by Lee Bellamy
Barnicut swung his feet off the desk and sat up straight. "Fifty thousand, eh?"
I gave him the photocopies. "That's what it says."
He skimmed them swiftly. "How do you know she's still missing? That was back in '05. Maybe she's been found. Maybe someone's already collected the reward."
"Maybe."
"You could—" Barnicut made a face "—naw, what's the point. It's a time waster. The whole thing's too bizarre."
"We'll split," I said.
"Split?"
"I want to try and find Crystal. If I do, we'll split the reward. Twenty-five for you, twenty-five for me."
Barnicut's expression got crafty. "Why the generosity? Why can't you do it alone?"
"I'm not stupid. I need Barnicut & Perez."
He dropped his precious pencil, steepled his fingers and gave me his little smirk. "That's true, unless you have another office handy that's got WorldSearch."
"You know I don't." I couldn't do it alone. Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe got by with a desk, filing cabinet, and a couple of street-wise connections. That was in the good old days, but everything's high tech now. Private investigators need companies like WorldSearch Unlimited that can trace someone through a vast data base system in a dozen different ways, providing far more information than a simple search on the Internet. The problem is, these companies charge a lot of money for their services, which is one of the reasons I couldn't open my own office without a big investment up front. "Just give me the backup. I'll find Crystal."
Barnicut picked up his pencil. It looked like the same one he had thoroughly scrutinized yesterday. Apparently it needed further study because he began rolling it around in his fingers again, really absorbed.
I persisted, "What have you got to lose?"
"Not much." His face remained impassive, but I could see I'd gotten through. He reached towards the phone. "Was there a police detective mentioned in those articles?"
I didn't have to look, I remembered. "Detective Noel Diaz."
"Yeah, I know him. Let's call and see."
The number for the Fresno Police Department must have been programmed into Barnicut's data bank. He punched a button and in no time was chatting with Diaz. "Do you remember a girl named Crystal Hargrove?"
"Sure." Diaz's voice came through low and gravelly on the speaker. "She's still missing."
"Have you turned up anything new?"
"The case is still open. Why? You got something?"
"Just asking. What do you know about the fifty thousand reward?"
"That the Champions offered? Far as I know it's still good. You'd have to ask them."
"Okay. Check with you later, Noel."
Barnicut turned his attention back to me. "You've got a good lead with that snuff movie. Go ahead, try to find her—after you've finished your pallet pictures, of course."
"Of course." I felt suddenly buoyant, but kept stony faced so he wouldn't know. "It's a deal. But first I'd better find out if that reward's still good. I need to talk to Velia Champion." The thought struck me again that somewhere in the news just recently, I'd heard her name. "Do you have her phone number?"
Barnicut did. In the outer office, I dialed Velia Champion's number. A woman's high, sweet, flute-like voice answered. I introduced myself. Her silence stretched into a couple of seconds before she asked, "Yes? And how can I help you?"
"It's about your sister, Crystal. I understand she's still missing, and I'd like to know, uh..." I paused. How could I not sound crass?
"You're wondering if we're still offering the reward," Velia graciously supplied. "But of course we are. We're still prepared to pay $50,000 for information leading to Crystal...dead or alive."
"I'd like to come see you."
"Oh, indeed yes. Anything I can do to find my sister—" She stopped abruptly. I had the impression she was about to cry. Finally, her voice subdued, she continued, "Come see me any time." She gave me her address.
"I'll be there in an hour."
"That's just fine."
Back in my car, I restructured my day. First, I would visit Velia Champion. Then I would stop at every Safeway, Vons, Gong's, Save Mart, etcetera, in town and get Barnicut's pallet pictures out of the way. Third...
I dug out my cell and made an appointment for a brush-up lesson at the Golden Tiger Karate School.
Chapter 6
You live in The Bluffs, you live in such a classy neighborhood. From the priciest view lots you can observe the mighty San Joaquin River wending its way west from the Sierra Nevadas. Maybe "mighty" isn't quite the right word for the San Joaquin. The Mississippi River it is not. Except for maybe a little tubing, it isn't navigable. Sometimes it's just a trickle. It's the only river Fresno's got.
Luxury homes lined the Champions' shaded street, each one beautifully landscaped, each one unique. I found the Champions' spacious Mediterranean style home at the back of a cul-de-sac. In front, a huge yellow bow sat atop the fancy brick mail box by the winding driveway. Over the front door, an American flag flapped in the breeze. A long banner stretched across the front of the triple garage. Its gaudy red and yellow letters announced: HOME OF JAY CHAMPION, OUR HERO IN AFGHANISTAN.
A shiny new blue Lexus sat in the driveway. On the rear bumper a sticker proclaimed: STOP MURDERING BABIES. REPEAL ROE VS WADE.
Aha!
Finally I remembered. Christian Women for Life had just staged a mammoth anti-abortion rally downtown. Velia Champion was one of their leaders. That's where I'd heard her name. She had appeared on the local TV channels, had her picture in the Bee.
The front door was a work of art: carved oak, with an oval, leaded glass pane. I pushed the doorbell. Listening to distant chimes, I wondered what she'd be like—this obviously wealthy lady, active member of the CWL, wife of Jay.
The door swung open. She stood smiling, a Dresden doll holding out her dainty hand. "Hello," she said, her voice high and sweet, "I'm Velia Champion."
Small-boned and pretty, she had gray doe eyes and smooth, nearly shoulder-length blonde hair turned under at the ends. Class was the message she projected. Real class. She was in her late thirties, elegantly self-possessed, dressed in tweedy beige trousers, a palest-of-pink tailored jacket, and a creamy off-white blouse. Her delicate necklace and tiny earrings were of gold—real gold, I could tell from the shine. Pressing fluttery fingers lightly to her chest she asked, "You're the private investigator who called, aren't you? You're—?"
"Holly Keene, Private Investigator." I flashed my license.
Velia swung the door open wide. "My, but aren't you prompt! Please do come in." Her speech came out crystal clear, as if she examined each word carefully before it left her mouth.
I stepped inside and gestured back towards the front yard. "Nice tribute to your husband."
She dipped her head and made a little moue. "Thank you, but frankly, I cringe each time I see it. My neighbors did the decorating. They meant well, but they got a bit carried away. Had they left it to me, I would have wanted something much less conspicuous. But it's too late now. They think the world of Jay. It would hurt their feelings if I took anything down."
She led me past a garden-entry atrium and a cathedral-ceilinged living room, to a big family room with a fire in the fireplace, wet bar, contemporary furnishings, and a TV tuned to CNN. An older teenage boy, barefoot and scroungy in cutoffs and a Tee, lay sprawled on a couch watching television. In the corner, a fragile old lady with sparse white hair dozed in a wheel chair. A wisp of a breeze could have blown her away.
"Do sit down," Velia said, "can I get you a cup of tea?" She gestured towards the couch. "This is my husband's son, Tyler."
Not bothering to look, the kid grunted and half waved.
Velia continued, "And this is Jay's mother, Nevada Champion. She's ninety years old."
The old lady's eyes jerked open. She croaked, "Who's there?"
"Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Champion," I said. "I think Nevada's a lovely name."
"Eh? What'
s that?"
"You'll have to speak up," Velia explained. "Mother Champion can't hear very well, and she can hardly see." She dropped her voice. "And she's a wee bit senile."
"Nevada!" I hollered, "I like your name!"
The old lady's face brightened. "My folks come acrost the plains in a covered wagon," she related in a quivery voice. "All the way from Tennessee. Well sir, when they got to Nevada they decided they'd dang well gone far enough. They settled near Carson City and started a cattle ranch. 'Twas there I was born, so they called me Nevada."
I shouted, "I'll bet you’ve had an interesting life." Not the greatest of lines, but communication wasn't easy here.
"Darn tootin! I rode the rodeo circuit for years, besides running the ranch. Had four husbands and outlived 'em all. Always did what I pleased. You get nowhere in this world, missy, if you don't take chances."
"Good for you!" I yelled. Another great line.
"I ain't done yet, honey." Nevada's ancient chin bobbed briskly. "I'm going to live to be a hundred. I'm going to see men walk on Mars."
"I bet you will!" I hoped she did. Maybe she was old, but she didn't appear to be totally in the shade. Her eyelids drooped, and she seemed to doze again. I settled into an easy chair and said no thanks to the tea.
"Don't mind her. She sleeps most of the time." Velia sat across, settling gracefully onto a pink and turquoise settee, shoving an open book aside.
I read the cover. "Ah, Murder in Three Acts. You like Agatha Christie?"
"What?" She looked startled for a moment, and displeased, as if she'd been caught reading something trashy, below her station in life. "They're hardly among the great books of the world, but every now and then I succumb. I suppose you, being a P.I.—"
"I love mysteries. I started out with Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys—"
"I've read every single one," she exclaimed delightedly. "Did you read the Judy Boltons?"
"Sure. Like you, every single one. Now it's Kinsey Mulhone—V. I. Warshawski—but Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple are my favorites. I'm really a fan."
"I, too. Now—" her expression grew serious; she steepled her fingers together, almost in a prayer "—I was so excited when you called. Do you have any news of Crystal?"
"No, I don't." A lie, but I wasn't about to mention the snuff movie. "I saw the piece in the Bee about her disappearance, and—" be up front "—about the fifty thousand dollar reward."
"As I told you, it's still good. This is a Christian household. We don't go back on our word."
Well, bully for you, I thought, making sure I kept my poker face. "I've already checked the Fresno Police Department—Detective Diaz?" She nodded. "He says there's nothing new."
Velia's shoulders sagged. "Nothing. No leads, no clues, nothing. Crystal simply vanished into thin air."
"Do you have any idea what happened?"
"No. I wish I did. What crueler thing can happen to a family than to have a loved one disappear? The day hasn't passed that I haven't asked God why. Crystal went to church every Sunday. She was working towards her education degree. She was a kind, thoughtful, loving girl."
"About her getting the degree—the newspaper said she was twenty-eight. She was off to a late start, wasn't she?"
"I suppose," Velia answered thoughtfully. "You see, Crystal always wanted to be an actress. When she got out of high school, she decided to try her wings in Hollywood. She could have made it. She had the beauty and the talent, but somehow it didn't work out. So after a few years of striving—and failing—she moved back to Fresno and enrolled at the university. That's when she disappeared. It breaks my heart when I remember how excited she was, and eager. There was no reason...she would never, ever have walked off and not told anyone, especially knowing how devastated we would be."
She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "Funny," she went on, "all these years, and I'm still crying. It's the not knowing that's the worst. Jay and I have said it more than once—that it would almost be a comfort if we knew she was dead." She paused and bit her lip. "That sounds terrible."
"No it doesn't," I said, hastening to reassure her, aware I couldn't really ease the pain. "The uncertainty must be awful."
"And now this." Velia gestured sorrowfully towards the TV where Wolf Blitzer stood in front of a mid-east Pentagon map discussing the war. "My husband is over there risking his neck…you hear such terrible things. He could get shot...blown up by a mine or a suicide bomber. I can hardly sleep at night, just thinking about it. He's such a wonderful man. I love him so much that—" she closed her eyes and shook her head in despair. In a haunted whisper she continued, "I can't live without Jay. If I lose him—" She stopped again, seeming to realize she was coming unglued, and drew a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I'm sorry. You don't need to hear all this."
"I told him so!" The old lady had jerked awake. "Didn't I tell him, Velia? Don't join the reserves, I said. The fool claimed there wouldn't be a war, but I knew better. There's always a war."
Right on, Nevada, I thought. You might be deaf and blind, but you're definitely not senile.
Velia shouted, "Don't fret about it, Mother Champion. Try to take your nap." She turned to me and continued softly, "She did tell Jay. I told Jay. Everyone told Jay not to join the reserves. But would he listen? Jay has a real sense of patriotism. He loves his country."
"Skunk piss!"
"Mother Champion, please!"
Nevada pulled her wizened old self up straight in her wheelchair. "That boy wanted to play weekend warrior, that's all. He doesn’t give a hoot for patriotism. Loves his country, my foot."
"Cool it, guys." Blond, long-haired Tyler spoke up from the couch. "If Dad wants to get killed saving the oil cartels, let him."
"That will be enough, Tyler," Velia said, still soft-voiced, but with an edge in her tone. She shrugged an apology. "Tyler's all of eighteen so he thinks he knows everything."
The boy sat up angrily. "I know this war sucks! I know we're trading blood for oil!"
"Tyler..."
He leaped off the couch and got to the door where he paused, glowering with anger. "Nice meeting you, Holly. Drive by Courthouse Park tonight. Then you'll see what I think of this stinking war." He disappeared.
"Oh, dear," said Velia. "I must apologize. Tyler's not himself these days. He was working at the trailer yard, but we had to fire him. Now he lies around the house and..." She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, squared her shoulders and gave me a brave, wistful little smile. "When I was a little girl I thought I'd have a Leave It to Beaver kind of family when I grew up. I would be June Cleaver, and my children would be nice, polite, straight-A students—a little mischievous, perhaps, but squeaky clean. But families are sometimes not..." a look of long-suffering crossed her face. "I married Jay six years ago. I tried my best to be a good mother to his son." She threw up her palms. "Well, as you can see, he's terribly resentful. I failed."
"Don't blame yourself." I recalled my older brother Dennis and how my parents were tearing their hair out when he was in his teens. "Sometimes nothing works with a teenager."
"Yes you're right, I shouldn't despair. Jay and I haven't been blessed with children of our own yet, but some day..."
Her face took on a long, drawn, faraway look. Maybe she was dreaming of having children, but no, that was anguish in her eyes. She kept fidgeting with the tissue—shredding it—and I sensed that beneath Velia's tranquil exterior some deep emotion churned. No telling what it was. Perhaps not having a child of her own...or her missing sister… Or it was the war and her haunting fear that her beloved husband might not come home.
Velia slipped back into focus. Hastily, she plucked up the shreds of tissue and with fidgety fingers rolled them into a ball. "Actually Tyler loves his father very much."
I asked, "Does your husband know how he feels about the war?"
Velia rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Lord no. Jay would be terribly upset if he knew his son was parading around Courthouse Park
with his No-Blood-for-Oil sign. I've talked to Tyler until I was blue in the face—cut his allowance off—nothing works. Now I'm simply hoping Jay won't find out."
Poor Velia. I could see she was one of the smoothers of the world, those legions of women who'd do anything to avoid a "scene," who must pretend that everything is peachy-keen and hunky-dory when it's not.
"Where's Jay now?" I asked.
"He's in Kabul, the last I—"
Door chimes interrupted her, followed by the sound of the front door opening and a shouted, "Velia, are you home?" A moment later, Doris Trusdale appeared in the doorway. She looked as dowdy as she did yesterday—totally unfashionable in a drab skirt and blouse, scruffy flats, and another of her darling June Allison sweaters, complete with chain. Her brows lifted in surprise when she saw me. A little wave of consternation darted across her face.
"Hello, Doris," I said. "Remember me?" I hoped she wouldn't mention Rudy. I didn't want Velia to know why I'd gone to the trailer yard.
"You two know each other?" Velia asked.
"Barely," Doris muttered.
Velia wasn't curious enough to pursue her questioning. Instead, she patted Doris's shoulder affectionately, telling me, "Doris and I are old friends. She saved my life. After Jay left, I had to run the office until we could find somebody." She paused for a fluttery little laugh. "Oh, dear! Bookkeeping is not my forte. Doris, bless her heart, moved back from Santa Barbara to rescue Champion Trailers." She cast a fond gaze at her friend. "We're so lucky to have her."
"Oh, please!" Doris scowled, seeming not at all flattered. "I just popped over to see how you're holding up, knowing how you worry about Jay."
"I'm fine, really. Is everything all right at the office?"
"Under control. Bill says he'll stop by."
Bill. The name rang a bell. She had to be referring to the salesman in the Pendleton shirt I'd met at the trailer yard yesterday.
"That's nice of him," Velia answered, "but not necessary. I don't need anybody to hold my hand." I detected a coolness in her tone, and a faint wrinkling of her nose when she heard his name. She, too, must be wise to the lecherous Bill Hatcher. She changed the subject. "Guess what, Doris, Holly is a private investigator. She wants to find Crystal."