Family Reunion

by Nicholas Sarazen

  "I remember those. How about love-in?"

  "I wish I could remember those. Bong."

  For What It's Worth, by Buffalo Springfield.

  "Monterey Pop."

  "Monterey Mom. Sorry. Bell bottoms."

  It was Cindy's turn again. "I have one this time. Do your own thing."

  "We certainly did that, didn't we?"

  "Peace."

  Dennis and Paula slipped outside and headed for one of the cabins.

  Why Don't We Do It In The Road? by The Beatles.

  Gerry was stumbling around the room, spilling more scotch than he was drinking. The more he drank the more he talked. He told everyone who would listen how much he despised his wealth, how much he hated his parents, especially his mother. He began to cry. Dirk had said very little during the evening and for the most part had stayed on the fringe of the group. But he now had an arm around Gerry and was helping him outside to get some air.

  He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother, by The Hollies.

  Sunday Morning

  No one got up early. Hal had conked out at two-thirty and Stephanie lasted until around three. For a few, the party had continued and had probably gotten more interesting once Stephanie and Hal retired for the night. Stephanie smiled when she cleaned the ashtrays and found the remains of several joints.

  The farewells started soon after breakfast because some of them had early flights to catch. Several of the others stayed until the late afternoon, sharing one last memory. Whatever had bonded them together so many years ago had resurfaced. There were embraces and tears all around as they said their good-byes. The Morans and the Deerfields exchanged phone numbers before leaving. Stephanie suspected that Dennis King and Paula Fitch had exchanged more than that.

  Toward the end of the day, after everyone else was gone and everything was cleaned and put away, Hal and Stephanie had a quiet moment alone. In an uncharacteristic show of affection he gave her a hug.

  "Congratulations, Steph. You did it."

  Chapter 36

  Amelia Vance sat up in bed. A full moon cast soft yellow light into the bedroom. Her husband, Jack, lay beside her, his arm draped across her pillow. For several minutes she listened to his soft, steady breathing. Gently she moved his arm and snuggled back up beside him. Then she heard it.

  "Jack," she whispered. She shook his shoulder. "Jack. Wake up."

  "Huh?" His response was little more than a grunt. His breathing resumed its steady pattern.

  "Come on, wake up." She jabbed two fingers into his side.

  "Ow! What? What'd you do that for?"

  "Shhh...quiet." She put her hand over his mouth but he pushed it aside.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I heard something. Downstairs. Something moving."

  They both lay motionless, straining to hear any sort of noise in the night that didn't belong. Jack sighed and rolled over to go back to sleep. Then she heard it again--a faint, scraping noise, like something being pushed or dragged across the floor.

  "Now do you hear it?"

  "Yeah. It is coming from downstairs."

  "What do you think it is?"

  She heard the floor creak.

  "Someone's in the house!"

  Jack turned silently toward his wife. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, "I'm going to get my gun. I want you to call the police."

  In slow motion he swung one leg over the edge of the bed, then the other. He tiptoed to the dresser. Amelia reached for the phone on the nightstand.

  "Jack!"

  At the sound of her voice he waved his arms and held his finger to his lips. "Be quiet!" he whispered.

  "Jack, the phone is dead."

  They stared at each other, he in his pajamas, standing by the dresser, she in her nightgown, sitting on the bed with the phone on her lap.

  "What the hell?" He pointed at the base of the phone. "Where's the cord?"

  For the first time she noticed that the cord connecting the phone to the wall was missing. The realization struck her...in our room, while we were asleep!

  He pulled open the top dresser drawer. His hand felt under the pile of socks, moving first to the left side, then frantically to the right. Socks and handkerchiefs spilled to the floor.

  "It's gone! The goddamn gun is gone!" He turned toward Amelia, obviously stunned. "The gun and the box of shells." There was resignation in his voice. He went back to the bed and sat down beside her. What could they do now? His own gun. He held her close and kissed her cheek. Softly he stroked her hair. They knew the door could burst open at any moment. With his own gun.

  They waited, huddled in each other's arms. The silence in the house was more ominous than the sounds they had heard earlier.

  "Jack, do you think he's gone?"

  "I don't know. It's been over an hour."

  "What are we going to do?"

  He took a deep breath. "I'm going downstairs."

  "No, you can't!" She clutched his arm. "I've got an idea. Let's go out the window."

  "It's a two-story drop to the patio. There's no sense breaking a leg if he's already gone. I've got to go find out."

  "But what if there's more than one? I'm going with you."

  Despite the tenseness of the moment, he smiled at her. "What good would you be?" He put his hand on her cheek. "You're going to stay right here."

  "No, Jack. I want to be with you."

  He looked in her eyes. "Okay. But you stay behind me."

  When they reached the door he carefully, quietly, turned the knob. He opened the door, a couple of inches at a time. They paused to listen for any sound that might tell them that someone was still in the house. He flipped the wall switch. Light from the overhead fixture illuminated the hallway.

  "Jack! What are you doing?"

  "If anyone's still down there I don't want to be sneaking up on him in the dark."

  The house was silent.

  "Hey!" Jack shouted. "You can take what you want, just please don't hurt us. Okay?"

  There was no response.

  "We're coming downstairs."

  They glanced in the two other bedrooms as they went down the hall. They showed no signs of disturbance. At the top of the stairs he flipped another switch. They could see a portion of the foyer.

  "Here we come. Don't hurt us. I can get you money if you don't hurt us."

  They stopped at the bottom of the stairway. The living room looked as it always did. He had a habit of taking his wallet out of his back pocket when he lay down to watch TV. It was still on the coffee table. Their sterling anniversary goblets rested untouched on the mantle. Their stereo was intact, and the TV still sat in the corner of the room. They went into the dining room. She opened a drawer in the hutch. Her silver flatware was in its place.

  "What's going on?" Amelia asked. "Nothing is missing."

  "I don't know. Maybe they heard us and got scared off. Let's check the kitchen."

  He turned on the kitchen light. They stood together in the doorway, struck silent by the scene before them. On the kitchen table was an odd assortment of articles: toilet paper, laundry detergent, a candle, a picture, a bottle of Johnny Walker, a record album, Jack's tool box, a Bible, a jar of mustard. The phone cord.

  "Jack?"

  "I don't know."

  Jack picked up the Bible, the mustard, the candle. Amelia ran her hands over the album, over the tool box. She studied each object.

  "Look at these things, Jack. Think where they belong. There's something here from every room in the house. Even the garage."

  She stared at the table. Why? Why would someone go through every room in the house and not take anything of value? Why were these things left on the table? It didn't make any sense.

  "I'm calling the police." Jack tried the wall phone and found it still worked. Again he looked down at the items on the table.

  "Hey, where's the gun?"

  Chapter 37

  Narrow spears of sunlight broke through the early morning clouds, finding their mark on th
e side of the gleaming white Georgian mansion. A curtain whipped in and out of an upstairs window.

  A car stopped in front of the imposing iron gates long enough for the driver to reach out and punch the numbered buttons on the sheltered control panel. When the gates swung open the car continued up the driveway.

  For twenty-two years Manuela Rosario had served the domestic needs of Charles and Margaret Creighton. Her employers provided her with a suite for the times she stayed over after they had entertained guests, but these days she seldom spent the night at the estate. The Creightons once had been famous for their extravagant gatherings, but now, because of their age and failing health, they rarely had visitors.

  As she closed the car door she saw the open window. How unlike Mrs. Creighton to be so careless, she thought. The old man suffered from emphysema and easily caught pneumonia. The housekeeper sorted through her keys. She started to put the proper key into the lock when she noticed the door was ajar. "What's going on around here?" she asked aloud. She nudged the door open and stepped inside.

  "Mrs. Creighton? Are you up, ma'am?" She walked down the hall and into the kitchen. There were no signs that her employers had been downstairs yet. Through the bay window in the breakfast nook she could see one of the large deckside umbrellas floating in the middle of the pool. She shook her head. She'd have to get it out of there before Mr. Creighton saw it. He was so insistent on order.

  Just outside the back door she spotted a trail of dark red dots leading in from the direction of the pool. Mr. Creighton liked to sit on the deck and carve wooden duck decoys. Manuela wondered if he had cut himself the night before with a sharp hobby knife and had gone into the house to wash off his wound.

  She went to the cabana and got the long-handled boat hook. Why hadn't Mr. Creighton used the sink there? It was so much closer. Things weren't making sense to her.

  Even with the ten-foot boat hook it was hard to reach the umbrella. After several attempts she managed to snag the fringe border. She tried to pull it to the side but found it surprisingly unyielding. She adjusted her grip on the pole to get better leverage and gave a final tug. In a single motion the umbrella flipped over. The housekeeper clutched her chest and fell screaming to the light blue cement deck.

  Not a hundred yards away Fletcher Bain was loading his golf clubs into the back of his Cherokee. When he heard someone screaming he raced across the street. He rattled the Creightons' gates, but they refused to budge. He then hoisted himself to the top, carefully avoided the iron spikes, and dropped to the other side.

  "Hello!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

  There was no answer.

  Bain ran up to the front portico and paused, straining to identify the direction of the anguished sobs he could just barely hear. Convinced the sound was not coming from inside, he sprinted to the rear of the mansion. There he found the housekeeper sprawled on the poolside deck.

  "Manuela! Are you all right? What happened?" Her breathing was irregular and her entire body quivered. He quickly examined her but found no signs of injury. "Manuela?"

  For the first time he looked over at the pool. He stood in a half-crouch, motionless. In the water near the pool's edge was an inverted patio umbrella, the pole pointing skyward like a piece of artillery in search of an aerial target. In the center of a cloudy pink stain floated a woman's body. Bain turned back to the housekeeper. He helped her into a lounge chair and patted her shoulder.

  "Don't worry, Manuela, I'm going to get some help." Once again he looked in the pool.

  The old woman was floating face down in the water, her arms and legs outstretched like a skydiver falling to earth. There were several holes in her nightgown, each with a crimson border.

  Bain remembered once using a phone in the cabana. He ran to call the police.

  "Christ," Anthony Donelli muttered as he pulled off the roadway and got out of his car. The heavy-set detective took a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Even the few strands of wavy brown hair he had dragged across his head to cover his balding pate were wet. Television crews were jockeying for position among the semi-circle of police cruisers nosed in near the gate. Uniformed officers were trying to control the growing crowd of onlookers. One of the officers saw the detective and trotted over.

  "Morning, sir," the officer said. "Got a white female, probably late sixties, early seventies. The housekeeper found her floating in the pool."

  "Okay," Donelli said. "Get these people back, will you?"

  Someone finally had managed to open the gates. Donelli ignored the reporters' questions as he pushed his way through the crowd. Just inside, two paramedics were sliding a collapsible gurney into the back of an ambulance.

  "Hold it," Donelli ordered. "Who've you got there?"

  "A neighbor said she's the housekeeper," answered one of the paramedics.

  "How is she?"

  "She's in shock, but other than that she seems to be okay. There's not a mark on her."

  Donelli stood at the edge of the stretcher and looked down at the woman. "Has she said anything?"

  "Not since we've been here."

  Donelli nodded. He shut the doors after the paramedics climbed inside. The crowd divided as the ambulance wedged its way through.

  Donelli walked around the house to the pool and saw the victim for the first time. Her blood had diffused throughout the water, tinting it a rusty blue. The body lay against the side of the pool and there was an unnerving thud each time the small ripples made the corpse's head bump against the edge.

  Donelli stared at the woman in the pool and shook his head. Why would anyone want to kill a harmless old lady? Who could do such a thing? A voice from behind interrupted his thoughts.

  "Lieutenant, you better come and take a look in the house."

  Chapter 38

  Stephanie stood in the doorway and scanned the inside of the bar. She spotted Frank sitting in a corner booth with his back to the door. Across from him was a heavy-set man who was tossing popcorn into his mouth. Stephanie walked over and put her hand on Frank's shoulder.

  "Drinking before dinner?" she asked.

  Frank looked up. "Ah, my favorite member of the fourth estate. I suppose now I've destroyed your image of the police detective?"

  "No, actually this confirms everything I've ever heard." Stephanie leaned down and kissed Frank on the cheek. "Am I interrupting anything?"

  "Of course not," he said. "Tony, I want you to meet Stephanie Kenyon. Stephanie, this is Tony Donelli. We were partners until he took a job with Beverly Hills P.D. about a year ago."

  Donelli wiped his hands with a napkin and accepted her handshake. "Nice to meet you, Stephanie. Frank's told me a lot about you." He winked at her, then looked across the table at Frank. "You're doin' better, Frankie. You finally found one that doesn't need a flea collar."

  "Ignore this man," Frank said to Stephanie. "He's just jealous because he hasn't had a date since Johnson was in office...Andrew, that is." Frank moved over and Stephanie sat down. "What can I get you?"

  "I'll have a glass of Chablis."

  "This is on me," Donelli said. He waved and got the bartender's attention. "Hey, Tulley, how about two St. Louie longnecks and some Chablis. In a clean glass. And crank up that damn air conditioning. It's hotter than Frankie's ex-wife in here." Donelli winked again at Stephanie. He finished his last swallow of beer and set the bottle on the table. "Be right back. Gotta go shake the snake."

  Frank smiled as Donelli got up and headed for the rest room. "Tony's a little crude at times," he said to Stephanie, "but I really love that guy. You will too, once you get to know him. We've been through a lot together." Frank put his arm around Stephanie. "I missed you, you know. How was your weekend?"

  "Busy, but good."

  "Anything exciting?"

  "I'll tell you about it when we have more time."

  Frank shrugged. "I can wait, as long as you won't be telling me about a wild, passionate weekend with some other guy."

  Stephanie grinned and pin
ched his forearm. "I'll spare you those details."

  Tulley came with their drinks. Frank glanced first at the rest room, then at the bartender. "Damn. He did it to me again, Tulley," Frank said. He got out a ten-dollar bill and pushed it across the table.

  "Thanks, Frank. You're the third one today."

  "What did Tony do?" Stephanie asked after the bartender had gone.

  "Ordered a round on him then hid out in the john until I paid for it. At one time or another he's done it to everybody in here."

  Stephanie looked around. She guessed there were fifteen or twenty other men in the bar. "Do you two know all of these people?"

  "Sure," Frank said after taking a sip of beer. "This is a dick dive. A cop bar. Everybody in here's a cop."

  Stephanie again looked around at the tables and at the bar. Some of the men wore sport jackets while others were in leather and had tattoos. "So you come in here at the end of the day to unwind?"

  "Some of us," Frank said. "And then there are those of us who are just getting ready to go on duty." He grinned at her.

  "Man, that was quick," Donelli said, nodding at the bottles on the table as he slid into the booth again. "I'll catch the next round."

  "No problem," Frank said. He turned to Stephanie. "Before you came in, Tony and I were talking about the elderly couple who were killed last night."

  "I caught something about it on the radio," Stephanie said. "They didn't live very far from my place."

  Frank nodded at Donelli. "It's Tony's case."

  "Really? Do you have any idea who did it?"

  "We already got the guy. Their grandson." For the first time Stephanie saw a serious look on Donelli's face. "The heartless bastard. He stabbed the old man in so damn many places you couldn't count them all."

  "Why would he kill his own grandparents?" Stephanie asked.

  "He's a looney-tune," Donelli replied. "He was higher than a kite on something...PCP, crack, I don't know what. I guess he's been on paper for drugs before. You name it, he's tried it. Plus, he's been in and out of every nut ward in the city."