The pieces of the puzzle are coming together in my mind.
Joe was destitute. He had nothing, not even a roof over his head. But he did have proof Hunt was a pedophile.
By contrast, Robinson Hunt was at the top of his game. A wealthy congregation. A flourishing winery.
Joe Stepanek knew his secret and had the power to take it all away.
I tried to get my head around it. Joe had been on the run for four years. Could he have blackmailed Hunt without putting himself in jeopardy? I could only assume he tried and paid with his life.
The last two weeks in May must have been excruciating for Sara. Caught in a power struggle she knew nothing about, she tried to make sense of a senseless situation. She wanted to be with her dad but not at the expense of losing her soul. In her altered state of mind, she believed bringing another child into the world was her road to salvation. Plans were made. It would happen this summer.
When her dad pressed for an answer, she stalled for time. Joe must have been going crazy. His was a desperate gamble. Until Hunt paid him off, Joe didn’t have the resources to take Sara and leave, and he surely knew of Hunt-slash-Harris’ obsession with his daughter.
Sara, ever more confused, had become an unwitting pawn in a dangerous game. At the end of May, she wrote:
Told Rob Dad wants me to go away with him. Rob begged me to wait a little longer. Dad told me to stay away from Rob. Don’t know what’s right anymore.
Assuming Sara didn’t know about Joe’s effort to extort money from Hunt—and nothing in her diary indicated she did—her words must have created even more anxiety for Hunt. Did he want Sara so badly he’d fork over the money? Was it then he decided Joe had to die? Or had he moved up the timeline, fearful that Sara would take off with Joe before he could do the dirty deed?
The last entry was a Thursday the day before Sara disappeared.
June 1. Dad said it had to be next week. But I can’t. He gave me a key to the shed, said hide it. Tried to call Rob. Not home. Don’t know what to do.
I shuffle papers and sigh. That’s all she wrote. From her diary, I know Sara is screwed up, maybe even brainwashed, thanks to her trusted minister, Robinson Hunt. Hard to believe a so-called man of God could be so evil.
But then I think about pedophile priests. Teachers screwing sixth-grade boys. Doctors, lawyers, rabbis and even policeman cruising online for prepubescent girls and boys to meet and abuse. Maybe it isn’t such a reach after all.
I also know the man responsible for her misguided beliefs has a stolen identity, is a convicted sex offender, and was desperate to get his hands on Sara. The presence of Joe Stepanek is not as easily explained. His appearance in Vista Valley, reconnection with his daughter, and apparent blackmail scheme will remain as mysterious as his death, unless Sara can be found.
Another thought has been circling in my brain. Sara may have gone with Hunt willingly and could be, at this very moment, screwing his brains out. But why, then, the letter to Nick and the phone call to me? She wanted us to find her Bible, the key to the storage locker, the doll, and the diary. If she’d gone willingly, she would have done everything possible to conceal her whereabouts rather than leaving a trail of clues.
Thanks to Marta, I know Gordon Venable has been a big player in Vista Valley’s thriving drug industry, maybe still is. He and Hunt seem joined at the hip. Who holds the upper hand?
And what about Michael? I sweep up the papers and go downstairs to burn them. Then, by God, I’ll make some phone calls. I might even call Sloan.
Nick is first on my list. We compare notes and make a date to drive to the WWJD Winery tomorrow afternoon.
Michael is next. From the sound of masculine voices and the clinking of glasses, I assume he’s at the club. I waste no time on pleasantries.
“What makes you think I’ll hear something bad about you, Michael?”
“I can’t talk now. I’m with a bunch of guys.”
“Why don’t you step outside?”
“It’s not a good time, Allegra.”
His tone is angry, designed to make me scurry back into my corner like a good little girl.
“Play golf with Robinson Hunt today?” I ask. “You guys talk about Sara? About how you told your ex-girlfriend to back off? Why, Michael? What’s in it for you? If you know where Sara is, you’d better tell me. Because I’m not backing off. No way!”
I hear Michael breathing into the phone then the scrape of a chair, the sound of footsteps, a door opening and closing. “It’s complicated,” he says. “There’s stuff I can’t tell you, but I don’t know where Sara is. I swear it.”
“If the stuff you can’t tell me has to do with Hunt, you’d better be careful.”
Michael’s breathing accelerates. “Exactly what I was trying to tell earlier.”
“Maybe we should get together and share information.”
“I can’t do that. Sorry.”
He really does sound sorry. But then, Michael is skilled at sounding sincere. As we click off, I wonder what Hunt is holding over him. Sex? Drugs? I try to remember the seven deadly sins but give up after gluttony.
I dig out Sloan’s cell number. Because he’s out of town, I can pick his brain from afar without the risk of being banished to the sidelines. I’ll dangle the name Gordon Venable-slash-B.G. in front of his nose and hope he’ll snap at the bait. I’m on the verge of hanging up when, after eight rings, he answers.
“It’s Allegra. Can you hear me?” I shout into the phone.
“Al? Can’t hear you …” comes the reply.
“Where are you?” I scream.
“Colom—”
“You’re in Colombia? The country of Colombia or the District of Columbia?” After I utter them, I realized how idiotic my words are.
“Country,” he says.
I throw out Gordon Venable’s name and my suspicions about Robinson Hunt. When I finish, I hear nothing but dead air. He’s cut out completely and probably not heard a word I said.
“Sloan? Are you there?”
After an ear-splitting crackle, I hear. “Call you later.”
Another dead end. I pace the floor, but it doesn’t help. I need to talk to a real live person, and who is more alive than Grandma Sybil as evidenced by her unwavering devotion to the betterment of mankind? I’ve just started down the stairs when the phone rings.
“Ms. Thome?” a booming, baritone voice asks. “It’s Jack Cheeseman.”
My heart stops beating, my mouth falls open, and the phone drops to the floor. Jack Cheeseman, assistant superintendent of the Vista Valley school district, is known by district employees as Monterey Jack. Hiring and firing are his forte. Especially firing. A call from Monterey Jack on a Saturday is not good.
I scramble for the phone. As I hold it to my ear, I see myself in the mirror. My face is ashen, my eyes wide and staring. “Sorry, Mr. Cheeseman. I dropped the phone.”
“No problem. Call me Monty.”
Why is he being nice to me? Is this his perverted way of putting me at ease before he gives me the ax? Should I stall for time and call Dorothy? Questions nibble at the edges of my mind like moths in a sweater drawer. I try to pull myself together. “What can I do for you, Mr. Cheeseman?”
“Monty,” he corrects gently.
“Monty,” I repeat like a dutiful child.
“Ms. Thome,” he says. I brace myself. “Relax, this isn’t about you.”
Giddy with relief, my knees give way, and I sink to the floor.
“It’s about Coach Thorndyke. We need to talk.”
Chapter 26
after a brief pause, I squeak, “Donny?”
“Mmm hmm,” my new friend, Monty says. “It’s come to my attention that, at some point in the past few weeks you made an effort to speak to Principal Langley regarding, shall we say, certain suspicions you harbor regarding Coach Thorndyke. Is that correct?”
(Yes, he really talks like that.)
My mind is swimming with confusion. How had Jack Che
eseman found out about my conversation with R.D. about Donny?
I swallow hard. “May I ask why you want to know?”
“No, you may not. But rest assured any forthcoming information will be held in the strictest of confidence. Furthermore, if Coach Thorndyke has acted inappropriately toward young female students, I think you’ll agree he should not be in the teaching ranks.”
Part of me feels vindicated. Monterey Jack is calling me to get the lowdown on Donny when my own principal blew me off like a pesky mosquito. All I have to do is say the word and Donny is history.
I can’t do it.
“Mr. Cheeseman, uh, I mean Monty,” I begin. “It’s true I talked to R.D., but I need to speak to Donny before this goes any further. Can I call you back?”
Monty mulls over my request, his thought process punctuated by a series of exasperated hmms and harrumphs. When he finally speaks, his tone has no trace of congeniality. “Fine. Call me ASAP.”
As soon as he clicks off, I paw through the desk drawer for the school directory and dial Dorothy Simonson. I fill her in and ask that age-old question: “Am I in trouble?”
“You? Oh, my dear, it’s not you who’s in trouble,” she replies.
“Donny?”
“I can’t say too much, Allegra, but you know I hear things,” Dorothy says. “If Donny’s in trouble, it’s only because of his association with R.D.”
“R.D.’s in trouble?”
“You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s possible our nattily attired leader may have a lot more time to shop.” She punctuates her comment with a single, “Oh, HO!”
“So where does that leave me? What about my evaluation?”
“At this point, probably not worth the paper it’s written on. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
Much comforted by Dorothy’s words, I begin the tedious task of tracking down Donny Thorndyke. It’s Saturday night. Donny could be at any number of watering holes. I call his home and get his answering machine. I even call Brewski’s. No Donny. I’m pondering my next move when I hear Grandma Sybil calling from the bottom of the stairs, “Allegra! It’s spaghetti night. Come and get it!”
My meeting with Donny will have to wait until morning. Concluding that a hung-over Donny will be easier to deal with than a drunken Donny, I join Grandma for dinner.
Sunday
Sunday morning I stand on the front stoop of Donny’s duplex, one hand lifted to knock, the other clutching a 20-ounce cup of black coffee purchased at Sid’s Gas ‘n’ Grub. As I approach Donny’s front door, my quivering nostrils detect the malodorous scent of stale beer and cigarettes. Donny’s red Firebird sits in the driveway. I fervently hope his buddy Kelvin hasn’t spent the night. “One sociopath at a time” is my motto.
My timorous knock gets no response, so I double up my fist and pound. No way I’m leaving until I talk to Donny. I’ve just kicked the door in disgust when I see the drapes twitch and a bloodshot eye checking me out through the narrow crack.
“Come on, Donny,” I yell. “Open up!”
The door flies open, and I recoil as the fetid air pours out. Donny stands in boxer shorts and nothing else. I can’t see his back but suspect his hackles are raised.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarls.
“Are you alone?” I ask, feeling like an operative in a spy movie.
“Yeah, why?”
Though every fiber of my being resists, I push past him into the depressing living room littered with empty beer bottles and old newspapers. I brush the crumbs off a saggy sofa and sit down. “I got a call from Monterey Jack.”
Donny slams the door, kicks an empty beer bottle across the room, and explodes into a spate of curse words, the prominent theme being “that God damn Langley!” Had I not known Donny’s secret, I would have cowered in fear. Instead, I wait calmly for the storm to subside.
Fury spent, he collapses into a chair opposite me. I hand him the coffee. He takes it in both hands and lifts it shakily to his mouth. “So what did you tell him? That I had the hots for little girls?”
I shake my head. “What’s going on with R.D.? I thought the two of you were buddies.”
He slurps noisily and scratches his chest. “R.D.’s about to get canned. Did you know that?”
Remembering Dorothy’s caution, I gasp and say, “No way.”
Donny nods. “All those conferences he goes to? He’s been padding his expense account. You can fuck up a lot in administration, but you’d better not fuck with the money.”
I can’t argue with his logic. “So what’s the deal with you?”
“When the shit hit the fan for R.D., he came to me. Threatened me. Said if I didn’t help him, I’d be sorry.”
“But what could you do?”
“He said people would listen to me. That I should draft a letter in his support and have everybody sign it.”
“And you refused?”
“Are you nuts? Of course I refused. I don’t want to get tarred and feathered along with R.D.”
“Oh,” I say in a small voice. “So he’s using what I said to get you fired, too.”
He sets the coffee down on the floor and drops his head in his hands, his thumbs massaging his temples.
I clear my throat. Swallow hard. When the words come out, they sound forced through cotton batting. “Donny. I know about the brain tumor.”
He lowers his hands and stares at me.
Like most people, I assumed Donny’s bizarre behavior and partying were the result of his wife kicking him to the curb. But with a peanut-sized tumor growing in his frontal lobe …
My words come out in a rush. “It’s a long story, but let’s just say I had the opportunity to check my medical chart and accidentally grabbed yours along with mine. I saw the results of the CT scan.”
He gives a shuddering sigh. “Who else knows?”
“Nobody. I swear.”
“It’s been a rough year,” he says, staring at his feet.
“Do they know downtown?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Are you getting treatment?”
He grimaces. “Surgery. Next week. Then radiation.”
Sensing that pity will make things worse, I let my outrage show. “So what do you plan to do, tough guy? Soldier through on your own?”
He gives me a weak smile and shrugs.
“You have to tell them. If you don’t, I will. You’re sick, Donny. Partying and hanging out with thugs like Kelvin Koenig doesn’t help. You’re not just fighting for your job; you’re fighting for your life. You need support from people who care about you.”
I snap my mouth shut and wait. He runs a hand down his bristly cheek and finally meets my gaze. “I never touched any of those girls. I want you to know that. Yeah, I enjoy looking. Who doesn’t? I haven’t been feeling so good about myself lately.”
“I have to call Cheeseman back,” I say. “Here’s what I’m going to tell him: ‘Disregard any comments by R.D. Langley. Coach Thorndyke has a medical problem you need to be aware of. He’ll be calling you later today to talk to you about it.’ End of story. Got it?”
His face goes through a series of painful tics, and I realize he’s trying to hold back tears. Finally, he nods.
I rise from the disgusting sofa and shake a finger at him. “Make sure you do. I’ll be checking. And while you’re at it, talk to your family.”
He follows me to the door. “I need to tell you something, kid.”
He swipes at his eyes and says, “I didn’t tell him to, but it was Kelvin who spray painted your car. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah, well Kelvin’s a creep. But at least I got a new paint job out of it.”
Before we part, Donny doubles up a fist and offers it to me. “Friends?”
After a brief moment of confusion, I bump his fist with mine. “Yeah, friends.”
At noon on Sunday, we embark en masse on our short journey to the WWJD Winery. Grandma Sybil, Dodie, Susan, Nick, and I.
Things qui
ckly got out of hand last night when I unburdened myself to Grandma. No way would she miss out on a chance to check out the bizarrely named winery she believed was funded by her departed friend, Ruth Willard. Dodie, always up for wine tasting, decided to join us, and Susan is along to keep an eye on Nick.
To accommodate the size of our group, Grandma took the Olds out of mothballs.
Dodie rides shotgun. Susan, Nick, and I share the roomy back seat. Our pleasant Sunday drive ends abruptly when Grandma hits the on-ramp to the freeway. She stomps on the accelerator to beat an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, causing our heads to whip back and forth as if we’re a bunch of crazed bobble head dolls.
I rub the back of my neck and try to stay calm. “Grandma, you might want to slow down a little.”
She turns to give me an admonishing look as she whips around a lowrider, a Ford Explorer, and what looks like an unmarked state patrol car.
I scream, “Keep your eyes on the road. You just passed a cop.”
She pulls into the right lane and eases up on the gas until the needle holds steady at seventy-five. I hear the bones in my neck crack as I turn to look out the back window, fully expecting to see flashing lights.
“Before you so rudely interrupted me,” Grandma begins, “I was about to tell you most accidents happen because people merge onto the freeway too slowly. Did you know that, Allegra? Surely you remember it from drivers education.”
“Which obviously you never had,” I grouse. “And it doesn’t mean you stomp on the gas so hard you give your passengers whiplash. I’m driving home.”
“Only if you pry the keys from my cold, dead hand.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Hey, you two. Knock it off!” Dodie says.
She has one hand braced against the dashboard and, with the other, fans herself with Grandma’s AARP magazine. Her face is scarlet with heat.
“Ha! Listen to you, Ms. White Knuckles,” I say. “Would you please sit back? Your body’s blocking the cold air. It’s stifling back here.”
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 19