by Mary Feliz
“Did you know everyone who was here? Could you put together a list?”
Tess shrugged. “There were people here I didn’t recognize, but I assumed they were friends of Patrick or Teddy’s. Or that I didn’t recognize folks I knew but hadn’t seen in a while. I’m not sure I’d have recognized my own face in the mirror yesterday.”
Murmurs of agreement moved around the room. Max spoke first. “I’ll write down the names of everyone I can remember and give that list to Forrest, if it would help.”
“It would.” Nguyen turned from Max to Forrest. “If everyone could do that, and get the list to us as soon as possible, it’d be great. We’ll check for fingerprints on the weapons, of course, but if they were planted, I doubt we’ll find anything unexpected or helpful. You never know.”
The second deputy finished completing his paperwork and handed the pages to his boss, who signed them and passed copies to Tess. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “Unless you have any questions, we’ll see ourselves out and be in touch.” I wondered when he’d decided he didn’t need to arrest Tess and take her in, but there was no way I’d ask the question out loud, just in case he’d forgotten his original plan.
Forrest leaped to his feet. “I’ll see you out. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I assumed it had something to do with making sure that they didn’t search more extensively than the warrant allowed. Forrest accompanied them to their vehicles and returned quickly.
“Are the news vans still in the neighborhood?” I asked. He shook his head. “The president has a fund-raising event scheduled in Woodside. He’s flying into Moffett Field, so television crews have migrated there. We’ve been granted a bit of a reprieve, but I don’t know how long it will last.”
Max glanced at his watch and grimaced. “That took up most of the morning. I’m going to check on the fire online. I still want to try to get back up to the house.” He took his phone and computer to Tess’s shaded deck.
The boys were supposed to be taking showers, but I could hear the unmistakable sound of a video game being played. I shrugged. With everything else going on, none of us wanted the boys to go anywhere alone for fear they’d be pounced upon by overzealous journalists. They had to do something. It might as well be video games. None of the adults, including me, had put together a better or more constructive plan. It was nearly one o’clock. I’d made no progress in discovering who’d killed Patrick or created the dreadful website. Max hadn’t been up to the house. We were getting nowhere.
The irony of our situation hadn’t escaped me, but while paradoxes usually amused me, I found nothing funny about our predicament. While we waited for the signal from Cal Fire and Santa Clara County fire officials that would allow us to move back to our house, the official lifting of restrictions on our neighborhood would come from the sheriff’s office. That would be the same sheriff whose suspicions threatened Tess.
Outside, the air was still overly warm, dry, and smoky. Inside, we were all a little hot under the collar from the combination of heat, stress, grief, worry, too much caffeine, and not enough food or sleep.
One of those problems I could solve, so I busied myself making sandwiches.
I called the boys to lunch, then went to the doorway of Teddy’s room to make sure they’d heard me. The smell of hulking teenaged men was overpowering, so I suggested they get their showers in before lunch. As I passed the thermostat in the hall, I adjusted the fan on Tess’s central air-conditioning to “high.” Later, when the evening fog came barreling in from the coast to provide our area’s natural air-conditioning, it would help dampen down the fire and reduce the smoke. I couldn’t wait to open the windows and air out the house. For the first time since Saturday morning, I wanted to be back home instead of camping out in Tess’s living room.
Elaine and Stephen joined Max, Jason, Tess, and me for lunch. Tess moved grapes and a half sandwich around her plate, but didn’t eat. Elaine poured her some lemonade that she barely sipped. She could not have looked more exhausted had she just finished a triathlon.
No one spoke. I cleared my throat, afraid to speak but determined to give us something positive to think about and to act upon.
“Let’s talk about this,” I said. “We all know Tess didn’t kill Patrick. But we also now know there was at least one person up on the ridge who shot at him, conked him on the head, and left him there, knowing the fire might overtake the trail. We know at least one person left a firearm out on the workbench here, possibly after using it to hurt Patrick. That person had to have some sense of where Patrick had stashed the guns, or at least know what kind of guns the Olmos family had owned at one time. How many people fit that description? It can’t be many. Can we put together a list? A timeline? Or think about who might have wanted Patrick...”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Saying that someone wanted Patrick dead was unthinkable. It also seemed harsh to utter those words in the company of Patrick’s widow and orphaned child. But I needn’t have worried about offending Tess. She finished my thought for me. “Someone obviously wanted him dead, or at least wanted to injure him—but why?”
Teddy, hair wet from a haphazard shower that had left a few bubbles of lather clinging to the back of his head, had disappeared into the garage when I’d started talking. He now returned lugging a stack of poster board sheets covered with cobwebs and dust. The panels turned out to be from old elementary school science projects. He flipped them over, blank side toward the room, and lined them up on the sill of the window between the kitchen and the deck, securing them to the café curtain rod with giant orange clamps. He held a marker in one hand, and labeled each panel with a heading: Suspects, Motives, Questions. He left the other cardboard sheets blank.
“Timeline, maybe?” I suggested. Teddy repositioned a fourth board so that it was horizontal instead of vertical, and drew a line across it. “I last saw my dad when he dropped me off at soccer practice around two o’clock on Saturday. Did anyone else see him after that?” Teddy wrote “Saturday 2:00 p.m.” at one end of the line.
“Does anyone know when they found him?” Elaine asked.
Tess spoke, her voice hoarse. “The sheriff called me yesterday. I called Maggie right away. What time was that?”
I checked my watch. “Close to eight thirty in the morning, I think.”
Max added, “It was more like 8:20. I remember because I was supposed to pack up food for Belle and the cats, and I was trying to decide if there was time to feed them before we left.”
“So that’s our window,” I said. “Someone said he’d been found around five o’clock. Paolo maybe? When we were at the medical examiner’s office? I can’t remember.” I glanced at my watch again, having already forgotten what it said when I’d checked the time just seconds earlier. My short-term memory had gotten lost somewhere in the swirl of dreadful events.
“I think that’s right,” said Jason. “Write it down, anyway, Teddy. I’ll verify it later and change it if we’ve got it wrong.”
“David, can you find anything online that says what time the fire reached the top of the ridge? And what time the wind shifted?” David left the table and headed into the living room, where I’d last seen his laptop.
Tess tapped the table with her long fingernails. “Wait. I’m pretty sure Paolo said that the ranger found Patrick sometime around dawn. Why would it take so long for them to contact me? What time is dawn, anyway? Five-ish? Why would it take hours?”
Chapter 11
Our family and our neighbors prepare for wildfire conditions by clearing firebreaks around our property, home, and outbuildings. We put away outdoor cushions, furniture, and flammable materials. Outside of fire season, however, more fires are started from inside a home than outside. Learn the fire risks and dangers most apt to impact your family and prepare accordingly.
From the Notebook of Magg
ie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Monday, August 7, Early afternoon
Tess’s face threatened to crumple, and Teddy took over. “Mom’s right. Dad always ran with a copy of his license pinned inside his T-shirt, and he had a Road ID tag on his running shoes. You gave it to him, Jason, didn’t you?” I looked at my feet. Last Christmas, Jason had given each of us Road ID tags for our athletic gear, printed with our emergency contact information. With all the trail running the kids did, their tags were scratched and becoming difficult to read. Mine, however, was nearly pristine. I made a mental note to jump-start my exercise routine as soon as the immediate crisis was over.
I checked my watch and gasped. “We need to wrap this up if we’re going to make our two o’clock appointment at the mortuary.” I tried to read Teddy’s expression. “That is, if you still want to go?” Teddy reached for his phone and stood.
Max pulled his car keys from his pocket. “That’s something I can do to help. I’ll pull the car around in front of the Baxters’ house on the next block. You and Teddy can cut through the back gate into their yard to avoid the press. The news vans have left, but who knows when they’ll be back.”
Tess spoke then, pressing her hands against the sides of her head as though she feared her brain would explode. “Thanks, Maggie. Unless... Teddy, do you want me to take you? Would you be more comfortable?”
He shook his head. “With or without you, there’s no way I’m going to be comfortable in a mortuary, and I don’t want to have to worry about you. If you’re there, I will.”
“Yes, sir,” Tess said, lowering her hands. If I hadn’t known them both, their conversation might have seemed flippant, dismissive, or even disrespectful. But it wasn’t. Teddy was trying to be tough and honest about his feelings. Tess was trying not to fret and attempting to show Teddy that she respected him as the near-adult he was. Both Tess and Teddy, outwardly, were organized and in control. I hoped the hurricane of emotions that had stolen their appetites might somehow become equally well contained.
“I’ve got a ton of calls to make.” Tess stood and grabbed her phone from the table. “Family and friends need to know. I’ll transfer my clients to other agents. There’s no way I can stay on top of multimillion-dollar negotiations this week, let alone counsel families through traumatic moves.”
Stephen put a hand on her arm. “I can help with those calls if you’d like.”
Tess’s expression softened. “I’ll make a list.”
Forrest left after preparing paperwork that would make Max and me Teddy’s temporary guardians and give us her power of attorney so we could pay her bills and sign on Teddy’s behalf if Tess should, after all, be arrested. He promised to bring the completed documents back before the end of the day.
Forrest wanted to be sure that Teddy would not be taken into foster care if the sheriff arrested Tess. Chances were, even the most hard-hearted authorities would allow Teddy to stay with us instead of in foster care, but Tess said she’d worry less if the paperwork was in order.
The wind shifted, and Max returned from moving the car, saying that we had clearance to pack up our temporary refugee camp. The fire service had widened the firebreak, and the fire was now 80 percent contained.
I glanced at Teddy. His skin was gray, and his jaw was clenched. But he led me out the back door and through a gate in the fence separating his backyard from the neighbors.
I was clicking my key fob to open my car door when I heard my name. “Maggie, wait!” I turned. Tess ran toward us. “I don’t know what I was thinking. This is a time for family to stick together. I have to go with Teddy.”
I nodded. I’d wondered earlier about Tess’s decision to delegate this task to me, but I hadn’t argued. Everyone grieves in her own way. If what seemed essential to me wasn’t important to Tess, who was I to question her decision? I held out the keys to Tess. “Take my—”I began, then stopped. “Would you allow me to drive?”
Tess put her left arm around Teddy and reached for the car door with her right. “Thanks. My attention span is minuscule.”
The funeral home wasn’t far. As we stepped inside the building, I was struck by its similarity to a chapel—peaceful, cool, with a pleasant scent that prompted thoughts of candles and flowers. The entryway was formal but homey, with chairs upholstered in floral cotton.
“I’m Stone, Roger Silverstone, but everyone calls me Stone to differentiate me from my dad and my granddad, who started the business.” We completed the introductions, and while my friends were both wide-eyed and pale, Stone seemed completely at ease. He invited us to sit in a reception area to the right of a center hall. While Tess and Teddy took places on a sofa that put as much distance as possible between themselves and the funeral director, I excused myself and stopped in the ladies’ lounge. When I returned to the room, they’d moved on, presumably to take a look at Patrick’s body.
While waiting, I examined a display case that held an assortment of urns ranging from a no-frills cardboard box to elaborate carved wood and cast metal. I wondered what I’d pick out if I were in Tess’s position, then realized I had no way of knowing. There was no way I could possibly imagine what she was going through. I shuddered. To distract myself from my morbid feelings, I reflected on Stone and how different he was from the stereotypical Hollywood mortician. In a crisp collared shirt, tan chinos, and loafers, he would have been at home at nearly any Silicon Valley firm. “Stone, Roger Silverstone,” he’d said. In my head, it sounded much like the introduction of the world’s most famous spy as “Bond, James Bond,” and I giggled at the incongruity between my thoughts and the situation at hand. I strode to the window and looked out on a meditation garden with a waterfall fountain and hummingbird feeders that had attracted a number of the tiny birds jockeying for the prime positions.
I lost myself in watching them until I slowly became aware of the soft music broadcast over the sound system. The music was designed, I was sure, to blend into the background, provide comfort, and sound familiar, while at the same time, avoid offending or intruding. It was neither religious nor funereal, and I wondered what sort of job title might be assigned to a person responsible for selecting inoffensive arrangements of popular songs to be played in a mortuary. So far, the only pieces I’d been able to identify were Beatles tunes and other songs from the pre-disco era.
I was about to take a seat on the sofa when Tess and Teddy returned with Stone. While their faces remained nearly colorless, they both seemed less on edge. Tess collected some papers from Stone, thanked him, signaled to me, and we exited—to the discordant sound of what sounded eerily like a soft-rock arrangement of Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire.”
Tess turned to me, eyes wide in recognition of the song’s title. “Do you hear that?”
I nodded, horrified, but trying not to lose my self-control.
In the car, Tess exploded in uncontrollable laughter, both hands clutched to her belly. Her laughter was contagious and soul cleansing. For several minutes, we were incapable of responding to Teddy’s pleas for us to explain, but as I dried my eyes and started the car, Tess took a deep breath and responded: “Inappropriate song titles for a crematorium soundtrack.”
Teddy frowned, then snorted. “What was it? ‘Light My Fire’?”
Tess shook her head. “‘I’m on Fire’. Springsteen. You know...” She hummed a few notes before giving in to the laughter again.
Teddy and I offered up a few more fire, flame, and heat-related titles, until I slammed on the brakes to avoid a cyclist who’d veered into traffic to dodge a broken shopping cart on the shoulder. It was a wake-up call. I needed to pay more attention or we’d end up joining Patrick sooner rather than later.
“So, Teddy,” I said. “Can you tell me about it?”
He composed himself. “It wasn’t Dad.” He seemed convinced, but his voice held none of the elation I’d expect from
a teen who’d discovered in one fell swoop that his father was not, in fact, dead, and that he’d been right while the adults were wrong.
“That’s great...” I said, hesitating to elaborate until I knew more about what was going on.
“Oh, no no no,” Teddy said. “The body was definitely Dad’s.” He shook his head as if continuing to deny it. “I didn’t want it to be, but it was. But it was just a body. A shell, like Jason said. I mean, they say that beauty is only skin deep and all, but I guess I never realized how little a body matters to who the person is underneath.” Teddy swallowed hard and cleared his throat. I thought he was having trouble discussing his dad’s dead body, but then he continued. “I didn’t want to be disrespectful or anything, but I...um...I had to poke him to make sure he wasn’t, like, a mannequin or a doll or something. Like that thing we practiced CPR on in school.” Teddy paused again. A glance in the rearview showed that a flush had returned to his pale cheeks. “I guess I wasn’t supposed to do that. Stone moved my hand away and covered him up.”
“He’s your dad,” I said. “I’m sure whatever you did was fine.”
We stopped at a red light, and I turned to face Teddy with what I hoped was a reassuring expression. Tess put her hand on Teddy’s arm. “Of course it was fine. Did you notice that Stone tucked him in, almost like a mom saying good night to a toddler? It was sad and weird, but also gentle, and sweet.” She shook her head and stared out the window, growing distant.
“He didn’t suffer,” Teddy told me, reiterating what the medical examiner had told Tess the day before. “He died before the fire. Stone told us the death certificate will say that Dad died from a blow to the head. I asked him to show me, and he did. I think the medical examiner told Mom that it could have been a fall, but it sure seemed like he’d been hit with something to me... Maybe one of those tools the firefighters use. A Pulaski, I think they call them.” Teddy waved his hands, sketching the object in the air. “Like a pick on one side and a sharpened hoe thing on the other. We’ve got a little one at home in the shed.” His voice trailed off, but before I could speak, he began again. “He showed me the bullet wound in Dad’s shoulder too. Looked like it must have hurt. A lot. Especially since it hit the bone. Maybe that knocked him over. Why would someone attack him with a pickax if they had a gun? Could there have been two people who wanted Dad dead? Who decided to confront him and kill him, both on the same night?” Teddy’s voice trailed off as he explored his reaction to what he’d seen. “It’s hard enough to believe there was one. But two?” He shook his head. “This is kinda gross. But kinda not, since wherever Dad is now, he’s not in that fridge. That body is just, you know, the clues he left behind to help us figure out what’s going on.” Teddy squirmed in the seat, scooting his bottom back, sitting up straight, and squaring his shoulders. “ If he’d fallen and hit his head, he’d have a giant bruise, right? Like when I got hit by the ball in Little League. And since it was bad, it might be all kinda smooshed in, but it wasn’t.”