Too Big to Die

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  As soon as Greg, Wainwright, and I were in the van, I said, “Overdose, my ass! I say Kingston found out about Marla and Burt and is just tidying up loose ends. I’ll bet Holly was right about there being a bug.”

  Greg’s face was dark as he patted my knee. “Let’s just be glad all he wants to do to you is kick you out of your job.”

  twenty-seven

  We weren’t very far from Ocean Breeze when my phone rang. It was the number that had called me earlier—the number belonging to Celeste Jackson.

  “Hi, Celeste,” I said after putting the phone on speaker. “I’m surprised to hear from you so soon.”

  “Am I on speaker?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I told her. “I’m in the car with my husband. Don’t worry, he knows all about this.”

  “I told you something was fishy,” Celeste said in a deep whisper. Greg turned down the AC so we could hear her better.

  “Now what’s happened?” I asked with worry as my mind went to the death of Marla Kingston. “Is Jordon okay?”

  “He’s fine, but his mother is not. I just got another call from the law firm advising us that Jordon’s mother passed away last night unexpectedly. All this time I thought she was living out of state and she was in Aliso Viejo. Can you imagine that?”

  I had stopped breathing and only noticed when I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I had just seen the woman. Our last encounter had been her sending me down a short flight of steps.

  “Odelia, are you there?”

  “Yes, Celeste, I am. How did Doris die?”

  “How did you know her name was Doris?”

  “It’s a long story,” I told her. “I actually met her a couple of days ago when I was following up on some other information.”

  “Fishy, I tell ya,” Celeste said, still whispering, “and now I’m thinking you’re fishy, too.”

  “Celeste, I know this looks bad, but you have to do me a favor.” Before she could say hell no, I added, “Stay close to Jordon. Make sure no one gets anywhere near him but you. His life may be in danger.”

  “What?” The question wasn’t a whisper.

  “Please, Celeste. I’ve uncovered some really nasty stuff, and it might cause people to want to hurt him.”

  There was a long pause from the other end of the line. “Heart attack,” she said. “Jordon’s mother passed from a heart attack in her home. I heard she was alone so there was no one there to help.”

  “Will you take care of Jordon?” I asked.

  “I will sleep in his room if I have to.”

  After the call, I turned to Greg. “Okay, so Marla Kingston, Doris Hoffman, and Burt Sandoval are all dead. All of them knew about Kingston’s coverup of Jordon’s accident.”

  “Anyone else except for you, me, and Holly?” he asked. “How about that Donna?”

  “Yes, and Steele,” I added.

  “How about Zee?”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “She and I thought it might be possible, but I never confirmed that with her, ever.”

  “Good.” He looked over at me. “Call Holly. Tell her she’s not to leave the police station and go home or even go to our house. We can’t assume she’s not on their hit list by now.”

  Holly didn’t answer her phone, so I left her a voice mail and a text. I told her to call one of us when she was done with the police. In the text I told her about Marla and Doris Hoffman, and how we didn’t think their deaths were accidental. She was to tell the cops that. My poor thumbs had never typed anything so fast or furious. And who knows what auto-correct did to my message? I didn’t take the time to check.

  Next, I looked up the number for Church Construction and called it, leaving the phone on speaker. Donna answered. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said as soon as she heard my voice. “Haven’t you done enough?”

  “Donna, did you see the news that Marla Kingston is dead?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I heard about it just a few minutes ago,” she told me. “Ding, dong, the bitch is dead. So what?”

  “So, someone else died too: Jordon West’s mother. She died last night. And Burt was killed on Monday. See any connection between them?” I asked. While I waited for her to process the information, I heard the theme from Jeopardy in my head. Greg rolled his eyes at the phone to indicate her denseness.

  “Let me help you,” I finally told her. “What all three of them had in common was knowledge of what really happened to Jordon West, and you’re in that small club too. Think about it.”

  “Oh my God, what am I gonna do?” she wailed as the possibility of her demise sunk in.

  “Get yourself to the police station,” Greg yelled into the phone.

  “Who is that?” Donna asked.

  “That’s Greg, my husband,” I told her. “I know you’re worried about being implicated in the blackmail, but the alternative may be death.”

  After that call, I noticed my phone was low on juice. Greg always keeps a car charger in the middle storage bin between the seats. I plucked it out and plugged my phone into the power in the dash. Then I leaned back in my seat, thoroughly exhausted. “I really don’t want to face Steele right now.”

  “We can always postpone the meeting until Monday,” Greg suggested. “In fact, why don’t we? Who cares when they fire you.”

  “You have a point.” I picked up my phone and called Seth. When he answered, I said, “Greg and I want to postpone the three o’clock meeting with Steele. Tell him I’ll come in on Monday, as early as he’d like, no dragging butt, no complaints.”

  “Actually,” Seth said, “I called Steele to let him know I’d be joining you. I wanted to make sure he knew you were represented and not going to roll over on this.”

  “Did he argue with you?” I asked.

  “No, and he was about to call you and postpone the meeting himself. Seems Joe Templin wanted to be in the meeting too, but an emergency cropped up.”

  Greg and I exchanged wide-eyed looks. “Did he say why Templin couldn’t make it?” I asked.

  “Of course not, Odelia,” Seth said. “Steele just said he would email the settlement agreement over to my office. Officially, as of today, you are no longer an employee of Templin & Tobin. On that Steele and I agreed. Hell, you might not ever have to step foot in that place again. We can handle the settlement over the phone and email, and your things can be messengered to your home.”

  I honestly couldn’t believe that Mike Steele was tossing me out on my ass, in spite of what Seth had said about Steele just doing what he was told. Steele wasn’t the type to do everything by the book. I was so disappointed in him that my heart nearly broke.

  “Well,” I said, shoving my personal feelings aside, “I can tell you some of what that emergency entailed. Did you see the news that Marla Kingston died?”

  “No,” Seth said with surprise, “but I’ve been tied up ever since I left you guys. What happened?”

  “They’re saying it was an overdose,” I reported. “She was found in her tub this morning by a maid. But that’s not all. Seems that Jordon West’s mother died last night of an unexpected heart attack while alone in her home.”

  Greg and I heard a slight swear word come from the phone. It was several seconds before Seth found his voice. “Isn’t it Dev Frye who always says there ain’t no such thing as a coinkydink?”

  “Yep,” I said. I went on to tell him what we discovered about Charlie Cowart and how Holly was with the Huntington Beach police at the moment, filling them in.

  “Now that you guys don’t have to go to this meeting,” Seth said when we were finished, “I suggest you get out of Dodge for the weekend and lay low. Let the police deal with this. Tell Holly to do the same. You broke the story, now let someone else run with it.”

  It was sound advice.

  When the call ended, Greg said, “Hey, earlier
today I got a text from Tip Willis. They returned from their trip today, so they can take Dumpster anytime we want to bring him down. How about tomorrow? Or we can leave tonight, drop Dumpster off, and spend the weekend somewhere. We’ll take both Wainwright and Muffin.” He winked at me. “Maybe we won’t even come home until Monday.”

  “But I thought Tip’s family was going to be gone at least a week,” I said.

  “They were,” Greg explained, “but one of the kids got sick with some kind of bug and it ran through the whole family, so they decided to come home early to recover.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” I agreed.

  “In fact,” added Greg, “why don’t we take Holly with us? That way we could get to know her and also know she’s safe. There’s that cabin Willie owns in Big Bear. He said we could use it anytime we wanted. Call Clark and see if it’s available.” We weren’t far from the T&T office when Greg made a U-turn and started us back toward home.

  “Yeah,” I agreed with a smile, “we can all grab our go bags and go.” Greg laughed.

  During the call with Seth a notice had popped up that I had new email. I checked it. The sender was Marigold. Opening it, I found that Marigold had delivered the report on Charles Cowart. I tapped on the attached document, wishing I had a bigger screen, like an iPad or other tablet, on which to view it. But I need not have worried. I didn’t need a bigger screen because there was nothing in the report except that Charles Cowart had a driver’s license issued by the State of California. Nothing else. I noted the address on the driver’s license and looked it up on Google Maps. It was a vacant lot near the oil fields in Long Beach. Chills ran up and down my spine like scales played on a piano. Charles Cowart wasn’t a kid bound for college. He was a ghost—a deadly ghost.

  I told Greg about the report. “I wonder,” I said, “if he’s the one who’s responsible for Marla and Doris’s deaths?”

  I called Holly again. This time I got her. “Are you still at the police station?” I asked her.

  “Yes, we’re done though,” she said. “I was just about to call you and let you know that the cops are seriously all over this.”

  I told her about Charlie Cowart having no background information and Seth’s recommendation that we get out of town for a few days. I extended the invitation for her to come with us.

  “Sure,” she said with enthusiasm. “Should I meet you at your place?”

  We set a time to meet back at our house. It would give her time to replenish her go bag and us time to pack up the animals and ourselves. We’d be leaving town in the middle of rush hour, but at least we’d be leaving it and all the danger and drama behind.

  Rush hour always started early on a Friday, and traffic on the 405 Freeway was already heavy. Instead of getting on the freeway, Greg made his way to Pacific Coast Highway. It was the route he’d taken from his shop to here; now we were taking it back. Even though it was summer, PCH wasn’t nearly as busy as the freeway, and it was a much prettier drive. On Saturday it would be bumper to bumper and the freeway would be the best choice for travel.

  We were driving north on PCH. Between Newport Beach and Huntington Beach is a long stretch of the highway that runs right along the beach. To our right were businesses and condos. To our left was the gorgeous Pacific Ocean and beach, separated from the highway by public parking lots. Traffic was moving along nicely. Greg had turned off the AC and opened the windows. It was a glorious end to a horrible week.

  I was on the phone with Clark, asking him about Willie’s Big Bear cabin. “Sure it’s available, sis,” Clark told me. I had him on speaker phone.

  “Great,” Greg called over toward the phone in my hand. “If it’s okay with Willie, we’d like to show up there tonight and stay through either Sunday or Monday. Key still in the same place?”

  “Yeah, it is,” Clark confirmed. “Does this sudden need to flee the city have anything to do with Marla Kingston’s death?” Except for the dog rescue last Saturday, Clark knew nothing yet about our insane week.

  “Yes and no,” I said. “We just need to leave it all behind for a little bit. Once we’re at the cabin tonight, we’ll call and fill you in on everything that has happened, including me losing my job.”

  “You lost your job?” Clark asked. From his voice, I could tell he was getting slightly agitated.

  “Long story; I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Right now we just want to grab our bags and animals and head to the mountains.”

  “Look at that idiot!” Greg yelled as a black, low-slung muscle car came up fast behind us, then passed us, barely clearing the oncoming traffic.

  “What’s going on?” asked Clark, his voice coming out of the phone loud and clear.

  “Just some fool driving crazy,” I told him. “He almost caused an accident on PCH.”

  Clark and I gabbed about Mom and her trip. She hadn’t called either of us for a few days, which probably meant she was having a great time or was dead in a ditch. With Mom, you never knew. “We met one of Mom’s internet heroes this week,” I told Clark. “She lives near us. It’ll be a nice surprise when Mom gets home.”

  “God, here comes that idiot again,” Greg said with a shake of his head.

  Sure enough, the black car was now heading south, but instead of speeding past us, it started to slow down as it approached. When it got close, I saw something sticking out the window.

  My heart stopped. It was a gun, and holding the gun was a grinning Charlie Cowart. I screamed.

  Greg saw him too and, making a quick decision, he turned the wheel of our van into the other vehicle, smashing into it just in front of the driver’s seat. If he’d turned the van the other way, it might have hit innocent people. A bullet shattered the windshield, and I felt horrible pain in my injured shoulder.

  The van spun as it hit the other car and my side of the van came around to smash into Charlie’s car. Our airbags deployed. Then— nothing.

  twenty-eight

  I was reading aloud from Treasure Island, one of Greg’s favorite childhood books. In the background, the sounds of medical equipment provided backup vocals. I looked up from my reading and studied Greg’s face. His eyes were closed, his skin pale. Every morning I groomed his beard and hair. Ronald and Renee Stevens come to the hospital every day to visit Greg. They sit next to him for hours, solemn and stoic. I watch them sometimes and know they’re remembering a time decades before when they did the very same thing after the accident that had landed Greg in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

  It had been just over a week since the accident, and my beloved, my life, was in a coma. The bullet that shattered the windshield had lodged in my bad shoulder. It didn’t penetrate far thanks to the windshield and the sling I had been wearing, and a simple surgery had fixed me up. The bumps and bruises were almost gone. The second bullet, the one we didn’t hear, had penetrated the left side of Greg’s temple. The surgeons said the bullet didn’t appear to do any permanent damage, but it might take weeks or months to know for sure. The coma had been induced to help the swelling and healing, but when they tried to bring him out of it the day before, Greg didn’t respond.

  Charlie Cowart was injured in the accident too, but after a few days in the hospital he was released to the county jail, where he’s awaiting charges for, at the very least, attempted murder. This time there were witnesses, lots of them.

  Our dear Wainwright did not make it. He’d suffered minor injuries in the crash, but while recovering at the animal hospital his old, faithful heart gave out. Greg doesn’t know yet. It’s going to break his heart, as it had mine and everyone who knew the wonderful old dog.

  The Stevenses were coming back later. They’d left with the rest of their family for a quiet lunch. I’d been invited, but I declined. I never wanted Greg to be alone. Many nights I slept in his room, hunched over in a chair, my head on his bed while I slept fitfully. Many times that’s how
my mother and Zee and Seth found me. Zee often kept vigil with me, spending entire days quietly praying while I silently cursed God. When Mom sat with me, she seldom took her eyes off Greg, as if willing him to survive.

  Greg’s hospital room was filled with flowers. Getting up from the chair, I went around the room and touched each bouquet and plant as if touching the loving people who’d sent them. Even more than a week later, flowers kept arriving. Templin & Tobin had sent a huge arrangement several days ago. I’d quietly handed that arrangement off to a nurse and asked that it be given to the children’s ward. Greg also had a lot of visitors. Clark had come from Arizona; Willie and his wife, too. Dev often spent time with us, as did Andrea Fehring. Greg’s business partner and employees were beside themselves, but they were making sure the business ran smoothly in Greg’s absence.

  “Odelia,” I heard. I turned to see Holly West standing in the doorway. She visited off and on. Today my mother was with her. They had become fast friends, bonded together by common interests and their concern for us.

  “Come on in,” I told them. “I just finished our reading for the day.”

  My mother held out a foil-wrapped package to me. “It’s banana bread,” she told me.

  “Mom, Greg can’t eat right now.”

  “It’s not for him, silly,” she said, “it’s for you. You’re becoming skin and bones. Eat something, please,” she pleaded. “I even sliced it up for you.”