“Who says it never rains in southern California?” I grumbled as I drew on my yellow slicker. January second, and my New Year’s resolution to take a daily walk was going to be harder than I had anticipated. The sedentary life of a freelance writer, not to mention the ten pounds I had gained during the Christmas holidays, were reason enough to make my daily walk appear normal to my neighbors, unused to people outside of cars who weren’t in elaborate jogging gear.
It was misting rain as I started up the steep hill. I was looking for something, some inspiration, to use in my writing.
The yards were consistently tidy, some edged in scalloped brick, and many flecked with junipers. Most of our neighbors had replaced their asphalt driveways with smooth concrete, a symbol of their continuing affluence despite inflation. It was lucky I had found a fresh approach to my writing that increased our total income enough to allow Jim and me to continue to live in this neighborhood.
There had been a time, a little over a year ago, when my husband had suggested my creative writing be put aside for something more lucrative.
“Even with my raise, I can’t afford to keep up the payments on this place,” he had said.
“Give me a little time, Jim. Maybe the novel will sell,” I’d pleaded. However, soon after that I discovered a new market for my talent, and was able to take the pressure off Jim.
I stopped to catch my breath by Mrs. Marshall’s terraced rose garden. A persistent red blossom was leaning precariously with the weight of the unexpected rain. Only one of the Marshalls’ Lincoln Continentals was parked in their driveway. A sodden cloth doll lay at the edge of the sidewalk. Getting careless, I thought in alarm. With a quick step, I kicked the wet toy out of sight into the ivy bordering the Marshalls’ yard. Then I crossed the street and walked downhill.
At the bottom of La Terra Drive, a patrol car cruised by me. I turned on El Torro and walked past three Spanish-style homes, and noted with interest the helicopter now circling overhead. It appeared another toddler had wandered off. Little else of consequence ever seemed to happen in our respectable neighborhood.
A second police car passed me and drove to the end of the street where the tract of houses ended and a lush green hillside began. Since my daughter Suzie was home from school today with a cold, I decided to retrace my steps and check on her.
The faster I walked, the harder and quicker the raindrops fell. By the time I reached the house, a red flare sputtered at our intersection and cordoned off La Terra. I hurried inside, closed and latched the heavy double door, then leaned against it in relief.
Suzie was watching television. She had a fire going in the fireplace. The gas logs were disappearing and reappearing in the flames as they remained impervious to the heat.
“I’ve locked us in, Suz. There are police cars outside.”
“Helicopter?” she asked as she noticed the thud, thud, thud overhead.
“Yes.”
“I hope it’s not another little kid lost. Every time I babysit for the Williamses I have to rock Karen to sleep over and over again, because of her nightmares. Her mom seems really embarrassed about it.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
“It’s almost the same thing with the other two that wandered off. I guess it’s really scary for a little kid to get lost on that hill.”
“I suppose. You’d think their parents would watch them more carefully. You were never out of my sight when you were that small.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“A person can’t be too careful these days. Be sure and call me if anyone comes to the door.”
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.”
I draped my slicker over a chair in the bedroom and sat down in my favorite chair by the window and scanned the neighborhood with my binoculars.
The drapes on the Dolans’ second floor were closed. Alicia Dolan was probably due for another binge. Her friends in the exclusive woman’s club she belonged to would be surprised if they knew she was a hidden alcoholic.
J. R. Travers was out of town again. What a shock it would be to Mrs. Travers if she were ever to discover old J. R. was a bigamist.
Inevitably I focused on the Marshalls’ home, which backed on the hill. Sarah Marshall was the world’s most impeccable housekeeper. Of course, they had no children to mess up their house. She kept her shoes by the front door and wore slippers all day to keep from spotting the floors. She was too busy with her charity work at the hospital to visit neighbors.
Her husband, Randolph Marshall, was president of the Sanfield Bank and prominent in local politics. The Marshalls were frequently on the society page of our small-town newspaper. It meant a great deal to me to live near such well-known and affluent people.
I polished my binoculars with a tissue, then put them to my eyes again. The police car slowly rolled down the hill with a little child in the back seat. It did not slow or stop at the Marshalls’ house. Writers need to be good observers, especially in a neighborhood that has a child molester.
I went to my typewriter. Self-discipline and daily writing is essential to a writer’s success.
I pushed a clean sheet of twenty-pound rag content bond paper into my new Smith-Corona.
Mr. Marshall,
You got away with it again. If you want me to keep my mouth shut, leave ten unmarked twenty-dollar bills at the usual place...