might be helpful going back over events. Since you’re hard at work on the script, this might stimulate your memory.”
Mollified, she said, “Like what?”
“It must have been a shock when you heard she was dead.”
“A big shock. Horrible. I didn’t believe it at first. Iris found out before me and she called, crying so hard I couldn’t understand a word she said. Then when I got the point, I thought she was making it up.”
“When was this?”
“When we heard what happened? Three days after the party, I think. Something like that.”
“Where did you think Sloan was all that time?”
“I had no idea. We weren’t hanging out that much, so it’s not like we were in constant touch. Austin said after they closed up the cabin and came down the pass, they dropped her off downtown and then went straight to his house.”
“To do what?”
“They goofed around, playing Ping-Pong and Foosball. I know they watched TV because I remember him describing a couple of the shows.”
“Would have been mostly reruns, wouldn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Meaning he mentioned the shows to lend credence to his story. If he’d already seen episodes, he could rattle off enough details to be convincing.”
“Oh.”
“Did it occur to you they might have done something to harm her?”
“Not really. I was kind of bothered about the dog. She must not have thought she’d be gone long because she left Butch in the backyard. When it got dark, the next-door neighbor heard him howling and she took him in. She’s the one who called the police. Sloan never would have left him like that. She’d have come back for him no matter what.”
“So you did or didn’t believe Austin’s account?”
“I didn’t have any reason not to. He was as worried as the rest of us when it turned out she was missing.”
“What made them decide to kill her?”
“I don’t know. I’d already left by then. Anyway, I don’t think they decided to do anything. It just happened.”
“You’re saying four guys in the woods at night with a loaded handgun, and the girl who accompanies them just ‘happens’ to die?”
“But that’s how it was. It all came out at the trial. It wasn’t premeditated or anything like that—except for the hole Austin dug, and he only did that so she’d take him seriously.”
I could feel myself squinting in disbelief. “Austin dug a grave before he took her up there that night?”
“I wouldn’t call it a grave. It was a hole he dug at the campsite where she was shot.”
“If it was the hole they buried her in, wouldn’t you call it a grave?”
“Sure, if you put it like that.”
“Who found the body?”
“Hikers.”
“As I understand it, the murder weapon was never recovered.”
“It wasn’t, but everybody knew the gun was Austin’s because he had it at the cabin, waving it around.”
“I’m assuming the police questioned all of you when the body came to light. Austin, in particular.”
“Sure, but they didn’t have enough to charge him. He told the cops the same thing he told us. He said they dropped her off on State Street and that’s the last they saw of her. I guess he was pretty torn up by then since he’d dated her.”
“I’m sure he put on a good show,” I said. “And then what?”
“The two detectives just kept after them and after them.”
“This was at the police station?”
“Some of the time and partly at Austin’s house. This was two or three days running, but they hadn’t been booked or anything like that. I know they separated the guys and talked to them individually, but they all said the same thing.”
“I’ll bet, alibis being what they are,” I said. “Did the police read them their Miranda rights?”
“They weren’t under arrest.”
“Didn’t anyone ask for an attorney?”
“Austin said they didn’t need attorneys since she was fine when they dropped her off.”
“And his parents didn’t object? I thought he came from a family of hot-shot lawyers.”
“He did, but he said if they hired one, it would look like he needed one.”
“He did need one. He still does. You’re talking about homicide.”
“I think it was more like an unfortunate accident. Fritz didn’t know anything about guns. Austin had to show him how to take the safety off.”
“Were you aware that Austin intended to leave town?”
She shook her head. “I think he acted on impulse the minute he got word Fritz had told on him.”
“‘Told on him’? Like they were little kids?” I knew I sounded outraged, judgmental, and condemnatory, but I couldn’t help myself. I watched her and wondered why she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Probably because I was talking to her like the idiot she was. I took what I hoped was a deep, calming breath. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Not really. Except Iris and I were scared to death.”
“The two of you were scared? How so?”
“Well, what if Austin showed up again? What if he’d come after us? We were there at the cabin the day she was killed. We were, like, witnesses.”
“To what?”
She closed her mouth. She waved a hand in front of her face as though a gnat had singled her out for pestering. “Nothing. I hope we’re done here because I have work to do.”
I knew I’d pressed her to the point of defensiveness, which is seldom productive. “I guess this covers it for the time being. If any other questions come up, can I come back and talk to you?”
“I think I’ve said enough.”
“Not quite, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to fill in the blanks.”
She murmured something.
I said, “Sorry, I missed that.”
“I said your information’s out of date. Sloan’s mother decided it was time to empty her room and pack up her stuff, which she did a couple of weeks ago.”
“How did you hear about Sloan’s room being emptied?”
“I didn’t hear about it. I helped.”