Ventura, California, December 17, 1958
Shut up. I’m getting it, you little bastards.”
I propped myself up on one elbow and yawned, listening to the commotion coming from the kitchen. Daddy was feeding the cats breakfast. Not just Pinky Lee but also a scrawny black cat we called the Panther, who flitted from tree limb to tree limb in the backyard during the day, and a beat-up yellow tomcat known as Old Yowler. The two strays were in the early stages of worming their way into our family.
“Goddammit,” my father yelled. “Now look what you made me do. I’m bleeding, you son of a bitch.”
Sometimes when he used the can opener, Daddy nicked his finger on the ragged edges of the lid. A cat yowled and a cupboard door slammed shut. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen, still rubbing my eyes. The yellow cat paced and glanced furtively in my direction while the other two circled Daddy’s feet, bleating and pleading. Pinky Lee hissed at the intruders as he waited for the food.
Daddy lowered three small paper plates filled with cat food to the floor. “There, that ought to shut you up for a while.” He threw the empty can in the trash container under the sink as the cats gobbled down the meal.
“What are you doing up early?” he asked me.
“I need to find a current event for school.” I yawned.
My father settled himself at the kitchen table and picked up a newspaper.
“Are you going to the courthouse today for Mrs. Duncan’s bail lowering hearing?”
The cats finished gulping down their feast and sauntered to the back door, high tails swishing, shrilly demanding to be let out.
Daddy nodded absently as he read. “Yeah, should be quite a circus.” He glanced at the clock and folded the paper. He heaved himself out of the chair, dumped the rest of his coffee in the sink, and opened the back door for the cats. “Mrs. Alfred will be here soon. She’ll make you some oatmeal. I’ve got to get going.”
“Do you think the judge will let her out of jail?”
“Hard to say. Plus, Frank will still have to find a bail bondsman around here to post her bond.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Lois!” he called out. “Mrs. Alfred’s going to have to make the oatmeal. I’m late!” He turned back to me and tapped the paper he’d folded on the table with his index finger. “And don’t cut any holes in this. I may need it later.”
I sat at the table in the empty kitchen eating dry Honey Smacks, sipping a glass of cold milk mixed with chocolate Nestlé’s Quik and reading Daddy’s paper. I held scissors in one hand as I searched for a story to take to school. Civic responsibility was the topic of the week.
An article caught my eye: Authorities in Santa Barbara were asking for the cooperation of all citizens to report any suspicious activity on the night of November 17th that might be connected to the disappearance of Olga Duncan. A man from Summerland had already come forward. He’d seen a car parked along Casitas Pass Road and two men climbing up to the road from an embankment in the early hours of the morning after Olga Duncan disappeared.
Wow! That’s a good example of civic responsibility, someone trying to help the police find Olga.
I checked the other side of the page. Only an advertisement for a Christmas tree lot. We already had a tree, so I clipped out the article. Even Miss Peterson will have to admit that this is an appropriate current event.
At school, fifteen minutes before the dismissal bell sounded, Miss Peterson stood at the front of the classroom in a yellow gingham shirtwaist dress, collecting the SRA Reading Lab cards and answer sheets. She told my row to get their current event articles out of their desks. I smoothed the edges of my clipping, which included Olga’s picture.
The teacher called on Angela first. “What do you have for us today about civic responsibility?”
“I have an article about a pageant at the Civic Center in Ojai.”
Miss Peterson picked up her red pencil and began scanning the SRA answer sheets while she listened.
“There will be a ‘Living Nativity’ scene in Ojai tonight and tomorrow commemorating the birth of Christ,” Angela read from her clipping. “It’s sponsored by the Baptist Church and the Ojai Chamber of Commerce, with two showings each night, one at seven o’clock and another at eight thirty.”
Miss Peterson frowned. “And how is that related to civic responsibility, dear?”
“My mother says that the Chamber of Commerce is a civic organization and, well, it’s at the Civic Center.”
“I see.” Miss Peterson fiddled her pencil back and forth. “Maybe you can give us more information about that.”
Angela bit her lip. She ran her index finger down the article. ‘ “This year, the Chamber of Commerce has become involved with the pageant, and the public response has been greater than I ever dreamed,’ said the Reverend Gene Vaught, director of the pageant. ‘All of the wise men are portrayed by Chamber members.’ ”
Miss Peterson pursed her mouth. “Thank you, dear. Put your article in the assignment basket. Name and date, please.” She scanned the row. “Next?”
I raised my hand and popped out of my seat. Miss Peterson nodded.
I read from the article. “The Santa Barbara Police and the district attorney released a statement yesterday asking for the cooperation of anyone knowing anything about the disappearance of Olga Duncan, the missing nurse.” I glanced sideways at Miss Peterson. She was looking down at her desk, her red pencil poised midair over the papers.
I turned back to the class. “It’s our civic responsibility to help the police whenever possible. We need to keep our eyes peeled for Olga.” I held up the article and slowly moved Olga’s picture from left to right so everyone could see. “A man already reported that he saw two men out on Casitas Pass Road late at night after Olga disappeared. Very suspicious.”
Miss Peterson propped her chin on her hands. She sighed. “Thank you, Debby, that’s enough. We need to clean up before the bell.”
“Also,” I said really fast, “they have Olga’s mother-in-law in jail here in Ventura for something. I don’t really know about that exactly… ’nulment or fraud, but anyway, a man from the DA’s office said, ‘There are indications that more serious charges may be filed against Mrs. Duncan in Santa Barbara.’ ” I heard the teacher’s chair scrape on the linoleum. “One of the reporters asked, ‘What indications?’ And the assistant prosecutor said, ‘When we have a suspected murder case, we don’t give hints.’ ”
Somebody gasped. Probably Angela.
I waved my hand in a ‘no-no’ motion. “But Olga’s not dead. That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s only the assistant DA. A helper.” I saw a flash of yellow gingham.
Miss Peterson stood next to me with her hand out.
“I need to put my name on it,” I mumbled.
The teacher tapped her foot as I pulled a pencil out of my desk, and I kept talking. “So we must all do our civic responsibility and help the police. We have to find Olga as soon as possible.” I scribbled my name across the headline and handed her the article.
Angela put her hands over her ears. “My mother doesn’t want me thinking about that nurse disappearing.”
“That’s enough,” Miss Peterson said to me in a stern tone. “Get ready for the bell, class.”
I sat down.
Eddie swiveled around in his chair and leaned over my desk. His breath smelled like peanut butter. “I’d like to find a body.”