by Tom Wallace
“Damn, I hate to hear that,” I said.
“It’s not the same town you and Mike grew up in,” Karen said. “Or even since Mike and I got married and moved there. Much has changed, and not for the better.”
“And it’s not unique to our hometown, either,” Mike added. “Every community in the county has been impacted in a negative way. Since the coal mines shut down, the economy has gone to hell. Unemployment is sky high, and people’s hopes are more shattered than a broken egg. The Great American Dream is a distant memory for most of the folks back home.”
Mike looked away before continuing.
“The mines’ closing was a huge blow, no denying that. But in my opinion that wasn’t what sounded the death knell for our area. No, it was school consolidation that landed the killing blow. When we were growing up, there were seven high schools in our county, all located within ten miles of each other. Remember how fierce the competition was among those schools? Losing a basketball game, a baseball game, or a band contest to one of those rivals was like losing our country to the communists. Community pride was always at stake. People celebrated each victory and suffered with each loss. Schools and churches are the beating heart of most communities, large and small. Take away those schools and you forever wound the soul of that community. The pointy heads and scholars and educators call it progress, but you have to ask yourself, what price progress? Is what they’ve done truly for the good? Or is it yet another failed experiment that results in destruction for those on the far end of someone else’s glorified dream? Who can say, right? First, we consolidated into two schools, now there’s only one. And what’s left for those communities who saw their schools shut down and boarded up? Skyrocketing unemployment and a crushed spirit, that’s what.”
Mike’s story was interesting and depressing, but my thoughts were still locked in on the murder. I wanted to hear more about that. For whatever reason, perhaps because I knew and admired and respected Steve Brown, I was intrigued. As I listened, a certain plan was already beginning to formulate in my mind, a plan Karen had apparently thought of before I did.
“You should come back home, Nick, and write about the murder,” Karen said. “There probably won’t be enough for a book, but you might round up enough interesting material to write a nice magazine article. Maybe for Vanity Fair or Rolling Stone. You know, one of the more popular publications.”
Magazine article? No way. I’m thinking much bigger than that, something more along the lines of In Cold Blood, Capote’s masterpiece. Too grandiose a dream? Maybe. But how would I know unless I gave it a shot?
Based on the little time I’d spent with her; it was obvious Karen was extremely intelligent. Much more so than me, for sure. And I’m not a guy who is shy about picking the brain of individuals with more on the ball than I have. So I asked Karen a logical question. It was my way of testing to see if she and I were on the same page. As it turns out, we were close.
“What would be your angle if you were writing the book?” I inquired.
She was silent for a few moments, then said, “Well, it wouldn’t be the murder itself. Now don’t get me wrong, you certainly have to write about the murder. That’s a given. But it would almost be an ancillary issue. The heart of the story would be the Brown family. Steve and Mary Sue Brown are terrific people. We all agree on that. His son and daughter-in-law are loving, devoted parents. They have three kids, two boys and a girl. Todd graduated from high school last year. He had the brains to be an excellent student, but he was content to simply scrape by. His sister, who will be a junior next year, is a brilliant student…major colleges are already offering her academic scholarships. She is arguably the best student I’ve ever taught. The third child is twelve or thirteen, and I’ve heard he is also a terrific student. So, you have three kids living under one roof, with outstanding parents and terrific grandparents, each child given the same love, attention and support, and, yet, two of those kids turn out to be model citizens, and one becomes a murderer. How does that happen? What causes one child to go so wrong? What contributing factors sent him down that errant path? Who do you blame when it does happen? Do you blame anyone, or was it simply a matter of fate? Ask those questions and try to find some answers. That’s the approach I would take if I were writing the book.”
Karen and I were thinking along similar lines, and I agree that the angle she was pitching was a solid one. But our thoughts didn’t perfectly mesh. Somewhere in the back of my lizard brain, I kept coming back to the murder. For me, that was the heart of the story. Karen’s angle concerning the family dynamics was the ancillary part.
“When is Todd’s trial scheduled?” I asked Mike.
“There won’t be a trial. Todd confessed.”
“Is he in prison?”
“Yeah, he’s incarcerated in the Green River Correctional Complex.”
That’s the new prison that opened in our county in nineteen ninety-four.
“What was his sentence?”
“Life with no chance for parole.”
“Will he remain there?” I wanted to know.
“I’m not sure. All I can tell you is that’s where he’s located at the present time.” Mike finished off his Diet Coke and stood. He was ready to go. “Are you seriously thinking about coming home and doing research for a book? If you do, you’re welcome to stay with us.”
“I don’t know. A lot would have to happen before I did, beginning with finding a publisher willing to back the project. I won’t write a book on spec.”
“I just assumed you had a publisher.”
“Nope.”
“Do you have any publishing connections you can approach?” Mike said.
“Actually, I do,” I said, thinking about Jake Kaplan. “A friend of mine is an editor at Delacorte Press. He’ll be the first person I contact.”
“I think it would make one helluva book,” Karen said, slightly slurring her words. She stood, shakily, and hooked her arm into mine for balance. Based on her unsteadiness, it was obvious that her fourth glass of wine had been one too many. “God, I can’t recall the last time I was this buzzed. Forgive me, Nick, I don’t normally drink this much.”
We walked to the front door and stepped outside. Almost ten at night and the temperature hadn’t dropped more than a few degrees. It was still a scorcher. Mike and I teamed up to make sure Karen got to their car without falling. Once we arrived at the car, Karen leaned up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. After we got her situated and buckled up, Mike and I shook hands, and then he got in behind the wheel, started the motor, and drove off for Longboat Key.
I headed to my car, thoughts of a murder running wild in my head.
~ * ~
I drove straight home, went inside, fixed a scotch and soda, picked up my phone, and placed a call to Jake Kaplan in Manhattan. Jake answered, and judging from the background noise, I suspected a party was underway.
“Wait a second, Nick, and let me step into the bedroom so I can hear you.” A few moments later, noise silenced, Jake said, “What’s on your mind? Nothing bad happening, is there?”
“Everything is great,” I said. “If you have time, I’d like to run something by you. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“I’m all ears. Go for it.”
For the next ten minutes, I pitched the book idea to Jake, who listened without interrupting me once. I laid it all out for him, the murder, drugs, the area’s socio-economic woes, the family dynamics. It was a quick, succinct briefing, but I omitted nothing. I even tossed in the Capote book as a template for what I had in mind. Finished, I waited for Jake’s response.
“You truly believe there’s enough there for a book?” Jake said.
“Yes.”
Jake was silent for a long while. Long enough that I began to wonder if he’d passed out or dozed off. But that wasn’t the case.
“Obviously, Nick, I have to get approval from upstairs before I can give you the green light,” Jake said, breaking the silence. “Given your backg
round, I’m fairly confident I can get the okay to move forward. However, I’m not sure how much of an advance I can get for you.”
“Don’t worry about an advance,” I said. “Once I’m there, I have friends I can stay with. And should I choose to stay in a local motel, it shouldn’t be all that expensive. There aren’t many five-star joints in that area. We’ll worry about money later. If you do get the deal approved, draw up a standard contract and send it to me. I’ll agree to whatever terms Delacorte Press sets.”
“Do me a favor, Nick. Just to be on the safe side, work up a proposal and shoot it my way. I’ll go ahead and take your idea upstairs, but in case I get some pushback, having a proposal in my corner could be beneficial. Can you do that for me?”
“Not a problem, Jake. I’ll get you one within the next couple of days. And hey, thanks for your help, no matter how things work out.”
For the next three hours I worked on writing up the proposal Jake requested. I finished it at a little past two, and sent it as an attachment via email. It wasn’t a first-class proposal, certainly not one I would submit to most publishers, but I felt it was good enough in this instance. If they requested something more detailed and fine-tuned, I’d get it to them. Anyway, like Jake said, he probably wouldn’t need a proposal to get the okay to push forward.
He didn’t need it. Jake woke me at ten the next morning to inform me that I was good to go, and that an official contract would be emailed to me before close of business. He asked me to sign it electronically, but to also print out a hard copy, sign it, and get it to him via snail mail.
At a little past noon, my phone buzzed. The call was from Mike. He said Karen was spending a couple of hours shopping on St. Armands Circle, and he, having no desire to accompany her, wanted to know if I was game for another visit. I said sure, gave him the address to my condo, and told him I’d be there, waiting. He showed up forty minutes later.
“Pal, I hate to be a nuisance, but shopping with Karen is not high on my list of things I want to do. It’s a painful experience, if you want the truth,” Mike said. “Hope I’m not putting you out by showing up.”
“No, not at all. It’s nice hanging out with you,” I said. “You up for a walk on the beach?”
“You kidding? Let’s go.”
~ * ~
Minutes later we were on the Siesta Key beach, the Gulf waters blue and calm and glistening in the sun, a soft warm breeze kissing our faces. Mike bent down, scooped up a handful of sand, and commented on how fine and powdery it was before letting it flutter away in the breeze.
“Here’s the neat thing about this sand,” I said. “It’s ninety-nine percent quartz. That keeps it cool regardless of the temperature. Unlike most beaches, when the sun is frying everything in sight, you’ll never have to do the hot-sand shuffle here. Footwear is not necessary when walking on this sand.”
We walked for maybe a half-hour before returning to the cool of the condo. I pulled a couple of Diet Pepsis from the refrigerator and handed one to Mike. Then we moved into the den and sat, Mike on the sofa, me in a chair, just two old friends comfortable in each other’s company.
“Are you seriously contemplating writing a book about Luke Felton’s murder?” Mike asked.
“Well, I’m definitely going back home to do some research,” I said. “I’ve been given the green light by a publisher to proceed with the book. Whether or not I can pull it off will depend on how much information I come up with.”
“Karen is convinced that won’t be a problem. That’s all she talked about when we got to the condo last night. She’s convinced there’s plenty enough for you to write a book.”
“I won’t know until I look into it.”
“When are you planning on coming home?”
“If I get a few things squared away here, probably within the next week,” I said.
Mike took a sip of Diet Pepsi, then said, “How well did you know Luke Felton?”
“Ah, you know, he always seemed to be around. I remember seeing him quite often in the pool room. And he came to some of our baseball games. He was just one of those older guys I knew and spoke to. Why are you asking about him?”
“Luke was divorced and had two grown kids when he was murdered. And he was an ex-cop, you know, supposedly a tough guy. But rumors were floating around that he was gay, which has caused some people to wonder if that figured into what happened to him. I don’t know if the gay thing is true or not, but it is intriguing.”
“Is Todd Brown gay?”
“Karen says he definitely is not, and she had him in class, so she should know. In fact, she claims he was quite the ladies’ man.”
“The gay angle is something I’ll have to look into,” I said.
Mike stayed around for another hour before heading back to hook up with Karen on St. Armands Circle. Before he left, our conversation eventually drifted away from the murder and back onto more familiar turf. We talked about a couple of big baseball victories we were particularly proud of, or a certain female classmate we both had the hots for who rejected both of us in a most convincing manner. What hurt back then, we could laugh about now. Time might not heal all wounds, but it does heal some.
After Mike had gone, I sat at the computer and thought about areas I needed to explore once I did return home. I didn’t have much to go on, but what little I did have was more than enough to get my writer’s blood cooking. However, before I could write a single word, my plan was interrupted by a phone call.
And this one not only changed my immediate plans, it also broke my heart.
Four
The call was from Patrick Mackenzie, who proudly announced that he was an attorney with some pretentious-sounding four-partner law firm located in Carmel, California. Since Patrick’s name wasn’t among the four he mentioned, I suspected he was a second- or third-tier guy situated no higher than mid-level on the firm’s depth chart. The fact that he was calling to deliver this particular message solidified my belief.
“Are you Nicholas Ray Gabriel?” Patrick Mackenzie asked, his voice full of self-importance.
I had no idea why an attorney from California would be calling me, but having been a writer in the film business, my first thought was that someone was hitting me with a lawsuit.
“I’m Nick Gabriel,” I finally said. “What’s this call about?”
“Were you formerly married to Katherine Marie Sparks Gabriel?”
“Yes, Kate and I were married for ten years. Why are you asking about our marriage? That’s ancient history.”
“Mr. Gabriel, I’m sorry to inform you that Katherine is deceased. She passed away two nights ago.”
There are times in life when you hear something loud and clear but you don’t remember hearing it. It’s like a stream of water that runs just below the surface. You know it makes a sound, yet it doesn’t quite register with you. This was one of those times.
Kate? Dead? How could that possibly be? She was a year younger than me, a true health nut who took care of her body. She ate right and exercised regularly. Never smoked, drank alcohol, or did drugs. And now she’s dead? Why? How? An accident, a long illness? Surely, if illness were the case, even though we hadn’t spoken in years, someone would have informed me before now. Wouldn’t that be the decent thing to do?
“What was the cause of her death?” I said.
“She took her own life.”
I wasn’t prepared for that answer. It stunned me. Suicide? Hard to believe.
“How?”
“She swallowed an entire bottle of prescription sleeping pills, then washed them down with a bottle of whiskey. She went to sleep and never woke up. Karen had been deceased for several hours before she was found.”
My concerns immediately shifted to my daughter, whom I had not seen since the divorce. “And Angel? How is she doing?” I inquired.
“Angel? I’m not sure who you’re referring to,” Mackenzie said.
“Samantha. My daughter.”
“Oh, yes, Sama
ntha. Well, as you might expect, she is devastated by what happened. Finding your mother dead has to be among the worst things that could possibly happen to a person. Just an absolute shock, a true nightmare. I have to believe it’s especially heartbreaking for a nineteen-year-old woman.”
Call me selfish, but heartbreaking was having a nineteen-year-old daughter you haven’t seen since she was seven. Heartbreaking and unforgivable.
Patrick Mackenzie said, “The reason for this call, Mr. Gabriel, is to let you know that in her will your ex-wife bequeathed several items to you. I have no idea what those items are, but if you will give me your address I’ll box them up and ship them to you.”
“Has a service been scheduled?” I said.
“At her request, your ex-wife was cremated, but yes, there will be a memorial service in two days.”
“Well, then, I have a better suggestion. You give me the time of the service and the address where it will be held and I’ll be there. That will save you the trouble of shipping the box to me.”
Mackenzie paused, then said, “Your daughter has requested that you not attend the service.”
I doubt it’s possible for words to be more hurtful than those I had just heard. They might as well have been a dagger being plunged deep into my heart. Rejected by my own daughter? I could only imagine how much she despised me.
“You tell Angel…Samantha…that I’m going to be there. Like it or not, she’ll just have to deal with it.”
“Well, Mr. Gabriel, I’m not sure—”
“Now, please give me the time and address for Kate’s service.”
When the call ended, I immediately phoned the travel agent I’d dealt with in the past and booked a non-stop flight from Tampa International to San Francisco. The airline was United, and the flight departed early the next morning. That meant I had to leave Siesta Key before daylight in order to catch the seven-hour flight to San Francisco. Once there I would rent a car and make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Carmel.