Microphones and Murder

by Erin Huss

  “Yes, but the heart doesn’t really prove anything,” I said.

  Falina gave me a look. “You and I both know that they didn’t bury a stupid blanket. The Clarks are the only ones in the neighborhood who didn’t get their soil tested or have their yard cleaned up by the oil company. I peeked back there when the whole lawsuit was going on and saw the heart. I told my dad that there’s a reason the Clarks don’t want anyone digging up their backyard, and I thought the reason was Millie.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He told me to stay away from the Clarks and drop it. But I couldn’t. It’s been eating me up for the last however many years.”

  “What makes you think they’d hurt Amelia?”

  “Nothing matters more to Richard Clark than his public image. Nothing,” she said. “I visited Millie at her apartment the night she disappeared to make sure she was okay, and she told me that her dad was livid.”

  Wait, whaaa…I scooted to the end of my chair. “What time?”

  “Around five thirty. She let me park in her spot because I’d just had knee surgery and couldn’t walk too far. That’s the kind of person Millie Clark was.”

  So that’s why Amelia parked in the guest spot. This information about the guest parking spot hadn’t been shared on the podcast yet, which gave credit to what Falina was saying.

  I perked up. “Can you tell me about your visit?”

  “It was short, because she was getting ready for a date. I helped her put together the outfit. She was going out with some guy she’d met at a diner. I was happy for her because she hadn’t dated anyone since Jeremy.”

  “Was she excited?”

  Falina twisted her mouth to the side. “I wouldn’t say she was excited; I’d say she was jumbled.”

  Jumbled?

  “Maybe frazzled is a better word,” she said. “Her dad was mad about the video. Said it brought shame to the family, and it would ruin his business, and he was really pissed off. I was lying on the bed while she was doing her hair…” Falina’s voice trailed off.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just remembered something. Her hair was falling out, and she asked if that had ever happened to me before. I told her no, but that she should get her thyroid tested and to ask her mom what she thought. Janet used to be a nurse before she married Richard, but you probably already knew that.”

  Actually I didn’t.

  “While we were visiting, Richard called again and asked Millie to meet the oven repair guy at the bakery at six, but she said she couldn’t because she had a date. He lost his temper and started screaming at her to the point she hung up on him.”

  “Hold on.” I grabbed Falina’s arm. “He asked her to go to the bakery that evening. She was last seen at the ATM next to CinnaMann’s. Do you think she’d go there to meet the repairman?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably. As much as she couldn’t stand her dad, she was also compassionate to a fault.”

  I was already plotting what to do with this information. Starting with reporting it to Detective LeClare and looking into oven repair shops in the area. If this were true, and Amelia did meet a repairman at CinnaMann’s that night, then that man would have been the last person to see her.

  “Did she ever talk about Jeremy or Carlos?” I asked, still trying to figure out how they fit into the equation.

  “Carlos was her neighbor and they were friends. I didn’t talk to her much while she was dating Jeremy. She spent most of her time in Santa Barbara.”

  “Do you know if she introduced Jeremy to her parents?” I asked.

  “She loved Jeremy too much to subject him to her crazy parents.”

  Made sense. But that wasn’t exactly telling. There were a lot of people who had “crazy” parents. Doesn’t make them killers, though.

  “What do you think happened to her?” I asked.

  “Richard killed her,” she said without pause. “I don’t think he’d do it on purpose, but I think he got mad about the video and lost his temper.”

  “But he wasn’t in town, and if she’d gone to the bakery to meet the repairman, then that proves he wasn’t here yet. And she didn’t show up for her date that night.”

  Falina rocked in the chair and swept a strand of hair behind her ear, staring off into the distance. “I don’t know how he did it, or when he did it, but I just know deep in my gut that he did it.” I could feel the conviction in her words, which was admirable.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do with a gut feeling.

  Fortunately, we had a new suspect.

  Episode Thirty-Two

  The Repairman

  “She should have told the police about the repairman back in 2008,” Hazel said after I told everyone about my meeting with Falina. We were gathered around the dining table, about to go over episode five before it was released: the episode where the apple was thrown through the window.

  “Why wouldn’t Richard tell the police about the repairman at CinnaMann’s?” I said.

  Austin was flipping through Leon’s notebooks. “I-I-I’ve never seen any mention o-o-of a repairman.”

  “Me either,” said and signed Oliver.

  I clutched the back of a chair. “Is it credible? Can we use it?”

  “You have to use this story, Liv.” Camry was practically shaking with excitement. “Everything she said lines up perfectly with our timeline from the guest parking space to the date with Oliver.”

  “But we need to be careful,” I said. “There can’t be that many repair shops around here, and I don’t want to start putting blame on any of them until we have proof. And I have a feeling Richard will not give us the information we need.”

  “Not a chance,” Oliver said and signed. “I do think the reason Richard didn’t have his soil tested was because Amelia was back there. And he had time to move her before the police came.”

  “B-but w-why would he leave a blanket? That d-d-doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Because the cadaver dogs were going to pick up a scent anyway, and they could say it was the blanket,” said and signed Oliver.

  “But CSI would notice that the dirt had recently been disturbed, right?” I asked.

  Everyone did a collective shrug.

  Which was of no help.

  Gah! This whole thing was maddening. I felt like we were on the brink of figuring out what really happened to Amelia, but there were too many moving parts. Too many white rabbits.

  “I looked up the Vanderbilt family and,” said Camry, “according to everything I’ve found online, they lived behind the Clarks in 2008 and Richard did file that lawsuit against them in the nineties.”

  “Th-Th-Then Falina has reason to be mad at Richard,” said Austin.

  “Do you think she’s making this stuff up to get back at him?” I asked.

  “I-it’s a possibility.”

  I massaged my temples. “Let’s at least see if we can figure out if there was a repairman there on Friday night.”

  “Aye, aye.” Camry gave me a captain’s salute and got to work.

  Lucky for us there were only two oven repair shops on the Central Coast.

  Unlucky for us there were four in 2008.

  This could take forever.

  We called the two who were still in business, and neither would confirm if CinnaMann’s was one of their customers, nor would they answer any other questions.

  So we turned to our most powerful tool instead: Facebook Mom’s Group.

  My name is Liv Olsen, I am the executive producer and host of Missing or Murdered. We’re looking for anyone who worked for any of the following companies in 2008: Industrial Repair, Joe & Son’s Repair Shop, Allen’s Industrial Repairs, Hobart Repairs.

  It took exactly two minutes before the leads started pouring in, and exactly three days b
efore one of those leads turned into an interview.

  Sheri Nelson was the former office manager of Joe & Son’s Repair Shop, which closed their doors in 2009.

  Sheri lived on the north side of town. Up a long driveway sat a small home with off-white stucco, light wood fascia, a stone chimney, and a single addition on top of the garage, which made the house look off balanced. There was no grass, no fence, but a collection of succulents in brightly colored pots on the porch.

  Camry and I walked up to the driveway, the gravel crunching under our shoes, and knocked on the door. A German Shepard raced from around the backside of the house, baring his teeth and barking like his life depended on it.

  Yikes.

  Camry jumped on my back and I fell over.

  Lucky for me, there was a potted plant to break my fall.

  Unlucky for me, it was a freaking cactus.

  The dog was yanked back by the chain attached to his collar, and he continued to bark, and thrash, and growl, while I plucked the little spines out of the palms of my hand. The door opened and there stood a woman with short gray hair, round glasses, a red and white striped shirt, blue shorts that went to her knees, and a well-worn pair of sneakers.

  “Calm down, Boris!” she yelled to the dog.

  Boris didn’t listen and continued to test the strength of the chain holding him back.

  Speaking of back, Camry was still on mine.

  “You the podcasting girls?” the woman, who I assumed to be Sheri, asked.

  “Yes.” I pushed Camry off and stood, about to offer my hand but then thought better of it. Good thing the package of bandages was still in the car, because my palm was a bloody mess.

  Sheri invited us in. Her house was cluttered with stuffed animals, unfinished crochet projects, and stacks of paper. I counted at least ten cats, all lounging on top of the furniture, which explained the litter box smell permeating the air.

  We gathered around Sheri’s round kitchen table and she agreed to switch off the exhaust fan to avoid competing noise. The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes, the stove was crusty, and the clock blinked with the wrong time. I set up my audio equipment while Sheri poured us each a cup of coffee.

  I didn’t drink coffee but appreciated the gesture.

  I used my brand new recorder and slipped on a pair of headphones. “Can you tell us your name and where you worked in 2008?” I placed the mic into a stand and pushed it closer to Sheri.

  “My name is Sheri and I was the office manager for Joe & Son’s Repair Shop for thirty years.”

  Not to geek out, but Sheri’s voice was crisp and clear and there was zero buzz, hiss, room reflections, or plosives. The sound quality was beautiful.

  I could cry.

  But I didn’t

  Because that would be awkward.

  “Was CinnaMann one of your customers?” I asked.

  “Yes, Richard called us for warranty work on his Vulcan ovens.” A tabby cat jumped on Sheri’s lap and curled up for a nap.

  “Do you remember a work order placed for CinnaMann’s on October 10 in 2008?”

  “I didn’t, but after my daughter called to tell me about the podcast, and that you were looking for someone who worked for Joe & Son’s, I started going through old work orders.” She reached over to a stack of papers on a nearby table and grabbed a spiral carbon copy notebook from the top. “I save everything, because you never know when you’ll need it.” Based on the condition of her home, I believed her—she saved everything.

  In this case, hoarding could very well help us find out what happened to Amelia.

  Sheri licked the tip of her finger and flipped the notebook open to a marked page. “On October 8, Richard called because one of his older ovens wasn’t working. Typically, Richard could fix it himself, but he was out of town. The soonest I could get someone out there was the tenth.”

  “Was there a window of time given to Richard of when the repairman would be there?” I asked.

  “We told him between six and seven, but my guys called when they were ten minutes out.”

  “Can I see the work order?”

  Sheri passed over the notebook and Camry looked over my shoulder. “How do you know it was completed?”

  “Typically, I stamped them complete. See.” She pointed to the work order below and, yes, there is a big red COMPLETE stamped across the bottom.

  “Why wasn’t this stamped?”

  “Dunno.”

  “What does this mean?” Camry pointed to the initials on the bottom right corner.

  Sheri slide the book back to take a look. “Whenever the tech took an order, I had them initial it so I could keep track of who took what.”

  “Whose initials are these?” I asked. “It looks like RH?”

  “That would be Raymond Hermosa; he worked at Joe’s for a few years.”

  Camry dropped her mug and it crashed to the ground. The tabby cat jumped off of Sheri and lapped up the coffee.

  I know exactly what Camry was thinking.

  Sure, there could be many people with the last name Hermosa in Santa Maria.

  But it was too much of a coincidence not to investigate further.

  Camry searched the Internet and fifteen minutes after we sprinted to my car (to avoid getting eaten by Boris); we were parked in front of a single-story home with blue siding and a red door. In the driveway was a utility van. The large white ones with no windows that kidnappers drive. Industrial Repair was stamped on the driver’s side door.

  I knocked and looked around. The walkway was freshly swept, and the landscaping was simple and clean.

  We heard steps approaching and the click of a lock. The door opened and a small man with dark features and a well-manicured beard answered.

  “Hi, we’re looking for Raymond Hermosa,” I said.

  “Never heard of him,” replied the man.

  Oh.

  Camry consulted her phone. “Raymond Hermosa doesn’t live here?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ever lived here?” Camry tried.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Oh, sorry for bothering you.” I turned around slowly and walked back to my car.

  “That was anticlimactic,” said Camry, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “I’m not buying it,” I said, holding the steering wheel with my scratched hands, gazing out the window at the van. “What are the odds that you found the address of a Raymond Hermosa and there’s an Industrial Repair van parked in the driveway, but no Raymond Hermosa lives here?”

  “I don’t see any pictures of him online. There’s no way for me to confirm what Raymond looks like.”

  I reclined my seat and crossed my arms. “Let’s wait a few and see what happens.”

  “If I knew we were going back to stalking, I would have brought a snack.”

  We didn’t have to wait long. The man walked out of his house, swinging his keys on his finger, and jumped in the van. We waited until he was at the end of the street before we followed. This could be nothing but a bearded white rabbit, but I owed it to Amelia to see it through.

  “What if he’s going to the grocery store?” Camry asked.

  “Well, you did say you were hungry.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  We followed the white van through town, past the mall, through a residential area, and onto Santa Maria Way where he flipped his blinker and pulled into the apartments. I parked at the gas station, and Camry and I hopped out of the car and raced over to the apartments, hoping not to be seen. The white van was in the guest parking space and we crept to the back of the building and peeked around the corner. Carlos and the man (who we assumed to be Raymond) were chatting candidly. Carlos even wrapped his bicep around Raymond’s neck and gave him a noogie.

  Whatever they were talking about, there didn’t appea
r to be any concern or urgency.

  Carlos retrieved a long-sleeved shirt and duffle bag from his apartment. Then the two walked to Raymond’s van, still joking around. Carlos got in the passenger side. Raymond into the driver’s side. And they were off.

  “Ah!” Camry and I stumble over each other and ran to our car so we could catch them. I fumbled my keys out of my pocket while Camry smacked the hood of my car. “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”

  Which, for the record, did not help me move faster.

  We were in the car and driving down Bradley road. “Where do you think they’re going?” Liv asked.

  “I have no idea.” I passed a car going five below the speed limit, careful to maintain a safe distance behind the Hermosa boys.

  “What if they know we’re following them, and they’re leading us to an empty lot somewhere so they can kill us?”

  “Well, that’s a lovely thought.”

  “Oh please, you were thinking the same thing.”

  Yep.

  We turned right on Clark Ave. “They’re in the parking lot,” Camry said as we passed Jeremy’s office. “They’re in freaking Jeremy Wang’s parking lot. Holy crap!”

  Holy crap was right.

  I made a U-turn and parked in the alleyway behind the shopping center. Camry and I jogged to the side of the building and peeked around the corner.

  Raymond’s van was parked backwards in the handicapped space with the hazard lights on. Carlos walked down the stairs holding two moving boxes. Jeremy followed, holding the chair I’d sat on when Camry and I visited.

  “Jeremy’s moving?” I realized out loud.

  “No, he said he was redecorating,” Camry whispered.

  “Yeah, and that’s a brand new chair. Remember? It was wrapped in plastic when we were there.”

  “Why would he move?”

  “To get out of town before the episode about him airs.”

  “Should we confront him?”

  “Of course not. We’re going to stalk him.” I returned my attention to Jeremy, who shoved the chair into the back of the van. He was wearing black basketball shorts and a black shirt with red Chinese characters on the front. He moved with urgency and was back up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and returned shortly with a moving box. Raymond and Carlos followed, carrying the plastic wrapped couch.