“What about birth records?”
“State records list the birth of a Mary Catharine Morecombe on July 2, 1994, in Memphis.”
“Is Mary Catharine Morecombe an only child?”
“You mean has she any siblings?”
“Yes.”
“None. In fact, Mary Louise Morecombe, nee Carter, Catharine’s mother, died in childbirth.”
“Survivors?”
“Only the father, Albert Morecombe.”
“Still alive?”
“In an assisted living facility in Jackson. Suffering from advanced dementia.”
“He never remarried?”
“Not according to the records.”
“And you’re sure there are no other children?”
“Yes.”
“Let me get this straight. The LaGrange phone company is saying that there are no Longs listed there?”
“They are. None currently. At least none that can be traced to Barry Long.”
“What’s Long’s sister’s name again?”
“Margaret.”
“And there are no listings for a Margaret Long?”
“Correct.”
“Well, hello, Reverend Barry.”
“He lied to us, Buddy. Why would he do that?”
“Beats me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“When does this Heart of Our Saviour mishigas begin?”
“Mishigas?” Johnny said.
“A euphemism.”
“For?”
“Insanity. When does it start?”
“A week from Friday.”
“So we have a little time.”
“Time for what?”
“For a time when the good Reverend will be otherwise engaged.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s a major event, yes?”
“It is if you consider a thousand or more Evangelicals packed into Long Pavilion an event.”
“And it lasts for three days.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s likely the Reverend and his security boys will all be in residence at the Pavilion.”
“It’s likely they’re already there. Remember those vans we saw at the mansion? They were packed and ready to go.”
“Don’t I remember something about the entire Long family appearing at these annual Holy Moly affairs?”
“That sounds right,” Johnny said.
“But for this one, Mrs. Holy Moly is allegedly out of town and unavailable.”
Johnny nodded.
“What’s wrong with this picture? Johnny, would you please ask Marsha to phone Judge Feinstein and ask him to issue a warrant for the Long house?”
“What reason does she give?”
“She swears him to secrecy and tells him suspicion of murder.”
“You think he murdered her?”
“I don’t know, Johnny. First, a frightened nanny suggests she may have been killed. Then the Long brothers run us around in circles. Next week is their annual boogie boogie hooyah event and, for all intents and purposes, her holiness, the prominent wife, seems to have gone missing. I think while the mice are away is the perfect time to have a closer look at their nest. Maybe there’s a clue or two lurking about.”
“So you’re going to serve the warrant when he’s not there?”
“I am.”
“He’s not gonna like that.”
“You think?”
Chapter Six
I decided to take the long way home. Give myself some space to muse while perusing the homeland, so to speak. I headed for the northwestern corner of the county and meandered through its namesake capital, El Ciudad de San Remo, a small picturesque village noted for its Spanish Colonial-style architecture, plus El Calle de San Remo, a miracle mile of modern skyscrapers and trendy shops.
It had turned into a storybook California day, the golden sun high in a cloudless sky, temperatures in the low seventies. I turned onto Highway 101 and zigzagged my way south, passing through vast stretches of undeveloped coastline, the roiling sea and an occasional flurry of homes to the west, the verdant Sierra Madre mountains to the east.
San Remo, like Santa Barbara, its sister county to the south, had been discovered and developed centuries ago by Spanish explorers. Long content to bask in the shadow of its more popular southern neighbor, sleepy San Remo County slowly began to wake up at the turn of the twentieth century when the movie industry arrived and construction began on the 101, the Pacific Coast Highway.
From 1910 to 1922, Santa Barbara was the unlikely epicenter of California silent film production, attracting to its shores stars such as Douglas Fairbanks, Lon Chaney, Jr., Lilian Gish, and the ubiquitous Charlie Chaplin.
Beguiled by its inherent beauty, industry denizens began gobbling up acres of spectacular mountainous terrain, and in short order spacious mansions and haciendas dotted the hills overlooking the Santa Barbara Channel and the Pacific.
Sensing a need for a quieter, more upscale version of Santa Barbara to be situated in San Remo County, the canny developer, Reinhold Lamy, founded the township of Freedom in the late 1920s.
While Santa Barbara suffered earthquakes, floods, massive fires, even an aborted attack by a Japanese submarine near the end of World War II, Freedom, under Lamy’s tightly held reins, quietly grew and prospered.
Numbers of the film notables who had initially settled in Santa Barbara, now saw the potential for a more exclusive and secluded living experience in the lushly forested, hidden hills of Freedom. Although many had relocated to the newly established communities of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, where the talkies were flourishing, the prospect of being part of an elite coastal community comprised mainly of resplendent second homes, a mere two-hour drive from L.A., proved irresistible to myriad A-listers.
Freedom became a haven of exclusivity, elegance and beauteous isolation, a private wonderland not only for filmdom’s rich and powerful, but for the wealthy industrialists of Northern California as well.
Under the auspices of a succession of omnipotent county executives, plus the continued presence of an army of highly up-skilled security personnel, Freedom turned into one of Southern California’s most select destinations.
But it was my father’s encroaching incapacity, not its natural beauty, that caused my hat to once again hang there. Although it was my childhood home, it had been for me a kind of psychological prison from which I believed I had escaped, only to discover that my escape was illusory and that I was once again wedded to a fate I had long ago eschewed.
I wished it wasn’t so.
But wishing gets you nowhere.
Chapter Seven
Wilma Hansen, the dispatcher, buzzed me. “Mayor Goodnow on Line Two.”
“Tell her I’m out of the country.”
“Tell her yourself. Line Two.”
I picked up the call. “Your Honor.”
“Don’t Your Honor me, Buddy,” Regina said. “What are you up to?
“Excuse me?”
“What have you got going with Barry Long?”
“Junior,” I said.
“What?”
“Junior. Barry Long, Junior.”
“Don’t mess with me, Buddy. What’s going on?”
“Mrs. Junior has gone missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes. She allegedly vanished a week or so ago. She’s nowhere to be found. Reverend Barry told me she was in LaGrange. With his sister. But we’ve been unable to locate either of them there.”
“Surely there’s an explanation for that. This is no time to be hassling the Longs, Buddy. They’re knee-deep into their Heart of Our Saviour preparations and, in case you’ve forgotten, it’s a very big boon for business here.”
Mayor Goodno
w was halfway through her second term and was widely acknowledged as a great friend to the Freedom business community.
Previously she had been the Deputy Mayor, a longtime associate of her predecessor, who had been forced to step down due to term limits. She picked up his baton, adopted his agenda, and was generally docile except when she faced perceived challenges to her policies.
She met my father at the county courthouse, where both the Mayor’s and the Sheriff’s offices were housed. They noticed each other almost immediately. Both had lost spouses to illness. Both were lonely. Their proximity sparked a romance.
They quickly married in a small civil ceremony, attended by Regina’s twin sons and by my sister and me. She moved into my father’s house and proceeded to redecorate it from top to bottom, removing any trace of my mother in the process.
We enjoyed an uneasy truce, Regina and I. I was the only one of the children who lived in Freedom and the three of us pussy-footed around each other, avoiding conflict as best we could.
“What exactly is it you’re saying, Regina?”
“Don’t escalate this thing, Buddy.”
“Don’t escalate the investigation into Mrs. Long’s disappearance?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No. It’s escalating.”
“Damn it, Buddy. Can’t it wait?”
“A prominent resident of Freedom has disappeared, leaving behind a distraught child and a husband who’s withholding information regarding her whereabouts. I’m going to investigate this, Regina. Surely, you wouldn’t want it any other way.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t think so. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
After a brief silence, Regina said, “Will we be seeing you for dinner this evening?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Try not to exaggerate, Buddy. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
I ended the call.
Marsha Russo appeared in my doorway. “Obviously, the Reverend holds some sway with Her Honor.”
“Obviously.”
“So?”
“What’s the status of the warrant?”
“The paperwork has been faxed to Judge Feinstein. I’m waiting for him to sign and return it.”
The intercom buzzed. I picked it up.
“Looks like you hit the Perfecta,” Wilma said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“ADA Alfred Wilder awaits the pleasure of a word with you.”
“Jesus.”
“Should I tell him you’re incommunicado?”
“No. I’ll take it.”
I picked up the phone. “Skip,” I said,”what a lovely surprise.”
“Don’t lovely surprise me, Buddy. If there’s a piece of shit anywhere in Freedom, you’ll be the first to step in it.”
“Do you think you could clarify that statement?”
“Barry Long,” Wilder said.
“Junior.”
“What?”
“Junior. Barry Long, Junior.”
“Dammit, Buddy. The law firm of Kornbluth and Kurtz has fallen on us like a thousand-pound weight.”
I chose not to say anything, aware of the fact that my silence would further aggravate him.
“Murray Kornbluth himself, Buddy. Murray Fucking Kornbluth. Exactly what we needed.”
“I hope he wasn’t hurt in the fall.”
“Don’t crap around. What in the hell is going on?”
“Mrs. Barry Long, Junior, has vanished.”
“Kornbluth denies that.”
“Why don’t you try to find her then, Skip? See if you have better luck than I’ve had.”
“Listen to me, Buddy. Kornbluth says that Mrs. Long suffered a bit of a breakdown and is currently on a sabbatical from her duties with the Foundation.”
“Did he offer to prove that assertion?”
“He’s Murray Kornbluth, for crissakes. He doesn’t have to prove anything.”
“And if he’s wrong?”
“Lytell wants you to lay off of this.”
“Lytell does?”
“Yes.”
“Michael Lytell and Murray Kornbluth. Jesus. Two peas in the same overprivileged cesspod.”
“Did you hear anything I’ve been saying, Buddy?”
“Listen, Skip, yesterday I had a visit from the Long family nanny. She’s who told me about Mrs. Long’s disappearance and about how she was instructed by Reverend Barry to take charge of the care and feeding of the boy in his mother’s absence. Apparently the kid has become despondent. She also mentioned in passing how frightened she was of Long’s security personnel and how she believed they might well have offed the Missus. She told me this on her way out of town and into hiding. When I went to investigate this assertion, I got stonewalled. First by the Reverend’s malevolent brother, then by the Reverend himself.”
“So?”
“My suspicions have been raised. I don’t like what I saw at the mansion. I don’t like that the Reverend lied to me. I don’t like any of it.”
“What are you going to do?’
“I’m going to carry on an investigation until I’m satisfied with the results.”
“So Reverend Long is guilty until proven innocent. Is that how it goes, Buddy?”
“It is, if that’s how you choose to read it. In point of fact, and with all due respect, I don’t really give a rat’s ass what either you or Michael Lytell think. I’ve got reasonable cause to investigate the alleged disappearance of Mary Catharine Long, and I intend to do so.”
“And if we seek to enjoin?”
“You have no grounds. And if you insist on harassing me, I’ll invite the national media to the party and embarrass the Reverend, Murray Kornbluth, and our esteemed District Attorney. You, too, Skip.”
“Is that what you want me to tell the District Attorney?”
“Tell him whatever you want. I’ll inform you of my findings. I’ll try to get it done on a timely basis. Assuming Reverend Long doesn’t further complicate matters.”
“You better pray you come up with something, Buddy.”
“Would I were a praying man.”
“Maybe now would a good time to become one.”
Chapter Eight
Marsha Russo turned her attention to the main entrance where Sheriff’s Deputy P.J. Lincoln had arrived, accompanied by Sarah Kaplow, the town librarian, whom I’d known since I was a boy. They entered the office, both dressed for rain.
Sarah Kaplow was a firebrand, short, stout, and plainly dressed. She was without makeup, or fashionable hairstyle, or any type of pretension. She was sixty if she was a day, possessed of a lively intelligence and a warm and charismatic personality. She was a town fixture and much beloved.
“Sarah.” I welcomed her to my office. “And on such a wet day.”
“Good morning, Buddy. You have to know my visit is important, otherwise I’d still be planted at my desk, dry as toast.”
“What brings you, Sarah?”
Deputy Lincoln answered. “Sarah has some knowledge of Catharine Long, who turns out to be a member of the Library Foundation Board. She told me a few things I thought you might find interesting.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve come to know and quite like Catharine Long,” Sarah said. “She’s deceptively intelligent and a great supporter of the library.”
“Why deceptively?”
“She’s smarter than one would expect from a girl born in the Tennessee lowlands and she’s not afraid to show it.”
“Okay.”
“Lately, though, she’s been pretty stressed.”
“How so?”
“I feel som
ewhat uncomfortable revealing information that was told to me in confidence.”
“Don’t be. Catharine Long has disappeared and I’m trying to find her.”
Sarah briefly wrestled with this conundrum, silently clenching and unclenching her fists. “I understand. All right. Catharine has had some serious disagreements with her husband. About her role in his ministry. About their son. About their relationship. She’s very angry with him.
“Does the expression chauvinist pig ring a bell with you, Buddy? She says he doesn’t give her any credit for the role she’s played in his success. Now he’s trying to push her into a backseat. He wants to elevate his son to celebrity status. At age five, no less. According to Catharine, the Reverend is planning to introduce little Barry to his congregation on the first night of this year’s Celebration. They call him Three, by the way. He’s being trained to sing a revisionist interpretation of “Nearer My God to Thee” that’s scheduled to open the ceremonies. Which Catharine greatly opposes. She doesn’t want any son of hers turning into a dancing bear, if you get my drift. This has caused a great deal of stress between the Longs.”
“What did Catharine do about that?”
“I’m not altogether certain. She did phone me, but during the call, someone interrupted her and it was terminated. I’ve not heard from her since.”
“What did she say?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. She was clearly upset and had just begun to get into it when the call ended. I tried to phone her back but was told she was unavailable.”
“After which she disappeared.”
“So it would appear.”
After a few moments, Sarah said, “There’s something else.”
“Okay.”
“Although she didn’t go into detail, she recently hinted they had money problems.”
“I thought they were raking it in hand-over-fist.”
“That may be a misconception. She’s a good girl, Buddy. And she’s very much alone. I hope she’s all right.”
“Thank you for this, Sarah. I’ll let you know as soon as I learn something.”
Sarah wrestled herself to her feet. “I’d appreciate that.”
Chapter Nine
We were sitting in the breakfast nook, sipping gin and tonics, watching the dusky twilight turn dark through walls of paned glass.
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