Family Reunion
by
Nicholas Sarazen
Kindle Edition
copyright 2012 Rick Cooper & Mark Davis
all rights reserved
"Nicholas Sarazen"
is the pseudonym of
Rick Cooper & Mark Davis
first published as a
mass market paperback
by Pinnacle Books, 1990
cover photo
copyright 2011 Chris Chludenski
used by permission - all rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
Prologue
August 23, 1970
The young patrolman stepped over the yellow tape and walked toward the front door of the Saxon castle off Mulholland Drive in the Hollywood Hills. He couldn't count the times he had driven past the place with the hope of somehow catching a glimpse of the owners. Of her. He was beginning to feel sick.
The Code 2 had come in as he was finishing his shift. He was off-duty now, still in uniform, but no one knew he didn't belong there. To anyone on the scene he was just another cop trying to make some sense of it all.
He squeezed past two detectives he recognized from the Homicide Division. They were arguing about something, but he didn't stop to listen.
He spoke briefly with a coroner's assistant, then followed him through the four-story foyer and down the main hallway. They stopped just before the entry to the great room. He looked in and saw two bloodied bodies, both female, sprawled on the floor. Neither one was her.
The coroner's assistant opened the door to what the young patrolman thought would be a guest closet or pantry. He was surprised to see an enclosed staircase spiraling downward. They went down the stairs.
The walls were finished in dark, rough-cut stone, and every five or six feet was an iron sconce fashioned with a flickering, flame-shaped bulb. Their shoes made gritty clicks on the stone steps that seemed to have no end. When they finally reached the bottom the air was cool and smelled strangely sweet.
Before them was a large vaulted chamber, reminiscent of the great hall in The Adventures of King Arthur, the first movie Anne Stratford and William Drew had made together. The one where the real-life romance had begun. Large tapestries embroidered with colorful coats of arms hung from the chamber's sixteen-foot walls. Between the tapestries, at different heights, were various types of medieval armament--maces, morning stars, daggers, swords, shields, flails, battle-axes, and crossbows. To the left stood a U-shaped bar constructed from dark oak.
The young patrolman followed the coroner's assistant across the room and down a small corridor that hadn't been visible from the base of the spiral steps. Like the walls of the staircase, the corridor was finished in stone and bore the same iron sconces. At the other end was a small room beneath what the young patrolman guessed was the kitchen. This room was paneled in oak and had a much lower ceiling than the great hall. Several detectives were standing around a billiard table under the muted light of a long Tiffany lamp. The young patrolman saw them look up and move aside as he approached.
An adult male, clad only in blue satin pajama bottoms, was stretched out on top of the eight-foot billiard table. The ankles and forearms were lashed to the corner pockets with nylon cord. The body had been positioned so that the shoulders were against the top of the end rail. All that remained of the man's neck was a bloody stump. The head was nowhere in sight.
One of the detectives pointed toward a long-handled weapon on the floor near a suit of armor. The crescent-shaped blade was besmeared with blood. The young patrolman walked over and knelt down for a closer look.
"It's called a halberd, in case you're interested," he heard one detective say. "Nasty weapon, isn't it?"
"Sure as hell was effective," said another.
The young patrolman rose and turned to the suit of armor. The breastplate and cuisses were streaked with blood, and at the toe of each sabaton was a small red pool. He looked over his shoulder at the detectives.
One of them nodded. "It's already been checked for prints."
With the heel of his hand the young patrolman lifted the heavy slotted visor. He closed his eyes and turned away.
Anne Stratford had been called the most beautiful woman in Hollywood. The young patrolman had seen every one of her movies many times, but Ivanhoe was his favorite. Each time he imagined that it was himself, not William Drew, riding his armored steed up to the gallery from which the spectators looked on, and in his mind he would repeat, I am a good knight and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca...to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless... Then he would turn to Rebecca--Anne Stratford--and say, Dost thou accept of me for thy champion? I do. I do, she would reply. I do accept thee as the champion whom Heaven hath sent me. Anne Stratford would then tie her scarf to the end of his lance to wish him victory.
As the young patrolman stared down at the nude body on the floor in the master bedroom he found it hard to believe that he was looking at a human being, let alone her. Something, perhaps the black-handled cook's knife embedded in her side, had been used to peel the flesh from her back and both legs, exposing bloody muscles and tendons. The skin had been spread out on a full-length mink coat that was draped across the bed. On the wall, above the body, was an X drawn in the victim's blood.
The young patrolman sat down and wept.
The nanny, still trembling and clutching the baby, was downstairs recounting her story for yet another detective. She had been awakened by the horrible screams, and then heard the sounds of a frantic struggle. Her first thought was of the baby and she had rushed to the nursery. Before she had time to get to him she heard them coming. She hid in the nursery room closet and watched through the louvered door. A woman came in and walked over to the crib, standing there with the long knife upraised. The nanny had thought about leaving the safety of the closet and attacking her, but before she could act, the woman put down the knife and lifted the baby from the crib. She kissed him and held him for a moment before gently laying him down again. She then picked up her knife and left the room.
The nanny told the detective she could identify the woman. Positively.
news item: September 28, 1970
A nationwide search is underway for Sylvia Webster, a radical environmentalist known as "Mother Earth," and her ragtag band of hippie followers who have fled "The Haven," a commune they shared in the Simi Hills northwest of Canoga Park. Mother Earth and several members of her "Family" are suspects in the brutal murders last month of movie stars Anne Stratford and William Drew, and their three houseguests. Stratford and Drew were slain less than two weeks after announcing their plans to build "Hollyworld," a movie theme park to be located northeast of Glendale.
news item: January 20, 1972
After the longest, most expensive, and likely most spectacular trial in California history, Sylvia Webster, known as "Mother Earth," and six members of her "Family" were sentenced to death for five gruesome slayings, including those of film stars Anne Stratford and William Drew.
Chapter 1
January 1990
"Weasel!" The sound rumbled deep in the fat man's throat before escaping on either side of the soggy cigar clenched between his crooked yellow teeth. "Over here. You missed a spot." He pulled the stogie from his thick lips and held it at arm's length, tapping the end of it with a short, pudgy finger until the ash fell to the still-wet porch near his feet. His two chins became three as he nodded toward the black smudge. "There."
Weasel tried to prop the e
nd of the mop handle underneath his left armpit but he wasn't quite tall enough. Instead, he folded both arms around it and glared at the fat man. "Now what did you go and do that for?"
The fat man just stuck the cigar back into his mouth, took a deep puff, and blew out a ring of foul-smelling smoke.
Weasel dunked the mop into the pail of water. "Otto, you're just darn lucky I promised Colonel Willis I'd do the porch right away." He went on with his work, cursing the fat man under his breath. He was glad that Otto would be leaving in a few days. Weasel shook his head as he swished the mop back and forth, wondering why Colonel Willis let guys like Otto stay at Severman House in the first place.
Severman House was a three-story Victorian structure on 2nd Street that was temporary residence for thirty men who were trying to make the transition from the welfare rolls to regular employment. Severman House was privately owned and operated by the Severman Guild. It offered an alternative for a few, fortunate Los Angeles street people.
Beads of sweat dotted Weasel's upper lip and strands of his greasy, mouse-brown hair stuck to his brow. The rest of his hair hung in straight, uneven lengths over his ears and almost to his rounded shoulders in the back. He was four inches over five feet tall and weighed barely a hundred and fifteen pounds fully dressed, which for Weasel usually meant a Dodgers cap, t-shirt, dirty blue jeans, and a pair of sneakers. He had small, dark eyes and a sallow appearance about him, a general unhealthiness that made him look tubercular. And then there was his cough. Weasel didn't cough often, but when he did it seemed to shoot up through his body from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He would rock back on his heels and his bony face would twist in pain. The rattling eruption that followed was so violent it would lift him up and thrust him forward. Even Weasel knew it was offensive.
He had just finished mopping and was standing in a corner of the porch admiring his work when the front door opened. "Wait!" he yelled. "Don't come out here yet! The floor's still wet."
Barlow, a resident who had arrived the day before, stood in the doorway. He looked at Otto. The fat man gave him a nod and Barlow stepped onto the porch.
"Geez, I don't believe this. Are you deaf?" Weasel asked, wide-eyed. "I told you the porch was still wet."
Barlow shrugged. "No skin off my pecker." He tracked across the floor and sat down on the porch rail beside Otto. Barlow reeked of Old Spice and had a tattoo of an anchor on his left arm, but Weasel suspected the farthest out to sea he had ever been was the naval shipyard in Long Beach Harbor.
"You a Dodgers fan, Weasel?" Barlow asked, pointing at Weasel's cap.
"So what if I am?"
Barlow sized up Weasel with his eyes. "You just don't look much like a sports fan, that's all."
Weasel's eyes narrowed. "Looks can fool ya, mister. I don't only like the game, I used to play it."
Otto sniffed. "Big deal. So did the rest of us."
Weasel cocked his head. "I'm not talking little league, bud. I'm talking the majors."
Otto and Barlow looked at each other and grinned.
"Majors, huh?" Otto continued. "Then why haven't I ever heard of you?"
"Simple. Because Weasel's not my name. That's what everybody calls me, but it's not the name my momma gave me."
"Your momma probably took one look at you and gave you one of those Chink names, like My Dung." Otto laughed and everything between his chin and belt jiggled.
Weasel gave him another glare.
"So what's your real name, Weasel?" asked Barlow.
"It's for me to know and for you to find out," Weasel said, using the only comeback he could think of.
"Hey, I don't really care," Barlow replied. "I knew it was all just a crock o' caca."
"You guys think I'm lyin', don't you? Well, I'm not."
"Come on, Weasel," Barlow said, "I believe that you played in the big leagues about as much as I believe that Otto here used to be Twiggy's twin."
"Hold on," Otto interrupted, "maybe he is telling us the truth." He winked at Barlow. "What team did you play for, Weasel?"
"The Boston White Sox."
"Bullshit," Barlow shot back. "They're the Red Sox."
Weasel looked indignant. "We didn't wear the same color every day, dummy. Our socks would get dirty so we'd change them. One day they'd be red, the next day they'd be white."
Barlow bent over and howled until Otto motioned for him to be quiet.
"What position did you play, Weasel?" Otto asked.
"I was the pitcher. And a darn good one, too. I even struck out Pete Rose once."
"The old high hard one, I'll bet." Otto glanced at Barlow and wrinkled his brow. "Let's see your stuff, Weasel."
"What do you mean?"
"Barlow, get over there." Otto pointed to the end of the porch. "Weasel, you come with me." He took Weasel by the arm and led him to the opposite end of the porch where the mop bucket sat. He turned Weasel's right hand palm up. "Take this imaginary ball and throw some heat to Barlow."
Weasel scratched his head and looked at Otto. "I'm not following you."
"Act like you're throwing the ball to Barlow. Barlow, take a stance...pretend you've got a bat in your hands. I want to see your wind-up and delivery, Weasel. Do your thing."
Weasel shook his head. "It's been too long a time. Besides, my elbow went out and I had to quit. That's why I'm not playin' no more...my elbow."
"Come on, come on. You can do it. I'll be the catcher and the umpire." Otto went to the other end of the porch and crouched behind Barlow after whispering something in his ear. "Play ball!" he bellowed.
Weasel swallowed and tried to remember what he had seen a few times on TV. With some hesitation and much awkwardness he launched into a windmill windup. He stepped forward with the wrong foot and lobbed the imaginary ball toward the target.
"Ball one! Just outside. Take it easy, Koufax. Let's see one right down the old pipe."
Weasel took another windup and again let fly.
"Ball two! Inside. You know where it's at now, Weasel. Fire one right down the center, letter-high. Barlow won't even see it."
Weasel started to relax and get into the game. He put a hand on his knee and hunched forward, peering for a sign from the catcher. He shook off the first two, then nodded his approval, even though he had no idea what the signs meant. This time his delivery was a little smoother.
"Ball three!" Otto shook his head. "Can't put him on base, Weasel. This one has to be there. Come on, babe, you can do it. Burn one in here."
Weasel was looking for another sign when Barlow stepped back."
"Time!" Otto walked around Barlow and bent over with his wide rear end facing Weasel. He brushed off the imaginary plate with an invisible whisk broom. "Okay, play ball!"
Weasel wound up with everything he had and nearly fell down as he let it go.
"Ball four!" shouted Otto. "Batter, take your base."
Weasel was crestfallen.
"Time out for a conference on the mound," announced Otto. He and Barlow reached Weasel at about the same time. Otto held out his hand and Weasel gave him the imaginary ball.
"Son," Otto said, "it just wasn't your day. I think you better hit the showers." He nodded to Barlow and they grabbed Weasel by the arms.
"Hey, let me go you guys!" screamed Weasel. With Barlow's help, Otto turned Weasel upside down, his arms still pinned to his sides. His ball cap dropped into the mop bucket.
"A big leaguer, huh Weasel?" Otto laughed. "My ass." They lowered Weasel's head into the grayish brown water. Both men roared.
"That's enough, boys," a man said from the doorway. "Someone want to tell me what's going on here?"
Barlow helped Otto turn Weasel right side up and set him down on his feet. "We were just having some fun, weren't we, Weasel?" The man in the doorway couldn't see the painful pinch Otto applied to Weasel's back.
Weasel winced. "Yeah, that's right, Colonel Willis. We was just havin' us some fun."
Barlow fished the ball cap from the mop
bucket, wrung it out, and placed it on Weasel's head. "There you go, sport." He then followed Otto inside.
Colonel Willis walked onto the porch. "Are you all right, Weasel?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." Weasel pulled up the front of his shirt and wiped his face.
"Were you telling one of your stories again?"
"It was the truth. I was in the major leagues. I swear."
Colonel Willis' look was a mixture of skepticism and disapproval. "Wea-sel."
"Well, I was."
Chapter 2
Crystal chandeliers twinkled above the guests who filled the spacious Grand Ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel. Servers in black and white attire moved from table to table, pouring coffee from sterling urns.
Stephanie Kenyon had barely touched the plate of food in front of her. This was her second California Newspaper Association awards luncheon and the meal was even more sumptuous than last year's fare, but she was just too excited to eat.
With her clear, aqua eyes, patrician nose, and soft golden-blonde hair that turned under just above her shoulders, Stephanie had a sophisticated beauty that easily made her one of the most attractive women in the room. For the occasion she had bought a teal suit and matching shoes and purse. On her lapel she wore the pearl and opal stickpin that had once belonged to her mother. The elite of the California press corps were in attendance and Stephanie had wanted to look her very best. Her father gave her a proud smile when she looked across the table at him.
A curly-haired man in an argyle vest walked up to the table. It was Adrian Mathers, another reporter with the Los Angeles Tribune. He looked down at her through round, rimless lenses. "Congratulations, Steph. I'm really happy for you."
"Thanks, Adrian. I know you mean it. I'm just sorry our stories were in the same category."
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