Grave Endings

by Rochelle Krich

  “The fact that he sent the letter to my house, that bothers me,” she told me. “What if it’s some game?”

  I told her he’d died, and saw her startled expression. She didn’t do a pirouette, but she wasn’t unhappy.

  “Well, I guess I won’t be getting any more letters,” she said, and shut the door.

  My next stop was in San Marino, a small, wealthy enclave near South Pasadena that is home to the Hunting-ton Library, where my mother and I have spent many enjoyable hours admiring art and old folios and strolling through its botanical gardens. Driving through the well-groomed neighborhood, I admired stately homes set back from golf course–sized lawns and made two wrong turns before I found Cambridge Road.

  After parking my Acura, I made my way up the long brick walk to the front door of a graceful two-story white Colonial. Before I could ring the bell, the door was yanked open by a lanky, towheaded teenager who looked startled to see me on the doorstep.

  I was startled, too. He was strikingly handsome, with eyes the color of walnut.

  “Hi.” He sounded uncomfortable, probably because I was staring.

  “Hi.” I pulled my lips into a smile. “Is your mother home?”

  “She’s inside. Mom, somebody’s here,” he called and dashed toward the driveway and the silver Audi parked in front of a dark green sport-utility vehicle.

  It was Randy—the way he would have looked at sixteen or seventeen. I watched the boy as he pulled open the front door and got inside the Audi. I was still watching as he backed out of the driveway and drove off too quickly, the way my brother Joey does.

  “Can I help you?”

  Maybe I was wrong, I thought, but my heart raced as I turned toward the woman who was speaking, and when I saw her, I knew.

  Sue Ann Creeley.

  She must have been fifty or close to it, and there were fine lines around her brown eyes and grooves running from her delicate nose to the corners of her pink-lipsticked mouth, but she didn’t look all that different from the young mother in the photo whose face I had memorized. She looked elegant, composed. That was different, and so was her chin-length hair, a rich blend of blond and brown. She was wearing cream slacks and a fawn-colored sweater with a matching cardigan whose sleeves she’d looped in front.

  “My name is Molly Blume. I wonder if I could speak to you a minute, Mrs. Richardson.” The name had been next to the address on Randy’s list.

  “What’s this about?” She had a smooth, cultured voice.

  “Your son.”

  She glanced toward the driveway. “You just missed him.” A frown darkened her lovely face. “Is something wrong?”

  “I meant your other son. Randy.” If I hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t have seen her jaw stiffen.

  She moved several strands of hair behind her ear. “I don’t have another son. You must have the wrong Richardson. Sorry.”

  “He wrote down your name and address. That’s how I found you. And your phone number is on his cell phone.” It was a reasonable guess.

  She shook her head. “There’s some mistake.”

  Her face was a well-crafted balance between annoyance and confusion, but I could see alarm in her eyes. Eyes, I have learned, find it harder to mask the truth, although Ron’s had fooled me often and for some time.

  “I’d like to talk to you, Sue Ann.”

  “My name isn’t Sue Ann.” She took a step back.

  “I’ll leave my card in case you change your mind.”

  She slammed the door shut, but I didn’t hear footsteps. I had the feeling she was on the other side, waiting to make sure I would leave.

  I dropped my card into the brass mailbox and walked to my car. I was tempted to drive home—I was too wound up to think straight—but I had three more Pasadena addresses and I wasn’t keen on coming back tomorrow to check them out.

  One was an old address. “He moved,” the homeowner told me about the man whose name Randy had written down. “The post office probably forwarded the letter.”

  The woman at the second address wouldn’t discuss the letter. “It’s personal” was all that she would tell me.

  My last stop, at twenty after five, was a small, tidy house near Washington Avenue, so close to the San Gabriels that they looked as if they were in the backyard of the petite young woman with short brown hair who opened the door and smiled pleasantly after I showed her my card. She was my age, I thought, give or take a few years, and she was wearing a gray skirt and royal blue sweater that overwhelmed her small frame.

  I did my thing—introduced myself and gave her my credentials, told her I was writing an article about Randy Creeley, asked her if she’d received a letter from him recently and would she mind telling me about it. I was prepared for strike three, would almost have welcomed it because it was getting dark and chilly and home was beginning to sound awfully good.

  “I did get a letter,” she said. “I met Randy at Rachel’s Tent around six years ago. I remember him well.”

  thirty-four

  HER NAME WAS CHARLIE—SHORT FOR CHARLOTTE, SHE told me when we were sitting opposite each other on camel-colored love seats in a small living room that smelled of fresh paint. I’d conducted most of today’s interviews on doorsteps, but Charlie had invited me inside and insisted on serving coffee and Pepperidge Farm cookies, which happen to be kosher, so I had a few.

  “I haven’t talked to Randy for almost half a year,” she said. “I meant to phone him when I got his letter. So what’s the focus of your piece?”

  She obviously hadn’t heard about Randy’s death, and I decided to postpone telling her. “The letters he sent. Apparently, he was trying to make amends to people he’d wronged. Most people don’t take responsibility for their actions. That makes Randy unique and interesting. I’m hoping my readers will think so, too.” If she’d heard about his death, I would have thrown in “poignant.”

  “I would read it.” Charlie took a sip of coffee.

  “You mentioned that you met Randy at Rachel’s Tent,” I said. “I’d be interested to hear about your experiences there, if you feel comfortable talking about them.”

  She hesitated. “I wouldn’t want my name in your article.”

  “Then I won’t put it in.”

  That and my smile must have reassured her. She set her cup on the coffee table and settled against the sofa cushion. “My story’s not all that unusual. I ran away from home because my step-dad was molesting me and my mom wouldn’t do anything about it. I tried getting a job, but didn’t have any skills or a high school diploma. So I hooked up with some guy I met. He was an alcoholic, and I became one, too. It doesn’t take much. Then he started beating me.”

  She said this without drama, as though she were telling me the plot of a movie she’d just seen. She’d probably told her story numerous times, and maybe this was the best way she could get through it without reliving painful memories.

  “I wanted to leave,” Charlie continued, “but I was afraid. Of what he’d do, of how I’d survive. I’d probably still be with him if not for Rachel’s Tent. Or dead. Have you been there?” When I nodded, she said, “That was the best day of my life, the day I walked in those doors.” There was a catch in her voice.

  She had found her way to the agency six years ago. A year and a half later she had moved to Pasadena to work as a secretary for a real estate company, a job she’d found through Rachel’s Tent’s placement service. The agency had given her the vocational training that had prepared her for the job. The staff had coached her for the interview and the agency had provided the suit she’d worn, along with a modest starter wardrobe. Most important, Rachel’s Tent had given her the tools and courage to escape an abusive relationship and enter a recovery program for her alcohol addiction.

  “Five years ago I figured I’d be living on the streets,” she said. “Now I’m leasing this house with an option to buy it. I’m studying for my Realtor’s license, and I’m dating a wonderful man.” She said this with pride and som
e wonder, as though she couldn’t believe it herself. “And if things don’t work out between us, that’s okay, too. I know I can handle things on my own.”

  I asked her if she had known Randy well.

  “Everybody knew him well.” Charlie’s smile lit up her face and crinkled the corners of her green eyes. “He was easy to talk to, and he made you believe he really cared about you. Like when he talked about his own battle with addiction.”

  I nodded. “One on one, you mean?”

  “That, and in group. They always had different people come to talk to us, people who went through what we did and could understand what it’s like. You don’t get that from a textbook.”

  Randy lecturing about drug addiction was high irony—like Yasir Arafat getting the Nobel Peace Prize, which still amazes me—and an embarrassment to everyone at Rachel’s Tent who knew the truth about his drug dealing. No wonder Bramer and Horton hadn’t mentioned it.

  “Was he a good lecturer?” I asked.

  “One of the best. Well, he was an actor, so he had that extra edge, you know? He certainly fooled me.” Now her smile was wry and not amused.

  I wondered if Charlie was referring to his drug use. “In what way?”

  “High school stuff, really. I thought he had a thing for me.” She blushed. “He used to drive us in the agency van to special activities, and he spent a lot of time with me. The recreational therapist didn’t like it. Anyway, Randy told me he thought I was special, that he wanted to get to know me. Can you believe I fell for that?” Charlie laughed, but I could hear the hurt in her voice.

  I had fallen for similar lines, so I knew how she felt. “How do you know it wasn’t true?”

  “Because the next day he was cozying up to someone else. And a couple of days later, he dropped this other woman and went on to the next.”

  “Playing the field, huh?” Barbara Anik had said Randy was too friendly with the clients.

  “I guess. Except he never tried anything, you know? It was more like, ‘Tell me what’s bothering you, Charlie, I really care.’ Or, ‘I’m a good listener, anything you tell me stays right here.’ ”

  Had Randy been soliciting information? If so, I didn’t think it was for blackmail purposes, because whatever these women told him, they’d told voluntarily. Or had he planned to blackmail other people in their lives? Like Charlie’s stepfather?

  “How many women did he do this with, Charlie?” She pushed at a cuticle. “Six or seven that I knew of. There could’ve been more. A couple of us talked about it later, which is how I know Randy gave them pretty much the line he gave me. Well, all except one woman. Randy spent time with her, too, but she left Rachel’s Tent kind of sudden.”

  Aggie’s client? The one Aggie had been encouraging to go to the police? “Do you know her name?”

  Charlie furrowed her brow. “It’s at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t remember. Don’t you hate when that happens?” She smiled and shook her head.

  I told her I did.

  “Right after that, one of the social workers was killed,” Charlie said, her voice somber now. “Randy changed. No more kidding around, no more flirting. I could tell he was real shook up.”

  “Was this your social worker?” I asked.

  Charlie shook her head. “I heard she was really nice. She was only twenty-four. I remember thinking how lucky I was. I mean, the way my life was going six years ago, it could easily have been me who was killed.”

  I thought about my redhead and described her to Charlie. “Does that sound like someone Randy was friendly with?”

  “Could be. Like I said, he was friendly with everyone. And there were a lot of women at Rachel’s Tent.” She was working the cuticle and seemed lost in thought.

  “Tell me about the letter Randy wrote,” I said. “By the way, how did he have your address?”

  “We stayed in touch. Well, I did.” She laughed and her face took on a tinge of pink. “I always kept hoping he’d get interested in me. He’s so good-looking, don’t you think? He’s probably dating some Hollywood actress now.”

  “Charlie, I’m sorry to tell you that Randy died.”

  “Randy’s dead?” She stared at me and blinked rapidly. Tears filled her eyes. “You’re sure?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “The police think he overdosed. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffled and picked at the fabric of her skirt. After a moment, she said, “I’m glad I have his letter. That’s something.”

  “Do you think I could see it, Charlie?”

  “It’s kind of personal. I can tell you what it said. It came a few weeks ago. I thought it was an invitation or something, but it was an apology.”

  “For leading you on?”

  She nodded. “He said he knew he hurt my feelings. He wrote about other stuff, too.” She wiped away her tears.

  “Did he say anything about dealing drugs at Rachel’s Tent?”

  Charlie’s eyes widened. “No. Was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, all I can tell you is that he sounded real sincere when he talked to us about staying clean. But you never know about people, do you? Huh,” she added, as if she’d just absorbed the possibility.

  “So that was it? In the letter, I mean.”

  “Actually, mostly he wrote about this.” Charlie raised her arm and pushed back the sleeve of her sweater to show me the red thread tied around her wrist.

  “You got that when you left Rachel’s Tent, right?”

  “Not this one. This is the one Randy just sent, with the letter. He said the first one wasn’t from Israel. There was nothing special about it. He said it was all his doing. He’d fooled Dr. Bramer and everyone else, and now he wanted to make everything right. I wonder how many other women he wrote to saying the same thing.”

  thirty-five

  NIGHT WAS FALLING QUICKLY WHEN I LEFT CHARLIE’S house. The sky was changing from feathery gray to solid charcoal as I drove down Lake to Colorado, and by the time I made a left onto Arroyo Parkway, only a few stars relieved the inky blackness.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Randy and the red threads he’d sold to (or through?) Rachel’s Tent. All fake. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Even people who liked Randy suspected that he’d been a liar and manipulator most of his life, and while Anthony Horton’s prison experience had infused him with the desire to improve his life, from what I’ve read about prisons and rehabilitation, Horton was the exception, not the rule.

  It was possible that Randy had entered Rachel’s Tent determined to make a fresh start. But it’s easy to slip, and when he saw an opportunity to make extra cash at Rachel’s Tent, he seized it. No one would know. No one would be hurt. Thread is thread. Or maybe he’d been the actor all the time, giving a winning performance to Horton and Bramer, looking for the best venue to continue his life of petty crime. I knew what Alice Creeley would say, and maybe she was right.

  In either case, after six years or so, a close brush with death had shaken him and done what prison hadn’t. Randy had been determined to repent, and not just in words.

  This wasn’t what I’d come to Pasadena to learn, but it was intriguing and troubling, and maybe it explained the two calls Randy had placed to Rachel’s Tent the day he died.

  I had been lost in thought and hadn’t noticed when the street had turned into a freeway. Running eight miles between Pasadena and L.A., Arroyo Seco (Spanish for “Dry Stream”) is the oldest freeway in California, a serpentine byway with three lanes in each direction that wasn’t built to accommodate today’s heavy traffic and speeds and has more curves than Anna Nicole Smith, and buckled side rails that give testimony to the numerous accidents that have taken place here. It also features beautiful bridges that form overpasses, though their beauty is lost at night, and it’s been designated a historic highway, which probably explains the disrepair.

  I stayed in the middle lane, avoiding the rails on my left and the merging traffic on my right. I was fine for now, b
ut in ten minutes or so, when I passed Dodger Stadium and approached downtown L.A., two other freeways would converge with the 110 (Arroyo’s other name). At that point I’d have to get into my right lane because two exits later I’d have to cross several lanes to access the Hollywood Freeway, which would take me home. The setup is the epitome of ridiculously dangerous engineering and is, I’m sure, the cause of many accidents. It’s the reason I dislike driving the 110 even in daylight, when I can see the signs more clearly and plan my move. One time I inadvertently exited on Sunset and ended up in Chinatown, which isn’t bad if you know your way around, but this happened at night, and I’d had to phone my dad and have him talk me through the streets until I was back on a street I recognized.

  My thoughts returned to Randy and the phone calls, and the letter he’d sent Bramer. I knew that he had from the check next to the director’s name on the list Trina had left with me, and if I’d learned nothing else today, I’d verified that every person whose name had been checked off had received an apology from Randy.

  Until now I had assumed that Randy had asked Bramer’s forgiveness for selling drugs at the agency and betraying his trust. Maybe not. Maybe he’d sought forgiveness for selling the bogus threads and asked Bramer to send letters of apology on Randy’s behalf, along with genuine threads, to all the women who had received or bought fake ones. And if Bramer had refused?

  Then I’ll have to do it myself, Dr. Bramer.

  According to the director, Randy had ordered the threads and filled the envelopes. Rachel’s Tent had taken care of the rest. Which meant that Randy wouldn’t have had mailing addresses for the people who had received the threads.

  If you won’t help me, Dr. Bramer, I’ll have to figure out something else. I have to do what’s right, make amends.

  A newspaper ad?

  All speculation.

  Arroyo was doing its thing, winding back and forth. Unlike the oncoming Pasadena-bound traffic, a stalled parade of bright headlights that glared at me, the L.A.bound traffic was moving at a decent pace. I glanced in my rearview mirror and noticed that the twin dots of light from the car behind me were becoming larger. A few seconds later the car—an SUV, I now saw—was too close for my comfort.