by Ang Pompano
“Right, I understand. I’m not working for you now. But I’m curious. Can’t you humor me?”
She huffed. “I’ll bet you get that stubborn streak from your father. All right, I’ll tell you. He left Jill’s phone for me in the apartment. The mementos he was talking about were pictures she had on it. My son-in-law wanted me to have them. I guess he did have a heart after all. And before you ask, you can’t see them. They’re personal.”
She must have been reading my mind because I would have loved to have gotten my hands on that phone. There might be all kinds of things I could learn from it.
“I get it,” I said.
Tears started to well up in the corners of Estelle’s eyes. “I wish I had never asked you to investigate.”
What? Now she was laying a guilt trip on me?
“Oh?”
“Now my son-in-law is dead, and while I didn’t care for him, I’m sorry that he was murdered. And I’m no closer to finding out where my daughter is.”
I wanted to yell and tell her that her daughter was dead. But she’d heard that before. Like my father, she seemed to have her own reality and it was probably best to let her live in it.
“Okay, Estelle. But if I can do anything to help you out, you know how to reach me.”
“No. I don’t need anyone else getting hurt. Now if you don’t take your hand off of my door, I’m going to close it on your fingers.”
I had no doubt that she would have. She drove off without even asking me what I was doing at The Palms. Odd. Although I think she knew my father was in a home, I never told her which one. Maybe she assumed that was where Big Al was. Or, maybe she didn’t give a damn what I was doing there.
When I finally got into the building, I was somewhat surprised to see that the facility had a completely different vibe at that time of day. Not that it was ever a cheerful place, but later in the day when visitors were likely to come in, there seemed to be an attempt to lighten the mood. I saw no groomed patients sitting in the solarium, no bingo games, no music. This was the business of daily life and in some cases, death—bedridden patients receiving meds, dimly lit hallways with only the caregivers darting between rooms wheeling racks of covered breakfast trays. I noticed that every TV was tuned to the same channel, probably so the staff wouldn’t miss a beat of the morning shows as they moved from one room to another. I understood why Estelle seemed down after calling on her friend. If the facility felt dispiriting during visiting hours, it was downright morose in the morning.
I stopped by my father’s room. Al Roker was talking about the weather to an empty bed. My first thought was that my old man had kicked off. Shit. I didn’t have time to deal with something like that. I put it out of my mind because I had mixed emotions about Big Al. I was sticking with my conviction that the day was going to get better, not more complicated.
I walked up to the nurse’s station and spoke to an LPN that I did not recognize.
“I’m here to see Al DeSantis but I don’t see him in his room. I’m his son.”
“Oh, I think they are giving him a shower.”
See. Simple explanation. “Okay. I was in the area and thought I’d drop in.”
The nurse frowned. “Too bad. You missed your mother by a little bit.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, she had breakfast with him. She’s such a dear to help out every day. Mornings are so hectic around here.” She picked up on the confusion that must have been plastered all over my face. “I’m sorry. I assumed Mr. DeSantis’ wife was your mother.”
Maybe I heard wrong. But she definitely said Mr. DeSantis’ wife. I started to laugh.
“No. His wife...” I was going to go into the story about how he left, how my mother was dead. Then I decided it wasn’t worth it. “I think you’ve got it wrong. My father isn’t married.”
The nurse frowned and looked at her chart. “Who did you say you are again?”
“Al DeSantis.” She still wore her frown as if it was a badge of authority, so to clarify I added, “Junior.” I think it was the first time I actually used the word in reference to myself.
“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn Mr. DeSantis.”
“The woman you are talking about. Is her name Estelle?”
“I’m sorry. HIPAA. You understand.”
No, I didn’t understand. HIPAA, my ass. Maybe she should have thought of that before she hit me with the news that my father had a wife.
“I, uh, got to go. Maybe I’ll get back later.”
Somehow, I made my way out to the parking lot and into my truck. Estelle? Wife? WTF! I sat staring at the front door of The Palms thinking that at any moment, Maryann Fena was going to come running out to tell me that the nurse was mistaken and Estelle Brewer was not married to my father. She was just a kind lady who visited every morning to help him with breakfast. Maryann never came out.
Estelle had struck me as being a caring person from the first minute I met her. Maybe she was a friend of the old man. On the other hand, the people at the nursing home wouldn’t list Estelle as my father’s wife without verification. Besides, she told me she lived up in Augusta. How could she live up there and visit my father every morning?
I could imagine asking Big Al’s Magic Eight Ball if Estelle had some ulterior motive in asking me to find her daughter. When I turned over the imaginary ball, the little triangle floated into the window and read, “You can rely on it, Chump!”
37
IT MAY HAVE BEEN COOL when I arrived at The Palms but as the heat of the early morning sun intensified, the truck became unbearable. Along with it, my disbelief turned to hot rage. I turned on the ignition and jacked the air conditioner to high then headed to the office.
When Greenleaf came in she caught me pouring vodka into a water glass. “It’s only 8:30,” she said. As if I needed to be reminded.
“I know what time it is. I’ve already been out and about. You’re here early today. There’s plenty to do. I’ll pay you for the extra time.”
“You know I’m on salary. I’m referring to that.” She pointed to my drink.
“Beef Jerky Bloody Mary. My second breakfast today. Want one?”
“I don’t see any tomato juice.”
She was using that mother’s martini voice—two parts disapproval and one-part worry.
I pulled the piece of beef jerky I was using as a swizzle stick out of the glass and took a bite out of it. “I don’t like tomatoes. But I can get you some and add a celery stick so you’ll have all of the food groups covered.”
She didn’t seem amused as her eyes jumped from my rumpled clothes to the coffee table littered with papers.
“Did you sleep last night?”
“I worked late. I guess I forgot to go to bed.”
“Your father used to do that, too.”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about staying up all night or drinking early in the morning. I suspect she meant both. I took a swig of vodka and turned on my laptop.
She picked up on my body language right away. “What’s wrong?”
“When you gave Estelle Brewer my cell number...”
“That again? Move on.”
“I’m trying to move on. But the more I try, the more I get sucked in. It’s as if this agency is built on quicksand.”
“Skip the melodrama, I told you I was sorry that I gave her your private number. Didn’t you ever make a mistake?”
“Yes, my mistake was coming down here instead of going to L.A. When you gave Estelle my phone number, did you know who she was?”
Greenleaf’s face was so tight I could hardly understand her when she spoke. “I might have seen her around.”
“With my father? Is she a friend of his?”
She shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”
“A close friend?”
“
There’s no law that says Big Al can’t have friends. I’m his friend, too.”
I took that as a yes. “How close?”
“Define close.”
“The staff at The Palms seems to think Estelle and my father were married. Is that correct?”
“Not exactly.”
“You mean they were living together.”
“No. I mean they are married.”
So, it was true. “She told me she lost her husband.”
“She did. Her first husband died years ago. He was a friend of your father’s. The man didn’t give any more of a hoot than a dead owl about Estelle. She had a major crisis in her family and she turned to your father.”
That didn’t make me happy since my father had abandoned his own family. “Before or after her husband died?”
“I don’t gossip.”
That answered that question. So, my father was cheating with his friend’s wife. I wasn’t surprised.
“She told me her name is Brewer.”
“She’s a progressive woman. What can I say? That’s the name she was born with. She didn’t want to use either husband’s last name.”
“How long?”
“That they’ve been together? Twenty-five years.”
Twenty-five years. Was I hearing things? That would mean that Big Al and Estelle got married right after he disappeared.
“Was he even divorced from my mother at the time?”
“I said they’ve been together twenty-five years. They got married a couple of years ago, just after Big Al realized he was getting dementia.”
“That’s crazy.” Or was it? As my father’s wife, Estelle would get everything that my father had.
“And if you’re thinking that she married him to get his money, think again. He turned everything over to you first, at her suggestion.”
I hate when Greenleaf does that to me. Hey, I didn’t think it through. So what? It was a private thought that she had no right to snatch from my head.
“It’s still crazy to marry someone who is losing their memory. Why didn’t they get married before?”
“Estelle’s husband died years ago, but your father was married.”
“He could have come out of the woodwork and asked my mother for a divorce. At least we would have known he was alive.”
“Look this isn’t for me to say. Ask your father for the details.” Greenleaf started to walk toward the office.
That would be fine if he could remember them. Or if I could catch him in the right frame of mind.
“You know that isn’t going to work.”
Greenleaf cast her eyes down. “Maybe it is time for you to know. Who can get hurt now? Your mother couldn’t give him the divorce. She would lose his pension and she needed that in addition to what he sent every month to raise you.”
My brain was bouncing around like a tennis ball at the U. S. Open.
“Are you saying my mother knew Big Al was alive and didn’t tell me?”
“Don’t blame her. It was a decision they came to together. They thought it was best for you to think he had died.”
So that explained how he had my school picture and knew what teams I followed. “What about Estelle? She said she lived up in Augusta.”
“She did until recently. Her first husband had a horse farm up there. She would make frequent visits down here or your father would go up there.”
“You knew this all along and you never told me.”
“It wasn’t my place. Still isn’t. But I think you have a right to know. And now you do.”
I still wanted to know why he left in the first place but I doubt if Greenleaf would tell me.
“I’m kind of busy here.” I didn’t mean that to sound as bad as it did. Even though Greenleaf was a pain at times, I shouldn’t take my problems out on her. What I was trying to say was I couldn’t wrap my head around everything that was going on.
“I’m busy myself.” Greenleaf started for the door then turned. “You’re not going to find your father in a glass. And the killer isn’t in there either.” She went back to her office.
“If you’re going to lecture me, tell me something I don’t know,” I said under my breath.
She didn’t leave me alone for long. In a little, while she returned and threw a stack of folders on my desk.
“Some old cases I picked at random. Whenever your father had a mental block he would go over old cases. It usually gave him an idea.”
I caught myself short of telling her to take the rest of the day off so I could have some space to think. She meant well, and I knew she was the backbone of the agency, but I was tired and in no mood to be treated like a kid.
“Maybe later if I get a chance.”
“Suit yourself.”
She didn’t mean ‘suit yourself’ at all. It was clear that she thought she knew what was best for me.
38
I NEEDED SOME AIR. When Greenleaf went into her office, I took my drink and went out on the porch. I purposely didn’t hold the screen door so that it slammed behind me.
I sipped my vodka and watched the live oak rain leaves. If Greenleaf had known about my father being married to Estelle, she should have told me. I was sure I was right about that. Yet somehow, she managed to twist everything around until she was pissed off at me.
My phone rang.
“Mr. DeSantis, this is Maryann Fena.” Her voice was so shaky that I hardly recognized it. Had my father died after all? Damn.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your father is missing.”
Well, that was better than dying. Not much, but better.
“He probably just went for a walk. He’ll come back.”
“No, it’s been a while.”
“I was just there this morning. He was in the shower.”
“I’m afraid that whoever told you that was mistaken.”
Mistaken, or they were lying to me in the hopes of finding him before I found out?
“What else aren’t you telling me?”
The rest of the conversation was a blur. I told her I was headed right down but she said it would be better if I waited for word from her.
I sat down on the porch swing and tried to process the whole mess. The father that I didn’t know I had was accused of murder and now he’d gone missing. The woman who hired me to prove her daughter wasn’t dead turned out to be my stepmother. On top of that, my new girlfriend, who was my superior in the agency I now owned, had obviously been hooking up with another guy.
What was I doing wrong? Nobody could have such a run of bad luck and not have some responsibility for it. This had to be the lowest point in my life of low points. As I got up to go inside to tell Greenleaf about my father, a mail truck pulled into the lot. Good. Even a shitload of junk mail would be a diversion.
I was surprised when the letter carrier got out of the truck and approached the porch.
*****
“Registered letter.” She handed me a clipboard and pointed to where I had to sign. I looked at the sender’s address: a law firm in Santa Monica. My heart began to race. At last. I was getting my money back from the condo. I scratched my name on the form. “Thank you!”
“Must be good news,” she said when she saw my smile.
“Oh yeah. And I could use good news in more ways than one.”
“You have a good day.” She handed me a fist full of junk mail, most of which were credit card offers, got into her truck and drove off.
I threw the junk mail on the swing and sat next to it as I ripped open the envelope from the attorney and pulled out a three-page letter. California here I come. I began to read out loud.
“Dear Mr. DeSantis.”
I shook the pages to see if a check would fall out. No. I read some more, silently now. I stood up and the whole yard
was a blur as the world spun even worse than it had on the big bridge. I balled up the letter and threw it on the swing with the junk mail. Not only didn’t I get my money back, but I owed taxes and attorney’s fees on the condo I would never live in.
“Damn!”
“Who’s Dan?” Greenleaf called out from inside.
“I didn’t say Dan.”
“Who then?
“Forget it.”
I didn’t need an eight ball to tell me that this sucked big-time. I drew in my breath and held it a few seconds; repeat, repeat, repeat. I felt calmer and my vision cleared. Okay, so I had one more thing to deal with. I’d find a way.
I told my phone to call the Ava Island Police Department. When they answered, I asked for Johnson. When they connected him, I had to stick a pin into his cheery hello.
“Hey, I don’t know if you heard. My old man went missing from The Palms. As far as I know they notified the department.”
“This is news to me. But I’m going to look into it right now.”
“Yeah. I’m not worried yet, but you know.”
“Like I said... I’ll get back to you.”
I could only imagine what was going through Johnson’s mind. In light of the fact that my father was a murder suspect, I didn’t want to tell him that someone from The Palms had been allowing Big Al to go on his little jaunts on a regular basis. Friend or no friend, Johnson had a job to do, but I didn’t have to give him any more ammunition to use against the old man.
*****
As I was about to go inside, I spotted a familiar red Mustang parked across the street. Too familiar in fact. It was an exact duplicate of the car I had wrecked on the Q Bridge back home. Leaning against the hood and leering at me was Psycho’s clone. It was freakin’ Batshit.
Batshit watched as I jumped off the porch and sprinted across the lot toward the Mustang. If that jerk was looking for trouble, he had come to the right place. When I got almost to the street, Batshit held up his phone and took a picture to taunt me and then hopped into the car. The Mustang’s engine roared as its tires peeled. Then he made a sudden U-turn. The car fishtailed and he almost sideswiped me. I tried to jump out of the way and felt my hands pushing off from the rear fender in an effort not to land under the wheels. My face almost made nice with the bumper before I bounced to the pavement. As he raced down the road in the direction of the bridge to the mainland, two things registered in my noggin: the car had Georgia plates and there was a barcode on the bumper. It seemed Batshit got a rental to almost exactly match the Mustang I had wrecked on him back in Connecticut. Either he liked that car a great deal, or he was trying to send me a message.