Too Big to Die

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Her pursed lips relaxed a tiny bit. “I suppose,” she finally said.

  “And I recall,” I ventured, “way back when your children were very tiny, how much you resented Seth’s mother interfering, not to mention your own mother.” I took a long drink of my tea. “Trust me, Zee, you come by the ‘hovering mother’ bit honestly.”

  Her mouth relaxed, melting into a tiny smile. Finally, she blew out a long breath. “You’re right. Seth even brought our mothers up as an example. They both about drove me crazy with all their advice. Seth’s mother just about camped on our doorstep when the kids were little.”

  “And they did it out of love,” I added. “Just as you’re driving Hannah crazy with your love and good intentions. Just back off a bit. Do some volunteer work. Go back to selling cosmetics. Redecorate your house.”

  “Why do you think we’re relandscaping our backyard? It gives me something to do, although it’s nearly done. And I’ve been volunteering at church.” She took a drink of her lemonade. “So now you see why I want to come with you. I need something to do.” She pointed a lacquered nail in my direction. “If I have to attend one more ladies’ church event with my mother, they’ll be putting me into a padded room.”

  My best friend was begging for my help to keep her sanity. How could I refuse? “Okay. Okay. After lunch today, I was going to try and find a couple of people. They don’t live that far away. One is in Costa Mesa and the other in Westminster. There was no phone number for the one in Westminster, but before I left to pick you up I called the one in Costa Mesa, but I only got a generic voice mail. He’s a teacher, so he may be off for the summer.”

  “Or teaching summer school or traveling to Patagonia for a month,” Zee noted.

  “True,” I agreed. “I left my cell number and asked him to call me. I also need to contact a construction company in Torrance about Burt Sandoval.”

  “Then let’s get going,” Zee said.

  It was the shortest lunch date Zee and I had ever had.

  twelve

  We had gone to lunch around eleven thirty. By one o’clock we were on the 405 Freeway heading for Torrance, two plump middle-aged women in stylish capris and tops, toting designer handbags. Well, Zee carried an expensive designer handbag. I had my usual trusty tote with me.

  While waiting for our check to be processed, we’d mapped out our plan of attack. Zee pointed out that if we started in Torrance, which was farthest away, and worked our way back to Orange County, we’d be heading toward home during rush hour instead of hopscotching from place to place. After Torrance we could hit Westminster, then Costa Mesa. If the teacher didn’t get back to us by phone, we’d head to the address on the Marigold report. It was a good plan. I plugged the address for Church Construction into my GPS and away we went, heading north on the 405 Freeway.

  Torrance is about fifty miles from Laguna Beach. Traffic on the notoriously busy 405 was heavy but not jammed. We’d gone about ten miles when I turned to Zee. “Do you have any antacids with you? I have some in my bag, but it’s in the back seat.”

  “Sure.” She dug around in her handbag and produced a small travel container of a well-known brand. After shaking a couple into my hand, I popped them into my mouth. “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure if it was the cheesecake or the salad, but something is doing a conga in my stomach,” I said after chewing the tablets.

  “It’s probably stress,” Zee diagnosed. “Not surprising with everything going on in your life.” She reached over and gave my knee a couple of comforting pats. “Don’t worry, Odelia, I’m sure it will all work out with your job.” I gave her a weak smile, hoping she was right.

  “By the way,” I said, changing the subject, “Dev is back—I think for good.”

  Zee looked surprised. “Did he and Bev break up?”

  I nodded but didn’t take my eyes off the road. “Yes. He’s moved back into his house and is starting up a PI business with a friend of his in LA. He stopped by the house last night.”

  “I’m very sorry about him and Bev,” Zee said with sincerity. “I liked her very much.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Zee snapped her head toward me and flashed a thousand-watt smile. “Hey, we can ask Dev to help with this stuff.”

  I carefully changed lanes to get past a slow-moving RV towing a small car. “I had the same thought this morning while reading up on the two Jordon Wests,” I told her. “But I nixed it because you know how protective Dev can be. I don’t need his nagging. Besides, he’s busy getting settled in. But if we get stuck, he’ll be a great resource.”

  A shiny black sports car came up on our right, in the slower lane, going well past the speed limit. After hugging the bumper of the car in front of it, the vehicle darted between me and the car in front of me like thread going through the eye of a needle. I would have made contact with him if I’d been going any faster. The car wasn’t in front of me but a few seconds before it made a move to the next lane to our left, then wove its way to the far left lane. From there it darted in and out between cars and lanes, car by car, playing chicken with the traffic to move ahead.

  “Look at the fool!” cried Zee as she clung to the hand grip just above the passenger’s door. “He’s going to kill someone.”

  I shook my head in disgust as I watched the car move forward, barely missing other vehicles. “You see that way too often on these roads, yet you seldom see them pulled over by the Highway Patrol for those tricks.”

  We made it to Torrance in good time and found a parking spot a couple of spaces down from Church Construction. It was a low white building located on the corner of an intersection on the edge of the city. A chain-link fence surrounded the property with a wide driveway and gate that was open. Before we could get out of the car, my cell phone rang. I recognized the number as that of Jordon West.

  “Is this Odelia Grey?” he asked after I said hello.

  “Yes, it is,” I told him. “Is this Jordon West?”

  “Yes, I believe you called me. What can I do for you? You said it was important—about someone named Holly.”

  I was thrilled that he called. Many people would have assumed it was some sort of sales call. I was going to say in my message that it wasn’t a sales call, then figured a shady sales rep would pull such a stunt. Instead, I told him that I was trying to locate a Holly West and hoped he could help.

  “Yes,” I told him. “Thank you for calling back, Mr. West.” Turning, I gave Zee a wide-eyed glance. “I’m trying to locate a Holly West. I was told her father’s name was Jordon West and that he lived in Southern California.”

  “You’ve got the wrong Jordon West here,” he told me. “I have two sons, no daughters.”

  I tried another avenue. “Did you ever know a woman by the name of Jane Newell? That’s Holly’s mother. It might have been about twenty-five years ago.”

  There was a short silence on the other end, then he answered, “No, sorry. I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  “Well, thank you for your time,” I told him cheerfully, although I was a bit disappointed.

  “Struck out there?” Zee asked.

  “Yes,” I told her as we prepared to get out of the nice cool car. “He said he didn’t know Holly or Jane. Of course, he could have been lying, but I don’t think he was. But if the other Jordon West doesn’t pan out, I may revisit the teacher.”

  We entered the construction company through the large gate and made our way to a door marked Office. We could see that the driveway led to a large open yard containing a couple of neatly parked trucks with the company’s logo on the side. A large building, painted to match the office, was in the back with two large garage- style doors, both closed. When we opened the door to the office, we were greeted by a soft bell and lovely air conditioning. The office was a large room containing a couple of basic chairs and a very large desk on which
were several neat stacks of papers and a laptop. There were only two windows, both with security bars. One faced toward the front entrance and one faced the back, giving a wide view of the work yard. To the far right of the desk, I spotted an open door through which I could see another desk. On the clean painted walls hung enlarged photos of beautiful home kitchens and bathrooms, some with before-and-after shots. Another showed a room addition in several stages of progress, ending with the final product. A couple were photos of stately homes. Zee stepped over to the photos to examine them, and I wondered if she was getting ideas for her next project to keep her busy.

  A woman who looked to be in her forties emerged from the back holding a ream of copy paper. She didn’t move toward the front desk but leaned against the doorjamb as if the paper were a heavy load. “Can I help you?” she asked. She was slender with a long, narrow face, her dark blond hair secured in the back. Perched on her nose were a pair of glasses with fire-engine red frames. The glasses were the only bright color present in her ensemble, which included khaki cargo pants and a white T-shirt with the company logo. Her skin was tanned, her face lined, and her arms strong. She looked like she’d spent more time doing construction work than in an office.

  “We’d like to speak to the owner,” I told her.

  “And this is about?” she asked, still standing in the doorway leading to the back area.

  I looked at Zee. We both shuffled uncomfortably where we stood.

  “Do you have a renovation you’d like us to handle?” the woman asked. “That’s our specialty: home renovations.” She took a few steps forward and set the paper on the desk. She looked at us expectantly, her mouth straight as a ruler and just as stern. Up close, I could see dark circles under her eyes, barely hidden by the lower rim of her glasses. I got the feeling she didn’t greet clients face-to-face very often, if at all, and was feeling put upon by our presence.

  “No,” I stammered, wondering how much to say.

  “We’d like to see the owner,” Zee piped up in her soft but authoritative mom voice. “Are you one of the owners?”

  The woman sized up Zee, then me. “No, I’m not,” she replied. “What is this about?”

  “We’d like to discuss that with the owner,” Zee pressed.

  “Look,” the woman said, her tired eyes zeroing in on Zee, “if you’re selling something, hit the road. We’re busy here.”

  I took a step forward and placed my tote bag on the seat of the single chair facing the desk. It was a subtle sign that we weren’t going anywhere. “We really do need to speak to the owner,” I told the woman. “We’re not selling anything, but it is important. It’s about one of your employees.”

  “I’m the office manager. Is this about Burt?” she asked, her voice gaining more of an edge while the hard line of her mouth drooped at each side.

  “Yes,” I answered, “it is. Did you know Burt Sandoval?”

  She waited a long moment before answering, then said evenly, “Of course I did. He worked here for several years.”

  “Like five years?” I ventured, remembering that Burt had moved to Southern California right after his divorce.

  “Something like that.” The office manager leveled her eyes at me. “From looking at you, I’d say you’re not the police. Besides, they were here early this morning. Who are you, and what do you want?”

  Before either Zee or I could answer, the door to the office opened and in strode a tall young man. He had brown skin, thick black hair, and wore an air of confidence as easily as his jeans and company T-shirt. He tossed a curious smile our way, then addressed the woman. “Donna, if you don’t need me, I’m heading out to the site—finally.” The last word was said with a hint of weary frustration.

  Donna looked from us to the young man and back at us. It was clear she was weighing which path to take. “Ben,” she said, addressing the man, “these woman are asking about Burt.”

  He turned to give us his full attention. “I’m Ben Church,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Odelia Grey, and this is Zee Washington.” I shot a glance at Donna, then asked, “Can we talk in private?”

  He nodded. “I can give you a few minutes, but that’s about it. I’ve been tied up here most of the day with the police and need to get to the work site to check on things.”

  “We’ll try to be quick,” Zee told him.

  Ben Church led us through the open doorway to the other office. The desk here wasn’t nearly as tidy as Donna’s. On the wall was a huge calendar with various names of projects scrawled across it. It looked like currently there was only one, the Sanderson Kitchen, but in two weeks the Weinberg Remodel was due to start.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Ben told us. He removed a stack of papers from the one visitor’s chair and indicated for one of us to be seated. Zee took it and Ben offered me the only other seat, the desk chair, which I took. He shut the door and leaned against a short two-drawer file cabinet. “What interest do you have in poor Burt?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat. “You know the place where he was shot?” asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Some strip mall in Huntington Beach is what the police told me.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” I confirmed. “But specifically, it happened in front of my husband’s business, Ocean Breeze Graphics. Burt stumbled into Ocean Breeze and nearly died on the floor in front of the customer counter.”

  Ben straightened and his large dark brown eyes widened. “Oh, wow! I’m so sorry to hear that. Were you there?”

  “Yes, I was,” I told him. “We did our best to keep Burt alive until the ambulance came. We were told he died shortly after arriving at the hospital.”

  “Yes,” Ben said with a nod. “That’s what the police told me today. So very tragic.” He took a deep breath. “But why are you here? The police covered almost everything we could tell them. Did you know Burt?”

  “Kind of, sort of,” I said. “My husband and I only met Burt on Saturday in the parking lot of a grocery store in Long Beach. He helped us out with a…um…problem.”

  “Burt was a good guy, always ready to help someone. He’ll be missed around here.” Ben settled back on the edge of the file cabinet.

  “Did the police mention Saturday to you at all?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, you’re talking about that guy in the wheelchair breaking into Marla Kingston’s car, aren’t you?”

  “That was my husband,” I told him.

  “The cops showed me the video,” Ben said. “They wanted to know if I knew of any reason why Burt would be in Long Beach.”

  Zee stirred. “Long Beach isn’t that far from Torrance,” she said. “Nothing odd about someone from Torrance going to Long Beach.”

  Ben turned to her. “That’s what I told them. People in SoCal drive all over, one city to the other, several times a day. But they wanted to know if I knew of any specific reason why Burt might be there, like visiting a girlfriend or maybe doing some freelance work—stuff like that.”

  “And what did you tell them?” I asked.

  Ben shrugged. “That to my knowledge, Burt didn’t have a girlfriend. As for the freelance stuff, my guys are always picking up odd handyman jobs when they’re not working for us.” He paused. I thought he was going to say something else, but he changed his mind.

  “On Monday,” I said, “Burt tracked my husband down at his shop and set up a meeting. He said he needed to talk to Greg about something. Burt never said what, and he was shot as he arrived for the meeting. Any idea why he might want to talk to my husband?”

  Ben Church swayed his handsome head back and forth. “None at all.”

  “And why wasn’t he at work on Monday?” asked Zee.

  “As I told the cops, Burt had asked for a few days off this week. He said he had some personal business to take care of.” Again Ben shrugged. “We’re in a short lull
right now, finishing up a project, but we will be gearing up for a couple of big ones in a few weeks, so I gave it to him. He had the time coming anyway.”

  Zee reached out and picked up a photo from the desk. “Is this a family business?” she asked, turning the photo toward him.

  “Yeah,” he answered with a smile. “My dad actually runs it, but he took advantage of our slow period and took my mom on a cruise for their anniversary.”

  “Does he know about Burt yet?” I asked.

  “No, not yet,” Ben replied. “I didn’t want to bother him on his vacation. He and Mom aren’t able to get away that often. They’ll be back this weekend. I’ll tell him then or if he calls.”

  “Did the police talk to anyone else here at Church Construction?” I asked.

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. I know they spoke to Donna out front when they were here this morning, and the foreman from the project site called to say that two detectives showed up on the site to talk to the guys. He asked if it was okay and I told him yes, as long as it wasn’t all at once. The cops must have gone straight there from here.”

  “Did you talk to a Detective Conrad Chapman?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Ben pushed off from the file cabinet and glanced at the desk. From a spot near the phone, he picked up two business cards and read them. “Yeah, Chapman and his partner, Emilio Suarez.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s who spoke to Greg and me yesterday.”

  Ben put the cards back down on the desk. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I really do have to get to the site and see if things are back on track.”

  He escorted us out to the front door. Donna wasn’t anywhere to be seen. At the threshold Zee stopped to study one of the photos on the wall again. It was a collage of several photos, including a front shot of a mansion, though most photos were of the pool and guest house area. “Isn’t that one of Kingston’s homes?” she asked. “I recognize it from an article in a home magazine awhile back.”