by Lee Bellamy
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."
"Oh, really?" Doris asked, her voice as warm as early-morning ground fog. "Why?"
"Well, my goodness," Velia answered, "we must keep looking."
Doris glared at me. "You're after the money, aren't you?"
"Of course." Did she think I'd lie? I stared her down. "You have a problem with that?"
Velia jumped in. "Please! It's all right, Doris, please!"
I could see poor Velia was about to have an attack, afraid of a "scene." It was time for me to get out of there. "No problem, Velia," I said smoothly, "I'm nearly finished here. All I need is the names of some of Crystal's friends."
Velia looked relieved. "There are two, mainly. Crystal went all through school with Gussie Kerkorian and Joy Daniel."
"I recognize Joy's name from the newspaper. Wasn't she Crystal's roommate when she disappeared?"
Velia said she was. She gave me Gussie Kerkorian's phone number. "But I'll have to phone you with Joy's number when I find it. She bought a farm out in Sanger not long ago. Grapes, I think. As a matter of fact, Rudy used to visit her. We had a little romance going there."
Doris snorted. "Some romance! Rudy was after her money. He sure as hell couldn't have been after her."
I squashed my desire to say look who's talking. Instead, I thanked Velia and tucked my notebook away. "By the way, I saw you on television the other day."
"Oh, dear." She looked pained again. "I hate the publicity, but abortion is an issue I feel strongly about. Mind you, CWL isn't Operation Rescue. We wouldn't dream of breaking the law—blocking entrances to abortion clinics or anything like that. But we know God is on our side. We do what we can."
On my way out, I passed Nevada's wheelchair. I thought she was dozing, but her claw-like hand shot out and grabbed my wrist with a strength that surprised me. "Bend down here," she commanded. I bent, and looked deep into her faded old eyes. Senile my foot! There was a knowing spark in there, a still-sharp mind.
"Just you be careful," Nevada croaked in my ear.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't turn your back, girlie, these are dangerous times."
Nonsense from a senile mind? I didn't think so but wasn't sure what she meant. I liked this gutsy old lady. The older I got, the more I realized, wimps don't live to be ninety. I gave her hand a warm squeeze with both of mine. "You're going to live to a hundred! You're going to see men walk on Mars!"
"They ain't rid of me yet. I'm going to get there."
I honestly believed she would.
***
On the way home from the Champions' I stopped at the Golden Tiger Karate School and demonstrated my disastrous defense of last night to Master Yashuhiro Otsuka and his son, Jiro. In an ultra-polite manner, they told me what I was doing wrong. "You must put your feet in the 7 o'clock position so that you don't lock when you turn. You must have your foot inside your opponent's. You're getting too close—" and on and on.
What disi
llusionment. I wasn't the Karate queen I thought I was. Soon as I could afford it, back to Karate School.
I stopped to take my pallet pictures at three grocery stores, then headed home. Midday traffic was light. I could let my mind wander as I drove along. That was a strange scene I'd just witnessed. What a bunch. You could have Doris. Ship her off to Afghanistan would be fine. Velia was okay. I sensed a warm and caring person there, though slightly sanctimonious. I feel uncomfortable when someone appears to have a direct line to God. Nevada was a delight. Even scroungy Tyler's zeal had a certain charm. He was just doing his thing, your typical angry young man, bursting with a youthful rebellion that was bound to fade. Then he'd settle into complacency like everybody else.
But something registered wrong in that household. There was an undercurrent that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A common denominator. I drove along puzzled for a few blocks and then it occurred to me: the three of them—Velia, Jay, Crystal—were just too, too wonderful.
Was Velia really that perfect? Or was a volcano simmering, ready to erupt, beneath her serene, tightly wrapped surface?
And Jay. He was serving in the Middle East; therefore, he was a hero. And heroes, as everybody knows, are flawless. But was he? Or in all the patriotic fervor had his faults conveniently faded to oblivion?
Then we had kind, thoughtful, loving Crystal, who went to church every Sunday and never stayed out late. A regular saint.
The gracious church lady—the consummate hero—the straight-arrow sister. So much sweetness was a little sickening, like having nothing but dessert for dinner. Something didn't ring true.
Now that I was on my hotshot, fifty-thousand-dollar case, I decided I'd better draw up my scenario. Step One: find out about snuff movies. Dirty Movies...porn movies. Of course I could rent one online, but I wouldn’t find out much. Where would I go? Most video shops in town had a little walled-off section in the back marked, "Adults Only" where you could rent...what? I wasn't up on the latest porn movies. Debbie Does Dallas and Deep Throat were the only ones I could think of, and they belonged in the Smithsonian. But where would you find a snuff movie, if they existed, which they probably did not?