A Killing in the Valley

by JF Freedman

  The little room he was sleeping in was cozy. They sat side by side on the rough blanket on the bed. He reached over and took her hand in his, stroking it gently. His calluses felt like sandpaper on her smooth skin.

  She wasn’t wearing anything under her nightgown. It slid off over her shoulders. He was out of his T-shirt and jeans. He, too, wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

  He caressed her body as they kissed. She moved easily to his touch, as if they had been lovers for a long time. “Is this your first time?” he asked her.

  She’d thought he might ask that, and she’d debated about lying. She had broken her membrane years ago in gym class, so she could fake it if she wanted to. But she wanted him to know he was the first.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “I’m honored.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.”

  He picked his jeans up off the floor, reached into a pocket, and pulled out the small package. Deftly, he tore it open and pulled the rubber out. She watched as he unrolled it down the length of his penis.

  “You look big,” she said. “Are you bigger than average?”

  “How would you know?” he teased her. “I thought you were a virgin.”

  She blushed. “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “It’s bigger than normal,” he confirmed modestly. “It’s not that big that it’s going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I don’t care if it does. I’m expecting it to.”

  She laid down. He hovered above her for a moment. Then he guided himself into her with a long, slow thrust.

  It did hurt. She winced. She could feel her muscles tightening, which made it hurt more. Try not to be tense, she told herself. Every woman since Eve has done this.

  He was on his elbows, pumping up and down, his eyes open, staring into hers, which stared back. She started to feel better, more relaxed. She put her arms around him and drew him closer to her, feeling his rhythm, starting to move with it. His finger massaged her clitoris. Her body rose up to meet it.

  The orgasm was better than when she did it to herself. Stronger, and longer. The muscles of her vagina contracted without any effort from her, it was a force of nature.

  He came shortly after she did, a series of strong thrusts. He pushed up on his elbows again and looked at her. “Was it all right?” he asked with concern. “Not too painful?”

  “It was fine.” She smiled. “Better than fine. Better than I thought it would be.”

  It had been good, very good. Some of her friends, describing their first times, had said they’d felt unfulfilled, as if there should have been something more. The earth moving, or some other cliché. The earth hadn’t moved for her, but she hadn’t expected it to. This had been as good as she’d thought it would be. And the next time would be better.

  30

  THE DRIVER WAS WAITING in the lobby. He was a young man, dressed in a freshly pressed oxford button-down shirt and khakis. “Mrs. Blanchard?” he asked politely.

  “It’s Ms.,” Kate said between clenched teeth.

  Her exasperated correction sailed right by him. “I’m Nate,” he identified himself cheerfully. “Mr. Baumgartner sent me to bring you to the house. You’re all checked out. Do you have any bags?”

  “Just this.” She handed him a small overnight carry-bag. Earlier that morning she had bought a T-shirt and a pair of knee-length shorts from the hotel shop (she had hand-washed her undergarments in the sink after Warren left), along with this small duffel to stash her dirty clothes. When she tried to pay for the items, the clerk had informed her that all of her expenses had already been covered. Given that carte blanche, she’d been tempted to buy a swimsuit so she could take a dip in the pool, but the least expensive one was over a hundred dollars, and even on a millionaire’s money that was too rich for her blood for one half-hour swim.

  Her only regret was that there hadn’t been someone to share it all with. It would have been blissful to wake up next to Warren Baumgartner, but that was too much to ask for. Maybe, if his son Peter turned out to be clean, they would see each other again. If not, it had been a great one-night stand.

  Before she’d left her room to go to the lobby she had phoned Angela Baumgartner to confirm the appointment they had made before she came down. The reception she got from Peter’s mother was chilly—Angela had forgotten about the meeting. This would mess up her timetable. Couldn’t they do it another time?

  What was with this family and their laissez-faire attitude about appointments, Kate had thought with a flash of anger. It was her status, that was obvious. This woman didn’t think of her as an equal, not close.

  She had almost rudely rebuffed the woman. She wasn’t going to make another trip down here to accommodate someone who wasn’t thoughtful enough to remember their meeting, particularly since her reason for wanting to cancel was so trivial. After venting for a moment, Angela had agreed to meet her at the Starbucks on San Vicente Boulevard, in Brentwood.

  Nate the chauffeur pulled in front of the house. As Kate got out of the car, she spotted a silver BMW convertible parked in the driveway. She was conflicted that Peter was here. She had been half-hoping he wouldn’t be, so she could have more time with Warren.

  The housekeeper was more cordial when she opened the front door this time. “Mr. Baumgartner is waiting for you on the back patio. Please follow me.”

  Although she was happy about the prospect of seeing Warren again, she would have to be firm with him about his not being present when she interviewed Peter. Afterwards, they could talk. She knew Warren would have questions for her, but she needed to deal with Peter first.

  She followed the housekeeper to the rear of the house, where a covered patio overlooked a large expanse of manicured lawn, beyond which there was a black-bottom lap pool and a large stone-and-tile barbeque area. On the other side of the pool there was a pool house in the same architectural style as the main residence. She knew that the pool house would be fancier than her home. This morning, that didn’t bother her.

  “Would you like something to eat?” the housekeeper offered as she opened the French doors that led outside. “Coffee or juice?”

  “No, thanks,” Kate declined. “I had breakfast at the hotel.” Room service: Orange juice, yogurt with fruit, English muffin, coffee. Twenty-four dollars. She had signed for it, and had left a generous tip.

  To her surprise, it wasn’t Warren waiting for her—it was Peter. He was turned three-quarters away from her, looking out over the yard. He was barefoot, wearing shorts and T-shirt. He had a mug of coffee in his hand.

  Kate stopped in her tracks. From this angle, Peter Baumgartner could pass for Steven McCoy. Unlike his father, who was dark, almost swarthy, Peter was fair. His hair color was similar to Steven’s, as was the length. They were the same approximate height and weight. They shared the same lanky, athletic build.

  Peter heard her approaching and turned to meet her. As soon as she looked at him full in the face she could see the lack of similarities. Peter’s face was fuller than Steven’s, and his features were different—the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw. Put the two of them side by side, and no one would mistake one for the other. But from a distance, or from behind, they were a decent match.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday,” he said sheepishly. “I was up to my ass in alligators, and I spaced.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve forgotten appointments, too,” she told him graciously. You don’t know how all right it was that you weren’t here yesterday. I should be thanking you.

  “My dad said you wanted to meet with me alone,” he told her. He pointed in the direction of the pool house. “He’s over there, in his office. When you want to talk to him, I’ll call him.”

  She wondered if Warren was spying on them. She would, if it was her daughter who was being questioned by a private investigator. She pointed to a glass table on the patio. “Is this a convenient place?”<
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  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  They sat across from each other. She sized him up. “You know why I’m here,” she said. “You talked to Jeremy, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Did he tell you what he told the lawyer?”

  Peter was obviously uncomfortable. “That we were with that girl who was murdered.”

  “Maria Estrada. You knew her name, didn’t you?”

  He squirmed in his chair. “She told me, but I’d forgotten.”

  “Because you’d given her a phony name, so you assumed she would use one, too?”

  He stared at her in surprise. “How did you know that?” He caught himself. “Who says I used a phony name? Was it Jeremy?”

  The question hadn’t been put to Jeremy. The thought had occurred to Kate later, when she remembered Sophia had mentioned that Tina had told her the boys had used fake names.

  “So you did,” she confronted him.

  Peter hung his head. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  He almost laughed in her face. “You think I want some little high school bitch to know my real name? If she had a brain, she’d figure out who my father is. She could have screwed me over good.”

  “Except she was killed, so she missed out on that chance,” Kate replied acidly. She didn’t like this boy. That could complicate any relationship that might develop between her and his father, but that couldn’t be helped. The job came first.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said defensively. “I mean, any girl.”

  “I know what you mean.” She sat back. “Tell me what happened with you and Maria.”

  With a few inconsequential differences, Peter’s account was the same as Jeremy’s. The boys had talked this through, Kate thought as she listened, there was no question about that. She had to remind herself that didn’t mean either one of them was lying.

  “Did you drink with her?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “What?”

  “Beer.” He hesitated. “And tequila.”

  “Even though you knew she was underage.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you do any drugs?”

  He nodded again. He looked miserable.

  “Which ones? Marijuana?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other drugs?”

  He shook his head. “I had a tab of Ecstasy on me, but we didn’t do it.”

  “She didn’t want to?”

  “We didn’t get around to it.”

  “But she would have? Did you ask her?”

  “She was up for anything, basically.”

  “So you had sex with her.”

  Peter almost fell out of his chair. “No!” he protested. “Who told you that? Did Jeremy tell you that?”

  “Did you or didn’t you?” Kate leaned toward him. “Listen to me carefully, Peter. The worst thing you can do is lie. About anything. You’re in too much trouble now. And don’t forget, Maria wasn’t the only girl who was with you boys.”

  He collapsed like a straw house in a stiff breeze. “That other girl. You talked to her?”

  Kate shook her head. “No.”

  Not a lie. She hadn’t talked with Tina about this—yet. But she would. And although it would be frightening for Tina, she would tell the truth. Her reason for not coming clean wasn’t the same as this boy’s, and Jeremy’s. No matter what turned up, she would never be linked to Maria’s murder. At this point, who knew about these two, especially Peter?

  “Do you remember the other girl?” she asked. “Her name, what she looked like?”

  “Not really,” he answered. “Your basic Chicano girl. She was there for the ride, so Jeremy wouldn’t be a fifth wheel.”

  What a sad put-down, Kate thought. As Jeremy’s had been. Tina the cipher. The fill-in, the kid you picked because the teams had to be equal in size. There was nothing wrong with Tina. She was a presentable, attractive girl. Her problem was that she had no pizzazz, for fear of standing out and calling attention to herself.

  Her heart went out to Tina. Not only because no one should go unnoticed, but until recently, her own daughter had been in the same boat.

  “Let’s get back to what I asked you about. You did or didn’t have sex with Maria Estrada.”

  “I didn’t,” he answered emphatically.

  “Including oral sex, or a hand job.”

  His eyes popped. “Jesus, lady.”

  “Come on, Peter,” she told him firmly. “Don’t go all shy on me. Did she blow you or jerk you off?”

  His face clouded. “No. She didn’t do anything.”

  “She wouldn’t put out?” Kate pressed him. “That must have ticked you off.”

  He glared at her. “She couldn’t. The other girl freaked out before me and Maria could get it on. She made us take her back to town.”

  Jeremy had left that detail out. Or maybe he hadn’t known. The two couples had been physically separated.

  This next part was delicate. “So when you got back to town, why didn’t you and Maria take off again, if she was so hot to trot?”

  “She didn’t want to anymore. The moment had passed.” Peter scowled. “Dumb bitch.”

  His answer both puzzled and offended her. “Why was Maria a dumb bitch? Because she didn’t want to go on with you?”

  Peter shook his head. “I’m talking about the other one, the timid little mouse. She screwed everything up.” For the first time since they began talking he looked her straight in the eyes. “You know what’s really fucked about this? If me and Maria had hung together that afternoon, she wouldn’t have gone off with whoever killed her. She might still be alive.”

  Kate and Peter walked across the wide expanse of the backyard to his father’s home office. Warren listened intently as Peter told him what had happened between him and the girl who was later found murdered out in the Santa Ynez Valley. The more Peter got into his story the deeper Warren slumped in his chair, his head dropping to his chest.

  When Peter was finished, he looked up. “Jesus, Peter,” he lamented. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”

  Peter looked like he was about to cry. “I was afraid to, Dad.”

  “Is that why you dropped out of school so abruptly?”

  “No!” Peter protested heatedly. “It had nothing to do with that. I swear it!”

  Warren was pallid. “What do we do now?” he asked Kate.

  “I think you should talk to your lawyer,” she suggested.

  “We will.” He hesitated before asking the next question. “Is Peter under suspicion?”

  “I’m not with the police, so that’s not up to me to decide,” she answered. “If Peter’s story holds up, I would say probably not. Legally, he wasn’t bound to come forward, although withholding information is never good. It can make someone look like they have something to hide. Again, your lawyer can advise you about that.”

  She shouldn’t have made love to Warren. She shouldn’t have gone to dinner with him, or let him pay for her hotel. She had let her emotions supersede her professional ethics. You were stupid, she chastised herself harshly.

  Well, she had done it. In the long run, she hoped it wouldn’t matter. But she had compromised herself, nonetheless.

  She got up. “Thanks for your time. Both of you.” She reached into her bag and took out her digital camera. “Do you mind if I take a couple of pictures, for our files?” she asked Peter.

  He looked at his father, who nodded grudgingly. “Okay,” Warren agreed.

  She took a couple of head shots, and one from each side. “One more, from behind,” she requested. “Might as well get all the angles,”

  Peter turned his back to her. She took the picture, and put the camera back into the bag.

  “I’m done now.”

  “I’ll see you out,” Warren said. “Don’t move,” he ordered Peter sternly.

  Warren escorted her outside. “I’m sorry about this,” she told him. She hoped he believed her.r />
  “It’s not your fault. Although I do think you weren’t entirely straight me with yesterday.” He shook his head. “Stupid bastard.”

  “He was scared.” She felt she had to defend Peter, now that she had burned him.

  “I’m talking about me, not him. Do you know the line from Othello, before he kills himself? I loved not wisely, but too well. That’s me. I’ve been overly indulgent toward Peter, especially since I left his mother. I’ve never made him stand behind his actions, I’ve always let him off the hook. Like his dropping out of school this quarter. I knew the reasons he gave me were bullshit, but I didn’t press him on them. Now he’s in real trouble.”

  She couldn’t help herself—she took his hand. He grasped hers firmly. “You can’t beat yourself up over being too lenient toward your child, Warren. I do the same with mine. It’s better than the opposite.”

  Because we want them to love us, she thought despairingly. And are so afraid they won’t.

  “Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I needed that.”

  She opened her car door. “Please keep me abreast of what’s going on,” he pleaded with her. “I’m scared for Peter.”

  “Of course I will,” she promised him. “And Warren—I didn’t deceive you. Not intentionally.”

  He stared at her. Then he looked toward the house. No one was in sight. He pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

  “I hope I see you again,” he told her, when they broke. “I hope we’ll be able to. Honestly, without any bullshit.”

  “I do, too,” she answered. “I really hope we can.”

  Angela Baumgartner was already at Starbucks, sitting at an outdoor table. Her tanned legs were crossed, and an expensive-looking sandal dangled off an impatiently wiggling foot. She was easily recognizable to Kate; she looked like her son—the same fair coloring, the same facial features. A tall, athletic-looking woman, she appeared to be in her late forties. To Kate’s unsophisticated eye it looked like she’d had some facial work done. If not plastic surgery, at least Botox. She was drinking a cappuccino from a takeout cup. She didn’t stand when Kate introduced herself.