“What? Oh. Yes.” Mrs. Axelrod smiled at them both and turned around. Mr. Dean nodded, said nothing, followed after her.
A man Mac recognized from town but not church stepped over. He looked like a young college professor.
“Mrs. Towne, I know this is a hard time for you,” he said.
“Yes,” Liz said. To Mac she sounded dead tired.
“I do most of the reporting for our little Pack Canyon paper.”
“Paper?”
“The Herald. We have a Web site now, but we still churn out the ol’ dead trees.” He smiled. His teeth were a bit yellow.
“Oh, yeah,” Mac said. “I read the Herald. My name’s MacDonald.”
“Brady,” the reporter said. “Mike Brady. I wanted to run a story about your husband, Mrs. Towne.”
“Story?” Liz said.
“Yes. I wonder if you could tell me about anything you found out there in the canyon.”
Mac sensed Liz stiffen next to him. “Maybe now’s not the time,” he said.
“I just would like to get the facts — ”
“Maybe another time, Mike. We’re at a funeral here.”
“But my story won’t be — ”
“Please,” Liz said. “Please just leave me alone.”
She practically ran toward her car.
1:13 p.m.
The world has gone mad today, And good’s bad today, And black’s white today. . .
The lyrics kept coming back around in Rocky’s head. Was Cole Porter some sort of prophet?
She remembered something Arty said to her, just a few weeks ago. “Everybody’s going crazy today,” he said. “No one knows what to believe.”
That was right. Good was called bad, black called white.
It really was gone mad today.
Here she was at Arty’s church, among the people all eating and doing their best to comfort Liz Towne. Were they all mad? All of them, for believing in a good God?
Didn’t they know about just plain bad luck?
“I appreciated what you said about Arty.”
Mac had come up behind her.
“Thanks,” Rocky said. “You were probably about his best friend.”
“One of them, I think.”
“Can I ask you something about him?”
“Sure.”
An older woman holding a paper plate with a triangular sandwich and glob of potato salad bumped Rocky’s elbow.
“Oh, excuse me,” the woman said. She looked at Rocky, gave her the familiar facial once-over, then added, “You are Arthur’s sister.”
“Yes,” Rocky said.
“This is Mrs. Axelrod,” Mac said to Rocky. “A member of the church.”
“Mr. Axelrod and I started this church,” she said.
Rocky smiled, nodded, and wondered how much more smiling and nodding she would have to do before this was all over.
“Are you thinking of joining?” Mrs. Axelrod said.
“I don’t actually live around here,” Rocky said.
“Pack Canyon is the last frontier community in all of Los Angeles County,” she said, “the last honest community.”
7:35 p.m.
Finally, they were gone. The whole chattering mess of them.
A small group of the women from church had left Liz with all sorts of food at the house. A couple of casseroles and a meatloaf. Tossed green salad and a bottle of Newman’s Own Ranch Dressing. A pie.
One thing you could say for the folks at the church, they knew how to feed you if your husband died.
And they knew how to hang around offering all sorts of doe-eyed sentiments to make her feel better, when all she wanted was to stop faking gratitude and be left alone.
Liz got the hidden bottle of Jim Beam. She could use a shot.
What a production. The whole time she was afraid there might be some miracle, Arty rising from the dead or something, staring at her and shaking his head.
Forgiving her.
That would have been the worst part. She did not want forgiveness, not from Arty or any of them. Because that would mean she’d done something wrong, and there was no wrong here, only accidents and what you did with them.
The jewels. She had to start thinking about how to get them and get out of there. Away from Pack Canyon, out from under the noses of these church people.
That Mrs. Axelrod, what a hen she was! She wanted to make Liz her little egg and sit on her until she came forth as a puffy little Christian.
Forget that noise.
And that Mac. Something about him put her off. Maybe because he was street smart. It took one to know one. He could look into you and see what was going on in there. A dangerous man.
She sat in the big brown chair in front of the TV, her glass of bourbon with her. She flipped through the channels, looking for anything to take her mind off the day. She kept seeing Arty’s urn in her mind. The drink was helping a little, but not much.
She settled on Wheel of Fortune and was into the spin when somebody knocked on the door.
Another church member, no doubt. Cleaning up the last of the duties toward the poor widow. Maybe forgot to leave her a pot roast or something.
Liz quickly downed the last of the drink, got up, went to the door and looked out the peep hole.
Now what was he doing here?
7:38 p.m.
Ted Gillespie tried not to think She’s hot, but that’s exactly what he thought. Even with the Band-Aid on her forehead. Even with her hair a little messy. In fact, he liked it that way, kind of loose —
She just lost her husband, jerk. And she’s let you in her house. You better be a lot cooler now. One step at a time.
“I really, really hope you don’t mind that I came by,” Ted said. Liz Towne seemed tired but not unfriendly. “I saw about the funeral in the paper and went to the church and asked about you. I told them I’m the guy who found you, and they didn’t think I was a serial killer. There was a nice lady there” — Shut up, idiot! — “anyway, I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
Liz smiled. He thought it was shy and sweet and tired and hot all at the same time. He stood a little straighter and sucked in his gut just a little. He didn’t want it to look like he was trying too hard.
“No,” she said, “That’s really nice of you. Want something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” he said, not wanting to put her out. Not wanting to disturb her in any way. Not wanting this moment, this night, to end anytime soon.
“Come on,” she said. “Then it’ll seem like it’s a friendly visit and not a thing you had to do.”
“Oh, it’s not that I had to,” Ted said quickly. “I really wanted to know how you were getting along.”
“Well, now you do.”
“You’re all right?”
“I’m all right.”
“Okay,” he said. That’s when he realized turning down something to drink meant he might actually have to leave sooner, so he added, “if you have a soda of some kind.”
“Anything special?”
“I’m sort of partial to ginger ale.”
“Let me just see,” she said and went to the kitchen. Ted watched her. Her clothes were tight. She fit them well.
He thought about the dead husband. Lucky guy, one who got a good one. The good ones were always taken. Always married or had a boyfriend. Your only chance, if you had a chance at all, was to catch one at just the right time. After they broke up with their boyfriend or got divorced.
Or the husband died.
Shut up.
She came back in and handed him a glass with ice clinking in it. She had one for herself. “Ginger ale it is,” she said.
“Great,” he said.
“Sit,” she said.
He did. So did she.
“Tell me about yourself, Ted.”
An opening. Don’t blow it. “Oh, not much to tell.” Quit apologizing for yourself! I am confident! “I do computer work.” Brilliant.
“What kind?”
<
br /> “Big things. System things. It’s called IT. Information technology. For companies.”
“You help the companies run?”
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I guess you could put it that way.”
“Sure,” she said. “Without the computers, nothing gets done. Makes you the real power, right? I mean, if you ever wanted to mess them up . . .”
“I could really do a number, that’s right.” He took a quick gulp of ginger ale. “But I get paid to help, not mess things up.” Yeah, when I’m actually employed, that is.
“I’ll bet you do,” she said, then sipped her drink.
She looked at him as she did.
His insides melted into hot goo. In a moment, he was sure he’d start babbling like a mental patient. He was going to make a fool out of himself, and part of him didn’t care. The part of him that was sinking into her big, blue eyes. The part that would do anything to have this woman for his own.
The other part, the rational side, the systems-operations brain that knew when it was time to abort a program, said, “I’ve kept you long enough.”
He stood up and almost spilled his drink. His hands were shaking.
Liz stayed in her chair a moment. Then she slowly put her glass on the table, stood up, and came to him.
She put out her hand and he took it. It was soft and warm.
“Thank you so much for coming to see me,” she said. “That was very sweet of you.”
Five thousand volts shot through Ted’s body. She kept on holding his hand.
“If,” he started to say, then stopped, then started again, “if you ever need anything . . .”
“I know,” she said.
7:40 p.m.
“Thanks for coming,” Rocky said.
“Sure,” Mac said.
They were on the outside deck of the Canyon Grind, an indie coffee place near the border between Los Angeles and Ventura counties. From here they could look down on the lights of the San Fernando Valley, a blanket of luminescent pinpricks in reds and greens and whites.
City lights seen from up high were always a comfort to Rocky. Perhaps because they were distant and didn’t shine directly on her.
They kept the lights low outside on the deck. Candles on the tables. The sky was thick with clouds, so there were no stars. Rocky had insisted on buying the coffee. After all, she was the one who invited him.
“I was hoping you could tell me a little about how Arty was,” Rocky said. “You know, before he died.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’d like to. Arty was really an amazing guy. Smart. He was teaching me about the Bible even though I’ve been a believer longer.”
“Is that right?”
“I think he was thinking of going into the ministry, but he hadn’t mentioned that to Liz yet.”
“Right,” Rocky said. “We wouldn’t want to upset Liz.”
“She was baptized. Did you know that?”
“She mentioned something about it.”
“You don’t sound pleased,” Mac said.
“Why should I be?”
“For Liz. She needed this.”
“Right.”
Mac looked at her. A studying gaze she didn’t like. “What have you got against her?” he asked.
“You’re getting personal kind of early, aren’t you, Mr. MacDonald?”
“Mac. And isn’t that why you asked me here?”
“Excuse me?”
“To get personal. To question me. Not about Arty, but about Liz.”
She wanted to get angry but couldn’t. He was right. He had her pegged, but she wasn’t about to let him know it.
“How well do you know her?” she asked.
“I know her even better now. Sure, she has a few rough edges, but she’s changed. She’s a new creation.”
Rocky said nothing.
“She’s going to need all the support she can get,” Mac said. “I know she’d like you to be part of that.”
“She tell you that?”
Mac shook his head. “I just know.”
“How do you know?”
He blinked a couple of times. “I sense it,” he said.
“Sense it, do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me tell you what I sense,” Rocky said. “You know what I do to make a buck?”
“Arty said some sort of insurance work.”
“Investigations. I look for fraud. And I have a hero. Did you ever see the movie Double Indemnity?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s about a smart insurance salesman who falls for the wife of a client. So he and the wife murder the husband, then the woman tries to collect on the insurance. Well, my hero is a guy played by Edward G. Robinson. He plays a guy named Keyes, who is the fraud investigator. And he says he has this little man inside. The little man tells him when something’s phony. And the little man is always right.”
“You have one of those, too?”
“Call it a voice. And it’s talking to me. About Liz.”
“That doesn’t sound very — I don’t know — scientific.”
“How much do you know about her background?”
“Arty said it was kind of tough.”
“She didn’t know her father, and her mother didn’t even come to the wedding. That’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why don’t you give her a little time?” Mac said. “Maybe if we both show her some support now, we can make a difference.”
“Maybe,” Rocky said. And maybe not, the little voice said.
Mac said, “Let’s leave Liz aside for a minute. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
He leaned forward a little. “Was that your dad at the funeral?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Everything okay between you?”
Rocky ran her thumbnail along the coffee cup, forging a line. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
“You know,” Mac said, “from where I sit, I think there needs to be more concern out there, not less.”
“Some people might call that sticking your nose in other people’s business.”
“You think that’s what I want to do?”
“I don’t really know what you want, and I don’t care. I care about what happened to Arty.”
“He died. In an accident. And his wife is hurting. I think you’re hurting, too.”
If she sat there much longer, this guy was going to get in way too close. “Thanks for the analysis,” she said, standing.
“Don’t go yet,” Mac said.
She paused and considered staying. She knew she had a choice. She even knew she should stay.
But she went, quickly, and did not look back.
Thursday
8:28 a.m.
The phone woke Liz. What time was it? What business did a phone have going off this early anyway?
Why did she even have a land line? She didn’t need it. She didn’t need to be in touch with the outside world anymore.
No, what she needed was to be left alone. And to get the gems.
After the third ring, Liz picked up and mumbled a hello.
“Elizabeth, is that you?” A woman’s voice. Who? And why was she using her full name when it wasn’t even her full name? She’d been tagged Liz in the maternity ward.
“Who is this, please?”
“It’s Edie Axelrod, dear.”
“What? Why — ”
“I didn’t wake you, did I? It’s . . . oh my, perhaps I did . . .”
“What can I do for you?” You interfering old hen!
“I just wanted to know if you saw the story.”
“Story?”
“In the paper. In our paper, dear.”
Liz tried to push the sleepy thoughts to the side and let the wakeful ones take over. Paper. Newspaper. “What paper?”
“The Pack Canyon Herald. Did you know I was the editor-in-chief at one time?
”
“No.”
“Oh yes, and I covered quite a few stories myself. I was the one who first reported on the Manson family, did you know that?”
“No.”
“They lived at a ranch and were taking drugs all the time and — ”
“Mrs. Axelrod, I will get the paper. Thank you very — ”
“ — getting young people to follow them — ”
“ — much.”
Liz hung up the phone. Would she appear rude? She didn’t care. All she cared about was getting that paper.
One hour later, at the Pack Canyon Market, she had it. The twelve-page paper was not what you could call major, but the people who put it out seemed to take it seriously. Maybe too seriously.
On the front page above the fold was a headlined story:
Strange Coincidence in Pack Canyon Death
By Mike Brady
Staff Reporter
Pack Canyon resident Arthur Towne, 32, died Saturday as the result of a fall off a treacherous path in the back reaches of the canyon, according to a sheriff’s spokesman.
The death has rocked the community. Towne’s widow, Elizabeth, attended the funeral yesterday, as did many of the congregation of Pack Canyon Community Church, where Towne was a member.
In a bizarre twist, according to the sheriff’s office, an unidentified body of a male was found not far from the spot of Towne’s fatal accident.
The body was located near a motorcycle in a deep cleft that is difficult to see from the main path. Motorcycles are prohibited in Pack Canyon, but this has not kept some from using the paths.
There was no identification on the body, the sheriff’s spokesman says. Officials surmise that the body may have been there as long as 12 hours before its discovery.
Liz folded the paper and felt like a million eyes were on her. Each set looking to see if she would flinch or otherwise give something away.
Maybe the eyes of Detective Moss. It had to be Moss who fed this guy the story. Made sure he knew about it. Maybe put him up to questioning her at the funeral.
Moss, who wanted her to crack.
Well, they weren’t going to shake her. She would simply act normal. The plan would continue. She’d keep up the illusion that life marched on, and she was the heroic grieving widow muddling through. Then she could pick her time to transition out of the community. To just get gone, as the song went.
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