Hot, Shot, and Bothered

by Nora McFarland

  “I’m sleeping,” I said.

  Teddy turned to the backseat. “Sorry, chief. We’ll dial it down.” “And for the record”—I raised up on my elbow—

  “Mellencamp’s final victim, the one Springsteen saved, is the get.”

  “Dude,” Freddy yelled, “why didn’t I think of that?”

  “That’s why she’s the chief.” Teddy reached back and high-fived me.

  This time I fell into a much deeper sleep. I awoke to see Teddy’s tentative face above mine. “Dude, we’re here. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I sat up. I shook my head to clear the drugged feeling. “What time is it?”

  Freddy handed me a bottle of Mountain Dew. “A little after twelve.”

  I opened the bottle and chugged it. The carbonation burned my throat and forced me to wake up.

  I lowered the bottle and looked out the car window. We were double-parked in front of a two-story brick building. GREEN SEED was etched into the glass door. The block was full of similar storefronts and offices. They all looked expensive.

  I took another quick drink. “Why don’t you go ahead and park?”

  “Good luck with that.” Freddy cackled. “We’d bag our own reality show before a free parking space opened up in this town.”

  I took the phone from my gear bag, then reached for the door. “I guess, try and wait for me here then. I’m using Rod’s station phone, if you need to call me.”

  Freddy nodded. “Cool.”

  I slid open the door and smelled something new. I’ve never done a lot of traveling. Bakersfield is my home and I’ve always been happy to stay there. The odor I smelled now reminded me of a farm, but at the same time was something completely different.

  I looked down the block and saw the Pacific Ocean. Only a sliver of its true scope was visible, but the smell, the moisture in the air, the intangible weight of knowing it was there, all combined to make it feel massive. It reminded me of the fire, but without the terror.

  I stepped down from the van. A man in an expensive suit walked by carrying a briefcase. His Bluetooth headset gave him the appearance of talking to himself. “You and all those soft-rock apologists can figure it out. . . . Am I talking to the Japanese? Am I in Tokyo right now?”

  A second man passed, but his soiled clothing and matted hair made it unlikely he was also on a call. “It’s all about Lorne Michaels. He’s the key. I saw him put it in the reservoir. And these are good eyes. The Canadians want these eyes.”

  “You disrespect her like this and somebody is getting bloody.” The first man hit a button on his key chain. A Porsche beeped in a nearby driveway.

  The sound made the second man jump, but he recovered and continued his monologue. “He said it was just fluoride, but I know the truth. My eyes can think for themselves. They aren’t sheep.”

  “So this is Venice,” I said.

  “Isn’t it awesome?” Teddy leaned out his window. “We’d totally move down here, but it’s way too expensive.”

  “Totally,” I said.

  I slid the door shut.

  “Hold up, dude.” Freddy walked around the front of the van holding out a comb. “You look like Medusa on her bummerest day.”

  “Thanks.” I took my hair down and tried to comb it out. My long, dark curls were some new kind of frizzy that until that moment hadn’t been seen on our planet. They also had a sandy texture that I guessed was ash and soot. I shoved them back up into a ponytail. “Better?”

  “Totally.” Freddy grinned. “Now you look like Medusa on an awesome day.”

  I opened the glass door and entered. The exposed-brick walls contrasted with a futuristic-looking, black metal staircase leading to the second floor. On the wall above a reception desk hung a large green pod with a giant earth sprouting from its center.

  A young woman in a headset was sitting there. “Green Seed, how can I help you help the earth?” She paused, then said, “She’s not in right now. Would you like her voice mail?”

  As she performed the transfer, her face scrunched up and she sniffed. She looked up, trying to find the source of the odor, and saw me. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry. I just came from the Terrill Wildfire. That’s why I smell like this.”

  She nodded, but I saw her pull back a little from the desk.

  “Is this where Jessica Egan works?”

  “This is difficult to say, but I’m afraid Jessica may have passed away.” She eyed the logo on my polo shirt. “Is that why you’re here? Are you doing a story about her?”

  “Something like that.”

  She asked me to wait, then walked into a glass-walled office on the other side of the metal staircase. She spoke to a man wearing dark slacks and a dress shirt. He stared at her, then me. He picked up a phone and dialed.

  I looked around. On the other side of the stairs, another glass-walled office sat beyond a row of empty desks. I approached. There was no name on the door because there was no door. The lights abruptly came on when I entered. A motion sensor eyed me from the wall where you’d expect to see a light switch.

  A large oil painting was the only decoration. The landscape, painted in thick, lush strokes, looked like the view from the top of Mt. Terrill. Of course no horrific natural disaster was marring this scene. I looked for a signature and was surprised to see C. Egan.

  Several cacti sat on a long filing cabinet under the painting. But in contrast to the thriving plants in the picture, these looked withered and brown.

  A quick glance inside the stacks of folders on the desk showed budgets, lists, and complicated spreadsheets I couldn’t understand. The only other thing on the desk, besides a phone and Macintosh computer, was an open metal water bottle. It gave the eerie impression that Jessica had just stepped out and would be right back. I quickly opened the desk drawers. A set of house keys sat in a pencil tray. I pocketed them, then searched the rest of the desk, but didn’t see anything personal or revealing.

  More stacks of papers and folders covered a table in the corner. I was looking though them when a man said, “That’s private material.”

  I turned around. It was the man the receptionist had gone to speak with. “This is Jessica Egan’s office, right?”

  His studious-looking wire-frame glasses contrasted with his militaristic hairstyle. “Yes, and you don’t have permission to be here. Just because you’re a reporter doesn’t mean you can trespass.”

  “My name’s Lilly Hawkins. I’m a shooter with KJAY in Bakersfield, but I’m not doing a story.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I knew her.” I took the metal water bottle and poured the contents into the cacti. “It was a long time ago, but I knew her.”

  He pushed his glasses back up from where they’d slipped down his nose. “I don’t understand. Did you come all this way to tell us in person?”

  “Not exactly. I don’t think her death was an accident.” I paused. “Did Jessica have a bad shoulder?”

  He nodded. “The worst. Could barely raise her arm.”

  NINETEEN

  Friday, 12:04 p.m.

  I felt intense relief and immediately wondered why. Was Bedolla right? Did I want Jessica’s death to be murder? Was I secretly afraid Jessica had stopped being strong and smart and become just as weak and stupid as I used to be?

  “I believe she went to a doctor about the shoulder,” he continued. “But it had been too long since the injury for surgery.”

  “You need you to contact the Elizabeth police and tell them that.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m going to have to insist that we continue this discussion in my office. I don’t care if you knew Jessica or not, you have no business being in her office and looking through her work papers.”

  I went with him partly because he was right, and partly because I’d already looked through the desk and found what I hoped were the keys to Jessica’s house.

  As we passed, the receptionist gave me a dirty look. I didn’t blame her
. I smelled bad, looked bad, and had gone into a dead woman’s office and began searching it without permission. I would probably have been glaring too.

  We entered his office, and he sat down behind a desk. It was just as covered with paperwork as Jessica’s, but a Captain Underpants figurine gave it some personality. “I’m Tyler, by the way.”

  I took a seat. Judging by the wall of pictures behind him, Tyler had done a lot of traveling—and not the Paris-in-spring kind of travel. His smiling face looked out at me from deserts, jungles, and even glaciers. In some of the pictures he wore military fatigues.

  “Were you in the army?”

  He glanced back at the photos. “I did ROTC and then got called up to active duty.”

  “Iraq?”

  “One tour. The rest of the time I was in Germany.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You look surprised,” he said.

  “The stereotype for leftist environmental groups doesn’t include military service.”

  “Taking care of the earth isn’t a left or right issue. And neither is military service.”

  “Did Jessica see it that way?”

  “Jessica doesn’t care if you’re straight, gay, right, left, religious, atheist, you name it. You can be anything you want as long as you work hard, respect the environment, and support animal rights.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “But if you were really her friend, you’d probably know that.”

  “We weren’t exactly friends and it was a long time ago. The summer before she moved here. I actually gave her cover so her dad wouldn’t know she was working with Green Seed.”

  “Wait a minute.” He pulled back and then pointed. “Did you spray-paint some sign up by the lake?”

  I felt my cheeks burn. “She told you that story?”

  “She saw you on the news last winter.” His entire demeanor softened and he looked much less guarded. “She said you’d caught a murderer and taken on a gang or a smuggling ring or something.”

  “Or something.”

  “She was really excited. She wanted to try and get you to do a story about pesticide overuse in the Central Valley.”

  “That’s ironic. She didn’t have a very high opinion of me back when we knew each other.”

  “You wouldn’t know it from the way she was going on. She said something weird . . . what was it?” He thought for a minute. “She said, ‘Everybody needs a way home, even if they never use it.’”

  He shook his head. “None of us could figure out what she meant.”

  “It’s the last thing I ever said to her, thirteen years ago.” After an awkward pause, I changed the subject. “I have some unanswered questions about Jessica. I’d be very grateful if you’d help me settle them.”

  “I can’t comment for a story.” He gestured to the phone. “I called our PR person and they don’t want me to say anything.”

  “I swear I’m not doing a story. My interest is personal. If I end up doing a story later, I’ll get your permission before using anything you’ve said.”

  He adjusted his weight in the chair. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you think Jessica was murdered?”

  I gave him a quick recap of the official version of Jessica’s death.

  “There’s so many things wrong with that. I don’t know where to start.” He shook his head. “I mean, even without the shoulder, I’ve never seen Jessica overindulge in alcohol. Even at fund-raisers with open bars, she always kept it to one glass of wine.”

  “I think her father may have become an alcoholic after Jessica’s mother died.”

  “That explains a lot.” He leaned back in his chair. “Jessica insisted on mandatory drug tests every six months. It’s good policy, but she always seemed a little bit too worried about substance abuse.”

  He glanced back at the pictures on the wall. “It’s funny, we worked here together for two years and I hardly know anything about her. She was always nice, but there was something closed off in her manner.”

  “Is there anyone around who knew her better?”

  He thought for a moment. “Ceasonne Polignac. She and Jessica go way back and she happens to be upstairs right now. She used to be executive director here.”

  I couldn’t help but turn around and look at the stairs. “I know who Ceasonne is—I met her at Bonny Hazel—but what’s she doing here?”

  “She’s unloading salamanders.” He made a goofy face of mock aversion. “It’s a temporary measure until Dr. Polignac evacuates and can take them to UCLA.”

  “Was Jessica close to both the Polignacs or just Ceasonne?”

  “I wouldn’t say she was close to either. Just that she’d known them for a long time.”

  “Did Jessica ever visit Bonny Hazel on behalf of Green Seed?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I think once this past year. She wanted to make sure the students weren’t abusing the property.”

  That’s what Farris and Polignac had both said. Then why did the Fitzgeralds see her in the store with people from Bonny Hazel, and why was she seen driving into Bonny Hazel on weekends?

  Tyler continued, “And of course she went up on Wednesday to make sure everyone evacuated.”

  “What was her reaction to the wildfire?”

  “She was very disturbed.” He hesitated. “The truth is, she had a meltdown about it on Monday. It was completely out of character. I’ve seen her angry, sad, frustrated, but never crying.”

  “Did something in particular set her off?”

  “When the fire jumped its containment lines and those men were killed.” He spread his arms. “It was terrible news, of course, but Jessica’s reaction seemed completely out of proportion. Later I heard her brother is a firefighter, and it made more sense.”

  If that was true, then Jessica cared far more for Brad than he did for her. “Was she better on Tuesday?”

  “She didn’t come in at all, which is almost unheard of. Then Wednesday she called and said she was going up to Elizabeth and wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week.” He leaned forward for emphasis. “You don’t understand how out of character that was. I mean, Jessica practically lived here.”

  “Is that true for weekends too?”

  He considered. “Before this past year it was.”

  “Why the change?”

  He shrugged. The movement was small and casual, but it felt artificial.

  “Did you ask her?”

  “No,” he said too quickly.

  “But you must have had some idea.”

  He stood. “Like I said, Jessica and I weren’t close.” He walked around the desk. “I’ll take you up to Ceasonne now. She worked with Jessica for much longer and is a better person to talk with.”

  He walked out and waited for me just outside the glass wall. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so effectively stonewalled and wondered if it was his military background.

  I followed him, but said, “So what exactly are you hiding?”

  He’d already started up the black metal staircase, but his head whipped around to glance at me. “Nothing.”

  It had to be connected to why Jessica stopped working weekends. We reached the second floor, and I was about to say that exact thing, when I saw we weren’t alone.

  Cathy, the intern from Bonny Hazel whose sound bite had gone viral, stood at one of several tables. She wore the same shorts and tank top as the last time I’d seen her. On the tables were clear plastic boxes with salamanders inside.

  Cathy looked up from feeding a cricket to one. “Hey, it’s you.” I turned to Tyler. “We met this morning at Bonny Hazel.”

  He nodded and then looked at Cathy. “Have you seen Ceasonne?”

  “She went out for coffee. Should be back any second.”

  “I’ll go look for her.” He quickly left.

  I suspected his real reason for leaving was to avoid my asking more questions about why Jessica had stopped working weekends. I would probably have followed him and done ju
st that, except I wanted to talk to Cathy alone.

  “What are you doing here?” I said after Tyler had disappeared down the steps. “I thought you’d be unpacking or sleeping or something.”

  Her mood shifted dramatically. “I can’t go home. People won’t stop calling my parents about that TV interview. Some people even recognized me when we stopped for gas. They called me horrible names.” She looked at me with big, open eyes. “It was fifteen seconds. I opened my mouth and talked for fifteen seconds and now that’s who I am forever.”

  I didn’t know how to help her, so I repeated what Rod had said to me. “It may have been bad, but it won’t define who you are in the future.”

  “I really didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It was such a bone-headed mistake.” She gently moved the box with the salamander to where the others were stacked. “I was so excited to be on TV. I wanted everyone to think I was brave for not evacuating. Which is total BS because I was the loudest one telling Dr. Polignac we had to get out.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Of course she was young, hardly a surprise, and inexperienced and unaware—all the things you’d expect an eighteen-year-old to be. But what surprised me was how unguarded she was, as though she invested every part of herself in what she thought and felt. If I saw her again in twenty years, would she still look that way? Hadn’t she already learned from the disastrous interview to hold pieces of herself back?

  The impulsiveness, the ignorance that even small acts might have permanent consequences, even her childish desire to sound brave—everything that had led Cathy to those disastrous fifteen seconds—morphed into something precious and fleeting. I felt an overwhelming desire to protect it.

  The words came out before I even knew what was happening. “Stay away from Farris. He likes you for the wrong reasons and he’ll treat you badly.”

  She laughed.

  I immediately backpedaled. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. It’s none of my business.”

  She laughed again. “It’s okay. I was onto Farris’s whole routine tine before I even got up to Bonny Hazel.” She lowered her voice. “ ‘My art keeps me in touch with nature. Maybe we can go camping and I can sketch you.’”