Too Big To Miss

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  An expression scurried across her face, letting me know she'd made a decision. I waited to see which way she would go.

  "Because Glenn is my brother," she said slowly, "and he hated Kenneth Woodall as much as I did."

  She drained her glass and returned it to the table, then lit up another cigarette. I waited. After a long inhale and deep exhale, she continued.

  "Kenneth worked for my father. He was a nobody from nowhere, but he worked hard and helped my father and brother build the company. We thought of him as family. Everyone was thrilled when I married him." She took another long drag. "About the time Jackie, that's my daughter, was born, my father died. Within months, Kenneth had taken control of the company. Turned out, he'd been planning it for years, just waiting for the right time to make his move. He had set up his own company and eventually absorbed into it everything my father had built. My brother was left with nothing but a title, no real authority. I think Kenneth kept him around just to trot him out to the old customers, show them that the Thomas family still had an active part in the business."

  She paused to take a puff before continuing. "Glenn's a very shy, quiet man. He never married, was given to drinking. I think he stuck it out just to keep an eye on me."

  "So who thought up the plan?" I asked. "My guess is John Hollowell."

  She nodded. "John was working at Woodall Development. We met at a company function. Old story really. He was handsome and charming. I was lonely and neglected, not to mention outraged. We started an affair. Before I knew it, we had planned Kenneth's death and carried it out."

  She poured herself another drink. "Sure you don't want one?"

  I shook my head.

  "Funny," she continued. "That old saying—what goes around, comes around—it's true. Kenneth married me to gain control of my father's company. John killed him and married me to gain Kenneth's company." She gave a short laugh. "Guess that doesn't say much about my taste in men, does it?"

  "And what do you think is going to come back around to bite you on your butt, Mrs. Hollowell?"

  She let out an insane sounding hoot. "Oh, it already has bitten me, Odelia. I got my comeuppance almost eighteen years ago and have been living in hell since."

  "Your son?"

  She turned her head out toward the lush garden beyond the deck. Her look was vacant, lost in another time.

  "Jonathan was such a sweet baby," she said to no one in particular. "A good baby."

  "Who killed your baby, Mrs. Hollowell? Was it the nanny, Bonnie Sheffley?"

  She sighed. "Yes, she did the actual killing. I saw her. I was supposed to be out shopping, but came home early. I walked into the nursery and saw her with the pillow over his head. I screamed at her, tried to stop her, but I couldn't."

  "He was already dead?"

  "No, not yet. But John came in and grabbed me, held me until it was over. We watched that fat slut kill our baby." Fat slut. The picture of Bonnie in the newspaper had shown a plump young girl.

  "Bonnie and John were having an affair then?" I asked gently. It was a guess, but a safe one considering Hollowell's penchant for using overweight girls.

  "Yes, right in front of me. Didn't even care if I knew." Clarice Hollowell turned to look at me. "John was embarrassed by Jonathan because he was different."

  "Because he was a Down's baby?"

  "Yes. He didn't even want any more children. He had his son. Didn't care a whit about my daughter."

  "His son? You mean Robbie Olsen?"

  "Yes, he kept telling me that one day he was going to get the boy away from Sophie and her hick husband and raise him properly. I thought if we had our own child, he'd forget about her and their bastard. And he might have, if Jonathan hadn't been born the way he was."

  Clarice seemed to shrink as she told her sad story. Already thin, now she looked like a corpse draped in mummy wrappings. She seemed to be relieved by the confession, her voice more sad, less tart and aggressive.

  "Did John blackmail you into keeping quiet about the baby? Did he use your involvement in Woodall's death to buy silence."

  "Very astute, Odelia. That's John's way, blackmail. Seems it's what makes the world go 'round."

  "What happened to Bonnie?" I asked the question knowing in my gut the answer would not be a pleasant one.

  "Another case of what goes around, comes around," she said, smiling faintly. "Apparently, John had promised that he'd marry her when it was all over. But, of course, he never intended to. He'd never divorce me. I was his ticket into Orange County society. Even most of his international contacts came from my attachments. I was his trophy wife and I knew too much. Our marriage had evolved into a rather sordid blackmail standoff."

  She polished off her drink and headed for another. I stopped her.

  "Maybe you should slow down, Mrs. Hollowell."

  She hesitated, then put the pitcher down. "You're probably right, Odelia. I've been hitting it pretty hard lately. And no one likes an aging lush."

  "Bonnie...is she still around?"

  "Heavens, no! John eventually talked her into being one of his consultants, like Sophie. But she wasn't as bright as your friend. She kept nagging John about marrying her. Stupid bitch even threatened to go to the police if he didn't. Then one day, I heard she'd packed up and moved overseas, supposedly to marry one of John's associates." Again, the asylum laugh. "When I asked John about it, he told me he'd gotten a good price for her. That's exactly what he said, got a good price for her. He told me Bonnie was somewhere in the Middle East being passed around like a party favor."

  Even though it was almost eighty degrees, I shivered. It was just as I thought. Hollowell was capable of anything.

  Clarice got up and stretched her frail frame. I could see now that she was wearing a white, nearly transparent caftan. She was taller than I expected, with an attractive, almost pretty face. But her looks were going and attempts to cling to them were becoming obvious. I found myself wondering how many surgeries her face had endured to date.

  She walked to the wooden railing and leaned against it, looking out over the garden. I got up and joined her. The air was redolent with a heady natural perfume.

  "What do you know about Sophie's death, Mrs. Hollowell?" I asked. "It really is important."

  She didn't move. I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face me. She looked drained.

  "How many more people have to die?" I asked her firmly. "Do you really think you can keep covering up this way?"

  She pulled away and started for the house. "Come this way," she said, indicating for me to follow.

  We entered the house through a small service porch. From there we stepped into a grand kitchen, bedecked with professional appliances and lots of stainless steel shined to a blinding luster. In one corner, over a table and chairs, was a narrow ornamental railing close to the ceiling that held decorative utensils and vintage canisters. Clarice pulled up a step stool and started to climb, but she was unsteady.

  "What do you need, Mrs. Hollowell?" I asked. "I'll get it for you."

  She pointed to a old-fashioned metal canister nestled attractively between an antique beater and vintage sifter. I retrieved it and handed it to her. As I climbed back down, she popped open the top and pulled out a cassette tape.

  She handed it to me saying, "This is what kept John from trying to take Robbie away from Sophie. This is what kept her alive until now."

  I held the black, unlabeled tape in my hand, turning it around. I looked at her blankly.

  "It's a tape of John talking," she explained, "bragging really, about how easy it was to get away with murder. I taped it one night shortly after Jonathan was killed. John was downing drinks and babbling about how stupid my brother and I were. He threatened me on the tape that, if I told anyone, Glenn and I would be convicted, but not him. He was too smart, he said. He had friends who'd protect him. It's also on the tape that he intended to get possession of his son, or kill Sophie trying."

  I swallowed hard.


  Clarice continued. "Right after Bonnie was exonerated from charges of killing Jonathan, John became cocky. I started running a tape every night he was home, but he was very cautious. This night I got lucky. I made a copy and gave it to Sophie."

  "You met her then?"

  "Yes. I went to her home, the home my husband bought for her, by the way. I played the tape and gave her the copy, telling her to use it as insurance. I didn't care what happened to her fat ass, nor did I care about Kenneth's death. But one baby was dead and I wasn't about to let another child die without doing something."

  "Does John know about this tape?" I asked, trying to figure how this had played out between Sophie and Hollowell.

  She plucked the tape out of my hands. "Sorry, but it's my insurance policy, too. You'll just have to use that smart head of yours to find Sophie's copy."

  She stuck it in a pocket of her caftan. "I honestly don't know if John knows about this tape or the copy. I certainly never told him, and if Sophie did, she never told me. Every now and then we'd make contact and compare notes, more like watching each other's backs. Nothing buddy-buddy, I can assure you. What I do know is that she and John arrived at an understanding. She told him she had proof of his involvement in the murders and would keep it her secret if he gave up all interest in the boy and no harm came to either of them."

  "But why kill her now, after all these years?"

  "Who said he did?" Clarice looked at me, one eyebrow cocked. "John knew if something happened to Sophie, this information might surface. It wasn't in his best interest to kill her. In order for him to kill her and get away with it, he'd have to make damn well sure of what she had on him and where the evidence was. And he'd have to make sure he retrieved it all first."

  I thought about that and about how Hollowell had drilled me about something Sophie might have left for him.

  "But why didn't she just take off and disappear? Or turn him in?"

  It still didn't fit. Plus, I had assumed Bonnie Sheffley might have been the woman Ortiz had seen, but now I was back in the dark about that, too. My head was starting to ache again.

  Clarice looked at me a moment. "Odelia, have you ever been in love? I mean desperately in love?"

  I thought about it. I had been in love, but not to the point of committing murder or harboring a criminal.

  She didn't wait for my answer.

  "Sophie London was hopelessly in love with John. She wasn't about to turn in the father of her child, but neither was she going to let a murderer have access to him. As for John," she said, smiling sadly, "if he were capable of loving anyone in this world, it probably would've been Sophie. He made it clear when we married that she was not going away. And I was so in love with him I was stupid enough to think I could change that. But his ambition and ruthlessness wouldn't let him trust or care about anyone.

  "To protect her son, Sophie cut him off from both natural parents. By staying close to John, she could keep tabs on him and be a constant reminder he needed to behave. She hadn't worked for John in quite a while, that I know. And I don't think they had been lovers for a long time, either. I do believe both of those were her decisions, not his."

  My mind was taking notes fast and furious. It made sense, yet it didn't. But if John Hollowell didn't kill Sophie, who did? And another thing was nagging at me...Clarice Hollowell herself. She didn't seem the chatty type, especially with a stranger. And she certainly had motive enough to kill. Maybe all those years of pent-up anger and pain had finally blown the lid off of her society restraint.

  "What about you?" I asked Clarice. "Why are you still here? And why are telling me all this?"

  "But I'm not here," she replied flippantly. "I'm a ghost. You're talking to a ghost, Odelia." She smiled tightly. "Why I'm telling you, I have no idea. Someone needs to know about this, so why not you? Maybe fate brought you to my patio...especially today." She laughed and I got the feeling the joke was private.

  She picked up an unopened pack of cigarettes sitting on the kitchen counter and unwound the cellophane. Then she stopped and put the pack back down. Her mood changed back to serious.

  "Until now, I stayed because, if I left, John would have found me and harmed both me and my daughter. Unfortunately, I don't have that threat on tape. After several years of worrying and keeping Jackie almost tied to me, I finally sent her off to boarding school, only allowing her home for short breaks. She doesn't know why, but has always assumed I preferred her stepfather over her. Someday I hope to make her understand.

  "But it actually hasn't been that bad. John and I go our separate ways most of the time. There haven't been any more incidents since Jonathan. But with Sophie's death, I knew things would heat up again. Then this thing with Glenn."

  Another thought occurred to me. It was a long shot, but why not?

  "Mrs. Hollwell, did you by any chance call Robbie Olsen recently?"

  She gave me a half smile. "Boy, you don't miss a trick."

  The doorbell rang. Clarice looked at her watch.

  "That'll be the limo," she told me.

  She strode through the house, with me on her heels. The society maven had returned in full force. Just as she started up the curved polished stairway, she stopped and glanced back.

  "Yes, I called Robbie. I wanted to make sure he was okay. After Sophie died, I became afraid for him." She smiled sadly. "After all, Odelia, I am a mother."

  The doorbell rang again.

  "Be a dear and tell the chauffer to wait. I'll be right down. I just have to change my clothes."

  I looked up at her, rooted to my place by confusion.

  "Don't just stand there, Odelia. Let him in. He can at least start loading the luggage."

  Huh?

  I walked to the front door and noticed, for the first time, a pile of expensive matched luggage stacked neatly in the entry hall opposite the stairway. On the hall table was a designer handbag. Resting on top of the handbag were airline tickets and a passport.

  Opening the front door, I came face to face with a tall young man in a chauffeur's uniform. He looked Latino and held himself professionally. "You arranged for a limousine, ma'am?"

  "No, not me. Mrs. Hollowell will be right down." I looked up the stairs and then at the luggage.

  "Shall I take these to the car?" he offered.

  "Yes. She'd like that."

  While the driver loaded enough luggage to keep a family of four clothed for a month, I stood by like a reluctant lady-in-waiting. I noticed photos on the wall in the hallway, pictures hung in well planned groupings. But some photos were missing, taken from the wall recently from the look of it. I studied those still in place. Some showed Hollowell with various people, even a few celebrities. Others were family shots of John and Clarice with a sullen little girl. Some, taken more recently, showed the Hollowells in golf attire at charity tournaments or dressed to kill at formal functions. In the photos, Clarice had auburn hair worn in a pageboy that hung just below her chin. Today her hair was short and black.

  But I'm not here. I'm a ghost.

  Clarice Hollowell was skipping town.

  I was about to snoop at her tickets and passport when I heard her coming down the stairs. She was dressed in a navy blue pantsuit I suspected was Chanel. Large sunglasses shielded her eyes. She appeared to be in total control, about to take a leisure cruise rather than fleeing a crime.

  "But what about your brother, Mrs. Hollowell?" I asked as she stood in front of me. "He needs you."

  "He's already gone, dear," she said, giving me her signature tight smile. "Jumped bail this morning, while we were talking."

  She picked up her purse, tickets, and passport. "Are you married, Odelia?" she asked cheerfully.

  I shook my head.

  "A little advice then. If you ever marry, don't be a fool and mingle everything. Keep something aside just for you and keep it a secret. A girl's got to have her own money, because money can buy a lot of things, dear. Ciao!"

  Before I could say more, she scampered down t
he walk and climbed into the waiting limousine, leaving me to lock up.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  IN SPITE OF efforts to give it a homey feel, the hospital cafeteria still clung to that certain cold ambiance only institutions can muster. I sat across from Detective Frye, sipping a Diet Coke and munching on an egg salad sandwich. He was going over his notes, questioning me from time to time for clarification. My nerves were strung so tight, I'd have given anything for a double bacon cheeseburger to calm them down.

  Even before the limo carrying Clarice Hollowell had left the driveway, I was dialing Greg's office number, hoping to catch Frye. But I had missed him. I quickly gave Greg a rundown. He said he'd get in touch with Frye and have him call my cell phone. In the meantime, he'd ordered, get the hell out of there.

  He didn't have to tell me twice. Even though I really did want to poke around, I didn't want any chance of running into John Hollowell. People have a way of coming home early when you least expect it. Case in point, Clarice witnessing her baby's murder.

  Frye called me as I was driving to Hoag Hospital on my way to see Iris. They probably wouldn't let me see her, but I still wanted to stop by. Frye said he was already at the hospital, and that he'd meet me in the cafeteria.

  On the phone I told him about Clarice Hollowell and her brother taking flight. Frye was particularly concerned about Glenn Thomas.

  "Odelia," Frye said, after taking a big gulp of coffee from the cup in front of him, "can you describe Clarice Hollowell again for me? We've units at or heading to all the airports now, but I'd like a better, more concise description." He had just polished off a ham and cheese sandwich in record time.

  "I can do better than that." I opened my tote and pulled out a framed picture of John and Clarice Hollowell. I had lifted it from the wall of portraits before leaving, thinking it might help. "This looks exactly like her, except for the hair. It's now very short and black, and I don't think she was wearing a wig."

  Frye looked at the photo and chuckled softly. "You've got a good head on you for this type of thing, Odelia. Both you and Greg. Probably from watching too many cop shows."