by Mary Feliz
She’d implicated Sean, but Sean was wheelchair-bound, limiting his options as a murderer. Besides, he seemed like a nice guy. The kids called him Mr. Santa Claus, which seemed to imply he was jovial and harmless. But later they’d said something was off when it came to Katherine, Sean, and Sean’s sister, the woman they called Mrs. Claus. I needed to follow up on that. What was wrong with this trio of family members? Could it have led to murder? I made a note of the things I needed to discuss with the boys, including setting up an appointment for Tess to call.
I scrolled through my phone for emails and texts and noted that it was only one o’clock. The kids hadn’t called. I had time to make a short visit to Sean and double-check his alibi, assuming he was at home and lived close by. Debra had implied he was employed by the same company, but that he worked from home. Without much hope, I searched the Internet for Sean Philips. To my surprise, his name popped up with an Orchard View address about five blocks away. Many tech people I knew worked hard to hide their personal information from search engines. It took frequent monitoring, and an in-depth search would still reveal their data. Still, I was surprised that Sean’s name came up so quickly. I clicked on the third link, which showed a Fiona Philips and Katherine McNamara living at the same address, so I was sure I had the right guy. Maybe my luck had turned. I decided to take a chance and drive to the house. Fiona might be as much help as Sean. Chances were, one of them would be home. If not, I’d call and make arrangements to meet them another time.
My stomach rumbled, and I stopped on the way to get a latte and a chicken wrap. The “spinach omelet” at lunch didn’t resemble any egg I’d ever tasted, and I didn’t like meals that pretended to be something they weren’t. Life was too short to trust dishonest food.
In Orchard View, moving five blocks in one direction or another doesn’t change much about the neighborhood. I had no trouble finding Sean Philips’s address. It was an ordinary house on an ordinary street, one block off a six-lane boulevard that connected cars traveling between Highways 101 and 280 at a much higher speed than the original roadway engineers had intended.
Their one-story ranch was beige, with darker beige shutters and a marine-blue door. Their yard and gardens had not yet recovered from the drought and still sported bare patches of rock-hard adobe soil and a drought-era sign promoting water conservation. It read, “Brown Is the New Green,” but the letters were almost too sun-faded to decipher.
The green van Sean Philips had been driving when I first met him was parked in the driveway. The glare of the shiny waxed surface threatened to give me a migraine and triggered the distinct feeling that I was missing something important. But what?
Chapter 22
In California’s warm, dry summer weather, it can be tempting to hike on well-maintained trails wearing shorts and sandals. But even heavy-duty sandals designed for hiking can prove dangerous to those who startle a napping pit viper. Long pants and hiking shoes are a wiser choice.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Wednesday, August 9, Early afternoon
Fiona resembled Mrs. Claus more than I’d remembered. She answered the door in a red-and-white striped T-shirt, white slacks, and red tennis shoes. With one foot out the door, she called good-bye to an unseen Sean before she looked up, startled to see me. “Whoa! Sorry. Maggie, is it? Katherine introduced us, right? I was expecting a friend who is driving me to ballroom dancing this afternoon.” She leaned forward and peered past me, up and down the street, then down at her watch. “I still have a few minutes. Please come in. Can I get you a glass of water?” She raised her voice. “Sean, Katherine’s friend Maggie is here. You remember. We met her at Kath’s work.”
I stepped inside. “I have a few questions for you. About Patrick. I don’t want to keep you. I can wait with you outside if you think your ride will be here soon.”
Fiona seemed flustered. “When I heard the bell, I just assumed I’d lost track of time, but my friend won’t be here for another half an hour. Please come in.”
Sean rolled in through a wide hallway. He was sitting in a lightweight chair, much like those I’d seen wheelchair marathoners use. He wore gloves and had a towel draped over his shoulder. “I’m sorry about the sweat. I was working out. I need to keep the muscles that still work strong and flexible. Were we expecting company? Don’t you have to leave soon, Fiona?”
“This is Maggie. Remember? From Kath’s work?”
“But you don’t work with my wife,” Sean said, scowling. “You were meeting Katherine for lunch.”
“Right,” I said, stepping forward to shake Sean’s hand. “I have a few questions about Patrick Olmos. His wife, Tess, is one of my best friends. And their son is a friend of my kids’.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Fiona. “Please, have a seat.” We traded polite phrases while Sean wiped sweat from his face. Eventually, I felt able to ease into my interview questions.
“Obviously, as Tess’s friend, I don’t think she killed Patrick. I hope to exonerate her and bring the real killer to justice.” Fiona and Sean glanced at other, nodded, and turned back to me, so I continued, “The Patrick Olmos I knew had no enemies, and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. Nor can I think of him creating a problem for anyone. At least not a problem so large they’d be drawn to murder as a solution. But I’m wondering if you’d seen another side of him. I’m talking to as many of his friends and associates as I can think of.”
“But surely the police are investigating. Wouldn’t it be safer to leave it to them?” Fiona’s face was lined with confusion and concern. “I wasn’t acquainted with Patrick, except, of course, as Katherine’s running partner. Sean may have known him better.”
Sean pursed his lips. “Patrick and I were classmates at Stanford. I introduced Katherine to him and encouraged her running as much as I could. I used to coach her myself. But I had some injuries...and here we are.”
“Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill him?”
“Of course not. We had words from time to time over Katherine’s training. I didn’t think Patrick pushed her hard enough or enforced her health regimen enough. She should be following a stricter diet, but Patrick let the kids bring junk food to practice, and he never discouraged her from taking part.” He seemed disgusted. “I told Katherine that if she wanted to get serious about her future, she needed to look at triathlons or marathons, and forget this cross-country trail running stuff. Quit her job and train full-time.”
“She was that good?”
“She could have been. She still could be.” Sean shrugged. “She was prepping for Olympic events when I met her. Back then, the business climate and her level in the company made it easier for her to train and simultaneously work in a field like software engineering, where the hours are flexible. It’s getting more and more difficult now for her to do both. She has to decide soon.”
“Can she afford to quit?” I asked, blurting out the words before I realized I was saying them out loud.
Sean appeared horrified, and I couldn’t blame him. “That’s none of your business, is it?”
I shook my head. “No, it certainly isn’t. I apologize.”
Fiona stood, and Sean pointed his wheelchair toward the door. It was a clear indication I should leave. I’d blown this interview, but I tried one more question anyway.
“Sean, do you have any idea what Patrick was doing up on the ridge the night he died? If the police were to ask you about your whereabouts, would you have an alibi?”
Sean’s lips thinned in anger, and his fists clenched. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” he said, nodding to Fiona before spinning his chair around and shooting back down the hallway.
Fiona held out her hand, inviting me to walk ahead of her to the door. “Let me grab my purse, and we can wait outside for my friend,” she
said. “My brother has a temper.”
“Do you know if he has an alibi for Saturday night or early Sunday morning?” I asked.
Fiona looked pensive. “I was in the emergency room all night with Katherine, but I assume Sean was here. He doesn’t go out much in the evenings. He takes his training seriously, goes to bed early, and as you heard, has no patience with those who want a more balanced life.”
“Is there a way to prove he was here?” My questions were more direct and abrupt than Fiona deserved, but Sean had given me way more pushback than I’d expected, and I was taking it out on Fiona. Fiona was politely pretending not to notice. That, or she didn’t care. Maybe living with someone as demanding and brusque as Sean had made her immune to inappropriate behavior in anyone else. Or had Sean been having an unusually bad day? Was I overreacting because I’d skipped lunch? It was hard to know.
“I’m not sure,” Fiona said, and it took me a moment to remember what we’d been discussing. Sean wasn’t the only one who’d let his temper derail him. “His equipment is computerized, and he keeps meticulous records. The machines talk to his training apps. I suppose the police could get a warrant for that data if they needed it.” Fiona sighed. “Look, I’m sorry he was so rude. I’m not apologizing for him, that’s up to him. But I don’t like to see people treated badly. The truth is, Patrick and Sean didn’t get along. Sean was jealous of Patrick’s athletic talents and annoyed that Patrick squandered them. But Sean may have been the only person who saw things that way. Patrick used his gifts to keep himself fit, have fun, and teach other runners, particularly the next generation. He was generous with his time, and that didn’t sit well with Sean. When Sean ran, he ran for himself and drove himself as hard as he could—with great success. He wanted that same level of achievement for Katherine and Patrick. They had other goals, and Sean found that hard to live with.”
How hard? I wondered. Were powerful feelings, tremendous disappointment, an unbound temper, and limited ways to work off anger a recipe that added up to murder? And did it matter? Surely wheelchair-bound Sean couldn’t have killed Patrick, particularly up on the ridge with the rutted trails and slippery hillsides. And with a fire approaching? It had proven a deadly mix for Patrick, and surely it would have been even more dangerous for Sean, no matter how nimble he was in his chair.
I was getting nowhere. I’d learned a little bit more about Patrick and the people he lived and worked with, but I was no closer to exonerating Tess. All my chief suspects had alibis. I phoned Forrest, Elaine, Paolo, Stephen, and Jason from the car and invited them to dinner, hoping their investigations had been more successful, or that our pooled information would point to a breakthrough. Jason, at least, could update us on Sergeant Nguyen’s investigation, possibly giving us a lead on what our next move should be in our attempt to debunk official theories of the crime.
Discouraged and hot, I cranked up the air-conditioning and flicked on the radio, only to hear: “We turn now to the peninsula, where a wildfire continues to burn in the hills between Orchard View and the coast. According to the National Weather Service, the weather pattern is expected to change late this evening, causing mixed reactions from area residents.”
The announcer went on to explain that the wind would shift to an onshore flow, bringing cooler and damper coastal air into the afflicted areas. In a plus for the fire crews, that wind was likely to push the fire back over already-burned acres now short on fuel. But that could spell disaster for us. That same wind would bring heavy smoke back into the valley, making breathing a challenge for infants, older people, and anyone with respiratory issues, including Brian. It would also put our house smack in the middle of the zone with the biggest threat levels. I needed to consult with Max and learn what Cal Fire was recommending as far as evacuation readiness was concerned. But I had time for one more errand.
I asked Siri to text Max and the boys to tell them we’d have guests for dinner and that I’d be home within the hour. If the fire forced us to change our plans, I’d text everyone I’d invited. Our guests and my family would know we’d be having chili for dinner. I had quarts of it in the basement freezer, the contents of which had resisted thawing when the power went out. It was my go-to solution for serving meals to large impromptu gatherings. A tad heavy for a hot summer evening, but I’d lighten it up by offering a cold salad, fruit, and refreshing drinks, with ice cream to follow.
I looked up an address on my phone and asked Siri for directions. The property covered an acre of land in the hills, about a half a mile from our house. At least I’d be close to home, in case I needed to dash back there to lick my wounds.
Pauline’s car wasn’t in the big circular driveway when I pulled through the Windsor family’s ostentatious gateposts, but she could easily have stashed her car in one of the six bays of the expansive garage to the left of the main house. I parked the car, looked over my script, took a deep breath, and let it out. With any luck, my target would be home alone.
Three stairs led up to a covered porch flanked by stone benches. I rang the bell. I was about to turn away when I heard steps on the tiled floor inside. A thin hand pushed aside the sheer curtains covering the sidelights. I listened to a series of locks click and watched the oversized doorknob turn.
Chapter 23
Parents should prepare emergency medical information for themselves and their children. In the past, we kept cards in our wallets. Now there are phone apps that serve the same purpose. Information should include: prescriptions and medications; insurance details; organ donor status; chronic conditions; history of illnesses and surgeries; allergies; family history; immunizations; and emergency contacts, including doctor, pharmacy, hospital, dentist, friends, or family. Teens should carry their own medical information.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Wednesday, August 9, Afternoon
Rebecca, Pauline Windsor’s only child, opened the door. She was Teddy’s age, but looked much younger. Her pale blue eyes were swollen and tear streaked. Her normally shiny blond hair was lank and stringy. What looked like melted ice cream had dripped and left splotches on her stretched-out T-shirt.
I was shocked by her appearance. I’d once heard Brian refer to her snidely as “Orchard View Barbie.” Any other time I’d seen her, the description would have been apt. This girl had won the genetic lottery. But today wasn’t the first time I’d had an inkling that something was very wrong in her world.
She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. I said nothing. Faced with this forlorn waif, my carefully prepared plan turned to vapor. Rebecca took a step backward as if threatened by my silence.
“Rebecca, I’m Maggie McDonald, Brian and David’s mom. Is anyone home with you?” I winced. One of the first rules suburban teens learn is never to tell a stranger if they’re home alone. I backpedaled. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Can we talk for a moment? Maybe out here on the porch?”
Rebecca stepped forward without replying. She left the front door open and sat on one of the benches. I took the seat opposite.
“You’re not a happy girl right now, are you?” I asked gently.
She hesitated, and I spotted a hint of the bravado and defiance that might protect her from whatever had wounded her so badly. But then it vanished. She half-sobbed and shook her head, examining her dirty bare feet.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
She started to shake her head, but in the end, she confessed, “You know what I did.”
“I think so. It’s more important, though, that you know what you did. You hurt Teddy badly. You spread lies about his parents, not just to their friends and neighbors, but to the world. That’s a hurt that ‘sorry’ doesn’t cover.”
Rebecca flushed and moaned, then started sobbing. I moved quickly to her side and hugged her. I didn’t want to. I’d come here prepared to treat her as though she and her evil deed were the
same. I didn’t like her mother. I didn’t care for what I’d heard about Rebecca, that she was snobby and manipulative. And I hated what she’d done with the vile website she’d created. But in the end, my nurturing instincts saw a little girl who was hurting nearly as badly as Teddy was.
But my loving nature only took me so far. After a moment, I moved away from her a bit, and I searched through my backpack for a tissue.
I handed it to her, and she swiped at her eyes, then blew her nose. “How do you plan to fix the mess you’ve made?” I asked.
“I’ve already taken it down. When I first built it, I thought it was funny, edgy, and clever. Then I saw Teddy’s face when he found the page, and I realized how sick and awful it was. And how big. It’s like I created this giant blob that just kept growing. I don’t know how to stop it.”
“I’m not sure you can stop it, completely. It’s out there now. Too many people have taken screen shots and posted them on social media.” I let my words sink in for a moment before throwing her a lifeline. “Do you want help?”
“Is there help?”
I answered as honestly as I could while I dug into my purse. “I’m not sure. But if anyone can help, he can.” I flicked the corner of Paolo’s card and handed it to her. “If you’re mature and responsible enough to admit what you’ve done, accept the consequences, and do everything in your power to set things right, Paolo Bianchi can probably help. But it’s up to you to call him. Will you do that?”