California Girl

by T. Jefferson Parker

  But Nick’s mind would surely blow when he learned what Andy had learned. Mystery lover. Pregnant. Unless that was old news, too. The autopsy would reveal some of it.

  Jesse Black performed “Girl of the North Country” and “Imagine You.” The music was dreamy and pure and you could hear the crowd breathing. Then sniffing back tears. The audience wasn’t sure whether to clap, but when the applause began it mounted quickly and ran long. Black nodded once and walked out a front exit with wholesome Gail and orange-haired Crystal trailing behind him.

  Andy sat with Teresa on his left and Nick on his right. As he looked around, what struck him most and hardest was how few of these people had even met her. She was a celebrity in death that she’d never been in life. An event. A symbol. An entertainment.

  Journal stand sales had gone up 162 percent over the five days following her death, peaking with the Wolfman profile on Saturday. Subscriptions up, too. The Journal had capitalized. Janelle Vonn and related stories had run above the fold, right up there with Johnson and the war and the Russians and the space program. Display advertising orders had increased 26 percent, most of them for first-section placement, where the Janelle stories ran. The Times and the Register numbers were up, too, but not like the Journal’s.

  So, they had given the people what they wanted. They’d kicked ass. Andy had kicked most of it himself. And here they were, all those people, asses kicked and showing up at a funeral for someone they never knew. Because of his words on a page. And a picture of a schizophrenic with a hairy hand.

  But if he hadn’t served up Janelle piping hot and fresh for them each day, someone else would have. Andy shook his head and looked down at his church shoes.

  When it was over they joined the throng moving outside to their cars for the short drive to Angel’s Lawn and the grave.

  Andy watched in numb silence as they lowered Janelle’s coffin into the hole. Only later, while he stood alone by Clay’s grave under a leafless sycamore, did the tears come heavy and hot.

  THE BECKER family home stood pale against the trees in the cool October night. Andy parked next to David’s blue Kingswood Estate station wagon. Behind Roger and Marie Stoltz’s new white Cadillac. Nick wouldn’t be there, which was fine with Andy.

  It wasn’t until after dinner that he got David alone in the study, closed the door. David was pale. He plopped into Max’s big leather club chair. When David’s strength left him it was like a house of cards collapsing. Andy poured a couple of ample scotches from Max’s library bar, skipped the ice and water.

  David mostly nodded his confirmation of Jesse Black’s story. Yes, Janelle had a secret man. No, David had no idea who he was or what they did. Yes, she was pregnant and planning to abort. No, Janelle really didn’t know who the father was.

  Of course he’d told Nick all of this.

  “Did you see her that last night?” asked Andy.

  David sipped the drink. Looked at Andy with a level expression. “We were going to have dinner,” he said. “But Janelle changed her mind on Monday. Canceled.”

  “Nick know about this?”

  “If Jesse told you, he must have told Nick. I haven’t.”

  “Why?”

  David looked down, scuffed the old wool rug with the toe of his wing tip. Drank again. “I don’t want it known, unless it would help in some way. I don’t think it would put me in a good light.”

  “Why?”

  “Think hard, Andrew.”

  “Proximity.”

  “That’s all it takes. In my…calling.”

  “Was Barbara invited to the dinner, too?”

  “Of course she was. See, Andy, that’s what I mean. All I’m going to get from that broken dinner date is suspicion and innuendo. I don’t need it.”

  “Who’s Howard?”

  “Langton. Janelle’s friend. She lived with his family after they busted her brothers and you wrote that article. And yes, just so you know, Howard’s wife, Linda, was also on the invite list. In fact, the four of us had had dinner two or three times with Janelle and a date.”

  “Why’d she cancel?”

  “She didn’t give a reason.” David leaned back. Closed his eyes. Twirled his drink glass, then set it on his thigh.

  “What did she do for money?” asked Andy.

  A faint shake of his head. “I don’t know, Andy. Am I supposed to know everything you need for an article? Come on.”

  “Amazing,” said Andy.

  “What?”

  “That you could be her minister for so long and know so little about her. That I could write probably ten articles about her over the years and know so little about her. That Jesse Black could hang with her for almost a year and know so little about her.”

  “She only gave what was asked for.”

  “Why?”

  “Because so much had been taken.”

  “And there wasn’t much left?”

  “I think there was a great deal left. A great deal. She just hadn’t learned yet that the more you give away the more you have.”

  David pulled himself upright and walked out of the room. Andy poured another scotch. Could hear David saying his goodbyes.

  HIS PARENTS and the Stoltzes were in the darkened living room watching the late news. Andy sat on the sofa between Max and Monika. Noted that Roger and Marie Stoltz got the good recliners closer to the TV. His father’s blue and his mother’s white. And it wasn’t just because Stoltz was a United States representative now. Andy remembered that Thanksgiving so long ago, the first night he’d made love with Meredith. The Stoltzes sat right where they are now, he thought, holding court.

  The day’s American casualties in Vietnam were a reported twenty-two dead. Total for September was five hundred and thirty-nine. For the “conflict” it was eighteen thousand four hundred and eight. Enemy dead today was twenty-six. President Johnson said American resolve would not waver and would never break. Two newscasters discussed the logic of destroying a village in order to save it. Then a commercial for new Oreos with creamier filling.

  “Eighteen thousand four hundred and eight,” said Max. “Americans. Roger, you mean to tell me that a strategic nuclear bomb on Hanoi wouldn’t end this war slick as a whistle?”

  “Moscow would strike back.”

  “Then bomb Moscow, too! It’s Kalashnikovs that are killing our boys.”

  “We all know that,” said Stoltz. “And rhetorically that’s an interesting stance. Practically, it will never happen.”

  “You’re right,” said Max. “I thought Dick Nixon would run on that plank if anyone would. But no. He doesn’t have the balls for it.”

  “He’s got to get into office first,” said Stoltz. “Look what happened to Goldwater.”

  “Dick will win it this time,” said Marie.

  “Roger,” said Monika. “I’m just glad you’re our man in Washington now. Keep up the good fight.” She smiled. Big and beautiful. And a rarity, thought Andy.

  Stoltz smiled, too. “Business has never been better since Max and Marie started running it.”

  Andy felt his anger rise at Stoltz. Automatic. Always had been. But it wasn’t for anything he could ever put a finger on. Maybe his voice, his easy sincerity. His casually handsome face, the dumb/dashing aviator’s mustache. Maybe something to do with the way Stoltz got Clay into the language institute, then the CIA, then killed. Or how he got David into Anaheim First Presbyterian right out of San Anselmo’s, when there were so many extra ministers waiting. Or arranged the congratulations letter from Nixon when Nick graduated from the Sheriff’s Academy. Or put Andy’s disillusioned and heartbroken father to work at his goddamned chemical plant while the representative spent half his time swilling at the public trough in D.C.

  And made his mother smile.

  It annoyed Andy that Stoltz had infiltrated his family. Just like Stoltz brayed about the Commies infiltrating his government. The International Stoltz Conspiracy.

  “I heard you got some more contracts for Orange
Sunshine,” said Andy.

  “That’s right,” said Stoltz. “Last month your father and Marie nailed down San Bernardino County. Thousands of miles of asphalt to clean. And they’re paving thousands more.”

  “That’ll take a lot of rotten oranges.”

  “More of those to come, too.”

  “I liked it better when Orange County had orange trees instead of bulldozed groves,” said Andy. “When people like Max Becker had good work. When my mom used to smile.”

  “Enough, Andy,” she said.

  Stoltz nodded. “He’s right. I hate to see the groves go, too, Andy. But people need somewhere to live. And the Florida oranges are just as good for juice. At least we’re using the last of the fruit.”

  “America will fall like overripe fruit into our hands,” said Max.

  “You watch, you’ll see,” said Stoltz.

  “Satan’s hands,” said Monika.

  “Every Soviet prediction since nineteen-seventeen has come true,” said Marie.

  Andy stood, kissed his rigid mother, and ran a hand over his father’s shoulder. Nodded to Marie. Shook Stoltz’s hand, saw the scratches and a scab just below the thumb when he let go.

  “You people are all crazy,” Andy said, and walked out.

  17

  DAVID TOOK TWO DAYS off from work. Then another. He’d never felt so drained. He couldn’t face another sermon or funeral or wedding or baptism. Not one more witticism for the marquee. Not another inmate who didn’t do it. Not one human being except for his immediate family.

  Barbara rewrote the sermon preempted by Janelle. She was an excellent writer, adept at both hermeneutics and homiletics. David invited her to deliver the message on Sunday but Barbara refused. He took a marquee adage from a magazine rather than compose one: Exercise Daily—Walk with the Lord. Deacon Shaffner put it up and took the old one down.

  His doctor did an electrocardiograph. Normal. Took blood for lab work, put a hurry-up on it, and got results in a day. Normal. Did a thoracic X ray to be safe. Normal again.

  The doctor said he was in perfect health, that God was taking care of David as well as David was taking care of God.

  He took long walks on the beach in Newport with Barbara, Matthew, Rachel, and Wendy. Matthew was two now. Rachel almost one. Wendy was five. She was a Vietnamese girl David had arranged to be placed in an adoptive family that was part of his congregation. He had prayed long and hard for the well-being of the frail, frightened girl. One week later the entire family had been killed in a car accident caused by a speeding drunk driver. All of them except for Wendy, who at three years old was hurled cleanly from the open side window of the station wagon and caught in the blossom-heavy branches of a navel orange tree that grew beside the boulevard. Bruises, nicks, and a mild concussion. That was all.

  David and Barbara brought her home from St. Joseph Hospital, never a doubt that she belonged with them. And they were back in exactly one month for Barbara to give birth to Matthew.

  Now, two years later, all three children were blessings to them. Rachel was peaceful and observant like her father. Matthew was mobile and fearless like his mother. Wendy was often delighted and took a helpful role with the younger ones. She had a large and selfless smile.

  On the morning of his third day away from work, David was changing Matthew’s diaper when Barbara put her head in the room.

  “Whew! Special Agent Hambly? FBI?”

  “Oh? On a Saturday.”

  “Guess I’ll finish this.”

  They sat in the study of David’s home, door closed, afternoon sun blunted by the shutters. Hambly was David’s age, early thirties, with a compact face and body. Blue eyes, short dark hair, a deep dimple in the middle of his chin. His suit and shoes were brown. He moved the ottoman aside and lay his briefcase flat on it.

  “I attended the memorial service,” said Hambly.

  “Almost all the way back, on the left.”

  “You were close, you and Janelle?”

  “Yes.”

  “It seemed like you’d known her a long time.”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “She liked LSD, didn’t she?”

  “I believe she tried it.”

  “Tried it. Yeah. Liked Leary’s Orange Sunshine, didn’t she?”

  “I’m not familiar with the different brands.”

  “Brands,” said Hambly.

  David sensed that Hambly was not interested in his own line of questioning.

  “It’s unusual for the FBI to investigate a murder,” said David.

  “We’re not. Did Janelle ever talk to you about political organizations?”

  “Never. She had no interest in politics that I know of. Except she was against the war.”

  “I’d call that politics.”

  “As I just did, Mr. Hambly.”

  David still had the unbalancing feeling that Hambly wasn’t asking questions he cared about. Until the next one, which Hambly delivered after moving to the edge of the sofa.

  “What about the John Birch Society?”

  “Janelle Vonn?”

  Hambly said nothing. But he looked at David with a pugnacious blankness.

  “Actually,” said David, “she did mention the John Birch Society a few times. She asked me about them. What I knew. If they were legal. If they were good.”

  “Legal?”

  “She wasn’t sure at first if they were a legitimate group,” said David, “or perhaps an outlawed one.”

  “What do you mean by at first?”

  “When she first mentioned them.”

  “Which was?” asked Hambly.

  “Four, five years ago.”

  “Did she know any members?”

  “My father and mother are Birchers. Not that she knew them very well.”

  “Give me the names of four of her friends,” said Hambly.

  David nodded but didn’t speak. He regarded the dimple and blue eyes of Special Agent Hambly. Saw that the dimple was too deep for a razor to safely negotiate. Little sprout of black whiskers dead center in the man’s chin.

  “No,” said David.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like your attitude or your manners,” said David.

  “Are you a friend of Roger Stoltz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Howard Langton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good friends with them, Reverend Becker?”

  “Not close.”

  “Close enough to have dinner with Langton and Janelle the night she died?”

  David’s heart fluttered. “That dinner date was canceled.”

  Hambly squared the briefcase on the ottoman. The two latches burst upward with loud clicks and flashes of gold. Hambly slipped out a single 81/2-by-11 black-and-white photograph. Pinching it with his forefinger and thumb, he held it up for David to see.

  David remembered walking up to Janelle’s door that evening. As in the picture.

  Hambly held up another. David remembered sitting at the dinette in Janelle’s cheerful little cottage with her and Howard Langton. All laughing. As in the picture. Who could possibly have taken these?

  “There are more.”

  “Why did you take them?”

  “In conjunction with routine surveillance. And they turned out to be, well…useful.”

  “What exactly is this about?” asked David. “What exactly do you want?”

  “First let me tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to have to show these pictures to anybody. I really mean that.”

  “And only I can prevent it.”

  “Of course you can. Just tell me some stories.”

  “About who?”

  “Start with your father and Roger Stoltz. Tell me about their political activities and plans. Their personal opinions and relationships. Their faults and foibles. We know they’re Birchers. We can handle the Birchers. And we know about the Klan. We can handle them, too. But we’re hearing about this new thing down south, the National Volunteer Po
lice. And we’re hearing about it right here in Orange County. We’re seeing ‘Support Your Local Police’ bumper stickers given out at Max’s meetings. We wonder if there might be a kind of bridge. A JBS bridge leading back to the Klan. Nobody heard Birchers crying when King got shot. President Johnson, being a Texan, is very concerned about white hate.”

  “Sweet Jesus in heaven.”

  “But our concerns don’t stop with Mr. Stoltz and Mr. Becker. We’re interested in everyone you know, Reverend. Nick is a terrific detective. You two must talk. And Andy’s ingratiated himself with the Dessingers. I wonder at all he knows about this county. And look at your large and growing congregation. We’d love to know what certain of your believers are really doing and thinking. For instance the Robinsons, who are former members of the Socialist Workers Party. Or Dyson Krenek, who has a very personal relationship with a United States senator whose name I can’t reveal. And there is the Martinez family, with blood ties to César Chávez. And poor Gina Ritter, with her husband a Democratic Party leader plugged into Hollywood and her son plugged into a heroin needle. Even the inmates you counsel at the jail, they must have some interesting stories to tell.”

  “You’re a pestilence.”

  “Or Bob Washburn—Dr. Robert Washburn—who teaches history and espouses Marxism out at the University of California at Irvine. How many students has he signed into membership in the American Communist Party?”

  “None, that I know of.”

  “But wouldn’t it be good to really know for sure?”

  David felt as if he’d been slugged in the stomach. He stood, took a deep breath, sat back down.

  “And who really runs the RoMar Orange Sunshine plant?” asked the agent. “Is it Max Becker or Marie Stoltz?”

  “How would I know? Who cares?”

  “We care. We are exactly who cares. Odd, isn’t it? Orange Sunshine. Same name for LSD and for Stoltz’s asphalt cleaner?”

  David looked at Hambly but could hardly form thoughts, let alone answers.