Too Big To Miss

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  "What's up? You on a cell phone?"

  "Yes, I'm in my car. In Santa Paula."

  Silence on the other end.

  "I'm going to talk to Peter Olsen," I said quickly. "Sophie's ex-husband." There was a pause. I filled it with a little white lie. "I was wondering if there's anything you'd like me to ask him, something I might not have thought of."

  "Why didn't you tell me you were going?" he asked. "I could've gone with you." He sounded worried.

  Half of me wished I hadn't called him. The other half wanted to wait by the curb in front of Olsen's business until he got here.

  "Odelia, you have no idea who you're dealing with. He might be the killer."

  "You could've been the killer, too. But I gave you a chance." I heard him sigh. "This is important to me, Greg. I need to speak with him." Then empty air, making me wonder if I'd lost the connection. "I'll be all right," I added and heard the sigh again.

  "Guess it's too late now to talk you out of it," he finally said. "But I still wish you'd waited for me."

  "I'll be careful."

  "It's almost noon now. I want you to call me by two, no matter where you are. And give me your cell phone number. And the description of your car and license number."

  It all sounded a bit dramatic and paranoid to me, but comforting all the same. I gave him the information he wanted and hung up, after swearing I'd call by two.

  As soon as I walked into the showroom area of Olsen's, I was approached by a paunchy, middle-aged man wearing a knit shirt with Olsen's Machinery stitched over his heart.

  "Mr. Olsen?" I asked.

  "Back office," the man said, indicating the direction with a jerk of his head.

  My eyes followed the route of his chin. I could see a glass door leading into an office and headed that way.

  Inside the office sat a pleasant looking elderly woman with a dumpling body and matching face. She wore a cotton dress in a tiny floral print. A strand of pearls cuddled themselves against her thick neck. She looked like she'd be more at home baking cookies and knitting instead of sitting behind a desk answering phones and pushing paper.

  "May I help you?" she asked me in a courteous tone. She had a thick European accent, German maybe.

  "I'd like to speak with Mr. Olsen, please."

  "Peter or Robert?"

  The question threw me. I hadn't expected to run into Robbie Olsen. In fact, the idea had never crossed my mind. I preferred to speak with Olsen senior, but if I could snare a few minutes with Robbie, all the better.

  "Whoever is available," I answered.

  "And who should I say is here?"

  "Odelia Grey. I'm a friend of the family."

  Her oatmeal-raisin warmth disappeared as soon as I said the words, and something in the way the old girl looked me over told me not to underestimate her cozy appearance. She disappeared into a back office and returned in an instant, holding the door open for me to enter.

  "Peter is out right now, but Robert can see you," she said with more than a smidgen of disapproval in her voice.

  Inside the office there were two large wooden desks. One was occupied by a fine looking young man wearing a company knit shirt. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the live version of the boy in the photos. Here at last was Sophie's son. He was beautiful, like having a piece of her in my presence. I fought the urge to fling myself at him and crush him to my hefty bosom.

  "Hi...Robbie Olsen," he said shyly as he stood and extended his right hand. "Gram said you're a friend of the family. I'm sorry, but I must confess, I don't remember you." His demeanor may have been modest, but his voice was confident and his words well mannered. Sophie would've been proud.

  That he called the old lady Gram wasn't lost on me. No wonder she'd looked me over suspiciously when I said friend of the family. I made an on-the-spot decision. My poker face is non-existent, so lying was not the best option. I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible without giving away Sophie's secret.

  "No, we've never met. I'm an old friend of your mother's."

  "Really? Didn't you go by the house? She should be home."

  He looked up at a large clock hung on the wall. It was round with a thick wooden frame and plain no-nonsense face. The whole office looked like it had been decorated in the fifties and never updated.

  "Her program is on right now, so I know she'll be there. Would you like me to call her for you?"

  Of course, I said to myself. Peter Olsen probably remarried somewhere along the line. And with my luck, Gram was probably the wife's mother and not Peter's. I kept to my commitment of sticking just slightly off track of the truth.

  "No, that won't be necessary," I assured him. "What I mean is I knew your biological mother, Sophie."

  He plopped himself down into a large wooden rolling chair behind the desk, looking not quite as surprised as I thought he might.

  "Are you the lady who called a few days ago?" he asked.

  In person, he looked even more like Sophie than in the photos. His large blue eyes fixed on me with expectation. I was the one surprised.

  "Someone called you a few days ago about Sophie?"

  "Yes," he answered, settling into the chair in a youthful slouch. "But I'm guessing now it wasn't you."

  I shook my head. "But may I ask what the call was about?"

  He gave my request some thought before continuing. "About my biological mother. At least that's what the woman said. She didn't say much else. Only that she had been a good friend of my mother's and wanted to know how I was doing."

  My antennae were vibrating at full warp speed. "Do you remember what this woman sounded like?"

  He shrugged. "She sounded nice. Normal voice, nothing weird or strange about her that I could tell." He leaned forward in his chair. "But my mother, Sophie I mean, died when I was little. Isn't it kind of odd that two of her friends would contact me about the same time?" The question was asked calmly, with no hint of suspicion, just naïve curiosity.

  Boy, I'll say. I could feel my nose twitch involuntarily as my brain spun this new information around. "Did this woman give you her name or say she'd call you again?" I asked, trying not to appear overeager for information.

  He shook his head. "Nope. We just chatted a bit about stuff. It was a very short call."

  "Well," I said, "I'm sure Sophie had lots of friends. It's probably just a coincidence."

  I tried to appear nonchalant and wondered if Robbie would buy the idea it was just a fluke. I sure as hell didn't, but then I'm rather skeptical about a lot of things, including long-lost friends with good intentions.

  "All I know," I continued, "is that I'm a friend of hers from a long time ago. I was in the area and thought it might be nice to see how you've grown, and to say hello to your father, of course." I lied like a rug to this nice kid and told myself I'd worry about shame tomorrow.

  "Cool," he said, obviously delighted by this unexpected visit. Suddenly aware of his manners, he pointed to a chair. "Please sit down, Mrs. Grey. Dad should be back any time now."

  "Ms. Grey, not Mrs.," I corrected him. "But please, call me Odelia."

  I sat in a vinyl-and-metal office chair across from him and placed my tote bag on the floor beside me. Inside the bag was the box of Robbie memorabilia.

  "You look like your mother," I told him with a genuine smile.

  "Yeah, that's what my dad says." He blushed as he said it. "I have a few old photos of her, but it's hard to see it from them."

  "Trust me, Robbie, you're the spitting image."

  Once more he slightly reddened. It was easy to like this boy, just as it had been easy to like his mother. It was plain to see he was well brought up. Whomever had taken over for Sophie had done a very good job.

  "How old were you when Sophie died?"

  "I was three. But honestly, I don't even remember her. I wish I did, though." He swung slightly side to side in the chair. "Don't get me wrong. Mom, or Marcia, my step-mom, is great...the very best. But I wish I knew mor
e about my real mother. Dad never talks about her." He leaned forward eagerly, reminding me of a hungry wolf cub. "What was she like, Odelia?"

  I was about to introduce a boy to his mother and wondered if I could do her the justice she deserved.

  "She was wonderful. Outgoing and lively. Very beautiful. Very intelligent. She lived to help others."

  Before I could tell him more, the door opened and in walked the man from the memorial service. The man who had confronted Hollowell.

  "Hi, Dad," Robbie greeted him. "This is Odelia, an old friend of..."

  "I know who she is, Robbie," Olsen said, cutting him off. His face was stern and anger flashed in his eyes, but his voice was even.

  Not sure where this scene was heading, I decided to take control. Standing up, I held out my hand. "Yes, remember me...Odelia Grey? It's nice to see you again after all these years."

  Picking up on my cue, Olsen took my offered hand and shook it briefly. I felt him relax and saw the fire in his eyes cool a few notches.

  "Yes, it's nice to see you again, too. What brings you to Santa Paula?"

  "A little business, a little pleasure. Thought it'd be fun to stop in and see you and Robbie. See how he's turned out. You've done a wonderful job. Sophie would be so proud of both of you. He looks just like her."

  I was babbling like a mountain brook, hoping someone would rescue me before I did major damage. Fortunately, Olsen did.

  "It's too bad Robbie's about to take off for school," he said, looking directly into my eyes. His were green, like my own. "He has afternoon classes at the university. But if you'd permit me, Odelia, I'd love to take you to lunch. It'll be fun catching up on old times."

  The two words old and times were bolded, italicized, and underlined by his tone.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE RESTAURANT WAS one of those standard chain restaurants that dot Southern California, providing good but not great food, at good but not entirely cheap prices. The waitress directed us to a table near the middle of the dining room, but Olsen quietly suggested the large, semi-circular booth that stood empty in the back. And that's where we sat.

  He looked pretty much the same as the first time I saw him, except today he looked stronger, both physically and emotionally. Maybe it was the way the Olsen Machinery knit shirt clung to his slim but well developed frame, or the fact that here he was in control, while at the chapel he was losing it. I was on his turf, invading his space uninvited, and he was quietly letting me know just that.

  Peter Olsen had the kind of face one earns. Deep creases marked the outside of his eyes like parenthesis, and lines formed furrows like plowed rows across his forehead. His nose looked like it had once been broken, though not badly. While not particularly handsome, his overall appearance spoke of character and stability.

  On the way to the restaurant in his truck, he never said a word to me. I had offered to take my own car, but he had insisted on driving us both. More than once I wondered if I had made a wise decision. At the restaurant, he didn't speak beyond courteous chit chat until after our iced teas were served. Then he didn't fool around.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, getting straight to the point without fanfare.

  I quickly took a drink, swallowing it hard. It felt like lumpy oatmeal going down my tight throat. His voice was stern, but not angry. That gave me a glimmer of hope I'd see Newport Beach again.

  "I wanted to bring some things of Sophie's to you. I, I..." I stammered. Inwardly, I told myself to get my shit together. "I didn't know you were the man from the memorial service." It was only a partial lie. True, I didn't know Olsen was the grief stricken man from the service. And I was bringing a few of Sophie's things to him, even though they were merely a ruse to get close to her ex-husband and learn something about her past.

  "We don't want anything of hers. She's dead to us. Has been for years."

  I didn't like the cold way he spoke about Sophie. It didn't match the sorrow I had seen displayed less than a week ago. Deciding I had nothing to lose by prodding him, I kept on, hoping to strike an honest nerve.

  "Then why did you drive all the way to Orange County?" My tone was a tad sarcastic, letting him know I wasn't buying the tough words. "Making sure she was really dead?"

  Across the table, I saw his body clench like a fist.

  "That remark was uncalled for," he said in an angry but controlled voice. "Downright mean, in fact."

  "Perhaps, Mr. Olsen, but I have a dead friend and a lot of unanswered questions. You see, I don't believe Sophie killed herself. And some of her other friends don't believe it, either."

  Our food arrived. I crunched crackers into the bowl of vegetable soup that came with my turkey sandwich. The activity was more to hide my nervousness than out of a love for saltines. I raised my soup spoon to my mouth, watching him carefully while I took my first bite.

  His eyes were closed, his head bowed slightly in front of his barbecued chicken salad. I thought he was saying grace, but when he lifted up his face, I could see his eyes were solemn, his mouth turned downward.

  "Odelia," he said quietly, "you were obviously a very close friend of Sophie's."

  "I loved her very much, like a sister."

  "Then let it be, I beg of you." He locked eyes with me. "What's done is done, and nothing will bring her back."

  I put down my spoon and fiddled with the sandwich, picking at the crust. "Let me ask you this then. Why did you accuse Hollowell of having a hand in her death? It didn't look like you were letting it be."

  He sighed and started poking at lettuce with his fork. "I meant he probably drove her to suicide, that's all. It never crossed my mind that it might be murder. How can it be, when she pulled the trigger?"

  "Did you see it?"

  "Heaven's, no!" His pale face mottled as he spat out the words.

  "Did you know about the web site?"

  This time I denoted a hair's breadth of hesitation before he answered. "No, not until I heard about it on the news. But it didn't surprise me. Hollowell could talk her into anything. It was probably his idea."

  He finally started eating, chewing his salad with determined chomps. I had obviously hit a few sore spots. I wanted to learn more, but wasn't sure how long Olsen would allow me to emotionally poke and prod at him. But what would be the worse case scenario if I continued? I gave it a quick calculation.

  He could storm out and leave me with the check. No big deal, I could afford a turkey sandwich and a chicken salad. He could abandon me here in The Citrus Capital Of The World. The restaurant wasn't that far from his office. I was sure I could find my way back to Olsen's Machinery and retrieve my car if I had to. Those thoughts aside, I forged ahead with fresh determination.

  "Was Hollowell the reason you and Sophie broke up all those years ago?"

  Olsen slightly leaned his head back. "John Hollowell," he began, still looking up at the ceiling, "was the reason Sophie and I got married, the reason we split, and the reason I raised Robbie alone." He lowered his head back down. "Do you believe in time travel, Odelia?" he asked, locking his eyes onto mine again.

  I shrugged with non-commitment, not betraying that the idea of traveling back and forth between the past, present, and future was a favorite fantasy of mine.

  "If you could go back in time," he asked, "what one event would you change, if you could?"

  It was a good question. One I would have loved to speculate about under different circumstances. One event in all of history—there were so many possibilities. I shrugged again, knowing he didn't really need or want my answer. The question was merely a bridge to something important he wanted to tell me.

  "If I could go back in time," he began in a relaxed, storytelling tone, "I'd go back to the summer of 1971. Sophie had just turned fifteen. I was sixteen, and already in love with her. We were at a pool party given by a kid at school. One of the boys was clowning around. He slipped on the diving board and hit his head on the end as he fell into the water. People were screaming. Ev
eryone panicked. You know how it can be. I jumped in and pulled him out. He was unconscious. I saved his life."

  He took a long, slow drink of his iced tea.

  "If I could turn back time, knowing what I do now, I'd let the kid drown."

  "Hollowell?" I guessed.

  "Hollowell," Olsen answered, nodding solemnly. "It was at that party Sophie first caught his eye. Soon after, he began shamelessly pursuing her." He paused, then looked me square in the eye. "I have no doubt that, had John Hollowell drowned that day years ago, the world would be a better place."

  We ate in silence for a short while. I was dying to ask him for more details, especially about Hollowell, but something told me now was a good time to keep still and be patient. I finished my sandwich, then waited while he polished off his salad. The waitress came by to clear our plates and refill our drinks. It was the height of the lunch hour and the place was almost filled.

  The check came and he automatically picked it up. With a wave of workworn hands, he silenced my protests.

  "I can see you mean no intentional harm to Robbie. And I could tell from the service that you cared about Sophie very much. But I worry you might cause my son considerable harm, purely by accident."

  I started to say something, but he cut me off with another slight wave of his hand.

  "I'd like to show you something." He got up, put some money on the table. "Do you have a little time to take a ride with me?"

  "Sure," I answered.

  After a short drive through a modest residential section of town, he turned up a small road bordered on the right by a eucalyptus grove. It led to the local cemetery. It was an older cemetery, small but well maintained, old monuments mixed with new stones. The grounds were scattered with palm trees and a few thick shade trees.

  Olsen proceeded up one of the narrow streets and pulled up halfway, parking next to the curb. He got out and headed in the direction of one of the large trees. I followed, stopping when he did. In front of us was a grouping of headstones with OLSEN carved prominently on the largest.

  "Those are my parents," he told me, pointing to two flat stones placed slightly to the right front of the family stone. One said Martha, the other Leonard. The dates on the stones told me that Leonard lived long after his wife died. "All of these," he said, sweeping the general area with an open hand, "are Olsens—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. We've been in these parts a long time. But now only Robbie and I remain to carry on the family."