The Thursday open house was an excellent idea. I didn’t even need to call in Prue or Sarah and explain my open house shill program. More people made the trip to see the house than on the previous Sunday. Some were looking for a second home (good) and some for a permanent change. For each visitor, I pointed out the view, the ease of entertaining in the kitchen, the quality of everything, all that wood. Many recognized the house from the many house tours Penny had participated in over the years, that was a bonus. It was as if the house were already famous. This time, for a happy reason.
I still thought Carrie should buy the house.
I glanced out the window and thought I saw a woman with a long braid alight from a truck, but then someone asked a question about the fireplace and distracted me. When I looked up again, there was no sign of a truck outside the window.
I heard a motorcycle, but it faded as quickly as it accelerated.
I glanced at my phone, nothing. I talked to Carrie right before I took the last hill to Penny’s house. She was fine and antsy, with nothing to do, she filled her time worrying about Patrick and getting more agitated with the Furies. I knew she was safe (again, that word). But I couldn’t talk with her during, the open house – no cell service. Which also meant Marcia, Marcia, Marcia couldn’t reach me either. I hoped she was frustrated.
Satisfied and pleased with the visitor response, I drove home to my own old fashion house with modern plumbing, the only decent combination in which to live.
I entered the house but did not get far. Summer ran up the street as soon as she saw me. I did not need to live in the co-housing; I got just as much attention by living on Main Street.
“Allison, they found a body at the river!”
Chapter 15
I froze and tried not to believe that all my evil thoughts about poor Debbie had manifested in her terrible demise. “Do they know who it is?”
Summer moaned. “It’s Debbie, I knew I shouldn’t have. I mean, I never.”
“Where is the body now?”
“Tom just took the call. I overheard, you came home just in time.” She looked mournful, and very guilty.
“Come on, we’ll go together.” There were many places to find a body at the river but only a few places to get the body up to the road. I drove to the closest place, more to placate Summer, who hung her head out the car window and gulped down explosive breaths of air as I careened down to the south fork of the Yuba.
The river runs the lowest in the early fall. The water temperature increases to almost above freezing giving many locals and more than a few tourists a false sense of security: the warmer the water, the less treacherous it seems. We lose about two people a year to accidents at the river, usually because the victim had smoked too much weed and drank too much alcohol and became simultaneously relaxed and invincible: an attitude that packs a dangerous punch in a mountain river.
Tom was just hiking out as we pulled in. Three families and a gaggle of teenagers hovered around the parking lot. Some members of the crowd were dusty from the afternoon out doors, some, like Summer and me had just come over for the news. Tom looked tired and sweaty. Behind him the whole of the police force climbed the last of the stairs leading from under the bridge to the parking area. That horrible black bag swung between them. I turned away. Summer started to sob.
“She dove!” Tom announced loudly enough for the milling teens and twenty-something’s to hear.
“Never dive into the river, you’ll break your fucking necks!” His voice was fierce and he scowled at the teens.
The officers loaded the body into the waiting ambulance. It took off in silence, lights and siren subdued.
Tom rubbed his face and waved away the rest of the witnesses. “Just go! Damn kids.” He muttered, fully forgetting he had once been one of their number. I forestalled pointing out the number of afternoons Tom got high and threatened to jump off this very bridge.
“God,” the chief of police kicked a rock and watched it tumble down the slope to the river. He finally turned and registered our presence. “Probably happened at the swimming hole, it’s shallow this year.”
We had wasted a great many summer afternoons at that swimming hole, Tom and I, back in another life and another time. It was called the swimming hole, but few of us did much swimming. I personally, never dove. My mother’s voice kept echoing in my head, and to keep that inner voice was nagging, I simply did what it said – no diving.
“Did you know her?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t recognize her. Makes it even worse.” He shot a look at the distraught Summer. “It’s not Debbie. Or Melissa either.” He said the last name thoughtfully.
“Why would it be Melissa?” Was she still missing? Now I felt guilty because I forgot to worry about her.
“Her ex is at large, released on a technicality, aren’t they all?” Tom rubbed his head. “She has a restraining order, which makes it a little easier for me, should I ever run into Dick. But otherwise, worthless. I try to keep an eye on her.”
“She liked to get high at the river?”
He gave me a withering look and I turned away.
Summer sucked her lipstick off and gazed up where the ambulance disappeared. “Where is she then?” she asked quietly.
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know, she’s a free woman, she doesn’t need to answer to us.”
Summer stamped her foot, acting the petulant child, or perhaps she just acted the part of a competent adult. “Yes she does, she needs to tell me where she is.”
I had put it off as long as I could. I reluctantly packed, spent a restless Thursday night wondering about both Debbie and Melissa, and for good measure, Ben. Was he hovering by Cassandra’s side? Would he want to postpone our life together while he rescued Cassandra? Again?
I was ready to return to River’s Bend by 7:00 Friday morning. I thought I may as well get an early start. One rehearsal dinner and one wedding and I would be a free woman. I knew that if I left at exactly 7:05 am, I would just avoid the commute traffic back up in Sacramento and travel behind the regular traffic traveling north on highway 101. I had a good three and a half hour drive ahead and wasn’t looking forward to it, mostly because I was reluctant to leave. I drank another cup of coffee and watched the sun fill the back yard and spill into the kitchen and great room.
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I said out loud. I walked to the front door to double check that it was locked, and saw what at looked like a pile of clothes heaped on the front porch.
“Oh for God’s sake!” Now people are leaving their garbage on my doorstep? Now I was really going to run for City Council, there should be laws. . . I started to push the offending bundle away, then looked more closely. A tangle of grey hair poked from the top of the bundle. I pushed at it and it moved. A face peeped out like an extra in Oliver Twist. Her eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot.
“Please don’t turn me out,” she begged breathlessly.
Her face was sunburned, her nails were grimy and she looked like she hadn’t slept for many nights. Her bright caftan, not flattering in the first place, hung in grimy tatters around her round form.
“I take it the local bars didn’t exactly welcome you.”
She winced and patted her lips experimentally as it to make sure they were still attached to her face.
“What the hell happened to you? I grabbed her arm before she slipped further down the door frame. I closed the door (locked it) and led her to one of the emergency loan chairs from the Prue Sullivan collection of uncomfortable furniture. If it broke under Debbie’s weight, too bad.
She rubbed her eyes and dragged her dirty hands down her face smearing dust and traces of yellow pine pollen over her cheeks.
“I think I was kidnapped,” she announced, her voice dull.
“You think? Wouldn’t that be a certainty?” I guessed that cooing attention and anxious hovering would not be appropriate or welcome. Debbie was tough and I had heard she prided herself on being no nonsense. I wou
ld have fetched a glass of water but to be honest, I was afraid to leave her alone.
“I went up to the Ridge.” She started to cough.
Once she was occupied, I dashed to get her a drink and returned just as she was recovering. I admit, I also didn’t want her to disappear again.
She drank and glanced up at me. “You’ve been to the Ridge?”
“I’m not allowed,” I answered piously. The Ridge was short hand for blue tarp shacks, a casual relationship with sanitation, un-immunized children, meth labs and pot farms. The more left unsaid, the better. But the cash from the main export did help the local merchants in the surrounding towns. A successful crop meant good times at every bar in town.
“I went up there to find people who were affected by the last fire.”
“Oh, boy,” It was easy to visualize poor Debbie armed with only books and codas and writs, determinedly faceing down illegal squatters who yes, lost buildings and farms in the last fire, but how on earth can you go about suing someone for loss of stolen property? It was a great conundrum, a large complex word problem. And I hate word problems. I bet Debbie hates them now too.
“They didn’t exactly embrace your idea,” I guessed.
“They didn’t want anything to do with anything to do with authority, not even if it helped them. One couple was really nice, they lost a daughter in the fire.”
I knew the couple; I had found their daughter. I did not volunteer my information but just waited for Debbie continue.
“They explained to me that no one up there wants any attention and then shared a great joint with me.”
“A seven-day joint?”
“More than that one. Every time I pulled myself together, they insisted I smoke another, a peace offering. I thought I was getting through to them. Lots of people came by and shared a smoke, or,” she paused, “a drink. Did I shoot up anything?” She pulled her sleeve and glared at her bare arm. “I don’t fucking remember. Jesus, I’m too old for this.”
“Everyone is worried about you, just so you know.” I handed her another glass of water. From the looks of it, it would take her until Christmas to recover from her little vacation from reality.
“Really?” Her expression was so hopeful I had to turn away. I glanced at my watch. The morning commute traffic was probably building up on Douglas Boulevard. Crap. It would now take four hours to get home.
“Tom Marten practically dragged the river.” Since it was too late to get an early start, I may as well follow through. “Why don’t I take you home and your housemates or a co-housing committee get you back together? I have a rehearsal dinner to attend.” I added needlessly, because it is always about me.
Debbie did not protest as I man-handled her into the front seat of the car and drove her to the co-housing units. It was only a few blocks up the street, but Debbie was in no shape to walk even that short distance. And I wasn’t calloused enough to parade her up Main Street.
The complex seemed deserted. I helped Debbie walk to the communal kitchen. She did not carry anything, no purse, no phone. No wonder no one could get hold of her. We made it to the dinning area. I propped her in one of the booths that lined the perimeter of the common room, she didn’t seem stable enough for a chair. I found a glass and poured her another glass of water.
She took the glass. “I didn’t vote for this pattern,” she said apropos of nothing.
Someone was bound to come by, that was the nature of the place, correct? I didn’t hear any sounds, but surely …
I debated pinning a note to her, but changed my mind; she was humiliated enough. I left a voice message with Scott Lewis, and another with Summer. Everyone knew I was heading to Carrie’s wedding; there wasn’t more to say.
“Take care.” I patted her arm.
My phone buzzed. I glanced down, Carrie. I let it go to voice mail.
“I owe you.” Debbie’s eyes began to roll back into her head. In a flash I wondered if the poor woman had walked down off the ridge. That seemed fantastic, but I didn’t have time to revive her and ask. I had to get to Dry Creek for the rehearsal.
My phone buzzed again as I headed to the doors.
“Hey,” Debbie called after me. “What’s the date?”
“The fifth.”
“Oh, fuck!”
With that ringing cry, I abandoned her to her own people, climbed back into my car and shot off as fast as I could. Which was over the speed limit. Which explained the sirens behind me.
I ringingly endorsed Debbie’s last words and pulled over.
Tom strode from the squad car and leaned against the car door. “We found her,” he announced.
“That was fast, I just left her.” I suppressed the urge to lunge for my registration. But I wouldn’t put it past Tom to pull me over on the highway just for a social conversation.
“What?” His handsome face creased and he eyed me a bit more warily.
“What?” I echoed.
“We found Melissa.”
“Good, but you could have just called.”
Tom scratched his head. “I didn’t want you talking on your phone while you were driving, it’s against the law.”
“Oh.” As if I didn’t know, as if I didn’t plan to return Carrie’s calls as soon as I was clear of the city limits, and, I admit, Tom’s watchful eyes.
“I just got a call from the Sleepy Motel, you know the one?”
I nodded. It had a rather colorful reputation, home to both the only prostitute action in town and during the 80’s it was a great place to crash after a bad night of too much smoking and partying. I knew the place.
“Luke called me an hour ago, someone couldn’t pay their bill and he wanted me to arrest her.”
“And?”
“It was Melissa, she had been staying there for a week.” A car zoomed past and honked. Tom automatically waved.
“Without telling anyone? Why?”
“Dick was out again, and he knows all her old safe places, even your grandmother’s. Melissa told me she ran into this girl who wasn’t a local, because Melissa would recognize her if she was, and the girl offered to share her room at the Sleepy Motel. Problem was the girl abandoned Melissa last night, along with the bill for the week.”
I lunged for my wallet, but he stopped me. “I paid the bill. Melissa is almost at the point where she’ll press charges against Dick.”
“In the mean time?”
“Sheldon’s mother isn’t doing well so Suzanne Chatterhill hired Melissa and Melissa will stay in the house while Sheldon is down in the city for work. Dick doesn’t know the place, it should do for a while.”
“Pretty complicated.”
“What was your friend’s name again?”
“Eliot, Carrie Eliot.”
He pulled out a battered leather covered notebook. “No. That’s not the name.” He smacked the notebook closed. “Just stop speeding down Main Street will you?”
“Okay. What name did this mystery woman use?”
“Sullivan, Kim Sullivan.”
The thing about a semi-public venue for a wedding is that anyone can hang out and catch you on tape or phone or camera. Then again, churches are public, parks are public, there was probably no getting around it. Two news vans and a half dozen reporters milled around the perimeters of a brand new tent stretched over the Prophesy Estates parking lot.
I smiled and waved but they all were clever enough to recognize me as not the bride, and not important. Fine.
Carrie and Patrick stood under the gazebo draped with bright white tendrils of jasmine. I slid in behind Carrie and smiled at a boy I had never met who was standing close behind Patrick.
The minister was a tall dour looking man who looked like a cousin to Lurch from the Adam’s Family: not someone I’d chose for a festive wedding, but he could be a friend of the family.
Kathleen and Claire glared at me. Carrie rolled her eyes and shoved the makeshift bridal bouquet made from a paper plate and gift ribbons from the soiree two weeks bef
ore at me. I didn’t remember creating the thing; it must have been concocted by one of the Furies who seem to have a great deal of bridal lore at their disposal. Patrick smiled, but not with his eyes.
“Just in time,” Carrie muttered.
“Then I say,” Lurch blinked at me and calmly continued on. “Do you, Patrick promise to love honor and cherish till death do you part and Carrie you promise the same.”
Carrie automatically responded, “I do.”
I blinked back sudden tears and make a mental note to apply waterproof mascara tomorrow.
“Good, you exchange the rings and I pronounce you man and wife,” he intoned, exactly like Lurch but not with the character’s wry sense of whimsy.
“Husband and wife,” Carrie corrected.
I heard Kathleen groan but Carrie ignored her.
“Husband and wife.” The preacher made a note and continued. “Then you two walk through the guests straight to the reception tent. He pointed to the new tent. “Followed by,”
“Allison.” I stepped behind Carrie and Patrick and took the arm of the cute boy who introduced himself as Patrick’s cousin, James.
The Furies trailed after us as we all marched decorously to the tent now filled with a jumble of tables and raw plywood round tops.
“You’re late,” Carrie turned and regarded me critically.
“Little challenge in Claim Jump.” I nodded to Kathleen and Claire. I did appreciate their gift for the shower, but I didn’t think that one gesture made us soul sisters. I did not need to review the traffic, the delays and the five hours it took to get here. I didn’t even have time to stop by the office. I did not have time to go home and change. I just hauled ass straight up. And who the hell was Kim Sullivan? I approached the Furies to ask, but they abruptly turned away, probably to hunt for a new victim to harangue.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 21