I couldn't see what this had to do with Sophie until he pointed to another flat stone. I swallowed hard. It was positioned just off to the side of his parents and read:
SOPHIA L. OLSEN
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
Born 6-7-56...Died 8-14-86
Olsen sat down under the nearby tree and leaned up against it. I joined him, tucking my denim dress around my legs.
"From the time he first noticed her that day at the party," Olsen began, "Hollowell played with Sophie's emotions. She was a big girl, even then, and because of it not very popular with the boys." He smiled. "Except me. We'd known each other since grade school and were pals even then. She was very insecure about her weight and, of course, the kids always teased her."
Been there, done that, have the scars, I thought to myself.
Suddenly, his voice took on a bite. "Hollowell was one of the most popular boys in school. He was good looking, lettered in all the major sports, drove a sports car, and had girls draped over him most of the time. He was as smooth as ice and just as treacherous. Nothing he did wrong ever caught up with him. He used her, of course. Sleeping with her, debasing her, dangling promises of eventual marriage. He would be seen everywhere with the most beautiful and popular girls, but he kept Sophie on the side, behind the scenes."
Olsen looked at me, his face serious and determined. "Forgive me for saying this, Odelia, but Sophie became Hollowell's private whore. And, as far as I know, was until the day she died." He looked down at the ground and picked at some of the scraggly grass. "I tried to tell her he was no good, but she just said I was jealous.
"When he graduated, Hollowell left for college and promised he'd be back for her. Every summer he'd return, crook his little finger, and she'd fly to his bed. Everyone but Sophie knew that nothing would come of the relationship. He was from a well-to-do family. She had nothing. He played around on her, made fun of her, dumped her each fall. The summer between his junior and senior year he didn't come back to Santa Paula at all.
"Sophie graduated the year after Hollowell and I did. A year later her mother died. She had no one else. Sophie moved in with my father and me. I was still in love with her, but the arrangement was strictly on the up and up. She took classes at the local junior college. Spent the rest of her time cooking and cleaning for us, and caring for my father, who was ill. He adored her." Olsen smiled faintly. "I wanted to marry her, but she was in love with that bastard and determined to wait for him."
It was hot, even under the tree. I shifted a bit and fanned myself gently with my hand. Olsen got up and went to his truck, coming back with a small compact cooler. He opened it, revealing a few small bottles of water and a couple of sodas.
"You have to be prepared out here with this heat," he said kindly, offering me a choice.
I took a can of Coke, said thanks, and eagerly popped the top. It felt good going down. Olsen took the other soda and followed suit. I studied him while he drank. He seemed a nice man, a very good man, one used to hard work and self-reliance. As with Greg Stevens, I wanted to believe he had nothing to do with Sophie's death.
The more I heard about Hollowell, the easier it was becoming to pin the tail on that donkey.
"The following year Hollowell graduated from college," Olsen said, continuing. "He came back that summer, but didn't contact her. We'd see him around town squiring a young woman he'd met in college. I think she was visiting him and his family for a few weeks. Sophie tried to call him, but he just ignored her. She was heartbroken. A month later, I convinced her to marry me."
Olsen's narrative disturbed me personally. It was difficult for me to reconcile the confident and bold Sophie I knew with this doormat caricature he was painting. Yet, I also knew, as a fellow fattie, how intoxicating acceptance could be. Especially amorous attention from a handsome and charming man.
Most teenage girls are insecure; overweight ones more so. We are all eager and hungry to believe that somewhere out there is a Prince Charming blind to extra pounds, a good-looking, successful chubby chaser toting a glass slipper in a wide size.
In school, I was always asked out by the outsiders and nerds. Had a popular and handsome Hollowell type tapped me on the shoulder, I'm not so sure I wouldn't have followed him like a panting puppy myself.
"But why the empty grave?" I asked.
"I'm getting to that," he answered. "I want you to know the whole story, unless you'd rather not."
"Please, go on." Wild horses couldn't drag me away at this point. I adjusted my legs, smoothed the folds in my dress, and took another gulp of my Coke.
"The first few years we were happy enough. I knew she didn't feel the same type of love I felt for her, but we managed. I was building my business. She finished her schooling. Then Hollowell came back. We'd heard that he'd been living down in Orange County and working for some development company. One weekend we ran into him at a local fair. Next thing I knew, Sophie was gone. She packed a few of her things, told me she was sorry, and left. I remember it clearly."
His voice was beginning to choke. I kept my eyes downward, focused on the grass. He got up from the ground and paced as he spoke.
"She was wearing a pretty green dress with tiny white polka dots. She cried as she told me she loved me, but that he needed her more. There was no telling her different. He was poison to her, like alcohol to a drunk. She couldn't seem to help herself. She moved down south and went to work for him. A year later, the owner of the company died and Hollowell married his widow. Sophie returned to me."
"And you took her back?" I knew my voice sounded incredulous in spite of my determination to remain neutral on the outside.
"What can I say?" he said sadly. "She was my poison. Just like she was convinced that Hollowell would eventually be hers, I was just as sure that, in the end, she'd be mine. But I was wrong. Couple of years later, she became pregnant. I was so relieved. I wanted children badly, but I also felt it would anchor her, keep her in Santa Paula. I was wrong about that, too.
"When Robbie was two, Sophie took off and joined Hollowell, became his mistress again. She told me Hollowell was leaving his wife and was going to marry her. I knew that during these years they had been in contact. He just wouldn't leave her alone. I begged her to stop seeing him. Argued with her. Threatened her. But nothing. She left Robbie with me and moved for good. This time she asked for a divorce. Hollowell never left his wife or got divorced that I know of, not in all these years.
"Now," he said, looking at me and pointing to the headstone, "we get to this grave here." He walked over and stood next to the grave as if talking to it instead of to me.
"About a year after our divorce, Sophie was up to see Robbie. She visited him regularly, and was a very good mother in most respects. Loved the boy to bits. Spoiled him rotten every time she saw him. After he was in bed, she told me that she wanted me to tell Robbie that she had died. Said I was to make something up. He was just a bit more than three at the time. She was crying and almost hysterical, but said she didn't want him growing up wondering why she'd abandoned him. Said it would be easier for all of us this way."
"And you agreed?"
"Not at first, no. A child needs his mother, even a part-time one. But she kept calling me, insisting it was the only way. I tried to convince her that this wasn't best for Robbie, but truthfully, I didn't want to face the fact it destroyed my own hopes. I always thought that one day Hollowell would die, get murdered more than likely, and then she'd come back to both of us. In the end she wore me down. Reluctantly, I finally said yes."
He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. He bent down and stroked the glossy stone, picking at a few stray weeds around the edge.
"Together, we concocted a story about her being in a car accident in Los Angeles."
"And people bought that?"
"Sure, why not?" He shrugged. "I told everyone that, as she'd wished, her body had been cremated and her ashes scattered along the beach. I had this stone set as a memorial. Not a single person up
here questioned it."
Unbelievable.
I knew people disappeared all the time. They just walked away and started new lives. My own mother for instance. But that Olsen had actually gone to the trouble to declare Sophie dead and cremated totally threw me. Was it really that easy to disappear without a trace?
"But didn't anyone here see the recent news and make a connection? I mean, because of the web site, her suicide was all over TV."
He shook his head. "No. You see, London wasn't Sophie's real last name. She changed it after she left us for good. Her real name was Langerdorf. And so many years had passed, no one even noticed."
Without realizing it, I had pulled a thick clump of my hair into my mouth and was chewing the ends. It was a habit I had had as a child. My hair was currently just long enough to reach.
"One more thing, Odelia."
I looked at him, waiting for the next installment of weird but true facts of life. He stood up from the grave, walked towards me and stood leaning against the tree. Every now and then he took a drink of soda.
"The police, of course, questioned me about Sophie. A detective drove all the way up here to talk to me. Guess he got my name from her attorney, considering the will and all. Robbie is her only surviving blood. I told the detective everything, about the divorce, and the staged death for Robbie's benefit. He said he saw no reason to involve the boy. I'd like you to do likewise."
"What about your wife? Does she know about this?"
He nodded. "Yes. I told her just before we married. At first she was afraid Sophie would come back. Then, over the years, she relaxed. She's devoted to Robbie."
I took a deep breath, steeling myself to ask the really big question. "Did you kill Sophie, Peter?"
He snapped his head in my direction, his mouth hung open in shock.
"Gawd, no!"
His face reddened with indignation and his body clenched as it had in the restaurant. Then he calmed down. I watched his wiry muscles relax, even sag.
"I know it'd be easy to think I had something to do with this, but I didn't. I haven't seen Sophie since her last visit to Robbie when he was a child. Once this stone was set, we cut off all contact with each other. Not once, in all those years, did she ever try to take Robbie. In spite of what you just heard, you must believe that she was an honorable woman."
I nodded my belief. The Sophie I knew had been honorable.
"Robbie told me a woman called him recently saying she was an old friend of Sophie's. Did you know about that call? Or who it might have been?"
Peter Olsen was taking a drink of his soda when the question reached his ears. He stopped mid-gulp to cough. Obviously, he didn't know about the call.
"Robbie told you someone called him about his mother?" he asked as he wiped soda from his chin with the back of his hand.
"He said a woman called saying she was an old friend of Sophie's. He told me they just chatted a bit. Today, when I showed up, he thought it might've been me who called."
"But it wasn't you?" he asked. I felt from his tone he was hoping it had been.
I shook my head. "Wasn't me. Until Sophie died, I didn't even know either of you existed." I wondered why Robbie hadn't told his father about the call, then remembered the boy saying Peter didn't like to talk about Sophie. "I guess it's safe to assume that Robbie didn't tell you?"
"No, he didn't."
I reached into my bag and pulled out the box. "And I'll bet you didn't send this stuff to Sophie, either."
He crouched down in front of me as I opened the fancy lid. He sorted through the photos and clippings with a look of amazement, turning a few of the pictures over.
"No," he told me with a slow shake of his head. He showed me the back of one of the photos. "This is Marcia's handwriting. Marcia's my wife."
THE RIDE HOME seemed a lot shorter than the trip to Santa Paula. Along the way, I chewed on the information Olsen had given me, masticating it to pulp like a cheap, tough steak. Slowly, I digested each bite of information with my mind. Weaving it in and through by brain cells, filing it away after consideration, hoping that nothing crucial got missed in the process.
If what Olsen told me was true—that Sophie had slavishly followed Hollowell for years, even giving up her son for him—I needed to meet this guy face-to-face, mano a womano. If this Hollowell guy is that charming and persuasive, maybe I should get vaccinated before I do. What would I ask for? Bastard serum followed by a bullshit booster? If there were such a thing, women of all ages would camp out overnight on city streets for the shots, with me first in line.
And Olsen's wife had sent the photos and stuff to Sophie. Now there was a kick in the head. Could she also have been the mystery caller? If so, what motive could she have to stir up Sophie's memory so many years later?
Olsen had been as shocked about that as I had been. I could see it in his expression as he held the photos and read the backs. How I wished to be a fly on the wall in their house tonight. But, in all honesty, he didn't seem upset by it, just surprised. I found it touching. Marcia Olsen must be one hell of a kind and sensitive woman to have done such an unselfish thing. Or at least I wanted to believe that. In this unfolding tragic story of Sophie's other life, I wanted to believe she'd had someone on her side. But the present wife of an ex-husband seemed an unlikely ally. Not impossible, just improbable.
I was lost in my thoughts and flying down the Ventura Freeway at seventy miles per hour when my cell phone rang. I rummaged in my purse, only swerving slightly, mind you, to answer it. It was Greg. Glancing at the dashboard clock I saw that it was two-twenty. I had completely forgotten to call him.
"Now before you get mad," I told him after a quick exchange of hellos and an apology, "you won't believe what I found out." I gave him the Reader's Digest condensed version of what Olsen told me.
"I didn't know all the details," Greg said, after I'd finished, "but what little Sophie told me fits Olsen's story."
The connection got patchy as I drove through some fair to middlin' hills. "...did say...Hollowell hadn't been...item for...years, but I still felt...hold on her."
"Greg," I said, hoping he could hear me. "I have to go. I'm breaking up. I'll call you when I get home." I powered down the phone and went back to driving. And thinking.
Once I transferred to the San Diego Freeway heading south through Los Angeles, I tried calling Greg. This time the connection was clear.
"Greg, would you do me a favor?"
"Sure."
"Would you call the alarm company and ask whether or not a technician was sent to Sophie's last weekend? I tried this morning, but couldn't get through."
He happily agreed to do it. It was the beginning of rush hour and traffic was starting to back up with the usual stop and go. As soon as I found myself in a stopped moment, I read him the account number and abort code from my notes.
"I should be home in about an hour," I told him.
"I'll call you tonight," he said, and hung up.
Then I called Zee and gave her a run down on my day's activities.
Chapter Thirteen
GOING TO WORK was the last thing I wanted to do on Tuesday morning.
There was so much to be done to get to the bottom of the Sophie matter. Layers in the form of people and events needed to be peeled away like old, faded wallpaper. This mystery had me in its grip and I wouldn't rest until it was resolved to my satisfaction. There were calls to make, people to meet. Not the least of which was Hollowell. But I also reminded myself that I had to get back into my normal routine. It would keep me grounded. So Tuesday morning I got up and went on the six o'clock walk.
Just as I parked my car along the curb at the beginning of the paved walkway that went around the bay, I saw two women waiting. One was Glo Kendall. I didn't know the other.
"Hi," I said, trotting up.
"Hi back," Glo said, beaming. "We haven't seen you here in a long time." We exchanged hugs. She indicated the other woman, who was dressed in biking shorts and a loos
e windbreaker. "This is Ruth Wise. She started coming to the walk just yesterday."
"Welcome, Ruth," I said, shaking her offered hand.
Ruth Wise was the largest woman I'd ever seen not playing basketball or volleyball in the Olympics. She wasn't fat, just large. With a quick estimate, I judged her to be just over six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds. Her body was solid and fit. She had a young, wholesome face with a straight nose and bright, wide set brown eyes. Her hair was sandy brown and long, pulled back into a black velvet scrunchie. She couldn't have been much over thirty, if that.
"Thanks," she said with a shy smile, but shaking my hand with a firm grip.
It looked like it was just going to be the three of us this morning. We walked along at a brisk pace, though it seemed for Ruth to be nothing more than a casual stroll.
"How'd you hear about this group, Ruth," I asked. "Through Glo, here?"
With some hesitation, she said, "I found out about the group through the web site and always meant to come by." She hesitated again before continuing. "I'm sorry about Sophie London," she said in a respectful voice. "And I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to meet her."
"She was a wonderful woman," I told Ruth. "Everyone loved her."
"That's for sure," Glo chimed in. "I don't know where I'd be if it hadn't been for Sophie."
I looked over at Glo Kendall and smiled. Glo had come a long way since the first time we met. Just over six months ago, she had simply shown up one evening at a Reality Check meeting like a puppy abandoned on a doorstep. She was slovenly, disheveled, and beaten in spirit. She could have been the poster child for the fat slob stereotype that the group fought hard to debunk. She told us she'd learned about Reality Check through a friend.
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