by Lois Winston
“Suspected you? I never…” Lila began.
“I couldn’t tell anymore,” Mrs. Wyler interrupted. “I didn’t know if I was becoming paranoid or....It’s just that I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept since it happened. I...I can’t think anymore, either.”
“I never thought it was you for an instant,” Lila answered in a tight voice, as she tripped over a root on the footpath. “Why would I?”
Mrs. Wyler’s tone became more matter-of-fact. “Well, I couldn’t live with the idea one day you might. Or you either, Liana. I’ll have to get out of the country sooner than I thought,” she said, more to herself than to us. “Thirty million dollars goes a long way in a third-world country. At least I’ve got that.”
I almost said thirty million goes a long way in our country, Toots, but I thought better of it. Both Mom and I remained silent and exchanged glances.
“Why did I shoot him, you asked?” Mrs. Wyler’s voice broke into our morbid thoughts.
“You know he was cheating on me. I found that out after I asked you to have Liana follow him. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. I loved him so much.” Her voice choked up, and she stopped speaking for a moment.
We came to a clearing. A light rain had started, blown sideways by the harsh and persistent wind. The weather was ghastly. I could see why there were no other living beings around, except for a couple of wet birds hunkered down in a tree.
Ahead of us, possibly a hundred yards more, stood the three- to four-story high windmill, shingled in brown-stained wooden slats. Midway up, a circular deck wrapped itself around the structure.
Jutting out above the deck and facing toward the sea, were the skeleton vanes, beautiful and useless, made of latticed strips of timber. No longer covered with the canvas that acted as sails against the wind, they were a silent testimony to the benign indifference of progress.
I had forgotten how grand and imposing this windmill was, as we began to trudge around to the other side. I noted that windows, large and small, had been mortared in with brick to prevent anyone from getting in—or maybe in our case—from getting out.
When we got to the front of the windmill, iron double doors still looked functional, even thought they were covered with a thin coat of rust. A large padlock secured them, and Mrs. Wyler drew out a matching key from her pocket. My heart began to pound. I was scared to death. Not just for me, but for my mother. I had to think of something.
We can’t just die like this, I thought. We can’t.
Mrs. Wyler began talking again in a faraway voice. “After Lila gave me the report about the warehouse in San Francisco, I had to go see it for myself. I mean, I thought I knew everything about our lives. Portor and I were one, united, two parts of a team, PY.”
“What was he doing there, I kept asking myself? And what else didn’t I know about him? When he called and gave me some cock and bull story about a meeting after work, I knew he was going to the warehouse. I drove as fast as I could and beat him there by about fifteen minutes. I took my father’s pearl handled pistol with me. I wasn’t sure what I would do with it. Maybe I wanted to scare him. Maybe I wanted to show him how serious I was.”
She stopped walking and so did we. Mother and daughter turned around to face the woman, as she continued speaking in a monotonous, cracked voice, a faraway look in her eye.
“I hid in one of the cages, the one with the boxes of shoes, waiting for him to come. When he showed up, he went into the small office. I followed him and stayed outside near the window hoping I could hear something. Well, I heard something, all right.
“He called this woman, this Grace Wong, on the phone. I didn’t even have to be close by. His voice echoed in that awful building. He was so needy, so loud, so vulgar! I couldn’t hear her side of the conversation, but I heard enough. I learned about the illegal immigrants and how he was forcing her to have...to have...sex with him in exchange for her family’s freedom. He practically begged her to sleep with him one more time. He didn’t care she loathed him; he said as much. He said he’d think about bringing over another one of her brothers, if she would.”
Mrs. Wyler’s face became distorted and tears ran down her cheeks. “I thought to myself, Who is this man? Who is this horrible person who would do all these awful things to people and then come home to me and crawl in my bed?’ I was mortified.”
Lila opened her mouth to speak. but Mrs. Wyler’s ranting went on. “After he hung up, I stepped inside the office and waited for him to see me. I thought he would be ashamed or guilty.” Her eyes took on a frightened look.
“Yvette,” said Lila, “you were out of your mind with horror and grief. No one can blame you for…”
“Shut up, can’t you?” Mrs. Wyler screamed, aiming the quivering pistol at my mother’s chest.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to explain this to you? Why I had to do it? Don’t interrupt me.”
Mrs. Wyler blubbered a little more and waved the derringer back and forth between the two of us.
“He was angry at me. Can you believe it? He was angry at me for following him.” Mrs. Wyler’s entire body trembled as she said this.
“He told me he was glad I knew, and if I didn’t like it, I could clear out! I took the gun out and showed it to him. He laughed. He laughed at me and started coming toward me, daring me to shoot him. I didn’t know what to do, so I turned and ran out of the warehouse. I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t see anything; it was raining so hard. I couldn’t stay inside with him. I just couldn’t. I was disgusted.”
During this diatribe, I tried to put more distance between Mom and me, as surreptitiously as possible. Unfortunately, the less coherent Mrs. Wyler became, the closer Lila was instinctively drawn to my side.
“He followed me, trying to make me listen to him. I could barely see him for the downpour, but I could hear him. Then he grabbed me and slapped me across the face.” Her hand went to her cheek in remembrance. “That’s when I shot him. Three times. I would have fired more, but it ran out of shells or something. Anyway, it stopped going off, and then he fell down. He had the most surprised look on his face.” Yvette laughed softly and began to sob again.
“I tried to get back into the warehouse, but the door was locked. I ran and ran in the rain until I couldn’t run any more. Somehow, later that night, I found my car and drove home.” Her eyes were clouded over with grief and tears, but she still managed to keep both of us in her sight.
“Why don’t you tell us about Captain Chen, Mrs. Wyler? Tell us why you killed him,” I said. Mom stared at me with horror written all over her face. I looked at her and nodded. “She shot him last night, Mom.”
“Oh, my God,” Lila said in a hoarse voice. “You killed someone else?”
“I had to, Lila. Don’t you see?’ Yvette looked pleadingly at her old friend.
“He called Portor from the ship that night. Portor told him he couldn’t talk because I was there. Chen figured everything out. He was blackmailing me for the money in the Cayman Islands. That’s all I had. He wanted everything, everything!”
She covered her eyes with her free hand for a moment and during that time, I reached out and pushed my mother away. Lila threw me a stunned glance. Mrs. Wyler stopped sobbing and focused on me. She tightened her grip on the pistol, aiming it at my face.
“What are you doing?” she said between clenched teeth.
“Nothing, Mrs. Wyler. Nothing,” I said, as innocently as I could, given the circumstances. “I was just trying to get my mother away from some poison oak, that’s all.
“I don’t trust you. What are you up to? I’ve never liked you, Liana, never. That’s why it didn’t bother me knowing you might be there that night. I thought, ‘well, if she shows up and sees me, I’ll just shoot her, too,’” she added in a half cocky, half-crazed tone.
I could see a mixture of shock and outrage come over my mother’s face.
“Why, you bitch,” Mom shouted in a very unladylike fashion. Practically spewing
fire, Lila lunged at her.
With a look of astonishment, Mrs. Wyler turned her attention to the oncoming woman. It was the split second I needed. I stepped forward between them and twisted my body to put the bulk of my weight onto my left leg.
My right leg flew up in the air with the force and height needed to knock the pistol from the woman’s hand. I was a little out of condition, and I heard a snap, crackle, and pop as I executed the move, but I did it perfectly, if I must say so myself.
The derringer soared over Mrs. Wyler’s head and into nearby brush. Now I shifted my weight from my left leg to the right, as my body returned to the ground and centered. Turning slightly, I kicked my left foot into the woman’s stomach with all my body weight behind it.
It felt so good. With a loud grunt, Mrs. Wyler involuntarily doubled over in pain. She hit the ground almost in a fetal position, rolled over several times, and lay very still. I automatically went into my third defense position, until I realized Mrs. Wyler would not be getting up any time soon.
For a moment, Lila stared at me and then at the woman lying on the ground. “Oh, thank God, Liana.” She ran to my side. “Are you all right? I can’t believe it. She was going to kill us! What’s that noise?”
Lila’s last remark referred to the muffled sounds coming from my pants. I reached inside my sweats and retrieved the phone.
“Richard, are you still there? No, we’re fine. We’re fine. Ow!”
I yanked the phone away from my ear, as Richard began yelling full throttle. I handed it over to our mother. Let her deal with him.
I wanted to concentrate on the woman on the ground, who was beginning to moan. There was no telling what Mrs. Wyler would do once she came around, and I didn’t want to take any chances.
I reached over and tugged at the long, off-white, cashmere scarf Mom wore around the collar of her coat. She was so busy trying to soothe Richard, she didn’t even notice I’d taken it off her.
Pushing the barely conscious Mrs. Wyler over on her stomach, I tied her hands behind her back with the scarf. Then I went to retrieve the pistol.
The derringer had landed under some leaves, and it took me a moment to locate it. I made one of my mental notes to go get my bag containing my own revolver, as soon as I stopped shaking. When I returned, Lila was sitting primly on Mrs. Wyler’s back, no longer talking on the phone.
“My God, what a day. Be careful with that thing, Liana,” Lila said looking at the small pistol in my hand.
“Well, everything’s going to be fine. Richard had Victoria call the police on the hotel phone about ten minutes ago, so they should be here any second. He also taped the entire confession over the phone. Isn’t he a bright boy with all his equipment and everything?” she asked proudly.
“Yes, he is, Mom,” I answered.
I stared down at the two women, one face down in the dirt with a designer scarf around her wrists and the other sitting lady-like, ankles crossed, on top of her. I felt a little weak in the knees and wished there was a soft chair close at hand.
I compromised by crouching down and rocking back and forth on my heels. My head and back were grateful.
Lila continued with her own thoughts, “And my goodness, Liana. Is that the sort of thing they teach you in the self-defense class?”
My mother looked at me with open awe. “I am very impressed. You must teach me to do that sometime. How’s your head? Is that Tylenol working yet, dear?”
I burst out laughing. My mother’s unruffled nature, which sometimes drives me mad, comes in handy most of the time. Lila is a survivor; there is no doubt about that. Maybe someday I’d learn to be one myself.
“Mom, do you think you can handle Mrs. Wyler for a few minutes?” I stood and shook my legs out.
“I would really like to walk back and get my handbag. It has my revolver in it, and I don’t want that falling into someone else’s hands. There’s no telling what they would do with it.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it, Liana? Maybe you should go sit in the car and rest,” my mother asked anxiously.
“It’s only a block or two back and, besides, Kate Spade handbags do not grow on trees. I’m fine,” I reassured her as she gave me a worried look. “I’m concerned about Mrs. Wyler, though. Do you want this derringer to hold on her in case she tries anything?”
Lila brandished a club shaped tree limb, which had been languishing in her right hand and gone unnoticed by me.
“Not to worry, dear. The only sport I was good at in high school was softball. I’ve hit many home runs in my time.”
She looked down at Mrs. Wyler who lay motionless and softly sobbing into the ground. “I don’t think there will be a problem, but if there is, I can handle it.”
NINETEEN
All’s Well That Ends Well
Nearly two weeks later, the family finally had the “fiesta” we were promised on the night I was abducted. The party included Frank and Abby Johnson, our sweet Victoria, and John Savarese, as he and I had recently become something of an item, I’m pleased to say.
Tío had spent days preparing the feast, plus decorating the dining room, which none of us had been allowed to go into, not even for a peek. Behind the doors, gleaming under decades of polish and care, I could envision the Sheridan dining table and twelve chairs, plus matching hutch and credenza that had been in my mother’s family for generations.
Mom liked to tell the story of how the set came around Cape Horn before the Panama Canal was put in. Anything that was too delicate or valuable often came to the Bay Area by ship rather than overland.
It was an onerous trip; one that took many months and sometimes met with nautical disaster, such as my great, great grandmother’s Steinway. Built in New York City, the piano had traveled several thousand miles around the Horn only to sink in the treacherous waters near Big Sur in 1848, the ship and its crew going down with it. But the dining room set I loved so much had made it the year before, without a scratch.
Finally, as the dining room doors opened wide, the kaleidoscope of colors amazed us. Dozens of small piñatas filled with coins and candy bobbed from the ceiling on multi-colored silk ribbons.
Hand painted pottery and folk art sat atop furniture, artfully displayed next to sparkling cut crystal. Candles of varying heights flickered brightly in the center of the table and throughout the room, while the scent of fresh cut flowers filled the air.
Red, yellow, blue and green crepe paper festooned the Austrian crystal chandelier, while underneath an enormous burrito piñata smiled down benignly on the table below.
The piece de resistance, however, were the small, papier-mâché Mexican dolls sitting behind each place setting, complete with name card. About eleven inches high and dressed in traditional costumes, some had been crafted in a family member’s likeness and were unbelievably detailed, down to things like Mom’s pearl stud earrings.
For the others, Tío had hand tooled traditional, peasant dolls in different types of poses, each one unique and beautifully crafted. Abby, who ran a small boutique, later offered to sell as many dolls as Mateo could make.
It looked as if Tío would have trouble keeping up with all the projects in his new life. So different from a month before!
We were already sipping French champagne as we entered the room, served in honor of this special celebration. With our food, we would have the best of Mexican wines from several regions.
From as far back as I can remember, only los vinos de Mexico has accompanied meals in our home. Many compare quite favorably to California wines. For instance, L.A. Cetto’s Reserva Privada 1993, an excellent Merlot, is a family favorite.
Tío and Lila sat down on either end of the rectangular dining table. I was at my uncle’s right, as indicated by the dark-haired, blue eyed doll that held a small orange and white kitten in one of its arms.
Unlike the doll, I was dressed in an authentic Christian Dior royal blue satin sheath, circa nineteen sixty-one, I had bought at a consignment shop. This was one of m
y proudest purchases, and it fit as if it had been made for me.
I also wore the sapphire earrings my father had given me one Christmas; I was told the glittering blue of the stones set off the color of my eyes. My new hairdo framed my face in glossy curls. I felt beautiful and happy.
To my right sat John, looking quite yummy in gray wool slacks, yellow shirt and tie, and a navy blue blazer. Across from me, Frank and Abby Johnson, a handsome couple if ever I saw one, sat resplendent in a dark suit and sequined grey dress, respectively.
Richard was placed to Lila’s left and Victoria to her right. Richard actually wore a tie with his shirt, one I had given him for his fifteenth birthday, and he tugged at it absentmindedly.
It clashed with the shirt, but at least it was a tie. I can’t say what Vicki had on below the neck because I couldn’t get my eyes past her hat. It was a large, intensely neon pink, floral thing, jauntily tipped to the side and looking like it had just barely survived an explosion.
Richard and Victoria had married in Las Vegas on that eventful day two weeks before. And now she was part of the family, Mom was getting much better about Victoria’s garb. A hardly discernible reaction came from Lila who, upon first seeing the hat, merely downed the remainder of her martini and rang for Guadalupe to start pouring the champagne.
Tío was dressed in the traditional white cotton costume of Vera Cruz, in honor of his father. Tossed over one shoulder was a soft, woolen serape, hand woven in the muted colors of the sea.
On his deathbed, my grandfather had presented the serape to Tío, the eldest son. Someday Tío would pass it on to Richard or me or one of our children. Given the history of my love life, I saw Tío glance hopefully toward his nephew’s new wife. I didn’t blame him.
Lila, of course, stole the show by wearing a deceptively simple, white cut velvet two-piece dress. Her hair was parted on the left with a gold, pearl encrusted clasp holding it to the side.