by Lee Bellamy
I thought of Barnicut. She had a point. I'd let her ramble long enough, though. "Look, I know you're busy, but there are a few questions I'd like to ask."
"Hey, what more do you want? I already told you, Crystal was a kind, loving, thoughtful girl."
"No she wasn't." I watched closely to gage her reaction.
"She wasn't, huh?" Joy looked faintly amused.
"No. So don't jack me around. I want to hear about the real Crystal."
"Well, shit." Joy regarded me with pursed lips, taken aback that I wasn't awestruck over her raisins anymore. "Well, shit," she said again, shrugging indifferently. "Why should I care? Okay, I'll talk to you, but you've got to follow me around. I'm tying vines today." She reached for her box of Zingers. "Have one if you want." She opened her cooler. "Grab a beer."
The Little Penguin contained a six-pack of Budweiser. Zingers and beer and it wasn't even noon? I started to say no, but changed my mind. What the hell, it was that kind of day.
I took a beer and picked out a Zinger. "I'll have just one—they've got cholesterol."
"Screw cholesterol." Joy unwrapped the foil from her Zinger, crammed it into her mouth, and flung the foil to the ground. She ripped the tab off the Bud and took a swig.
I finished my own Zinger and washed it down with the Bud. "Not bad." Joy offered me another Zinger, but I declined. She polished off two more. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, picked up a box marked, "Twistims" and trudged toward the field. She glanced over her shoulder. "Well, if you're coming, come on."
I started after her, my Nikes sinking into the soft earth. We stopped half way down the row. She opened the box and grabbed a handful of Twistims. They looked like the things you use to fasten your garbage bags, only longer.
"Here," she said, "make yourself useful."
I accepted a Twistim. "What do I do?"
"Watch me." A long, strong wire, attached to the top of five foot stakes ran the length of the row. Joy seized a dead-looking branch, tugged it upwards, deftly guided the Twistim around it and wrapped it around the wire. She glanced at me. "See? All's you do is attach the branches—canes they call them—to the wire. You've got to be careful, though. If you don't twist right, that cane will whip right back and smack you in the kisser. You can get hurt."
Oh, great. The way my luck was running, I would no doubt get attacked by a killer grape vine. "So you're an old friend of Crystal?" I prompted as I grabbed a vine.
"Oh, yeah. We were in kindergarten together. We knew each other all through school. Always pals, you know? We did a lot of stuff together. We both had a reputation from the fourth grade on." Joy's sharp eyes checked me out. "You're doing it wrong. Hold with one hand. Tie with the other. You have to be coordinated."
I nodded, tugging at the branch. "What...sort of...reputation?" The damn cane didn't want to move.
"We were easy, the both of us. Who knows, maybe that's why we hung out together. We were always the bad girls of the class. In middle school we ran around with stoners." She squinted at me with a bet-you-don't-know expression. "You know what stoners are?"
Did she think I didn't? "Sure. Kids who smoke pot and think they're cool."
"Yeah, you got it. But it's high school where we got the really bad reps. Boys who went out with us expected sex."
"And?"
"So we gave them sex. They'd get mad if we didn't. I didn't care."
"Why not?"
Joy cast a disgusted look at me. "How else was I going to be popular? 'Course, I've put on a little weight now, but back then I wasn't so bad looking. Even so, the boys weren't exactly beating a path to my door."
I felt a pang of sympathy for a woman who, on the best day of her life, could not come close to "not so bad looking." High school must have been hell for Joy Daniel. Was her life any better now? "What about Crystal? I've seen her picture. She's a beautiful girl."
Joy sniffed derisively. "That's the difference between us. I was bad because I had to be. Crystal was bad because she wanted to be. 'Course, she just loved having me around. I made her look even better. We did a lot of bad stuff. Like we smoked, drank, ran around with the wrong crowd, got into dope a little... Shit, one night we even hung out on 'G' Street."
"You were prostitutes?"
"Sure! It was fun getting all dressed up in those miniskirts and boots. Crystal loved it. She did it because… Like she had a bad attitude, you know? Her father was a Baptist minister. He didn't believe in dancing, or makeup, or running around. Her sister, Velia, and their mother didn't seem to mind. Remember The Church Lady in Saturday Night Live? They both were like that, but not Crystal. She was a rebel. She just had to show them up." Joy took the Twistim out of my hand. "You'll never make it as a vine twister, honey."
"I guess not." Happily, I relinquished the branch. "What happened after high school?"
"What do you mean, after high school? We both dropped out, but I bet that fancy sister of hers didn't tell you that. That's when we went our separate ways. Crystal hustled her buns down to Hollywood. She was going be a star. I found a guy I didn't love—married him because I figured nobody else would ask me. Served me right when he turned out to be the world's most worthless piece of shit. I finally got tired of getting beaten up and yelled at, so I left him. I've been single ever since."
"What about Crystal?"
"Crystal became a star, all right, only in the porn movies. I saw a film of hers once. Las Vegas Party Girls—something like that. Jeeze! There was old Crystal doing beaver shots and getting balled. Pretty raunchy stuff. Even I was disgusted. Then she went to Vegas, and that's where she got herself into big trouble."
"Like?"
"Like she got mixed up with this mobster guy, Sereno Ghimenti. I never did know what she did—she wouldn't tell me—but whatever it was, she really pissed him off. She came high-tailing it back to Fresno, scared to death he was after her. Her parents were both dead by then, so she moved in with me. That was before I bought the farm and still lived in town. I didn't mind giving her a hand. She decided to go back to school—put the old life behind her. It didn't work, though." She gave me the box of Twistims. "Here. Hand these to me. Well, first off, a few weeks after she moves in, somebody drives by and shoots the shit out of our living room. Crystal was scared spitless. It was like she knew it was Sereno Ghimenti sending her a message."
"It was mentioned in the newspapers when Crystal disappeared, but the police didn't make much of it."
"They wouldn't. The police figured it was just another random, drive-by shooting."
"So then what happened?"
"A few days later Crystal disappeared." Joy gave her Twistim an extra firm twist. "That's all I know."
"You don't suppose—?"
"That's all I know," Joy said with stubborn finality. "Hand me a Twistim."
I gave her one. Obviously, it was time to change course. "What about her sister, Velia?"
"What about her?"
"Did you pal around with her, too?"
"With the virgin queen?" Joy reached for another cane. "Pal around with Velia," she muttered to herself, "oh, jeeze, give me a break."
"I take it you don't like her."
"Naaaa...I like Velia well enough. She's always been nice to me. She's a nice person, period. Born to be a minister's daughter, let me tell you. She's always involved in lots of church work, like at Christmas she's running around town collecting food for the poor. She's always doing stuff like that. The only thing wrong with Velia is that there's nothing's wrong with her."
"Who can stand someone who's perfect?"
"You figure it. I could never relate to Velia. Never knew what to say to her beyond hello. We were in different spaces."
"How did she meet Jay?"
"When Crystal came back to Fresno, Jay came with her. He was her boyfriend back then. She was nuts about him, but the minute he laid eyes on Velia...well, it was one of those magic moments, like in a Harlequin romance. Velia had never been in love before.
She hardly ever dated. But when those two met, honey, the sparks flew. In a month they were married, and poor old Crystal was out in the cold."
"How did she take it?"
"She was pretty upset, but what could she do? Have you met Jay?"
"Not yet."
"Jay can park his boots under my bed any time he wants. You going to his mother's funeral this afternoon?" I nodded. "You'll see."
Another Jay Champion fan, I noted. "So you like him."
"Like him?" Joy straightened and gave me a curious look. "Yeah, I like Jay Champion," she answered softly. "He's tender and he's tough. He marches to his own tune. Velia got damn lucky."
With a sigh, she started twisting again, and I saw I'd better let the subject drop. She got off on another tangent then, ranting about some old grape boycott in San Francisco and how every shit-faced member of the Board of Supervisors who voted this disgrace should have been taken out and shot.
When we finished the row, we left the vineyard. We sat down at a dilapidated redwood picnic table in the back yard and had another beer. "One more question," I said, "what can you tell me about Rudy Rio?"
"Rudy!" With a ferocious crunch Joy crumpled up her beer can and flung it to the ground. "I'm glad that little weasel's dead."
"He seemed a nice little fellow."
"He got what he deserved."
"What did he do to you?"
"That bastard." Joy's face darkened. "I should have known better. I met Rudy at the trailer yard one day when I'd come to rent a trailer. He started sniffing around, acting like he liked me. I believed him. He'd come out here to the farm...sit around...not offer to help or anything, and I let him. Men!" Joy crumpled another beer can and hurled it after the first. "I loaned him money. He asked for more. When I wouldn't give it to him, that's the last I saw of the little creep."
"Did you shoot him?"
"Hell, no." A wicked little smile worked the corners of her lips. "I might have if I'd thought of it."
When I left, Joy walked me to my car. "Come back any time," she said as I climbed in. She gripped the window edge and bent to peer at me. "You come out again, you can drive the tractor."
I broke into a grin. "It's a deal. I've got a little girl. Can I bring her?"
"How old?"
"Six. Her name is Ashley."
"Sure. She can feed the chickens and collect the eggs."
"Thanks, she'd love that." Joy's friendship gesture caught me by surprise. Pleased, I handed her my card. "Call me. We'll do lunch the next time you're in town."
"Do lunch?" She was trying not to laugh. "Oh, jeeze, do lunch. Well, we'll see."
She stood in the driveway watching as I drove away. I had made a friend, I thought. There was something endearing about Joy Daniel and her Zingers and beer. I discerned a brainy woman beneath that rough exterior. In my old life, Tom would not have wanted her in our carefully circumscribed circle of friends. Now, though, I could befriend anybody I chose. This was better. Joy had the phrase for it: I was in a different space. But I'd better be careful. Despite her denial, she could have been the one who shot Rudy.
Had I ever been right about Crystal! She was not a kind, loving thoughtful girl. On the other hand...another vote for Jay the hero. But he wasn't, he was a crook. Would the real Jay Champion step forward? I could hardly wait to meet him.
***
I stopped off at Mother's and made an incredible third change of clothes for the day. This time I got into my Elie Tahari, perfect-for-a-funeral black sheath dress and black and white print jacket. I had bought a darling cartwheel hat to go with it, but they don't wear hats in Fresno, even at funerals. I agonized for a while, then left it behind.
Almost two o'clock. Driving to the cemetery, I realized so far I'd done nothing about finding the black-masked Randy. He was my only lead to the snuff movie. Funeral or no, I wanted to find him fast. I pulled out Gil's card, read off the number he'd scratched on the back, picked up my cell phone and dialed. "This is Holly Keen, Mr. Archibald—Milo."
"Holly! Nice to hear from you."
"Guess what? I found a DVD of Virgin in the Pines. Now I want to find an actor who played in it."
"Maybe I can help. Which one?"
"I don't know his last name. His first name is Randy. Tall, dark-haired...he wore a mask, so I couldn't see his face, but he's very well-built, and he has an extremely large...uh...uh..."
"He's got a big schlong."
"Exactly."
"Doesn't help, my dear. They all do. What else can you tell me?"
"He has a deep voice and a snake tattoo that winds around his right arm."
"Ah! Randy Lord."
"Oh, great. Where can I find him?"
"At Forrest Lawn, six feet under."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. Randy died of AIDS two years ago."
"Well, damn." I felt a surge of disappointment. "Do you know of any way I could find who made that movie? Anything?"
"No I don't, Holly. You must realize it wouldn't have been reviewed in the New York Times. I'm afraid your chances of finding who made it are almost nil."
Dead end. I thanked Milo and hung up the phone. But I wouldn't give up. There had to be a way to find who was responsible for Virgin in the Pines.
***
Death.
I couldn't get away from it that afternoon. The winter sun shone weakly when I got to the Clovis Cemetery at Villa and Herndon Avenues. As cemeteries went, this one was almost cheery. Bouquets of plastic flowers decorated the flat grave markers. Miniature twirling windmills were stuck here and there in the ground, adding bright spots of color.
My Ferragamo high heels sunk into soft turf as I walked across the lawn to the scallop-bordered canopy that sheltered the grave and, next to it, Nevada's flower-covered casket. I slipped into the crowd of about fifty and found a place next to the open grave. I spotted him immediately. There he stood, a larger-than-life vision of bravery and splendor in his desert boots and green and brown uniform—at last, the Afghanistan warrior in the flesh, Jay Champion.
He was everything they said.
It's not easy to exude charm, class, and sizzling charisma when you're standing beside your mother's casket, but Jay did without trying. It wasn't the uniform. Put him in civilian clothes, he'd be the same. Barnicut had described him accurately enough in his investigative report, but with a few omissions. Jay's eyes weren't just blue, they were a sharp, intelligent, magnetic blue. Jay's carriage wasn't just erect, his ramrod stance signaled a massive self-confident presence, despite his obvious grief. Jay wasn't just "in good physical condition," he was a big, powerful, beautifully proportioned man. The women in the crowd couldn't keep their eyes off him.
Don't forget the man's a crook. That thought might need reinforcing.
Young Tyler Champion stood slightly apart from the rest of his family in a dark suit and somber tie. Stress had tightened his face, turned his skin pale, furrowed his forehead into an unyielding frown. He inclined his blond head when he saw me but didn't smile. I bet he'd put up a battle before they got him into the suit. But his misery seemed to go profoundly beyond that. "Distraught" was the word Lieutenant Diaz used last night. First his grandmother, then Rudy. He was taking it hard, I could tell.
An odd duo, Tyler and Rudy, but apparently they'd been close.
Velia stood beside Jay, petite and lovely, exquisitely dressed in a cream and beige suit and a filmy blouse of pale blue. She clung to her husband's arm as if she were glued, constantly throwing him intimate little glances. Hardly derigueur at your mother-in-law's funeral, I supposed, but who could blame her? She was plainly overjoyed to have him home.
Bill Hatcher stood on the other side of the grave. His face lit with recognition when he saw me. He sent me a hand-at-his-side, surreptitious little wave which I was careful not to see.
I felt a hostile stare. It came from an attractive woman standing on the other side of Jay. Doris! I had to do a double-take to recognize her. No ugly glasses—hair nicely style
d—she looked downright attractive in a soft, powder blue suit. That lady was not one of my fans. If looks could kill, I would already have toppled, stone dead, into Nevada's grave. When she wasn't glaring at me she was casting flirty little glances at Jay, snuggling up to him, almost as much as Velia did. Once I saw Velia catch her at it and scowl. Why did Velia bother? Jay had eyes only for her.
There was something strange about Doris. She reminded me of somebody, but I couldn't think who...
Joy Daniel arrived, sweaty and panting—the result of hauling those excess pounds half way across the cemetery lawn. Gussie Kerkorian was there too, wearing a chic black jump suit and huge gold hoop earrings. She called a "Hi!" to me, wiggling her fingers, somber occasion be damned. Neither she nor Joy could have known Nevada very well, I reflected. No doubt they were there because of Jay.
The minister intoned a brief eulogy. When he finished, Jay stepped forward and shared some poignant reminiscences of his mother in simple, heartfelt words. His voice broke half way through. He paused to wipe away a tear, but that was okay. If Jay Champion cried, then it was the right and manly thing to do. In this crowd, he could do no wrong.
When the services were over, I approached the family to pay my respects. Ever the gracious lady, Velia took my hand. "Holly, how thoughtful of you to come. This is my husband, Jay." She gazed up at her husband with gentle, adoring eyes. "Darling, meet Holly Keene. She's the—"
"Delighted to meet you." Voice booming, Jay thrust out his hand. "I know who you are. You're the P.I. who wants to find Crystal."
"I'm sorry about your mother." His grip was solid. "I met her only once, but I'll never forget her."
"She was one of a kind." His tone was wistful, melancholy. "I'll miss her."
Velia patted his arm. "Darling, we've got to get back to the house." She turned to me. "We're having a little get-together—I hate calling it a wake. Will you come?"
"Thanks, I'd love to." I turned to Jay. "It's bad form to ask, but if you get the chance—"
"I'll talk to you about Crystal," he finished for me. "We'll find the time."
Somehow I knew he would. I started walking back to the car, aware that since I'd met him, my fine theories about Jay's guilt were fast disintegrating. I'd been convinced he was involved in Crystal's death, and Rudy's shooting—especially after I discovered his sordid past. But how could a man as noble, as charismatic as Jay be engaged in anything sleazy? It seemed impossible, and yet, those trailer thefts were, at the least, questionable—very possibly phony. And why, I reminded myself, was Rudy killed just hours after Jay got home?