Disorderly Conduct

by Mary Feliz

  Paolo moved through the crowd with uncharacteristic ease, refilling chip bowls, making sandwiches, and distributing food to the high school students assembled around Tess’s gas fire pit in the back. Max and Stephen helped too. We all kept a close eye on Tess to make sure she wasn’t buttonholed by anyone with more hot air than tact. Every time I spotted Jason, he was speaking gravely into his cell phone. I hoped that after the spontaneous gathering wrapped up, he’d pass along any news he’d gleaned about the fire and Patrick’s death.

  The conversation swirled with rumors, mostly about the fire. I shamelessly eavesdropped as I circulated, refilling lemonade glasses, greeting people, and answering questions. “It’s too soon to tell,” was my go-to response and it fit nearly every query about the fate of our house, plans for a memorial service for Patrick, the cause of his death, or requests for reports on how well Tess and Teddy were coping.

  I overheard pieces of conversations:

  “I hear it’s already sixty percent contained.”

  “I don’t know why everyone is freaking out.”

  “Attention seekers, I guess. Drama queens—”

  “They found multiple points of origin. Can’t figure out what caused it. Might be arson.”

  “The wind shifted, and the fire service has abandoned the original fire line. Mandatory evacuations in the Hidden Villa area. They’ve relocated all the campers to some old barracks at Moffett Field—”

  “Remember that time Patrick...”

  Stories abounded, shared by those who’d known Patrick from his childhood in Orchard View, from those who’d worked with him, coached with him, or gone to school with him. And neighbors who’d benefited from his willingness to chip in on chores whenever anyone was laid up or busy. I hoped someone would collect the stories and write them down to save for Teddy and Tess to read later, when their wounds were not quite so fresh.

  And then a sour note pierced the blanket of love that friends were knitting with their fond memories.

  “I heard they were separated. Could she have killed him?”

  I stopped abruptly when I overheard that last line, nearly sloshing lemonade from the pitcher I was carrying all over myself and the person who’d uttered the impossible words.

  “Are you talking about Tess?” I asked Pauline Windsor, a PTA volunteer with a perfect, ultraconservative wardrobe, expensively colored and coifed hair, and an entitlement complex. I’d run afoul of her on more than one occasion and tended to grit my teeth on principle whenever I saw her. “You know better than that,” I said, adopting the disappointed expression I typically saved for misbehaving children.

  The woman whom Pauline had buttonholed, a short woman with fluffy white hair, pink cheeks, and a voluminous quilted purse, blushed and looked away. Muttering an apology, she disappeared into the garage.

  Pauline, on the other hand, sniffed and rolled her eyes. “That’s what I heard. You know they always suspect family when there’s a murder. Are you denying that Tess and Patrick were separated?”

  I clenched my jaw until I feared for my dental work, trying to get a lid on my anger before opening my mouth. Pauline’s statement, as usual, was full of traps it would be far too easy to fall into. I was tempted to defend Tess, explaining that though she and Patrick maintained separate permanent residences, they were devoted to one another, to their marriage, and to their son. It was an unusual relationship, but it worked for them. And it was none of Pauline’s or anyone else’s business. I responded slowly, hoping to avoid triggering any of the scandalmonger’s land mines.

  “I know you like to verify information before you repeat it,” I deliberately lied. “Tess would be the person to ask about her personal life with Patrick. To make sure you get the story right.”

  Pauline took a deep breath, crossed her arms, and opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. “And as far as I know, the Santa Clara County medical examiner, Dr. Linda Mindar, hasn’t reported on the cause of Patrick’s death or the manner of death. She hasn’t yet had time to review the science or the facts. At least she hadn’t when we talked to her personally a few hours ago.” I glanced at my watch. “Have you heard something from her more recently?”

  Pauline dodged the question. “It makes sense that the authorities are talking to Tess,” she said so loudly that everyone stopped talking and turned toward us. “It’s always the closest relative.”

  I was gratified by the number of people, all friends of Tess or Patrick’s, who rolled their eyes or sniffed and returned to their own conversations.

  Jason appeared out of nowhere and took Pauline’s elbow, guiding her outside. “Is your husband here? Your daughter? I wanted to talk to you about a problem we’ve been seeing in your neighborhood. I need to make sure none of you are in danger.”

  Pauline gasped. My guess was that her thoughts had immediately and selfishly turned to her own safety, and she was calculating how to get social mileage out of the drama of being protected by the dashing new police chief.

  Behind me, the murmur of voices had risen to a dull roar from the shocked silence that followed Pauline’s barbed remarks. Apparently I wasn’t the only resident of Orchard View who’d learned to dismiss her gossip. Tess had once told me that many of Pauline’s whims were indulged by the community only because she was an avid volunteer and handled positions that were tricky to fill otherwise.

  Someone tapped me on the back. I turned, and a broad-shouldered man in a wheelchair wearing a Stanford University ball cap held out his glass for a refill of lemonade. With the glass in one hand and the pitcher in the other, I used my chin to point to his cap. “You knew Patrick from his undergraduate days?”

  “And grad school. Then we both took jobs at Hewlett Packard. We still work—worked together at one of the Google spin-offs. I run with—ran with Patrick’s club, the Orchard View Road Runners.” He snorted and shook his head. “I heard what that woman was saying. She’s nuts. Tess wouldn’t hurt anyone. Did you say there’s a cop here? Can you point him out? There are some things that don’t add up. Stuff the cops should know.”

  Chapter 7

  If these organizing steps come naturally to you, consider reaching out to become involved in emergency preparedness programs in your neighborhood, community, school, or workplace, particularly to assist people with disabilities who may need extra help adapting in a crisis.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, August 6, Evening

  Intrigued by the stranger’s suggestion that Patrick’s death was more complicated than it appeared on the surface, I pointed him toward Stephen. Stephen wasn’t an official member of the Orchard View Police Force, but he’d know how to handle the man’s information while Jason was dealing with the dreadful Pauline out on the front lawn.

  I quickly lost track of the man, and didn’t have a chance to follow up with Stephen. At quarter to ten, as though a gong had gone off, guests started to leave one by one, and then in a flood. A few stayed behind to tidy up the kitchen, take out the garbage, and leave Tess’s kitchen and backyard spotless. The dishwasher sloshed and hummed with a first load while other dishes were set, rinsed and stacked, on the counter. Bulkier items had been washed, dried, and put away.

  Orchard View people aren’t perfect. Some, like Pauline, I could barely stomach. But the town took care of its own. Neighbors looked after neighbors. Those connections of kindness, even between people who didn’t otherwise like one another, made Patrick’s death exceptionally shocking.

  It seemed like hours later when Max and I unfolded Tess’s sofa and climbed into bed. Tess had insisted we stay, saying that it made her feel safe to have us close by.

  “This whole situation is overwhelming,” Tess said. “I’m preoccupied and certain I shouldn’t be driving. Tomorrow morning I’ll need your help with issues that haven’t even occurred to me yet.�
� She’d sighed and hugged me. “Please stay. There’s that fire too. I can’t let you go out there. I need to know you’re safe. I can’t worry about you and Teddy and hang on to my sanity. It’s too much.”

  “Of course. Do you want us to sit up with you, or do you think you can get some sleep? What about Teddy?”

  “All three boys are curled up on my bed watching some movie full of car chases and explosions. When it’s over, I’ll kick them out. Your boys can crash with Teddy if they want. Or...they may want to stick close to you two. They’re looking pretty shell-shocked themselves.”

  In the end, all three boys decided to bunk together in Teddy’s room. But it wasn’t long before David and Brian dragged their sleeping bags into the living room and plopped them down on the floor near us. Belle launched herself from the sofa bed and somehow managed to land on the midsections of both boys at once. Their joint “ooof!” set us into gales of much-needed stress-relieving laughter. As our snorts and giggles trailed off and Max’s soft snores began, I heard a shuffling sound at the end of the hallway and imagined Teddy was dragging his own blanket or sleeping bag toward his mother’s bedroom. Teenaged boys are mostly grown-up, but when they’re hurting, they still need their parents. And there was no question Teddy was hurting.

  “Mom?” David whispered.

  “Yes?” At first, I thought he was looking for reassurance that I was close by, but David’s sleeping bag rustled as he sat up. I leaned over the side of the bed where I could almost make out his expression in the light cast by the streetlights through the sheer curtains. David’s hair was already tousled from his brief attempt at sleep. He rubbed the back of his neck and squinted at me.

  “Something happened when we were all outside. By the fire, in back.”

  “Okay,” I said, to let him know I was still listening.

  “Well, um.” David cleared his throat and stared into the distance, avoiding my face. “That Mrs. Windsor. Bratty Rebecca’s mom.”

  “Right.”

  “She’s distributing a petition that says Rancho San Antonio, where Teddy’s dad was found, isn’t safe. She says his murder proves it, and it should be sold for development. She says she has hundreds of signatures already. Can she do that?”

  My blood pressure must have skyrocketed. I could hear my pulse pounding. I took a beat or two to get my temper under control before answering.

  “Mom?”

  “Draw up a petition? Of course, she can. Close Rancho San Antonio? I doubt it. It’s too busy a park. Too cherished by the entire community. Could she develop it? She’s wanted to for years. Her daddy owns the biggest home-and-office-building construction company on the Peninsula. I expect it’s greed that’s driving her, rather than a desire for increased safety. My guess is that if she goes public with her petition, she’ll be hit with an enormous backlash from all the folks who value it as a nature preserve and recreational area.”

  David, biting his lip, still seemed troubled, so I continued to reassure him.

  “And those hundreds of signatures she mentioned...she probably doesn’t have any yet. Maybe she hasn’t even drawn up a petition. I’ve only worked with her a few times, but she’s one of those people who talks a good game, but has trouble completing her vision.”

  David snuggled closer to my side of the bed, and I patted his back. “It will be okay, hon. I promise.”

  “But murder? She’s saying it was murder. Who would hurt Teddy’s dad?”

  Unsaid, but as audible as if the words had been spoken aloud, was David’s fear that anything that happened to Patrick could just as easily bring harm to Max.

  “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him, can you?” I said softly. “He was too nice.” Earlier in the day, when I’d heard the description of Patrick’s injuries and Teddy’s protests that his father would never have fallen, my thoughts had shifted immediately to homicide. But now, upon reflection, it seemed impossible. Patrick was beloved in all his circles of influence, including coaching, work, his athletic clubs, and around the neighborhood. If there was a contest for Least Likely to be Violently Attacked, Patrick would have won it, every time.

  “But...there’s something else, Mom.” David scrambled out of his sleeping bag and rummaged through the pile of our belongings that oozed outward from the front wall. He came back with his laptop, stepping over Belle and Brian, who both snorted and rolled over without waking. He fired up the computer and clicked open a website. Holmes peered over David’s left shoulder while tickling my son’s ear with his tail. David pulled Holmes into his lap and handed me the computer. “There,” he said.

  I gasped. Someone, with obvious malicious intent, had created a web page that appeared disturbingly official. Titled “On the Trail of a Murderer” with an entry that screamed in giant font: “It’s Always the Wife.”

  Photos followed that must have been lifted from Internet obscurity. They showed bunny-suited CSI teams scouring wooded hillsides. Hiking-boot-clad legs were buried in leaf litter unlike anything you’d see in the Bay Area’s dry oak chaparral and grassland. Unflattering and overexposed photographs of Tess, Patrick, and Teddy resembled mug shots, and were missing only the blank stares found in FBI Wanted posters.

  The page was fake, but convincing. It would deliver its messages in a blink: Patrick was murdered; Tess had killed him, brutally; and she’d left his body to be consumed by fire on a burning hillside. I dropped the laptop on the bed and scooted away from it, as if that would allow me to escape its malicious message.

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I can see why that would upset you, David. It bothers me. We need to let Jason and Paolo know about this right away.” I searched the side table for my backpack before giving up. “Do you have your phone?”

  David reached under his sleeping bag. I should have known. Both boys had long ago given up their attachment to stuffed animals, but now they slept with their electronic devices close by, ready to check their texts upon waking. We had a charging station at home on the first floor, where phones were supposed to be put to bed for the night. It was a rule most often observed in the breach, and we probably needed to revisit it before school started. But right now I was grateful David had his at hand.

  Every member of our family had long ago put Jason, Stephen, and Paolo’s numbers into their phones. Following our disastrous introduction to Orchard View nearly a year earlier, all three men had become as close as family. Along with Tess, they served as emergency contacts for both boys on school forms.

  While we waited for the line to connect and for Jason to answer, Belle nudged my hand, offering reassurance. Watson and Holmes perched on the back of the couch, tails twitching in response to our growing tension. I reached out a hand and gripped David’s.

  The call went directly to voice mail, with instructions for reaching an emergency contact. I decided the problem could wait until morning, and left a message. “Jason. It’s Maggie. Give me a call as soon as you’re awake. David’s shown me a web page you should take a look at. It’s probably as illegal as it is disturbing. It’s called ‘On the Trail of a Murderer,’ and it’s ghastly.” I paused, thinking there was surely more I could say to bring home the brutal and scurrilous message. I decided to let the page speak for itself. “I’ll text you the link. I’m sure it’s breaking all sorts of laws. I’ll leave a message for Forrest Doucett too.”

  I ended the call and glanced at David. I hunted through the phone’s contact list for Forrest Doucett’s number before remembering that I held David’s cell, not mine, and there was no reason for him to have the lawyer’s number. David retrieved my phone from where it had fallen between the sofa and the side table and handed it to me. I unlocked the screen and dialed the number.

  All of my electronic devices had numerous ways to reach Forrest, who’d been Max’s college roommate. In addition to our long-standing relationship as close friends, in recent months, we’d consulted him as a l
awyer, asking for help unsnarling several dicey situations.

  Using some electronic magic, my call had been routed to Forrest’s direct line. He answered in a sleepy voice.

  “’Lo?”

  “It’s Maggie. We’re in trouble.”

  “You personally, or a friend? Let me get a pad and pencil.” Forrest seldom indulged in chitchat, particularly if there was a legal knot that needed to be untangled.

  “It’s Tess. And a horrid web page accusing her of murder.”

  “The URL? Web address?”

  I gave it to him and waited while he pulled it up.

  “What are you doing answering your phone at this time of night, anyway?” I asked. “I’d planned to leave a message.”

  “I can hang up now so you can do that, if you’d like.”

  “No, no. I prefer the real you.”

  Forrest sucked in a breath, which told me he’d reached the site. “Whoa. This is nasty. Is any of it true? Is Patrick dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. But we haven’t heard anything from the medical examiner about the cause or manner of death. And Tess is certainly not responsible. Even if anyone seriously suspected her, I’m sure she has an alibi. Can we get that trash taken down? Right away? The last thing Tess or Teddy needs is to see something that hateful right now. It’s a personal attack, and they’re really vulnerable at the moment.”

  David batted at my leg with his hand. He frowned and shook his head. “Teddy’s already seen it. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  “It seems the kids have already shared it widely,” I said. “Teddy’s seen it.”

  “Unfortunate,” Forrest said with a tsk. “But probably unavoidable. I swear kids find this stuff as if they’ve got an army of bots hunting it down and they had social media feeds hard-wired into their elbows. I’ll have to hire middle school students to keep up.”