Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Greg wheeled over to the fridge and started loading the plastic containers into it. “Who knows, sweetheart. It’s quite a puzzle. But it does sound a lot like someone else we know.”

  The same thought had crossed my mind. “I know. It sounds like Willie, doesn’t it?”

  William Proctor had disappeared on a boat years ago after embezzling millions from his own investment company, causing thousands of people to lose their nest eggs. When his boat was destroyed by a storm, he had escaped. His wife’s body had been found, but not Willie’s. For years he’d been assumed dead, but I had stumbled upon him doing follow-up on a client’s sudden death. Since then, he’s become a good friend to Greg and me, even though he’s still on the run from the law.

  “But,” I continued, “Willie didn’t stage his death. There was no substitute body. There really was an accident, and he was presumed dead.”

  “But,” Greg said, seeing my but and raising me one of his own, “Willie did build a new life for himself and gave himself a new identity.”

  Everything Greg was saying was true. I rolled it around, giving thought to all angles.

  “Remember when Steele disappeared?” I asked.

  “Of course. It was right before we got married.”

  “I went to Willie for some advice on finding Steele, and he told me it’s actually quite easy for a person to start over if they know how to do it. They just need to find someone who can provide new ID like a driver’s license, social security card, passport, even college degrees and backgrounds. He said the higher the price, the more believable the new identity.”

  Greg went silent, weighing the information. “Makes sense,” he finally said. “And if Shirley had all that money she stole from the bank, she’d have the money to start over.”

  “Clarice disappeared into thin air during that blowup with John Hollowell. Maybe Shirley still had the right connections and helped Clarice.” Picking up a stray dirty paper napkin, I tossed it into the trash under the sink and leaned back against the counter. “Besides these folks being friends, maybe Shirley is the one common denominator. Maybe she was the person who arranged the new lives.”

  Greg smiled. “Well, she helped couples begin new lives as a wedding planner.”

  “Do you think someone in hiding killed her, Greg? Maybe a disgruntled client?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it was a disgruntled bride or groom? Maybe the caterer or someone in the band thought they got a raw deal? Who knows, it might even be that one of the guests recognized her and held a grudge.”

  “And, as Clarice said, it could even be her partners in the robbery finally tracking her down after all this time.” I scratched my head using all five digits. “Doesn’t seem to be any end to possible suspects, does there?”

  Greg rolled over to where I stood and grasped my hands in his. “We’re getting off-track, sweetheart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Clarice only asked us to look into those missing people, not into Shirley’s murder.”

  “What’s this us business? Clarice asked me. You don’t need to get involved. You have enough on your plate with the shop.” Greg owned Ocean Breeze Graphics and had opened a couple of satellite shops in Phoenix and Denver. Even in the current slow economy, his business was going strong.

  “You don’t need to get involved either. In spite of the beating we took in the market when the economy took a nosedive, we’re doing fine. We don’t need the five grand.”

  I sighed and tightened my grip on his warm, strong hands. “I was about to tell Clarice no when I saw Alfred Nunez’s name on the list. If that is Joan’s father, Greg, then I must get involved. And the money has nothing to do with it.”

  Greg looked up at me. I knew that look. It was determination, as solid as a mountain and just as unmovable. “Then this is a project for us. As I’ve told you before, if you won’t give up poking your nose into dangerous business, then I’m tagging along.”

  I nodded in agreement. Whether my inclination toward finding murderers is a curse or a gift, it was much more enjoyable doing it with Greg by my side. Not to mention I felt safer.

  “And,” he continued, “I propose we only look into the disappearance of Alfred Nunez. If we find him and he is Joan’s dad, we can decide then how to handle telling her. If we don’t find him, I think we should let it slide and let Joan continue thinking he’s dead. Those other people mean nothing to us, and we have no idea what Clarice Hollowell’s agenda is in finding them.”

  My husband is not only handsome and sexy, he’s smart.

  “Sounds like a great plan.” I planted a big kiss on his mouth.

  “So you’ll say nothing to Joan?” Greg persisted.

  “I promise I won’t say a word until we’re sure.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  Greg laughed. “Trust is not the issue, sweetheart.”

  In my defense, it was never my intention to say a word to Joan about her father. It just popped out like the little critter in Whac-a-Mole, and Greg wasn’t there with a mallet to stop me. But, as always, I had my reasons.

  It was the Thursday after Hannah’s wedding. My nose was buried in a box of documents. Additional documents had arrived from Lori Ogle’s office via e-mail, and I’d spent the morning downloading, printing, and organizing them so that Steele and whatever young associates he could wrangle could review them. I had just sorted the last batch when Joan Nunez showed up at my office door. She’d approached so quietly I hadn’t even realized she was there until she spoke.

  “Can I talk to you, Odelia?” she’d asked.

  Surprised, I dropped the stack of documents I had been holding into the box, the edges of the paper slicing into my palm on the way down. “Ow.” I lifted my hand to my mouth and licked the thin but painful cut. “Sure,” I mumbled.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I gave one last lick to the tiny spot of blood. “By the time this deal is done, I’m going to feel like I’ve been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.”

  Joan gave my joke a forced smile. She entered my office, closing the door behind her. While she took a seat in the chair across from my desk, I lifted the box I’d been working with and moved it from my desk to the floor so I could see her clearly when I took my own seat.

  Joan is a petite woman in her early forties. She’s very quiet and serious and rather on the plain, dowdy side. Mousy, some would say. She’s also very conservative in demeanor and in her beliefs, and she has never been married. When she first came to Woobie, we all thought she was in her forties because of her mature appearance, so when her mother threw her a surprise fortieth birthday lunch a couple of years ago, we were rather shocked. Kelsey and I finally decided that Joan must have come out of the womb middle-aged.

  Recently, at Kelsey’s and my urging, Joan had colored her long graying hair and cut it into a stylish bob. We’d even managed to get her to use a little makeup. It had perked up her appearance considerably.

  “What’s up?” I asked Joan. The possibility that her father was still alive hummed in the back of my brain like a trapped hornet looking for a way out. I tried to distract it with a mundane question. “Did you have a good few days off?”

  Joan looked down at her hands, then up at me. It was then I noticed how pale and haggard she appeared. I became alarmed.

  “Are you all right, Joan?”

  She wrung her hands in her lap. “I didn’t take the last two days off as vacation, Odelia. We had a family emergency.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s not your mother?”

  “My mother’s fine, Odelia. Thank you.” She paused, looking down again at her hands. “It’s … it’s my father.”

  My heart stopped, replaced by the buzzing in my brain. “Your father?” I asked, my words treading on thin ice. “I thought your father had passed away?”

  “So had we.” She swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

  I handed her the tissue
box parked next to my computer monitor and got up. “Be right back,” I told her.

  When I returned, I could see that Joan had been weeping. I handed her the large glass of water I’d retrieved from the office kitchen and resumed my place behind my desk.

  “Are you sure you want to talk about it?” I asked her, hoping she did but willing to understand if she’d changed her mind about giving me the details.

  She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure. In fact, I’m hoping you can help.” She took a drink of water. “You see, Monday night we received a call from the Santa Ana police asking about my father. We told them he was deceased, and they asked if we would come to their station to answer a few questions. They said it was very important. My mother and I went there together on Tuesday. That’s when they told us they’d found a man, a dead man, without any identification. They believe he was my father.”

  “And was it him?” Even as I asked the question, my gut told me the answer.

  “Yes,” Joan said, dissolving into tears again. “We identified the body.”

  “Where did they find him?” As soon as I asked the question, I realized I should have asked something more along the lines of How is that possible? I hoped Joan didn’t pick up on the lack of surprise on my part.

  “He was in an abandoned dumpster in an alley.” She let out a short sob. “He’d been shot and left there—left there, Odelia, like a piece of garbage!” She took a gulp of water. “The police said he’d been dead over a week.”

  That was my cue for the question that should have been asked. “How is that possible? I remember going to his funeral.”

  Joan shrugged her small shoulders until they nearly hit her ears. “I don’t know, Odelia. My mother is beside herself.”

  “I’m sure she is, the poor woman.”

  Shaking her head slowly, Joan said, “Not because of my father, but because she remarried several years ago. She’s worried that she’s been living in sin with my stepfather and is going to hell for it. Or that she’s a bigamist and going to jail. The police tried to console her about the bigamist part, but God frightens her a lot more than the police. She and my stepfather are looking into the validity of their marriage. They may have to have another ceremony.”

  “Um, she’s not upset about your father showing up dead for a second time?” My family is pretty screwed up, but this seemed odd even by our standards.

  “Yes and no,” Joan said with frankness. “My mom and dad didn’t have the best marriage. Far from it. Although she was upset when he died, or supposedly died, the first time, I think in many ways she felt relieved. She would never have sought a divorce, though I’m sure she would have liked one.” Joan’s cheeks turned pink. “I probably shouldn’t say this about my own mother, but I think she would have been more upset if he’d turned up alive.”

  “And how do you feel about it?”

  Joan dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “My father wasn’t perfect, but we were fairly close, and I missed him terribly after he died. You know that.”

  I nodded. Alfred’s death had hit Joan hard, just as the death of my own father had left me reeling for quite a while.

  “But I’ve had several years to adapt to the situation. Now I feel like I’m grieving all over again.” She paused to blow her nose.

  “Why are you here today, Joan? You should be home with your mother, not at the office.”

  “The last few days have nearly driven me insane. My mother hasn’t told anyone else in the family about this yet, but I couldn’t spend another moment with her worry and drama. And being alone at my apartment is just as bad. I’m either crying or … or angry.”

  “Angry?”

  Joan fixed her big brown eyes on my face. “Where in the hell has he been all these years, Odelia?”

  Joan Nunez never swore. The fact that she did told me the depth of her feelings and confusion.

  It was at this point I decided I should disclose to Joan what I’d learned about her father. I’d made a color photocopy of the photo Clarice had left with me. Pulling it out of my tote bag, I unfolded it and placed it on the desk. I smoothed out the creases and with both hands covering it, pushed it across my desk toward Joan.

  “Recognize anyone?” I asked, lifting my hands from the paper.

  Joan scanned the photo, then gasped as her hand flew to her mouth in astonishment. I didn’t say a word but let her absorb the shock slowly.

  “That’s my father,” she finally said, pointing to the man known to Clarice as Alfonso Nunez. She looked up at me. “Who are these people, and how in the world did you come by this photograph?” Before I could answer, she threw another question at me, this one wrapped in suspicion. “Have you known my father was alive all this time?”

  I held up my hands palms out—a defensive move. “No, Joan. I knew nothing about your father until yesterday.”

  After taking a deep breath, I filled Joan in on what had happened at Hannah’s wedding and Clarice’s visit and the request to help her find people, including Alfred.

  Joan scrutinized the photo while I talked. When I was done, she said, “So all of these people are in hiding?”

  “I’m not sure, Joan. I do know that some of them have new identities, but I’m not sure of any of the reasons except for Shirley Pearson’s.” I paused to get my thoughts in order for my next question. “How about your father? Was he involved in anything illegal?”

  Joan looked up from the photo, her wet eyes scrunched in thought. “A few days ago, I would have said absolutely not, but today I’m wondering the same. When he died, my mother received his insurance money. It was a nice tidy sum. The police told us that the insurance company will be investigating for fraud. She might even have to give the money back.”

  “Does she still have it?”

  She shook her head. “She paid off the house with most of it. Got rid of some debts. Stuff like that.”

  “Joan, when Clarice asked me to look into the whereabouts of these people, I was going to turn her down. The only reason I agreed was because I recognized your father and wanted to find out what happened to him or even if it was the same man. Now that he’s turned up dead, I’m going to turn this over to the police.”

  “Do you have to?”

  Her question surprised me, like a small electrical shock. Joan Nunez was the most by-the-book person I knew.

  “There are two homicides here, Joan. Don’t you want to know who killed your father? And don’t you think the man who did die in that car crash deserves his due? If the crash wasn’t an accident, then he was also murdered.”

  She stood up and walked toward the door. I thought Joan was going to leave, but instead she simply faced the wall, her back to me, like she was serving a time-out. She stayed that way a full minute, obviously thinking about what I’d said. I didn’t disturb her thoughts, though it still shocked me that she had to give the situation any second consideration.

  Joan finally turned and faced me, both of her hands on the back of the chair she’d vacated. “My father was already dead to me, Odelia. And even though the pain of losing him has been reopened, I’ll get over it, as I did the first time. Right now, I’m much more interested in why he disappeared in the first place and where he’s been and what he’s been doing.”

  Joan’s face was so set and determined it could have been added to Mt. Rushmore. “And yes, I agree with you that the identity of the man who did die in that car crash should be known. However, I need to protect my mother. I’ll not have her implicated in any alleged fraud scheme.” Her stone face softened into a plea. “Will you help? Please? You’re already involved, sort of.”

  In the years I’ve known Joan Nunez, she’d never displayed this kind of backbone. She was an excellent paralegal, and her integrity was without question, but she had the reputation of being rather wishy-washy when it came to standing up for herself. Putting my elbows on my desk, I cupped my face in my hands and closed my eyes.

  “Odelia,” Joan rushed to say. “I’m sorry. Did I say somethin
g wrong?”

  Ah, there was the real Joan, apologetic even when there was no reason to be.

  “Let me think a moment,” I told her.

  Just as Joan took a seat again, there were two firm knocks on my office door, followed by Steele marching in without waiting for a response.

  “One of these days,” I said to Steele with a cold glare, “you’re going to stalk in here and be embarrassed by what you find.”

  He scoffed. “I doubt it.” He looked at Joan. “No work to do, Nunez?”

  “I … um …,” she stammered. Yep, the real Joan was back.

  Instead, I answered Steele. “Joan and I were discussing something.”

  “Can’t this wait until after you finish indexing those documents from Ogle?”

  Rolling my eyes, I plucked a document from the printer on the credenza behind me and held it out to Steele. “Here’s the updated index to the documents. The highlighted ones are those we received today. They are all printed out and filed in the boxes, ready for review.”

  Steele looked over the list. His eyes drifted over Joan, then over me, before speaking again. “You’re sure these are all of them?”

  I turned to my computer screen and checked my office e-mail. “No more have arrived since I updated the index,” I reported. “Anything else?”

  He seemed annoyed by my efficiency. “I have a conference call at three today. Make sure you update this before my call.”

  “Don’t I always?” Geez, his escalated nastiness was getting on my nerves. Anytime this deal or Lori Ogle was mentioned, it kicked Steele’s snarly disposition into overdrive. I couldn’t wait for it to be over so he could either pursue the fair Lori or stop thinking about her altogether.

  Joan looked uncomfortable. Steele always made her cower. This astounded me since litigation attorneys aren’t known for being pussycats, yet Joan was right at home with the attorneys in her department.

  “Will you need me on that call?” I asked my boss, praying he’d say he wouldn’t.

  “Don’t think so. At least not at this time.”

  Steele was stalling. I knew the signs. I wasn’t sure if he had come into my office to talk to me about something else or just to break up a suspected coffee klatch, but I knew the document index wasn’t his real purpose.