by Lee Bellamy
As we went along, I developed a big case of the blues. For the first time, I got a dose of what it meant to be a single parent. Everyone was with someone except me, or so it seemed. I felt isolated and alone. In her little pink corduroy jeans and pink jacket, Ashley was so delightful—so bright—so excited about the zoo—that I kept wanting to turn to Tom and say, "See? Isn't she darling? Take a picture. Look what she's doing now." Then I'd remember—Tom and I weren't together anymore.
It's tough, very tough, breaking up a family.
In the brilliant words of Reece Barnicut, it was a hardball world. Sitting on a bench in the zoo that January Sunday, watching my little girl play, I felt broke, a failure, alone. Me find Crystal? Never. Me get out of debt? No way. Me find a new daddy for Ashley? Tears sprang to my eyes. But I'd hang in there, somehow.
Monday morning I tried Joy Daniel's Sanger number again. She finally answered her phone with a strident, "Hello?"
"Yes, hello. I'm Holly Keene, a private investigator. I'm looking for information about Crystal Hargrove."
I waited. Silence. "Crystal Hargrove?" I persisted. "You knew her, didn't you? Aren't you the Joy Daniel who used to be her roommate?"
"Who told you?" Sullen.
"Her sister Velia," I replied pleasantly. "She knows all about this. She gave me your number."
"I told the police everything I know." She was on the brink of anger now.
I got pleasanter still. "All the same, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to come out to see you. It's very important."
"You think I'm sitting on my butt watching soap operas? I've got twenty acres of grapes to take care of here."
In January? I wanted to ask, but refrained. "I can understand that, Joy. Growing grapes is a lot of work. This won't take long."
"I can't tell you anything more. Crystal was a kind, thoughtful, loving girl. That's it. Now leave me alone." Click! She was gone.
Lovely. What a charmer. Well, Joy Daniel wasn't going to get rid of me that easily. No more phone calls. I would show up on her doorstep unannounced.
I dialed Gussie Kerkorian's number again. This time she answered. I went through my introduction again. "It's about Crystal Hargrove. I'd like to come and see you."
"Why, sure," Gussie chirped. "I've known Crystal since grammar school. Come on over."
I had assumed she lived in a nice neighborhood, but I was wrong. Gussie lived close to downtown, on a street lined with run-down houses that were new and respectable back in the 20's, but not anymore. Actually her small bungalow was one of the better-kept on the block. No junk cars parked in the front yard, no leftover Christmas lights strung around the eaves. Even so, the white-turned-gray paint was peeling, and the lawn had gone to seed. Getting out of my car, I noticed a man in dirty tennis shoes and a ragged overcoat standing around to the side. His hands were cupped in front of his fly. Then I saw the stream—dead aimed at a bed of canna lilies.
I averted my gaze, climbed the porch steps to the door and knocked. Gussie answered. I liked her on sight. She was almost my height, open-faced and smiling, with a cap of short, shiny black hair and smooth olive skin. She was dressed in a black jump suit that showed off her figure—full but solid. She had big, brown, laughing eyes. "Hi!" she said, "I'll bet you're the one who called—the P.I."
I said I was. "Incidentally, there's a man urinating—"
"Can you believe it?" Gussie burst into laughter. "Don't men love to pee out in nature! Come on in and have a seat." She threw open a torn screen door. "Want a Diet Coke?"
“Sure.” When I was settled in the tiny living room, notebook on my lap, I asked, "Do you have a problem with the homeless around here?"
"Are you kidding? They're all over the place. They use my flower beds for a bathroom. They go through my garbage. They take anything that's not nailed down. My neighbor has two sago palms in his backyard—you know, those expensive ones? He's got them chained to the ground. Chained! What is the world coming to when you have to chain your palm trees?"
I assured her I certainly didn't know, silently wondering why she lived here.
"I won't be here forever." Gussie nodded towards a bedroom off the living room where I could see a white-haired old man in a hospital bed. "My father's sick. I came back from Carmel two years ago to take care of him, and I've been here ever since. Two years!" She shook her head in disbelief. "Two years in this hick town when I could be in Carmel. Oh Jesus! Well, someday..."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I'm a hairdresser. I worked five years for this kooky shop in Carmel. Oh, the stories I could tell you! Someday I'm going to write a book."
"Are you working now?"
"Oh, sure. I do hair for people who come to my home. I do makeup, too. In Carmel I worked on several movies. Here, though, it's mostly local commercials."
I couldn't resist asking. "Did you meet any famous people?"
Gussie's eyes sparkled. "Oh, you bet. All the time, like Clint Eastwood."
I love hearing about celebrities, but it was time to get down to business. "The reason I'm here, I'm checking on Crystal Hargrove's disappearance. You were a friend of hers. What can you tell me?"
"Not much." Gussie sobered. "Gee, it's been a lot of years, hasn't it? Poor Crystal. I knew her in high school—in fact, before. We lived on the north side then, so Crystal and I went to grammar and middle school together. I wasn't her best friend—that was Joy Daniel—but like, I knew her pretty well."
"Did you know her sister?"
"Miss Tight Ass?" Another peal of laughter. "Sure, I know Velia. She's okay, only I could never relate to her, you know? It's like she walks on water all the time. I saw her on Channel 30 News the other night. She was parading in front of some abortion clinic with her 'Stop Murdering Babies' sign. Jeez...oh, well, I don't agree with her, but at least she sticks up for what she believes. I'll tell you one thing, she loved her sister. She was just about destroyed when Crystal disappeared."
I made some notes and asked, "Do you have any idea what happened to Crystal?"
"Nope. Crystal loved to sing and dance. 'Course, she never got lessons because her parents were too strict. She used to practice when they weren't around. Did you know she dropped out of high school? Right after that she went down to Hollywood. Figured she was going to become a star. It didn't work out, of course, so she came back home. Last time I saw her, she'd given up on her show biz career. She was just a regular student, going to CSUF, aiming for a teaching degree."
"Was she any good?"
"At the singing and dancing? She was okay." Gussie pursed her lips and reconsidered. "Well…I take that back. Truth is, she wasn't so hot. Her voice was thin, and her dancing was stiff, like when she danced she looked about as graceful as a tree stump." Gussie bit her lip. "That sounds mean, but it's true. Crystal couldn't act, either. She was beautiful, but she never would have made it in Hollywood." She spread her hands. "That's all I know."
"So she had no enemies?"
"No. And she was never in any trouble. She had nice friends. She was a kind, thoughtful, loving girl."
Not again, give me a break. We chatted for a while, but Gussie could tell me nothing more. I gave her my card and told her to call me if she thought of anything else.
When I got back in my car, the man in the dirty tennis shoes shuffled up and tapped on the window. Reluctantly, I rolled it down. He stuck his head in and gave me a gap-toothed grin. "Lady, can you spare a quarter?" His breath was foul and he needed a bath.
I dug in my purse, handed him a dollar, and suggested he have a nice day.
I drove away, turned onto Tulare Street and found 41, relieved, though I'd never admit it, to be headed back to yuppie northern territory. And for the first time since discovering my calamitous overdraft at the United Bank of San Fernando Valley, and my frantic call to Tom, I reflected that maybe my life wasn't totally ruined. I did, after all, have a lovely, healthy daughter—and food and a place to sleep—and good teeth—and a shower every morning—and I didn't
have to pee into the canna lilies.
Holly Keene a loser? No way. I would find Crystal. I would be okay.
***
When I got home, I got out my cell and checked for messages. There was one, not what I expected.
"Want to die, Holly?"
The menacing, whispery voice came straight out of Nightmare on Elm Street, so distorted I couldn't tell if it was male or female.
"Crystal Hargrove's dead and you'll never find her. Get. . off...the...the casssse!"
Chapter 9
That message on my cell sent a shiver down my spine. Which was just what someone meant to do, I realized, but I got another shiver just thinking about that evil hiss at the end. I considered calling Perez, even Barnicut. Maybe I should get off the case. Then I remembered Nevada's line: You get nowhere in this world, missy, if you don't take chances. The old lady was right. Damned if I'd get scared off. It was a crank call. Some whacko. He—she?—wouldn't call again.
Safe in my bedroom, I added to my notes on Gussie while the visit remained fresh in my mind. At around five o'clock the phone rang. Mother answered and called, "Holly? There's a Mr. Rio on the line."
"Hellooo, Miss Holly!" Rudy sounded on top of the world. Judging from his bouncy voice, he could have just won the lottery. "My ship came in. I'm leaving town."
"That's nice, Rudy. What ship is this?"
"I'm not going to tell you that," he answered playfully. "Sometimes you make money just keeping your mouth shut."
He was talking either bribe or blackmail, it sounded to me. "What do you mean, Rudy?"
"Not going to tell you," he sing-songed again. "How soon can you get over here?"
"What for?"
"I've got something for you, if you know what I mean."
"No, I don't know what you mean."
"I've got some copies of something you're busting to see." I pictured the little pixie expression on his face. "Are you coming?"
Virgin in the Pines—what else could it be? That little weasel! Why didn't he tell me he had copies?
"I'll be right there."
It was almost six o'clock when I arrived at the trailer yard. As I pulled to the curb, a Ford pickup directly ahead of me drove away. I caught a glimpse of a driver wearing a camouflage uniform. Jay Champion? Had to be.
Through the front windows I saw lights on. Bill Hatcher, alias The Letch, stood behind the counter, magnificent as ever, muscles rippling beneath his Pendleton shirt.
He was alone. His eyes lit when he saw me. He puffed up his chest and sucked in his stomach. "Well, hello there," he said, a flirty lilt in his voice, "I remember you. We met the other day."
I returned a frost-covered, "Hi," and nodded towards the street. "Was that Jay Champion?"
"Yep, that was the big guy. He got home this morning. Came by to see if his business is still here. Too bad about his mom. I feel terrible."
Oh, sure. He felt so bad that to take his mind off his grief, he dropped his gaze to my black, high-top Reeboks and worked his way up from there, in a long, probing sweep to my thighs, to the crotch of my acid-wash jeans, around to my hips, up to the front of my baggy blue sweater where his eyes feasted on and on. Finally he found my face again and asked, "Say, would you like a Coke or something?"
"No thanks, I came to see Rudy." I made a move towards the back door, but not fast enough. He flipped back the hinged section of the counter top and circled around to my side, blocking my way.
"You from Fresno?" he asked.
"Yes."
He crowded closer, casting a meaningful glance at my ringless fingers. "You're single, I'll bet."
I'm familiar with the looks of men. I've been on the receiving end of countless intimate, silent messages. Like Perez last night. There was a blunt, honest admiration in his eyes he didn't bother to conceal, and maybe, for a flickering moment, a glimmer of normal male lust. That was all, though. Not like this turkey. The signal from his heavy-lidded eyes was loud and clear. I know you're lonely, honey. What you need is handsome, wonderful me.
I backed away. "Got to go."
"Hey, don't rush off." He pointed towards a small office that had, aside from desk and filing cabinets, a big, wide leather couch against one wall. "That's my office. When you're done with Rudy, come back. I'll fix us a couple of drinks. We'll get better acquainted."
Not in your lifetime. "No." That sounded really blunt. I considered adding "thanks" but voted, forget it.
"Aw, that's too bad. Some other time?"
"No. I have got to go." I dodged around Mister Ego and strode out the back door. If I'd sounded rude, I didn't care.
By now it was almost dark. The silent trailer yard loomed before me. Funny, I'd walked to Rudy's trailer the other night without thinking twice about how nearly pitch black it was back here, how isolated. A flicker of apprehension coursed through me. Shrugging it off, I started my trek down the long, dark row of trailers. Stay cool. Don't conjure up nonexistent horrors. My strategy didn't work. By the third trailer, my imagination cranked into overdrive. That message I'd received on my cell phone popped into my head. I told myself there were times when you had to take chances, but I couldn't get rid of the fear. I knew something evil waited for me, there in the shadows. With every step, I expected to be attacked by some undefined bogeyman—maybe the same guy who used to lurk beneath my bed at night when I was a little girl, but always disappeared by morning. So shape up, it's your imagination.
No use. With each reluctant step, my breathing grew shallower, my heart pumped faster in my chest. I considered going back, asking Bill to escort me. Then I wondered, was I crazy? I would rather die than ask a favor of such a fool.
I forced myself on until at last I caught the welcoming lights of Rudy's trailer at the end of the row. I jogged the rest of the way, up the rickety steps to his door, thinking how silly I was. And how utterly relieved to be out of the darkness.
The door stood open a couple of inches. Thoughtful of him—not that I would presume to walk right in. I called, "Rudy?" and waited. No answer. "Rudy? It's Holly. I'm here." Still no answer. With one finger I poked at the door. Slowly, it swung open. "Rudy?" I stepped in. And then...
Oh shit...
He lay on the floor, half propped against the wall, diamond ring on his pinky, in the same spiffy outfit that he'd worn to B & P's that day. His head slumped to one side. A trickle of dried blood traced a jagged path down his nose. It came from the hole in the middle of his forehead.
Rudy Rio was very, very dead.
I gasped from the shock and felt the blood drain from my face. Dead! My knees went wobbly. Never had I seen anyone dead before, except my father laid out nicely in his coffin, and that didn't count. No mortician's touch here. Rudy's eyes bulged with terror. His mouth was twisted and agape as if he'd died in mid-scream. Something lay near his hand—an empty, flat plastic box—a DVD box.
No gun anywhere, so he hadn't committed suicide. But if Rudy had been murdered, how did I know the murderer wasn't still here? He could be lurking outside, or in the next room, or...
I spun around and bolted out the door, half-falling, half-leaping down the steps. At the bottom, I started to sprint when an image of Barnicut flashed through my mind. Feet on his desk—smirk on his face—pointing at me with his pencil. "So you lost it, huh, Holly? Tell me about how you panicked and ran." Don't give him the satisfaction. I pulled up short. Got to call the police. I turned to go back up the steps but remembered Rudy didn't have a telephone. My cell? You stupid girl. I left it on the front seat of my car. I took off jogging down trailer row, back towards the front office. Maybe a killer was stalking me, maybe not. Nothing I could do. Don't think, just get the hell out of here.
I reached the back door of the office and clutched the knob. It wouldn't turn.
"Bill! Let me in!" I rattled the door knob. Silence. No lights on.
The awful truth hit me. Bill was gone. The office was closed for the night and I was locked in.
The side gate. I took off runni
ng, over to the fence, back down the aisle to the small gate where Rudy had let me out the last time. Even before I got there I knew it would be chained and padlocked.
When I got there, I discovered of course I was right. So there I was, fingers laced through the chain link fencing...alone...maybe locked in with a murderer.
I could scream, I supposed. Someone might hear me, even in this deserted industrial area. But what if whoever heard me was Rudy's killer? I couldn't bring myself to utter a sound. Panic started creeping over me. Think Barnicut. That did it. I mustered up a big dose of courage again. I flattened my back against the gate, clutching the links with urgent fingers, preparing to meet my fate, my eyes trying to pierce the darkness so that I'd be ready...for anything.
Silence...only silence. If the killer was out there he was sure taking his time.
I waited...and waited...my adrenaline edge began to ebb. My heart slowed. I stopped panting. An overwhelming exhaustion swept over me. My knees buckled. I slid to the ground, wrapping arms around my knees, huddling into a tight ball.
Hoooh oooh-oooh Hoooaaah...
My blood ran cold. What was that?
I looked up. There, sitting atop the cross bar of a telephone pole, was the barely distinguishable silhouette of a great big owl. He was at least twenty inches high, with horns—tufts of feathers really—on his massive, over-sized head. His face was invisible in the darkness, but I knew he was looking straight at me. This sounds crazy now, but I was glad to see him. I sensed immediately that he was my friend. No one will ever know this, but after I'd stared at him a while, and he at me, I spoke up calmly and said, "Well, hello, Owl. What are you doing in Fresno?"
He never told me, of course, just kept on silently staring. But that owl brought everything back into perspective. I saw myself from his point of view. He had to be wondering why is this crazy woman sitting in the dark in a deserted trailer yard in south Fresno? What is she doing?