by Erin Huss
After several more trips up and down the stairs, the van was loaded. The three men huddled around Jeremy’s phone. He pointed north, then cocked his thumb west, and it appeared he was giving them directions. The three said goodbye to each other and Jeremy climbed into a white VW Rabbit with Nevada license plates and a teal, pink, and blue ribbon on the bumper.
Camry and I hustled back to my car and followed Jeremy and the Hermosa boys onto the 101 Freeway, going south.
“They could be going to Santa Barbara,” I said.
“Or they could be heading for the Mexican border. How long are we going to follow them?”
“Until we find something, I guess.”
“I’m going to text the crew and let them know what we’re doing in case we die.”
“Good idea.”
An hour later we were driving through Santa Barbara. To my right was the ocean. Surfers were floating together, straddling their boards, waiting for the next wave. To my left were mountains, brown from months—if not years—of improper watering. The MPH sign was leaning sideways, threatening to fall over, and the metal was charred and curled on the corners, indicating the area had recently been burned by a wildfire. It was an odd juxtaposition to look out Camry’s window and see water, then look out my window and see drought. Almost like two different worlds separated by the 101 Freeway.
But that’s California for ya.
The freeway was congested as we neared Ventura, which helped us keep a better eye on the van and white sedan. They were a car apart in the left lane, while we were six cars back in the right.
The traffic dissolved around Camarillo (two hours south of Santa Maria), and Camry smacked me on the backside of the head. “The Hermosa boys are getting off!”
“Yeah, I guessed that when he turned on his blinker. But Jeremy is going straight.”
“Who do we follow, Liv?”
I had three seconds to make a decision as the van had already exited and Jeremy was still going south on the freeway.
Jeremy or Hermosa?
Jeremy or Hermosa?
The boyfriend or the neighbor?
The ex-boyfriend or the repairman?
Episode Thirty-Three
When Vun Meets Fun
I chose to follow Jeremy. Why? I didn’t know. A decision had to be a made, and I went with the ex-boyfriend. Except I was dangerously low on gas and we’d been driving for four hours.
“Liv is about to freak out.” Camry had Austin on speakerphone in one hand and the recorder in the other. “I can see the sweat on her forehead.”
“W-why is she freaking out?” asked Austin,
“No, I’m not about to freak out,” I said.
Actually, I am.
The little gas pump light on my dashboard gave me anxiety. I’d never gone below a quarter of a tank—ever.
“I-I-I think h-he’s going to Vegas,” said Austin.
“No duh, Sherlock. We figured that one out when we got on the 210 Freeway and there was a big fat sign saying, ‘this way to Vegas, idiots!’”
I shot Camry a look.
“What?” she snapped. “I’m hangry. I need food. When are you pulling over?”
I checked the dash. “We have two miles left.” Hiccup.
“I-I-I can find his address in case you lose him,” said Austin.
“We’re not seriously driving to Vegas,” Camry said. “I don’t even have my clothes with me. And what are we going to do when we get there? Confront him? Be like, ‘hey, we’ve been following you for six hours, but we’re not crazy stalker people, promise. Anyway, two-part question for you: Did you kill Amelia, and if you did, where is she?’ We should have followed the Hermosa guys.”
Maybe.
Truth was, I had no idea what we’d do when Jeremy stopped. I’d asked myself this a million times over the last four hours. Gas was expensive. I was still cheap. And we were literally chasing a white rabbit.
But it was too late now to back out.
“Find Jeremy’s address for us, please?” I said to Austin.
“Ugh!” Camry threw her hands up in the air. “This is the most un-Vegas outfit I own.” She tugged on her red shirt and jeans, shaking her head.
Which, actually, was the exact ensemble I wore the last time I went to Vegas.
I gave my car gas, Camry food, Austin texted us the address, and we were back on the road. We caught up to Jeremy somewhere in the Mojave Desert.
Camry tilted a bag of Doritos my way. “Want one?”
“No thanks, but can you please try not to make a mess?”
She pretended to wipe her cheese-covered hands on the dashboard.
“Aren’t you hilarious,” I said.
“I know.” She rolled up her bag of chips and licked her fingers clean. “How are your hands doing?”
I checked my scraped-up palms. It seemed like a lifetime ago when I fell into the cactus, when in reality it was earlier today. “They’re fine.”
“My dad had a thing for cactuses. Or is it cacti?”
“Cactuses, I think.”
“Sounds right.” She shrugged. “We used to have a bunch in our backyard, but my mom got rid of them after he died. I think they reminded her too much of him.” She propped her elbow up on the window and looked out at the vast landscape. “I wish I could remember him more. You’re lucky you were older when your mom died.”
“I don’t know that I’d call me lucky. At least you don’t remember your dad dying. I was holding my mom’s hand when she passed. It was awful.” I shook the memory out of my head, but it bounced right back. Her hand, thin, dry, cold, and lifeless, sandwiched between my own…
“Is that why you never gave me a chance?” Camry asked. “Because it was still too painful?” The vulnerability in her voice tugged at my heart and brought me back to the present.
“I’m sorry, Camry. I grew up with my mom, dad, brother and me all in that house. When you two moved in, it felt like a betrayal to my mother’s memory.” I was surprised by my words. I hadn’t realized I felt that way. “Then I was busy with finishing up high school, going off to college, and doing it all without my mom. I know you were craving a sisterly relationship, and I’m sorry you didn’t get that. But you have it now. Does that count?”
“Sure.” Camry acted like it was no big deal, but I could see the smile creep across her face in the window’s reflection.
Anyway…speaking of cancer. “Hey, do you remember what the ribbon is for leukemia?”
Camry puffed up her cheeks and thought for a moment. “It’s orange,” she sighed. “It was also my dad’s favorite color. Why? What’s ovarian cancer?”
“It’s teal. But I have no idea what teal, pink and blue is.”
“Ohhhh, the ribbon on the back of Jeremy’s car. Gotcha. Hold on, let’s ask Google.” She consulted her phone. “So teal and pink represents infertility and…got it. Teal, pink, and blue is the symbol for thyroid cancer.”
“But Jeremy grew up in Santa Barbara. Not in Morning Knolls.”
“I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure you can get thyroid cancer no matter where you live.”
True. But, “What’s the treatment for thyroid cancer?”
“Again, not a doctor. But there was a chick in my econ class at Stanford who had thyroid cancer. They just yanked it out of her neck and she was fine. For the most part. She gained weight. But that could also have been the freshman fifteen.”
“I would notice a scar on his neck. He did have one on his eyebrow.”
“You can’t take the thyroid out from the eyebrow.”
“Thanks, Dr. Lewis.”
“You’re welcome. Where you going with this anyway? Because you realize he’s not driving his own car, so basically this ribbon could mean nothing.”
“Not nothing, but nothing to this case. But it is
a strange coincidence that several people in Amelia’s neighborhood had thyroid cancer.”
“It’s a strange coincidence we both lost a parent to cancer. It’s freaking everywhere. I hate cancer!”
Me too.
We crossed the California state line and were officially in Nevada. Jeremy exited to get gas and we waited across the street in a casino parking lot.
“If he catches us following him, he’s going to call the cops,” said Camry.
“Probably.” I stretched my arms and rubbed my eyes. I hadn’t driven this far in a long time.
“Austin wants to know if he should fly to Vegas and meet us.”
“I hope you told him no.”
“Um…”
“Camry!”
“What? I need clothes.”
I shook my head. “This is a round trip. No strip.”
“Well aren’t you a regular ole’ Dr. Seuss.”
I didn’t get the joke, but it didn’t matter because Jeremy was on the road again and so were we.
We were fifteen minutes outside of Vegas when Hazel called. Camry answered and put her on speaker, holding the recorder up.
“I have Oliver here,” Hazel said. “He wants to know if you’ve ever looked into Jeremy’s wife?”
“Doris Fundoogle?” I looked at Camry and she shook her head. “No, we haven’t. Why?”
“Oliver found information on Doris Vundoogle.”
“But it’s not Vun it’s Fun,” said Camry. “As in, Liv doesn’t like to have fun.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Yes, Camry, Oliver can read. It’s only his ears that don’t work,” said Hazel. “But Doris Vundoogle was Carlos and Raymond Hermosa’s grandmother.”
“So Oliver thinks Jeremy married Carlos’ grandma?” Camry made a face. “No offense, but…gross.”
“No, he’s not saying that. He’s saying…what exactly are you saying, dear? Stop signing so fast, I can’t keep up,” Hazel said in the background. “He says Doris Vundoogle died in September of 2008, and coincidently, there is no record of Doris Fundoogle prior to October of 2008.”
“Holy crap!” Camry blurted out.
“My sentiments exactly,” I said.
“No! Like crap, crap, crap. Liv look behind us.”
I checked the rearview mirror. “Holy crap!”
“Why does everyone keep saying crap?” Hazel asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Richard Clark is right behind us,” said Camry.
Episode Thirty-Three
What Happens in Vegas…
“Are you sure it’s him?” Hazel asked.
I glanced in the rearview mirror again. “Yes, it’s his truck and I can see his face.”
“Slow down,” said Camry. “See if he slows down too.”
“Why? He’s obviously following us.”
“No, he could be following Jeremy.”
Good point. I eased off the gas. Richard switched lanes and zoomed by. Camry and I crouched down and turned our heads as he passed. “You’re right. He’s following Jeremy.”
“Hazel, we’ll call you back.” Camry hung up but kept the recorder going. “I wonder who else is following him.” She turned around in her seat. “Holy crap!”
“What now?”
“Nothing,” she said with a smile.
“This is no time for jokes. We’re following Jeremy. Richard is following Jeremy. And now we’ve got this whole Doris thing to figure out.”
Camry took a picture of Richard’s car with her phone. “I don’t understand the Doris thing.”
“Think about it, Camry. Doris Fundoogle, Doris Vundoogle. She dies the month before Amelia disappeared, and Jeremy has a ribbon on his car for thyroid cancer and everyone said Amelia looked sick and thin and scared. Jeremy said he was in town to keep an eye on things. We assumed he meant his family.”
Camry’s eyes were bouncing. “You’re not thinking.”
“Yes! I am thinking Amelia Clark is alive. I’m thinking Carlos gave her a new identity and helped her escape and Jeremy is married to her. And what would be the reason she would run away and never return?”
“Fear.”
“Exactly. Afraid that returning would either get herself killed or the people she loves.”
“Who was she afraid of?”
“Richard!”
“Oh…” she took this in. “Oooh! This is bad.”
“This is so bad.”
“This is terrible. Liv, she’s been successfully hiding for years, and now her dad is on his way to find her because of you!”
Geez.
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Dammit. If I’d known there was a chance she was hiding, I wouldn’t have taken on the case. “We have to do something. Do we have Jeremy’s number?”
Turns out we didn’t. Camry looked up Jeremy’s office number, but it went straight to voicemail. “Dammit! Do CPA’s have after hour emergency lines?”
“Probably not. Can you find his cell phone number?”
“Ah, yeah, I could spend the next fifteen minutes looking for it or you could just speed up, catch Jeremy, and tell him yourself.”
She made a valid point.
I slammed on the gas. Except my car needed at least sixty seconds before it could accelerate. As I neared Richard he turned on the blinker and exited the freeway.
“Crap!” I swerved off the road.
“Why are we following him now?” Camry asked, holding tight to the grab handle.
“He poses more of a threat.”
“Great, sure, let’s follow the lunatic then. FYI, I don’t feel like dying today.”
“That’s probably what Amelia said as well.” Richard turned right at the light and took another right into a little neighborhood. I’d never seen the residential side of Vegas before. There were parks and elementary schools, and newly constructed homes with little yards and kids riding bikes on the sidewalk.
“Email Jeremy,” I said, keeping a safe distance behind Richard. “Tell him we’re in Vegas and so is Richard, and see what he says.”
“I’m not cut out for these high-stress situations.” She grabbed her phone. “Gah, I forgot to put deodorant on.” She cut her eyes to me. “And you better edit that out, got it.”
“Not a chance.”
Camry emailed Jeremy and dropped her phone into her bag. The recorder was in the cup holder. “I have a bad feeling about this, Liv. Like a really bad feeling.”
“It’s going be okay,” I said as convincingly as I could. Perhaps I should have pulled over and called the police. Or I should have driven away. Why put myself into the middle of a dangerous situation?
Then again, I inserted myself into Amelia’s life when I created an entire podcast about her.
Richard turned left on a street called Twilight Lane. All the homes looked the same. Two story, peach stucco, white trim, desert landscape, single car garage, all spaced about three feet apart from each other. I stopped at the end of the road and watched. Richard slowed when he reached the only house with a For Sale sign out front.
“See, he’s just looking for new real estate,” Camry said. “Can we go now?”
“Hold on.” I flipped the visor to protect my eyes from the glaring sun. Richard made a three-point turn and parked on the other side of the road, but he didn’t exit the vehicle. I couldn’t tell what he was doing from my lookout location, but whatever it was, it didn’t take long. He started the car and drove in the opposite direction.
“What now?” she asked.
“You stay here while I go check out that house.”
Camry started to protest, and I placed my finger over her mouth.
“I need you to drive the getaway car,” I said. “Promise me you’ll stay put.”
> She slowly raised her hand to her forehead and gave me a captain solute.
“Good girl.”
According to a quick Zillow search, 5676 Twilight had a radiant floor plan and was offering three good-sized bedrooms, two-and-a-half bathrooms and a spacious master. The home also featured a sunken living room with a vaulted ceiling and a cozy fireplace.
I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I tried the bell, but the chimes were muted by the hum of a vacuum. There was a long rectangular window to the left of the door, and I cupped my hands and peeked in. A woman with short brown hair was pushing around a Dyson.
I used both fists to pound on the window until I got the woman’s attention. She came to the door and I stepped back, suddenly realizing that I didn’t have the recorder on me.
Not that it mattered. This was beyond the podcast.
The woman answered and I heaved a sigh of relief. It was not Amelia. Not even close. This woman had brown eyes, a cleft chin, and a perm.
“Can I help you?”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, not exactly sure where to start. “Hi, my name is Liv Olsen, and I was wondering about your house.”
“You can schedule a tour with my relator.” She snatched a business card off the entryway table and handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I slid it into my back pocket. “Do you happen to know a man named Richard Clark?”
“Sounds familiar, why?”
“What about Janet Clark?”
The woman’s face lit with recognition. “Janet and Richard Clark are Amelia Clark’s parents.”
“Yes! You know them?”
The next-door neighbor’s dog let out a low growl followed by a high-pitched bark.
“No, but I’ve been listening to the Missing or Murdered podcast while I pack,” she said. “Wait a second…did you say your name was Liv Olsen? As in the host of the show?”