I dropped the book and left the bookstore, heading for the nearby crosswalk. The walk signal flashed green and I hurried across Park Street as the young man angled the purple car into the traffic lane. I ran up the sidewalk on the other side of the street, dodging pedestrians. The purple car and I reached the intersection of Park Street and Central Avenue just as the signal turned yellow. The driver gunned the engine and the car sped through as the light turned red.
My car was just around the corner. I had the green light so I made a left from Central onto Park, and managed to catch up with the purple car, keeping a few car lengths back. Then the purple car made a left onto Lincoln Avenue, just as the traffic signal changed from yellow to red. I was stuck, no chance of following.
I had the plate number. Soon I'd have a name and an address to go with it.
* * * *
Fred Sutton had told me he and his dog Aggie walked every afternoon, usually along the beach. I parked my car near the end of Grand Street and walked across Shoreline Drive to the paved path that paralleled the wide sandy beach. Next to the path the low dunes were planted with wildflowers and sea grass, and beyond that, I saw driftwood piled on the sand. Wind ruffled the surface of the bay. In the blue sky above me, seagulls wheeled and cried. As I strolled along the path I saw in the distance the Bay Bridge and the tightly packed cluster of buildings that was San Francisco.
Suddenly I got a prickly feeling between my shoulder blades, as though someone was watching me. I turned slowly, scanning street, path, and beach, my guard up. Then I saw Fred Sutton and his dog Aggie walking toward me. I quickened my pace to catch up with them. When I scratched Aggie's ears, she responded with pleasurable groans and a wagging tail.
"The week the little girl got killed was spring break at SF State,” I said. “Was Charles Blaine home that week?"
Fred rubbed his chin. “He went camping. The Saturday before the little girl got hit I saw him and some other kids packing up some gear. I stopped to say hello. Charlie said they were going camping. Don't know when they got back, but I didn't see Charlie again till Friday of that week."
Which was two days after the hit-and-run vehicle ended Emily Gebhardt's life. “What do you remember about his friends?” I asked. “How many people were there? And what were they driving?"
"Three guys and three girls,” Fred said. “They were packing the camping gear into an SUV and a black car, what I'd call a roadster."
That sounded like the car I'd seen on Park Street, the one that had recently been painted purple. “Does Charlie have a girlfriend?"
"Oh, yeah, since high school. Anita, I think her name is. She's a pretty little girl with long dark hair. Come to think of it, she drives that black car."
"Have you seen her lately?"
"She was at Charlie's house this morning. She's gone and painted that car the damndest shade of purple."
"The car was black last month and now it's purple. I wonder why."
Fred frowned. “I get your drift. You think Charlie and his girlfriend had something to do with that hit-and-run?"
"Maybe. I'm using some random pieces to assemble the puzzle."
"That might explain why Peggy's had such a burr under her saddle these past few weeks,” he said. “I hope you're wrong."
"If I'm not?"
"They need to face the music."
I left Fred and Aggie and walked back toward my car. The prickly feeling was still there. Was someone watching me? I considered the possibilities. Peggy Blaine? Had the two young people in the purple car—Charles Blaine and his girlfriend Anita—turned the tables on me? Or was Steve Gebhardt looking over my shoulder, as I'd feared he might?
Gebhardt's dry-cleaning and tailoring shop was on Lincoln Avenue near downtown Alameda. The woman at the counter was middle-aged and talkative, which suited me just fine. She shook her head when I asked to see her boss. “I'm sorry, he's not here. Can I help you?"
"No, my business is with him. I've been trying to catch him, but I keep missing him here at the store."
"He hasn't been in much lately,” the clerk confided.
As far as Carol Gebhardt knew, her husband had been going to work every morning. So where was Steve Gebhardt when he wasn't at his store, particularly on a busy Saturday afternoon?
"Poor Mr. Gebhardt,” the clerk went on. “He and his wife suffered a terrible loss. Their little girl was killed by a hit-and-run driver, about a month ago."
"I know. He's taking it hard."
"He's devastated. Who wouldn't be? How do you get over something like that?” She shuddered. “I can't imagine what I'd do if I lost one of my kids, especially that way."
"People have different ways of coping. Some cry, others get angry."
"Mr. Gebhardt is angry. He talks about what he'll do if he ever catches up with the driver of that car. Normally he's the nicest, most even-tempered man. But he hasn't been himself since it happened. Poor man. I'm really concerned about him. Not that I think he'd actually do anything. It's just talk. Maybe it will help get him through this difficult time...” Her voice trailed off.
Would Steve Gebhardt actually do something if I did what he and Carol had hired me to do—find out who drove the car that killed his daughter? Gebhardt wasn't in his store. That didn't prove he'd been following me. I recalled the photo I'd seen at the Gebhardts’ house, of Steve and his daughter on a hunting trip. I took the precaution of finding out what guns were registered to Steve. He had a hunting rifle and a shotgun, but no handgun. But handguns were easy to get.
By the following week I'd learned that the purple car was registered to Lewis Montano, who lived on Pacific Avenue in Alameda's west end. He'd purchased the car new five years earlier and the vehicle was black when it left the dealer's lot.
When I drove past the house on Thursday afternoon, a white sedan was parked in the driveway but the purple car was nowhere in sight. I left my own car at the end of the block and knocked on a few doors. I found stay-at-home moms and retired couples, and gleaned some information about the Montanos. They had three children, all living at home. The oldest, Anita, had graduated from Encinal High School two years earlier. She was in college but no one was sure where.
I was walking toward my car when the purple car whipped around the corner, moving fast. The young woman I'd seen the previous Saturday was at the wheel. Anita Montano—I assumed that's who she was—zoomed past me and parked at the curb in front of the Montano house. She got out of the car, carrying a backpack, and went inside the house. The living-room curtains were closed. I stopped when I reached the purple car. Piled in the passenger seat were an assortment of magazines and mail-order catalogs, an open box of granola bars, a program from a basketball game, and a student newspaper from Chabot College in Hayward.
I walked around to the driver's side, for a closer look at the sticker on the lower left corner of the windshield. It was printed with the name, address, and phone number of a repair shop in Oakland. A date had been written on a line that said “Last Service.” The car had been in the shop the Monday after the hit-and-run.
I moved away from the car and walked toward my own, just as the front door of the Montano house opened. Anita came out, minus the backpack. I didn't think she'd seen me. She walked straight for the purple car, got in, and drove away.
I drove to Oakland and located the repair shop, telling the owner I was following up on the Montanos’ insurance claim. Yes, his crew had worked on the car for several days, doing a tune-up and an oil change in addition to repairs and a paint job. He frowned when I asked him what the Montanos told him about how the car got damaged. “You should know that, if you're investigating the claim."
"Just want to see if the girl's story matches with what her father told me."
"Mr. Montano is a straight-up guy. He wouldn't lie about something like that."
Montano might not have lied, but I wasn't sure about his daughter's veracity. I shrugged. “I'm just doing my job. He wasn't driving when the accident happened, right?"
"No, his daughter was driving. She was camping with some friends, had the car off-road and ran into a rock. Must have been a big one. There was a lot of damage. Crumpled left front fender and a broken headlight. I had to replace the rim, too."
"Why did the Montanos paint the car purple?"
"I know the paint job is over and above what you'd authorize for repairs. After we fixed the fender and headlight, we were going to touch up the black paint, but the girl wanted purple, her favorite color. Mr. Montano said to go ahead. Wouldn't have been my choice. Looks like grape soda."
"Thanks for your help."
I went back to my office. The Chabot College Web site confirmed the dates of the college's spring break—the week Emily Gebhardt died. Anita's story about the car hitting a rock was plausible. I made some phone calls. Lewis Montano told his insurance company the same story he'd told the repair shop. Anita hadn't reported the accident to anyone. She said she didn't think the damage was that bad until she got home and her father saw it.
Maybe. The insurance agent heard similar stories, day in and day out. Besides, he knew Lewis Montano and was willing to accept the story at face value.
But why paint the car purple? Disguise? Camouflage? No one was looking for a purple car with no visible front-end damage.
I considered a couple of scenarios, assuming the purple car was the hit-and-run vehicle. Anita had been driving the car and she'd lied to her father and the insurance company. But that wouldn't explain why Peggy Blaine was upset about the memorial to Emily on the corner, so upset she was ready to sell her house. What if her son Charlie had been driving the car? What if Anita was covering for him, out of love or mistaken loyalty. Or was it the other way around?
I staked out the Montano house on Pacific Avenue. Late Saturday afternoon Anita drove the purple car to Grand Street. She honked her horn twice. Charlie Blaine left his mother's house and hopped into the passenger seat. They drove downtown, parked on Santa Clara Avenue, and walked to a Japanese restaurant. When they finished dinner I was waiting for them at the purple car, my business card in my outstretched hand.
Charlie stared at the print on the card. His eyes widened. “You're that private eye my mom told me about."
"Yes. I know about the hit-and-run. Either you go to the police, or I will."
Anita started crying. Charlie's face crumpled. “It was an accident,” he said.
"Yes, it was. But someone died. Tell me how it happened."
They'd had a fight while on the camping trip. They'd decided to leave their friends at the state park up in Sonoma County and go back to Alameda, arguing all the way. Charlie drove Anita's car that afternoon. He was speeding, as he often did, but he'd never been caught. He had a lead foot when he was distracted. And he had been distracted. He and Anita had been yelling at each other as he sped down Grand Street.
"You've got to believe me,” he said. “I didn't see the little girl. I didn't know I'd hit her until I heard the thump."
"But you kept going."
"I panicked,” he wailed.
"We both did.” Words poured from Anita's mouth as though she'd kept them back too long. “We didn't know what to do. So we ran. I told my dad I drove the car into a big rock at the campground. He bought it. We got the car fixed and painted."
"And your mother put her house on the market,” I told Charlie. “She thought you could run away from this. But that shrine on the corner is a daily reminder. You know what you have to do, both of you. You go to the police, or I will."
He ran his hands through his sandy hair. “I've got to talk to my mom. Let me talk to her first."
Anita took out her cell phone and called her father, asking him to meet her at the Blaine house. I followed the purple car as Anita drove slowly back to Grand Street and parked in the driveway, behind Peggy Blaine's maroon SUV. Then the white sedan I'd seen at the Montanos’ house pulled up to the curb. An older man got out and walked to where I stood with Charlie and Anita, on the sidewalk leading up to the porch. Anita threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder.
He looked alarmed as he patted her on the back. “What's wrong, honey?"
Peggy Blaine opened her front door, stepped out on the porch, and glared at me like a mother lion defending her cub. “You. What are you doing here? Get off my property. Leave my son alone."
I directed my words to Charlie and Anita. “I'll give you fifteen minutes."
They went into the house and shut the door. I retreated to the corner where Emily's shrine stood, with burned-out candles and flowers wilting in buckets. When I looked up, I saw Carol and Steve Gebhardt exit their house in the middle of the block, heading this way. Steve carried the tote bag with its heavy pillar candles and Carol held a large colorful bouquet, ready to perform their evening ritual of lighting candles and putting out fresh flowers in memory of their daughter.
"Hello, Jeri,” Carol said when they reached the corner. “I called and left a message at your office. Are you making any progress?"
"Some,” I said. “Is that why you called?"
"Not exactly,” Carol said. “It's the woman who lives here.” She pointed at Peggy Blaine's front porch. “I'm afraid she doesn't like us putting out flowers and candles for Emily. Last night she came outside and yelled at us to stop. She was very nasty about it."
Trouble. I'd been concerned about a confrontation between the Gebhardts and Peggy Blaine. I had to ward off another one. “Did you respond?"
Steve's mouth tightened. “It was all I could do not to say something. But if she starts in again tonight—"
Carol put a placating hand on his arm. “Just ignore her. She doesn't understand. She doesn't know what it's like to lose a child. Maybe if we explain..."
"She told me it's because her house is on the market,” I said.
Steve stared at the For Sale sign in the yard. “That sign went up the week after Emily died, about the same time someone started messing with Emily's memorial. Did you check her out?"
"I did. She was at work on the day Emily died."
"She has a son, doesn't she? I've seen him. And his girlfriend. In a purple car."
Since the Gebhardts lived nearby, it was possible Steve had seen Charlie and Anita in the purple car. But I suspected he'd been following me. The situation was building an uncomfortable head of steam. I hoped the Gebhardts would finish their evening ritual before anyone came out of the Blaine house. “Let me help you put out the candles and flowers,” I said. “Then you can leave. You don't have to see her or talk with her at all."
Steve shook his head. “No, it's something we have to do."
He set the canvas bag that held the candles on the pavement. The umbrella that sheltered the easel was askew, the duct tape fastening it to the broomstick torn. Steve closed the umbrella and tugged the broomstick from the ground, then he pulled a roll of duct tape from the bag. While he replaced the old tape with new, Carol leaned over the vases, carefully removing flowers that were dead or dying, adding fresh flowers from the big bouquet she'd brought. Then she gathered up the burned-out candles and put them in a plastic sack she tugged from her pocket.
Steve plucked two big candles from the canvas bag and handed them to her. She set them on the sidewalk. I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes had passed since Charlie and Anita went into the house. When I looked up I saw Fred Sutton and his dog Aggie come out of the neighboring house where he lived with his daughter. He waved at me.
Then Peggy Blaine's front door opened. She stormed out and down the porch steps, followed by Charlie and the Montanos. She ran toward the corner. “Get out, get out,” she screamed, her hands balled into fists, her arms raised.
Carol backed away from the shrine, frightened. She started crying. Steve moved forward, raising his angry voice. “Don't talk to my wife like that."
I got between Steve and Peggy. “Calm down, both of you. This isn't doing any of us any good."
From the corner of my eye I saw Fred Sutton hustling toward us, his dog at his heels. “Pegg
y, you need to stop this nonsense,” he said. “Leave these people alone. They've lost their child and they need to mourn."
"You don't understand,” she cried.
But I did.
Charlie raced across the lawn and grabbed his mother, pinioning her arms. “Mom, please. Don't do this."
She struggled free, whirled, and pushed him away, her voice low, urgent, imploring. I strained to hear what she was saying. “Get away, get away, they'll find out."
Anita reached for Peggy's arm and the older woman slapped the girl. “Look what you've done,” Peggy snapped. “It's all your fault. If you hadn't been fighting—"
Anita burst into tears. “It was just an argument, a silly argument. Charlie was distracted."
"It was an accident,” Charlie said, his voice anguished as he faced the Gebhardts. “We didn't mean for it to happen."
Sometimes a public confession wasn't a good idea. The situation was too volatile. I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open, quickly thumbing through the contacts for the number of the Alameda Police Department. I hit the send button and spoke urgently to the voice that answered.
"You killed my little girl.” Carol shook like a tree not strong enough to stand up to a hard wind. She fell to her knees. I moved toward her. Then I saw Steve reach into the bag that held the candles. I realized there was another reason the bag was so heavy. Steve's idea of closure was revenge.
"He has a gun,” I shouted.
I dropped my cell phone and lunged at Steve, but I was too late. He fired three shots, astonishingly loud. Then it was quiet as death. Steve stood there, the gun in his hand as he stared at the scene. He dropped the gun. He'd done what he intended to do.
Fred had picked up my cell phone from the grass and was talking into the mouthpiece. His dog Aggie barked frantically as he pulled her away. Sirens wailed in the distance and people poured from nearby houses.
Someone started screaming. Anita Montano sat on the grass, her hand touching a crimson wound on her arm, as though she couldn't believe that was her own blood.
She'd gotten off easy. Peggy Blaine and her son Charlie lay crumpled together on their front lawn.
EQMM, November 2008 Page 7