"Security systems," she said, pointing again to the sensor, "give off rays of energy that are damaging."
Sighing, I shut my eyes. My friend was dead. My memory had just been imprinted with the sight of her blood. This was not a good day to be talking to me about beams, rays, or any such crap as that. A worse day to be speaking to me as if I were a five-year-old.
"So what does that have to do with you, Ms. Somers?" I could hear the slight edge to my voice. "These sensors are inside the house, nowhere near you." I was trying to be patient, really working hard at it.
Missing the tone in my voice, Iris continued. She gave me another deep huff. Zee, though, didn't mistake the tightness in my words. She stopped moving bric-a-brac and turned to fully listen.
"These beams are very harmful. Don't you know that?" Iris was becoming agitated. "It doesn't matter that they're inside. They still shoot out into my property. They strike my body and my head, causing a great deal of discomfort. I have suffered considerable harm ever since Miss London installed her security system."
"You do know Sophie London is dead, don't you?" Zee asked. Her words were low and calm, but I detected a strong note of sarcasm.
"Yes. Exactly my point." Iris pointed her umbrella first at me, then at Zee. "And I don't want to be next. Those electrical rays struck her over and over, like arrows, until she was driven insane. That system caused her to shoot herself."
"Ms. Somers," I began, trying to rein in my anger and disbelief. Getting up, I went to the front door and opened it. "I can assure you that this harmless security system has no bearing on the death of our friend or on your own discomfort. Please seek mental health assistance. You obviously need it."
Iris Somers correctly read the open door and my suggestion of counseling as an invitation to leave. She stood up and, with her parasol sweeping about, made her way out the door.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," she said, turning to stand on the small outside landing to address me. "You'll be hearing from my attorney."
"Great. Call her husband." I jerked a thumb at Zee. "He's an attorney. He'd just love to hear what you have to say."
Iris Somers had just started to say something else, her words accompanied by a pointed finger, when the door slipped from my hand and slammed in her face. Since we didn't hear a scream from the other side, I felt it safe to assume she was standing far enough away to avoid a broken nose.
Honest. The door just slipped.
Chapter Five
"WHAT IF SHE'S right?" I asked Zee.
We were having lunch at a favorite little restaurant located on Lido Island. We had settled ourselves on the patio rather than in the small dining room, taking a table overlooking the boats in the bay.
After Iris Somers left, we had thrown ourselves into the sorting and packing of Sophie's things. Our industry was more to distract us from the morning disturbances than to accomplish anything constructive. Shortly after noon, Zee suggested we break for lunch. Afterward, we had a memorial service to prepare for and attend.
"What if she's right?" I asked Zee again as I squeezed fresh lemon into my iced tea.
"Who? That nut case?" Zee took a big sip of her Coke and giggled. Then she did a double take. "You're not serious, Odelia?"
"No. Not about the beam-me-up-Scotty crap. But about..." I took a drink of my iced tea before continuing. "But what if something did drive Sophie to commit suicide. Something farfetched and unexplainable. It just doesn't make sense that she killed herself. She wasn't the type."
We sat in silence and watched the water and the gulls until our food came. I hadn't told Zee yet about Greg Stevens' e-mail and wondered what she'd make of it.
"Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about it," I said, finally breaking the silence.
Zee still didn't answer. She took her time assembling her grilled chicken sandwich just the way she liked it. First, she removed the gourmet lettuce mix, dismissing it as weeds. Next, she tore the two bacon slices into smaller pieces and rearranged them so they covered the chicken breast more evenly. Then came the extra mayo and the thinning of the red onion slices. She went through this ritual every time she ordered food out, never taking a bite until it was exactly the way she preferred it. Normally, I found it amusing. Today, even though I knew Zee was taking this time to think, I found it maddening.
With my patience as limp as the lettuce she had discarded, I waited while she cut the sandwich into two, more ladylike halves. When she salted her steak fries and picked up the ketchup, I knew we were nearing mission accomplished. Finally, she took her first bite and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. I toyed with the black olives and feta cheese in my Greek salad and waited for her comments.
"Yes," she answered, after dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. "Of course I've thought about it. In fact, I've thought of little else lately. Sophie killing herself doesn't add up at all."
"I knew it!" I slapped the table with my left palm.
"But," Zee interrupted, pointing a thick fried potato strip at me, "neither does that porn site. When you think about that, and the fact she had a hidden family, a grown son, and maybe we didn't know her as well as we'd like to think. Maybe, just maybe, she was a very unhappy and depressed person hiding behind an outgoing, bubbly persona. It happens all the time."
"The jolly fat person who's really miserable inside?"
"It could happen. And it does happen. Now don't get me wrong. I'm just as shocked and puzzled by all this as you are." Zee hesitated and took another sip of her soda. "And like you, I need and want some answers."
I watched quietly as a gull bobbed up and down on the water, lazily going with the flow. After a few moments, I turned my attention back to Zee.
"Even with all the secrets oozing out of the nooks and crannies of Sophie's life, my gut tells me there's more to this than meets the eye."
"Even with dozens of eye witnesses?" Zee asked.
"Even then."
I decided to come clean about Greg Stevens. First, I took another drink of tea. "I received an e-mail from one of the guys who saw her die. He got my name and e-mail address off the Reality Check web site."
"Lord, no." She put down her sandwich and wiped her mouth and hands with her napkin. "Odelia, don't go getting mixed up with one of those sick crackpots. You've seen the news. They're feeding off this like sharks."
"I know. But I can't put this guy out of my mind. He says Sophie talked to him about me. He told me he doesn't believe Sophie committed suicide."
"Odelia, if you truly think there's something else going on here, why not talk to that nice detective? Frye, wasn't it? You're not a private investigator, or law enforcement. This is their job."
I knew she was speaking with the voice of reason, but I couldn't let it go. Greg Stevens and his e-mail continued to nag at me in spite of my decision not to respond.
"The police have already determined it was a suicide," I told her, hoping it would soothe her concerns. "But I'd still like to poke around a bit. You know, ask some questions. Nothing more. I feel I owe it to Sophie to at least find out something about that morning."
"Well, I guess asking a few questions won't hurt." Zee raised her glass in a toast. "To Sophie and to the truth."
I toasted back with my iced tea. "Just one more thing," I told her. "Don't tell Seth. He'll just nag me about being careful. You can do the job for both of you."
We laughed together. With no further discussion, a thoughtful silence settled over us as we returned to our food.
Maybe the Iris Somerses of the world aren't the wing nuts of our society. Maybe people like her are right on the money about such things as beams, little green men, and mental probes.
Maybe it's those of us who think we're normal who are really going 'round the bend. We all laugh at the strangely dressed man in the street who holds up a sign saying the end is near. Could it be that he has the inside track, while the rest of us are running endlessly in a hamster wheel?
Maybe somewhere along the line, Sophie d
iscovered this theory to be true, and the truth had been too harsh to bear.
Afraid she'd throw the salt shaker at me for being ridiculous, I didn't voice this thought to Zee. But it occupied my mind like thoughtless guests in the next bedroom.
AFTER LUNCH, ZEE went home to get ready for the gathering after the memorial service. I decided to go shopping. I didn't need anything in particular, but a new outfit for the service later today would be a nice pick-me-up. Like food, shopping often served as an outlet for my anxiety.
That morning we had made some good headway on sorting Sophie's things, starting with tagging the items left by Sophie to specific people in an attachment to her will. I was left three items—her Lenox nativity set, her thirty-inch pearls, and the cross-stitched sampler. She had left Zee an antique rocking chair, as well as her peridot earrings and pendent, knowing the green gemstone was Zee's favorite.
The nativity, which consisted of about sixteen or more pieces, including several stable animals, was made of smooth, creamy porcelain decorated with elaborate jewel-toned raised dots. I already have a growing collection of unusual nativity sets, and had openly coveted her expensive set each Christmas when it adorned her buffet table.
Something about the willed gifts nagged at me. I had the list in my purse and dug it out after finding a parking space at Fashion Island. I went down the list, name by name, item by item. Most of the bequeathed items went to friends in Reality Check. A few went to people I didn't know. Scanning the list, I found what I was looking for and what I hadn't noticed this morning during our mechanical bustle. Greg Stevens was on the gift list. He was to receive a framed portrait. So, he wasn't just an anonymous sex voyeur. He had been telling the truth about being a friend.
According to Sophie's will, all items not specifically given to someone were to be sold, with the proceeds added to her estate. Unsold items were to go to charity if no one wanted them. The house, too, was to be put on the market. In the end, after all expenses were met and the probate court satisfied, the liquidated estate would be given to her ex-husband for the benefit of their son.
Doug Hemming informed me that Peter Olsen didn't want to know anything about Sophie's estate. Nor did he want to be involved. He just told Doug to send him a check if there was anything left.
Sophie had a lot of stuff. It would take us about two to three weekends to properly ready everything for disposal. Before going to lunch, I had called a professional cleaning crew. We were anxious to have the office scrubbed before entering it again.
As I locked my car, leaving it in the Fashion Island parking lot with the driver's window cracked against the heat, I glanced at my watch. I had just over an hour to find something new. If I failed in my mission, I could always wear my blue and white, two-piece summer suit as a backup.
Today I skipped Abundance. I shopped there so much I knew the stock by heart and had not found anything special the last time I was there. Thinking back, that would have been last Saturday, the day before Sophie died. I was in a funk and she'd dragged me out shopping to lift my spirits.
I thought about that. Sophie had tried to improve my mood. I didn't recall her being down. In fact, she'd been annoyingly chipper. It was one more thing that didn't feel right.
Most major department stores have sections for large women. The racks of clothing, sized fourteen through twenty-six, were usually tucked away in some remote corner of the store, far from the other women's clothing departments, and well out of view of the general buying public. Zee and I had dubbed these hidden women's clothing areas Invisible Women Departments.
Although none of these stores seemed shy about taking my hard-earned money, they did seem embarrassed about displaying the clothing I wanted to purchase. Kind of like a so-called family oriented store that sold smut from a back room with a look of apology, but still smiled when they gave you your change and told you to come back again soon.
I entered one of my favorite department stores and made the trek from the ground floor up several levels of escalator to the plus-size women's department located on the fourth floor. In this particular establishment, it was lurking in a distant corner, tucked between Fine China and Small Appliances. Across the way was Furniture; to the far left Linens. It was the only clothing department on the entire floor.
The store's management must think since women wearing these sizes are as big as houses, they would be more comfortable buying clothes next to household goods. It was the only logical explanation I could think of.
After roaming the familiar racks with no success, I left, riding the escalator down to the land of the normal and acceptable.
Walking around the charming outdoor mall with its courtyards of clever fountains and kiosks, I felt a stab in my chest. It wasn't indigestion from lunch, that I knew. I placed a hand over my chest and pressed. It was a glob of grief, sitting just over my heart. A big, solid wad of pain and emotions that would have to come out sooner or later like a hair ball. Sophie and I had shopped this mall together regularly. Many Sunday afternoons, we had sat beside the koi pond sipping designer coffee, watching children play in the water, while their parents kept a watchful eye from behind carefully chosen Ray-Bans.
Those days were gone now, lost in a single trigger pull.
A dress caught my eye in the window of a large, well known chain featuring only women's clothing and accessories. It was an upscale shop, larger than a boutique, not quite a department store, known for high mark-ups and celebrity clientele. Not a store in which I regularly shopped. Stepping inside, I let the air conditioning bathe me while I wandered around. I fingered silky rich materials and examined different displays, occasionally holding a garment up to my frame in front of one of the many side mirrors. The activity was calming my nerves. The lump in my chest subsided.
A clerk approached me. She couldn't have been older than early twenties, wearing an expensive ensemble all in black. Her legs were long, her body tall and lithe. She might have been pretty, except for the thick makeup and severe hairdo, making her look like something out of a rock music video. Her name tag said Jody.
I looked at her and smiled pleasantly. She stared back at me expressionless, her facial features as tight as the sweater on her back.
"We don't have your size here," she informed me with an air of superiority.
Not sure I heard her right, I said, "Excuse me?"
"I said, we don't carry your size here."
There it was again. I had heard right. Stunned, I put the silk blouse in my hand back on the rack with a sharp snap of my wrist.
Not even a damn ‘Good afternoon, may I help you?' first.
"I don't recall asking if you had my size," I replied, correcting my posture while I spoke. "Perhaps I'm shopping for someone else, or for a handbag or a scarf."
The little snit didn't even bat an over-mascaraed eyelash.
"Well, are you?" she asked, raising her nose a tad higher into the air. Her insolence slapped me hard.
"No, miss, but that's hardly the point."
With a roll of her black lined eyes, she turned on her four-inch spiked high heels and strode away. My face turned as raspberry as the silk blouse I had just admired.
With my head down to hide my embarrassment, I left the store and scurried back to my car. Once inside, I dropped my face into my cupped hands and broke into sobs of humiliation and personal grief. This was exactly what Sophie fought against. It was what she stood for.
Weight was the last acceptable prejudice. People of girth, especially women, were open targets for jokes and comments. It was still politically correct to assault and ridicule fat people.
I thought about Sophie and felt ashamed. She wouldn't have let that little snot intimidate her. No, Sophie would have demanded to see the store manager or the vice president. Shit, the owner! She would have demanded an apology. And she wouldn't have let up until she had gotten one.
I, on the other hand, had made a feeble attempt at indignation, then ran with my tail between my legs.
&
nbsp; Where was our champion now?
Chapter Six
WEARING MY NAVY blue and white suit, I quietly greeted people as they filed into the small, non-denominational chapel to say goodbye to Sophie London.
The late afternoon sun was still high and blazing when the service began. I felt my underarms progress from damp to wet in spite of the building's air conditioning. There were more people at the memorial service than we had expected. Many Zee and I didn't know.
The pastor from Zee's church, Pastor Hill, said a few words of comfort. Zee read scripture and I recited one of Sophie's favorite poems—Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou. Glo Kendall sang a stunning arrangement of The Lord's Prayer. It was a very moving service.
At the front of the chapel stood three different photographs of Sophie. They had been blown up and arranged on easels, surrounded by the many flowers that had arrived.
Her ashes were back at my house, sitting in an urn right next to the Lenox nativity set she'd left me. We hadn't decided on how to disperse her remains, and Sophie had provided no direction on that. It seemed to be the only loose end she hadn't pre-tied. The thought of having the urn on display at the service gave me the creeps. I wanted people's last memory of Sophie to be as displayed in the photos.
The center one was a beautiful professional pose, the same as she used on her modeling resumé. The one on the right was a more casual photo taken at the beach. But the photo on the left was my favorite. It had been taken on her last birthday, almost exactly a year ago. A few of us had surprised her with a male stripper. The photo in the chapel didn't show the nearby naked man, of course, but was a close-up of Sophie's expression. She had her glasses on, but pushed down on the bridge of her nose. She was looking up over the top of the rims, her mouth hung open in surprise. It was a comical pose, and probably a better representation of her true personality than the others.
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