I slipped from under Daisy’s head on my lap and went to the kitchen for a second cup. I leaned against the tile counter, sipping and staring blankly out the large picture window that overlooks the backyard, pondering my self-imposed dilemma. Obviously, the first thing to do would be to find Belinda Moore and ask if there was anything I could do to help her. With hope she wouldn’t think I was a big buttinsky and with any luck, she’d tell me she didn’t need my help.
I retrieved my laptop from the ottoman in the living room and sat at the kitchen table. I logged on and did an internet search and came up with fourteen Belinda Moores in California. Two in Santa Lucia, one in Santa Verena, one in Colinas De Oro, and the rest scattered around the state. I started with the two local Belindas. She’d be in her fifties now, so that ruled out ninety-four-year-old Belinda and left me with fifty-two-year-old Belinda on Church Street, not far from my house.
I clicked on her name, thinking her phone number would come up but was immediately redirected to a site where I could get her number if I paid ninety-five cents. I am not made of money, so I went old-school, pulled out an old phone book, and found her number and full address on Church Street. I wrote it down on a sticky note and picked up my cell to call her. I got three numbers punched in and stopped.
What would I say? Uhh. You don’t know me, but I kind of knew your daughter in high school and I want to help you keep her murderer in prison. Now there was an icebreaker.
I decided to drive over and knock on the door. Face-to-face, she would see I am a nice, normal, sincere, caring person. Not a psycho. I touched up my makeup, tightened my ponytail, grabbed my purse, and started out the door; then I decided to take Daisy. Nice, normal people have yellow Labs. Right? I tethered her in the backseat and revved up Veronica. On the way, I remembered that Daisy’s bag of dog food was almost half empty. That needed my immediate attention and Belinda would have to wait.
Once inside the grocery store, I figured I should stock up on essentials. Mint chip ice cream being the most essential. When I got back in the car, I worried the ice cream would melt. Who knew how long my visit with Belinda would take? Better to play it safe and go home and put it away. Once there, I thought I should make sure the ice cream was okay.
Half a carton later, I reluctantly put the top back on and stowed it in the freezer. I couldn’t put off going to Belinda’s any longer. It was a warm blue-sky day, so I decided we would stroll over.
813 Church Street was a charming tan and barn-red Craftsman style bungalow with a wide porch and a carefully tended front yard. On the side of the house, a woman was pulling weeds in a vegetable garden. I watched her while I tried to formulate a dialog. She saw me before I was fully-formulated and came out to greet me.
“You look lost,” she said, wearing a neighborly smile.
Daisy wagged her tail furiously and the woman asked if she could pet her.
“Sure, she’d love it.”
She crouched and was immediately subjected to a faceful of Daisy kisses.
“Oh, you’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?” She looked up at me. “I used to have a Lab. She passed last year and I miss her so much.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without my girl.” There seemed no point in stalling, so I said, “I’m looking for Belinda Moore and your address was listed in an old phone book. Are you by any chance Belinda?” The attractive brunette looked the right age.
She stood up, brushing her pants now covered in dog hair, the only downside to living with a Labrador. “She used to live here. We bought the house a couple years ago. By the way, I’m Melanie Rogers.” She held out a grubby hand to me and then thought better of it. “I’m a little muddy.”
“No problem. I’m Katy McKenna and my sidekick here is Daisy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Daisy.” Melanie scratched my dog behind her ears, which promptly caused her to collapse in rapture. “Were you and Belinda friends?”
Were? I wondered why she used past tense. “No. Actually I was friends with her daughter in high school.” That was stretching the truth a tad.
“Oh, yes. So awful.” She shook her head. “We didn’t live in the area back then, but our realtor told us about it. Really heartbreaking.”
“Yes, it was.” I paused a moment in respectful silence, then asked, “Do you happen to know where Belinda moved?”
She visibly flinched. “Oh, I’m sorry, but she died.”
“She died?” I was dumbfounded. “Was she ill?”
“No. She was hit by a car.”
“Was it an accident?”
Melanie shrugged. “I don’t know.” She crouched to rub Daisy’s tummy, probably to avoid eye contact with me. “Tragic accidents happen.”
I was completely flummoxed. How could Belinda Moore be dead?
Melanie stood up and gave me a hug. “I feel like I’ve ruined your day.”
“No, I’m okay. Just a little shocked.” I chewed on a nail for a moment. “I wasn’t holding out too much hope I’d find her at the first house I tried, but—”
“But instead you got me, and bad news.” She smiled ruefully. “Hey. You know what? I was about to knock off for a break and make a pot of coffee. Come sit on the porch and have a cup with me.”
How could I say no? She led me up the steps to a porch straight out of Better Homes and Gardens. Daisy settled on a colorful Indian rug.
“Have a seat and I’ll be right back.” Melanie went through the front screen door and returned a few minutes later with a tray laden with a French press carafe, cups, all the essential mix-ins, and some tasty looking cookies.
I was a little overwhelmed by her kindness, but I grabbed a cookie anyway. Homemade. “Oh, wow,” I mumbled while chewing. “I’m not usually a peanut butter cookie fan, but this is sensational.”
“Neither am I, but a few years ago, I watched a bake-off contest on the Food Channel and this recipe won a million dollars, so I had to try it. Now I’m addicted.” She poured the coffee and settled back in her chair with a sigh of contentment. “I love this porch. When I first saw it, I knew I wanted this house before we even stepped inside. My stubborn husband insisted we actually see the rest of the house before making an offer.” She laughed. “But I just knew. We both love it. The place has a good vibe.”
I was on my third cookie and wondering how many more I could eat before it became rude, when she leaned forward. “Can you tell me why you were looking for Belinda Moore?”
I told her everything, even the truth about how well I’d known Lindsay. It felt a little awkward, but I couldn’t lie to the gracious lady.
“I know it must seem odd that I’m poking my nose into this, but from the moment I read the story in the paper, something has been compelling me to do something.” I shook my head. “I just don’t know what.”
She paused a moment in thought. “When we bought this house, it was a probate sale. There was no will and no living relatives, so there’s no one to speak for Lindsay now. I believe things happen for a reason, and I think you have to follow your gut feelings on this, not only for Lindsay but also for her mother. I’m not exactly sure what karma is, but it seems like this would be it. Your karma.”
That flustered me, and I didn’t know how to respond.
“So what do you think you’ll do?” she asked.
“I had planned to ask Belinda if there was anything I could do to help her keep this guy in prison. You know, like go to the parole hearing with her and speak up…” I trailed off in uncertainty. “Now I don’t know what to do.”
“What about a petition?”
“You think it would do any good?”
She pushed the cookies closer to me. “Looks like I’ve corrupted you.” She refilled my cup. “Yes, I do. Someone has to speak up for that little girl. Why not a thousand?”
“A thousand signatures? How will I get a thousand?”
“I can help. You get a petition put together and I’ll take some to my office and my husband can take some to his.”
; I got excited. “My friends could help, too. My mother can have one in her hair salon.”
“What’s the name of her shop?”
“Cut ‘n Caboodles.”
“You’re kidding. You’re Marybeth’s daughter? She does my hair. What a coincidence.” She leaned forward and patted my knee. “Katy, we can definitely get thousands of signatures.”
Thousands?
Back at home, I poured a glass of water and took my cell phone and laptop out to the patio. The dog door in the laundry room slapped open and shut, and Daisy joined me for whatever super exciting thing I was doing in the yard. I set the water and computer on the table and picked up a tennis ball and flung it across the overgrown grass. “Fetch.”
Daisy tore out after it and caught it on a bounce as I shouted, “Bring it here. Bring Momma the ball.” That concluded our game as she laid down to gnaw on it.
I sat down at the teak table and checked phone messages before opening my laptop. There was a text from Samantha’s stepdaughter, Chelsea. Blog?
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe not cathartic like Samantha had said, but a daily journal of my action packed life might be fun to read someday when I’m in the old folks’ home. I texted okay, hit send, and immediately thought, Oh, crud. Why’d I do that? Now I’m stuck. I should never act on impulse. There are a lot of expensive and extremely uncomfortable stilettos gathering dust in my closet that could attest to that.
I opened the laptop and went online to search for information about Belinda Moore’s death. Since I now felt officially obligated to follow my karma, destiny, fate…whatever, I deemed it necessary to know what had happened to her.
Melanie said they’d bought the house two years ago, but who knew how long it had sat on the market or how long before it even went on the market, what with probate and all. I decided to start my search at three years ago and work my way forward.
I typed in “Belinda Moore’s death in Santa Lucia, CA” and got zilch. I tried 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011. Nada. My next idea panned out. I went to our local newspaper’s online obituaries and spent a few minutes being distracted by the area’s recent losses, which was silly considering I have Grandma Ruby to do that for me. There she was: Tuesday, August 12, 2009.
Her listing didn’t go into details about the actual cause of death, but as I read, I learned that Belinda had been fifty-one and predeceased by her husband, her father, and Lindsay. Her photo revealed a cute, vibrant looking woman. She’d had a degree in horticulture, which explained the beautiful yard now lovingly tended by Melanie. She hadn’t remarried.
Since I had the date of Belinda’s death, I clicked the newspaper archives and quickly found the news story about her fatal accident.
Police are searching for a person who caused a fatal injury in front of Saint Bartholomew’s Church on Mill Street yesterday morning. Traffic Detective Matthew Lockhart said a vehicle described as a light tan or gray, late model, possibly Toyota Camry or Honda Civic traveling north on Mill Street hit local resident, Belinda Moore, who had just attended a church luncheon.
Witnesses said the car “came out of nowhere, traveling extremely fast” and after hitting Ms. Moore, did not stop or slow down, confirmed by the lack of skid marks. Half a block further the car turned onto Oak Street. While there was confusion on exact color and make of the vehicle, most agreed it had California license plates. Drunk driving is suspected. Ms. Moore, a widow, was the mother of Lindsay Moore, the fifteen-year-old Santa Lucia High School sophomore who was raped, kidnapped and murdered in 1996.
The account went into a heartbreaking rehash of Lindsay’s story, then ended with: Police are asking anyone who has information to call the hotline at (805) 555-TIPS. I checked later issues, but found only a short blurb stating there had been no new leads on the case.
It had to be an accident, probably a drunk driver. It wasn’t like Belinda had been a mobster with a contract out on her. She was the mother of a deceased child and a widow who kept a beautiful garden.
Curiosity compelled me to type in Lindsay’s father, Jonathan Moore. His photo showed a George-Clooney-handsome man in his late thirties. He’d coached his daughter’s soccer team and had loved camping with his family. A wonderful husband and father who truly would have been missed.
Finally I read Lindsay’s obituary. Her photo had caught her laughing and hugging a big loveable-looking dog. I tramped across the lawn to Daisy, now lounging on her back in the sunshine, batting at moths. I knelt down to hug her and found myself crying. Her warm doggy smell and kisses comforted me.
I didn’t know these people, yet I was mourning their deaths. Lindsay had lost her father when she was only twelve. She so easily could have pulled into herself and become a weird, angst-ridden teen. Like me.
I’d had enough for the day. I had a headache and felt cranky. My stomach grumbled a reminder that I hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day, unless half a pint of ice cream and six cookies counted. I figured I’d better eat a nutritious dinner to counteract the earlier transgressions, especially if I was going to finish off the cookies that Melanie had sent home with me.
A few blocks from my house there is a sweet little vegetarian diner called “Suzy Q’s Café.” The organic menu is inventive and delicious. I thought of my favorite dish—a creamy, smoky-flavored mac and cheese covered in a crust of crunchy butter-browned panko—and actually salivated. Decision made, I fed Daisy and walked there.
New Age music filtered through the open windows to the sidewalk seating area, setting a tranquil tone as I shoved my way through the annoying crowd blocking the entrance. There was a forty-five minute wait for a table, so I settled at the colorful broken-tile mosaic bar and ordered a glass of local zinfandel, and the mac and cheese dinner special which included a side of spicy fried kale and a slice of baked quinoa loaf.
I sipped my wine and glanced around the restaurant, recognizing a few of the neighborhood regulars and hoped none of them recognized me as the “crazy incontinent lady.” My phone chirped in my purse. It was Chelsea texting that my blog was ready. Yippee.
My organic dinner was as close to orgasmic as I had been in a long time. I toyed with the idea of another glass of wine since I was walking. But a Frantic Hausfraus was recorded on the DVR that I was desperate to watch, so I paid my bill and strolled home.
SEVEN
Sunday, May 5
1996
Lindsay clutched at the thin paper gown, trying to maintain her dignity as she scooted her butt to the end of the paper-sheeted examination table, and placed her bare feet in sock-covered metal stirrups while keeping her bent knees tightly clamped together.
Before the pelvic examination, Dr. Clater explained everything that would happen and showed her the instruments she would be using, including a scary looking metal thing called a speculum.
Now the doctor sat on a rolling stool, focusing a glaring spotlight on Lindsay’s genitalia. Dr. Clater asked her to spread her legs apart, but she couldn’t stop shaking and her knees clenched tighter.
Her mother stood beside her, holding her hand and stroking her forehead. “Focus and breathe, honey.”
After Lindsay’s father died, Belinda had taught her the Lamaze technique of breathing she had used when delivering Lindsay. Whenever her grief felt as though it would drown her during that gloomy time, her mother said, “Focus and breathe, honey. Focus and breathe.”
Belinda reminded her now. “Don’t hold your breath. Try to relax and take long, slow breaths. Focus and breathe.”
Lindsay held her mother’s hand in a bone-crushing grip, and they breathed together.
Dr. Clater gently coaxed Lindsay’s knees apart. “Good girl, you’re doing great. I’m going to insert the speculum now. It might feel a little cold.”
Lindsay was cold to her bones and her teeth chattered a rapid staccato in the warm room.
“You know what? It’s a little chilly in here. Let’s get you a blanket,” said Dr. Clater. She removed one from a drawer and draped it ove
r Lindsay’s thin body. “That better?”
Lindsay nodded, pulling it to her chin, and reached again for the security of her mother’s hand.
Tuesday Afternoon, May 7, 1996
Belinda knew that a bad therapist could cause a lot of damage to a young, impressionable psyche, but the pleasant woman standing before her quickly dispelled those fears. Plump and seventyish with short-cropped silver hair and wearing a lavender hand-knit cardigan, Belinda thought she was like a nice cup of tea.
Her office was homey, the lighting soft and warm with a hint of apple pie scenting the air. The large, overstuffed chairs held fuzzy throws and cushy pillows.
“It’s so nice to meet you both. I know this must be difficult and I will do my best to make it as easy as possible.” Dr. Greenburg gestured at the inviting chairs. “Sit wherever you like. Would either of you like something to drink? Water? Soda?”
Lindsay hunched in a chair, hugging a throw pillow against her stomach. “Have you got a Sprite?”
“Will 7UP do?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, barely audible.
Belinda perched ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, looking like she was going to bolt at any moment. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
Dr. Greenburg removed a soda from an under-counter refrigerator and poured a glass. She put a plate of oatmeal cookies on the table centered between the chairs and sat down. “I will talk with both of you for a few minutes and then I’d like to have some time alone with you,” she said to Lindsay. “Is that all right with you?”
Lindsay avoided eye contact, feverishly nibbling a cookie as though she were biting her fingernails to the quick. “I guess.”
To put them at ease, Dr. Greenburg spent a few minutes talking about herself. When she asked Belinda to wait in the outer office, Belinda felt more comfortable leaving Lindsay alone with the compassionate woman.
She waited in the small reception area outside the office, holding open a garden magazine that she couldn’t focus on. Ten minutes passed and Dr. Greenburg came out with a tearful Lindsay.
“I think Lindsay’s had enough for today. These things take time and I don’t want to push her too quickly.” She went to the reception desk and checked her appointment book. “Can you come in on Friday about this time?”
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