Too Big To Miss

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  I'd like to say that I own a cat, but those of you who are familiar with cats would know I'd be lying. So I'll simply tell you that I live with a cat: a one-eyed, raggedy-eared, greenish feline named Seamus.

  I have never been a cat person. Actually, I'm not much of an animal person. It's not that I don't like animals, just that I have never been around them much. But even my lack of expertise in the animal kingdom wouldn't allow me to turn a deaf ear to a beast in trouble.

  This past St. Patrick's Day I had come home from work, arms full of grocery bags, to discover some of the children who lived in my complex tormenting Seamus. He wasn't Seamus then, of course, just a nameless stray who lived by his wits among the brush and vegetation surrounding the nearby bay.

  Somehow the kids had managed to capture him, bind him, and dye his shaggy coat green with what I later learned was nothing more than food coloring. By the time I intervened, the animal was out of his mind with terror and anger, and none of the little hoodlums dared to release him.

  As soon as I yelled at them to stop, they scattered like roaches. I shook my head and approached the green ball of spit and fury cautiously. Hoping he was more hungry than angry, I pulled a can of tuna from my grocery bag. It was one of the small cans with a pull tab lid. It did the trick. Once the animal was busy eating, I gnawed through the cords with a pair of cuticle scissors I keep in my ever-present tote bag, freeing him as he finished. Picking up my groceries, I went home, my good deed done.

  Before I knew it, the cat had taken up lodging on my patio, and I began leaving out little snacks for him. I named him Seamus because he was green and I had met him on St. Patrick's day. Then one night, during a bad spring rainstorm, I saw him hovering and shaking under the plastic patio table and invited him in. He has never left, and seems content with his new life.

  Two months later, Seamus is still as green as the Emerald Isle.

  As soon as I entered my home, I dropped my tote bag and groceries to the floor and scooped him up. Plopping down on the sofa, I clutched the animal close, burying my tearful face in his soft, colorful fur.

  Chapter Two

  UP AND DOWN, up and down. This was how I spent the first night after Sophie's death. I paced the taupe carpet in my townhouse half alive, seeing and feeling little to nothing. The clock moved slowly, each digital minute changing slower than ketchup pouring from a new bottle. Seamus, disgusted with the disturbance, left his usual spot at the end of my bed and went in search of quieter sleeping quarters.

  The Home Shopping Network beamed brightly from the small television in my bedroom. A woman, much too chipper for the middle of the night, was peddling pink tourmaline earrings.

  It just didn't make sense.

  Sophie's death that is. It didn't make sense to sell earrings at two in the morning, either, but the jewelry lady was on her own.

  It was difficult to drag myself to work the next day. But drag I did, pushing aside the idea of calling in and taking a personal day. I negotiated with my tired and confused body, telling it the diversion of work might do me good. The compromise was that I would go to work, but would skip my usual morning walk.

  Each morning several of us meet at six o'clock for a loosely scheduled walk around a section of Newport Bay, a protected estuary just a few minutes from my home. There is no set group of participants, just an understanding that, at six each morning, a walk around the back section of the bay begins, and all are welcome. We have had as many as ten people at a time, sometimes maybe no one. No one waits for anyone to show up. At six each morning walking commences, no matter who is or isn't there. This casual exercise group has been going on, rain or shine, dark or light, for about a year. It was started by Sophie.

  It wasn't just fatigue that kept me from my exercise this morning. Most of the walkers were part of the Reality Check bunch, and the idea of seeing the faces and fielding the questions of our friends made me queasy.

  Sophie's death had been on the news last night and in the paper this morning. It was turning into a titillating gossip piece; something worthy of a supermarket tabloid.

  Online Sex Star Kills Self As Dozens Watch! was how one television station had hawked the lead story for their eleven o'clock news the night before.

  An online sex star?

  I was still in shock over Sophie's death. Now I was reeling from the knowledge she had owned and operated an adult web site. I was only glad that the police had broken the news to us, instead of hearing it from the media vultures.

  According to Detective Devin Frye, the homicide detective who interviewed us at the coroner's office, Sophie's site was called Sassy Sophie. It was an Internet site set up with a camera that allowed viewers into her home via computer. Classified as a pornography site, for nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents a month, members could watch Sophie dress, shower, sleep, and even have sex.

  Surfing the Internet, I had seen those sites before. Naked or scantily clad men and women played to their audience in front of a camera. Usually they tapped out messages via the keyboard and took requests. Many used a headset and spoke directly to their viewers. In some instances, the image was delayed, taking a few seconds for it to reach watchers around the world. But now, with streaming video and high speed Internet connections, almost all sites and activities on them were instantaneous. At the end of his day, a man in Cairo could watch a woman in Los Angeles take her morning shower.

  Detective Frye told us that as many as forty-five or fifty people, maybe even more, had seen Sophie put a gun into her mouth and pull the trigger. My blood iced over every time I thought about it, so I tried not to.

  Seth said he would call and keep me informed about what was next concerning Sophie. One of his law partners, a man versed in estate matters, had drafted Sophie's will a while back. He promised to contact the attorney this morning and see if there were any instructions on her personal matters. Zee and I knew almost nothing about Sophie's family, just that both of her parents were dead. We were her emergency contacts, but knew of no one else who should be advised of what had happened.

  I work in a law firm as well, but we do not handle wills or trust work, mostly corporate and business litigation. The work on my desk faded in and out of focus as I struggled to keep a grip on my emotions.

  For seventeen years I have been employed by the firm of Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, or Woobie as we inmates refer to it. I serve as the legal assistant to Wendall Wallace, one of the firm's founding partners, and as a corporate paralegal. This is the same firm where I met Zee. She worked here for a few years before becoming a full-time mother and part-time sales representative for Golden Rose Cosmetics.

  I have worked for Mr. Wallace, who just turned seventy-two a few weeks ago, for almost fifteen years. He recently announced he will retire at the end of this summer. It makes me wonder what will become of me when that happens, although I have been assured by our office manager that I will be given full-time paralegal work.

  My position also puts me in contact with Michael Steele, which is a good name for him considering his lack of natural warmth. Steele is a senior associate who handles most of Mr. Wallace's clients. Saying I'm not overly fond of Mike Steele is an understatement. He has his own secretary, or rather succession of secretaries, but I do his paralegal work and also get saddled with some of the more sensitive clerical work his practice demands. I would leave my job rather than be assigned to him solely.

  I was pondering my future at the firm sans Wendell Wallace, anything not to think about Sophie, when a thick file landed with a heavy thud smack in the middle of my desk. It jarred my thoughts back to the present.

  "Grey, I need this copied," Steele ordered as he began walking back to his office. "Now."

  "I'll have the copy center take care of it," I informed him politely but coolly.

  I'll say it again. I do not like this man, having never found anything redeeming about him except his single-minded devotion to law. Steele is cocky and arrogant. A pretty boy in his mid-to-late thirties who
likes to play hard when not working hard. His clothes are impeccable and his taste in women favors models and centerfolds. He's known to wine, dine and dump women at a record-breaking pace, although office gossips claim the real truth is that the women dump him for lack of substance.

  "No," Steele said, coming back to stand in front of my desk. He looked me in the eye. It was the same look a school teacher might give a student who just said something fresh. "I want you to do it personally."

  I looked at the file. It would take an hour or more of standing in front of a copier to painstakingly copy the documents. I looked at my already piled-high desk. We had a whole department devoted to tasks like copying, binding, and filing. That the file might be of a highly sensitive nature crossed my mind. Although all Woobie employees were required to sign a confidentiality agreement upon coming to work at the firm, some things were even too sensitive for most employees to see. I was often called upon to do work of this nature.

  "Unless you'd rather take over your friend's porn site," Steele said, with a lewd sneer.

  The remark took me aback. I didn't realize Steele knew who my friends were. He paid so little attention to me, except to dump work on me, that sometimes I wondered if he even knew my name. I said nothing, but gave him a look I hoped would convey "shut up" loud and clear. But either he couldn't read my look, or chose not to, because he didn't let up.

  "Hey, maybe she left it to you in her will. After all, those paying customers of hers are going to miss those love handles. Could be a whole new career for you, Grey."

  My hands itched with the urge to belt him into next week. But lucky for both of us, I was now holding the documents he had given me. For a brief moment, I considered assault and battery with an expanding file. This one was over three inches thick and would probably leave a good-sized dent in a man's skull. Instead, I clutched the file to my chest and walked away from Steele, leaving him to chuckle at his own stupid comment.

  Once in the copy room I told myself, sensitive or not, this was a simple, uncomplicated task. It was busy work that could keep me occupied while I waited for Seth to call. Mr. Wallace was out of the office this morning, and his work occupied less and less of my time these days, while the corporate paralegal work occupied more of it. I was too antsy to focus on anything detailed.

  The awaited call from Seth came while I was at lunch. In his deep, oboe sounding voice, he left a message to stop by his office after work.

  At five-forty-five, I sat in a conference room across from Seth and one of his law partners, Douglas Hemming. Zee was there, too, seated next to me, twisting a tissue in her hands. It was her only outward sign of grief.

  I had met Doug Hemming several times, if only briefly, at a few of Seth and Zee's annual Christmas parties. I guessed him to be younger than Seth, with pale splotchy skin that looked like it would burn easily with minimal sun exposure. He was lean and lanky with an inconsequential chin, which he tried to round out with a goatee of reddish hair. The sparse hair on his head was a little lighter than the color of his beard. He held a document, which he peered at through wire-rimmed glasses, then he peered at me, then at Zee. Suddenly, and for no reason at all, I remembered his wife's name was Nina and that she was a pediatrician.

  "This," Doug began, indicating the few pages in his hand, "contains Sophia London's burial requests and arrangements. I thought it best to start here."

  Sophie, or rather her body, was at the morgue. I hadn't thought of how or where she would be buried. What surprised me was that she had made arrangements ahead of time. We were pretty much the same age. Did that mean I should be thinking about the disposal of my remains? Should I have a will? I swept the morbid thoughts out of my head like so many dust bunnies.

  "Sophia London wished to be cremated," Doug informed us. "She already made arrangements to take care of that, and paid for the services in advance. She requested that you," he said, indicating me, "should take care of her personal matters."

  I couldn't believe Sophie had committed suicide, but here it was right in front of my nose, tons of evidence pointing to the obvious. A self-inflicted gun shot to the head and pre-planned, pre-paid funeral arrangements. As if reading my mind, Zee spoke up, asking the question that hovered on the tip of my numb tongue.

  "When were these arrangements made, Doug?"

  Doug looked at the papers again. "This directive was signed last October, the services paid for in full about the same time according to the receipt attached." He rummaged through a small stack of papers briefly until he found another document. "Her will was drawn up and signed in October also."

  Eight months ago.

  Last September, just one short month before that, Sophie and I had taken a long weekend trip together. We drove up the California central coast, visiting Cambria, Hearst Castle, and Morro Bay. I racked my brain but couldn't recall her being depressed or preoccupied with death and dying, only a brief comment about needing a will. The trip had been lighthearted and relaxing, with lots of laughter.

  "We took a short trip together last fall," I mentioned. "I remember Sophie asking me if Seth knew someone who could draw up a will. I gave her his office number."

  Seth nodded.

  "Yes," Doug said, "that's when Seth referred her to me." He put down the documents and took off his glasses, wiping them clean with a small tan cloth he retrieved from his inside jacket pocket. His face seemed sad and drawn, his small eyes droopy. "She was such a lovely woman. So tragic." He returned his glasses to his face, transforming himself back into Mr. Professional Lawyer. Picking up the other documents, he went back to Sophie's business.

  "Has her family been notified yet?" he asked.

  Zee and I looked at each other with surprise.

  "We didn't know she had family," Zee said, for us both.

  "The police asked, but we had nothing to tell them," I added.

  Doug sighed. "Sophie London is survived by an ex-husband and one child, a son. She never told you?"

  We shook our heads in unison. It was another secret she had not shared.

  "She gave me her ex-husband's phone number and address when she signed the will," Doug said, pulling a piece of yellow legal paper from the stack.

  Stunned, I sat in the leather conference room chair like a piece of petrified wood. A husband. A son. An adult web site. I had always assumed that Sophie, like me, had never been married. Not mentioning the porn site I understood. It could have been embarrassment, shame, or even the assumption that I might not understand. Which I didn't. But I certainly would have expected her to mention an ex-spouse. We had talked about and trashed various men in our pasts with regularity. Even when I shared with her the horrible engagement I had broken off just a few years earlier, she never gave the slightest indication she had once been married.

  "What about her work, her employer?" Doug asked. "Do they know yet what has happened?"

  I shook my head. "Sophie was self-employed. Some kind of consulting work, computers, I think."

  "She also modeled from time to time," Zee added. "Sometimes she did fashion shows for large sizes."

  "That's right. That's how Zee and I met her. She was in a show for that store in Fashion Island—Abundance."

  The adult web site was not mentioned, but its existence loomed in the room like an embarrassing relative.

  I didn't realize I had been crying until Zee handed me a small purse pack of tissues. Taking them, I smiled my thanks. Her face was wet, too.

  "If you like," Doug said, putting down the papers and shuffling them into a neat stack, "I'll call her ex-husband." He looked at his watch. "It's almost six-thirty. I'll try right now."

  "I think that's a good idea, Doug," Seth said. "As her attorney, it might be best coming from you."

  Doug picked up a file from the table and left the room. Seth came to stand behind Zee and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. Then he put his other hand on my shoulder and did the same.

  "You girls stay put," Seth told us. "I'm going t
o join Doug."

  Minutes after Seth left the room, Ranita, his secretary, came in with a tray. On it were a couple of stylish mugs, a carafe, and a small basket containing an assortment of teas, sugar and sweetener.

  "I thought you ladies might like some tea," she said in a sweet, somber voice with a slight but unfamiliar accent.

  "Thank you, Ranita," Zee told her, "but it's time you went home." Zee reached out a hand and softly patted Ranita's arm. "Please don't stay for us. We'll manage."

  Ranita bent down and she and Zee exchanged an affectionate hug.

  "I'm sorry about your friend," the young woman said, looking at both of us as she unconsciously rubbed her pregnant belly. She wasn't more than twenty-five years old with an open, dark face, just slightly lighter than Zee's. Here and there it was marked with small acne scars. Her eyes were big and soulful. It was easy to see that the comment came from her heart.

  "Thank you, Ranita," I said.

  After Ranita left, Zee opened up a mint tea bag for me and an Earl Grey bag for herself and placed them in mugs. I added hot water from the carafe. We were sipping tea in silence when Doug and Seth returned. Doug took his place on the other side of the table. Seth sat next to Zee.

  We waited expectantly for Doug to speak.

  "Well, we spoke to the ex-husband," he began. "His name is Peter Olsen." He looked at Seth before continuing.

  "There are some unusual circumstances," Seth added.

  "Unusual," I heard myself say. It wasn't in the form of a question, but more of a parroting remark. This whole matter had been unusual from the start. And there was more to come?

  "Yes," Doug continued. "Except for a few personal items she bequeathed to you, Zee, and a few others, Ms. London left her entire estate to Mr. Olsen, as trustee for their son."

  "But that's not unusual in the case of children," I commented.

  "No, Odelia, you're right. It's not. Ms. London's son is twenty years old now. His name is Robert. She gave me that information when she made the will."