I didn’t understand her wealthy parents, so smug and righteous over in their big house in Seattle. By Joella’s own admission she hadn’t been an ideal daughter. She’d kept her grades up, but she’d been into smoking pot in high school and had dabbled in stronger drugs when she was in college down in California.
But had they been there to offer support or comfort or help when the worst that could happen to a girl had happened? No. All they’d offered were demands and ultimatums.
She’d told me her story. She’d had a fight and broken up with her boyfriend one Friday night, then defiantly gone to an off-campus party alone. She met people there, friends of friends of friends. Things got fuzzy.
She didn’t recall leaving the party, much less who she’d left it with. But hours later she’d returned to consciousness alone in her own car with ugly physical proof of what had happened, but no memory of it. She figured out later that she’d probably been given Rohypnol in a drink, a favorite “date-rape” drug because it not only knocks the girl out; it destroys short-term memory of whatever happened. She hadn’t gone to the police immediately, guiltily blaming herself because there had been warnings on campus about the drug, and she knew she’d acted foolishly. Then, by the time she did go to the authorities, when she knew she was pregnant, the event was several weeks in the past, and there was no evidence of the rape or of the drug in her system.
She’d given the police names of several people at the party, but nothing had ever come of it. Perhaps because Don and Scott and Mike weren’t all that definitive. Or perhaps, she’d added when telling me, because the police suspected she was just making up a wild story to cover something she’d done will-ingly. In any case, nothing had ever come of her report to the police.
Her parents’ reaction when she told them was a scathing blast of scorn and anger for letting it happen, and the demand that she have an immediate abortion. When she resisted, they were adamant. No abortion, no help. No comfort, no support, nothing.
“I’m not even sure why I refused at first,” Joella had told me the only time we talked about it. She hadn’t been a Christian then. But in exploring her inner feelings and looking for answers, what she’d done, she said, was “find myself . . . and God.” She also found the inner conviction that she couldn’t kill this unborn baby. No matter what its origins, it was still one of God’s precious creations.
None of this mattered to her parents. They didn’t care about her spiritual awakening. They had their ultimatum: have an abortion, or you’re on your own. Which was when Joella pulled out and came to Vigland, intending to room with a friend. That fell through when the friend got an unexpected job offer in Portland and took it. Joella stayed on, even though she knew no one else in Vigland and had never even been in the town before.
“Where else did I have to go?” she’d said wryly.
She’d answered my ad to rent the duplex, sold her snappy little Mustang, bought the old Subaru, and got a job in the cof-fee shop. When I found out what her real situation was, I low-ered the rent so she wouldn’t be skimping so much on food or medical care.
“So what is this change?” I asked as I set the bottle of ranch dressing beside the salad on the table.
“I can come home, or they’ll send money to help me out here. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That I give the baby up for adoption as soon as she’s born. That I not only promise to give her up, but that I make all the arrangements now, so it’s a sure thing.”
Another harsh ultimatum. Their view was basically the same: one way or the other, this baby had to go. Although I had to wonder if they’d ever really thought of it as a baby. Their grandchild, to be exact.
And yet . . . “You’re thinking about doing that anyway.”
She nodded. “I know. I want what’s best for my baby.”
“We’re always hearing about how many couples are trying to adopt.”
“And doing that would solve a bunch of problems, wouldn’t it? I could go back to college and basically start my life over. The baby would have good parents with everything to offer her, and I’d be . . . free.”
“Maybe that’s the solution, then.”
“Maybe it is. But I won’t take a bribe from my folks just to make life easier for myself,” she added almost fiercely.
This was where I backed off. I could see strong arguments on both sides. I couldn’t imagine ever giving up Sarah under any circumstances, but I knew how tough life would be for Joella if she kept the baby. Raising a child alone, without fam-ily support of any kind, was a daunting prospect. And so many childless couples desperately wanted a baby.
“Did you decide on a name?” I asked tentatively.
She shook her head, but not before I caught a glint of tears in her eyes. “If she has . . . other parents, I figure they’ll want to name her themselves.”
A tough decision. And a decision, as I’d earlier said to her, she had to make alone.
“No, not alone,” Joella had said firmly.
I knew what that meant. God was in all her decisions.
It must be a nice feeling, I thought. A secure feeling, to know help was there, that there was a greater strength to lean on. There’d been times in my life when I felt as alone as a bird lost on a mountaintop. And yet I doubted God was going to be sending her a check to help out every month.
After dinner, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, then said, “Okay, I have to run. See you later.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“Oh, you know. Things to do.”
My evasion didn’t work.
“You’re going to call that number, aren’t you?”
“I can’t just ignore it. It might be an important clue.”
“It might be a hotline to you. And an hour after the call, the murderer will be knocking on your door!”
“I don’t think murderers come politely knocking.” I patted her hand. “But don’t worry. I’m going to call from a pay phone. The one up by McDonald’s, I think.”
“Hey, great idea! I’ll come along.”
“No reason to do that.”
She smiled and slipped her bare feet into sandals. “Maybe nosiness is catching.”
We parked in the shopping center where the big yellow arch rose over a stucco building. I couldn’t see any danger in this, but I already had a fast exit from the parking lot figured out, just in case some high-tech identification system instantly latched onto me.
I punched in the number. The prefix showed it was located in Vigland. I had an innocent-sounding spiel ready. I was this querulous, confused little old lady wanting to know who I’d reached because this was supposed to be my cousin Phoebe’s number.
It rang four times before an answering machine picked up. I held my breath, expecting anything from sultry female tones to the growl of a bookie named Bubba.
I listened a few moments, then hung up the receiver.
Joella pounded my arm. “Who was it? What’s wrong? Why did you hang up? Did they sound threatening or dangerous?”
“Not unless you’re afraid of chiropractic treatment.”
“Chiropractic treatment!”
“It was a chiropractor’s office. Their hours are eight thirty to five on weekdays, eight thirty to noon on Saturdays. Although there’s another number you can call if you’re having a chiropractic emergency.”
Joella looked bemused, then giggled, and I maintained my dignity by saying, “It might have been an important clue.”
Okay, as a sleuth, I was learning things. About Jerry’s gambling. About his stomach problems. About his married state. And that he’d had some unknown condition possibly requiring chiropractic attention.
I was also learning that in real-life sleuthing there were considerably more dead ends than there had been in Ed Montrose’s weekly half hour of detective work, where every clue had meaning.
18
On Friday morning I called people in several insurance offices in Vigland, people I
knew from a loose network of working together in the past. Some said their offices weren’t looking for anyone at the moment, but they’d be happy to keep my résumé on file. I took the résumé I’d typed up (am I the only person in the world still using an old electric typewriter instead of a computer?), ran off copies at a photocopy shop, and dropped them off.
One woman I talked to confided that when another local office had an opening a few days ago, they’d been inundated with ex-F&N employees. “My daughter over in Seattle says the Internet is the only way to go when you’re looking for a job these days,” she added.
I felt vaguely dinosaurish. “A whole different world from how job hunting used to be.”
“Right. But it’s how all her friends do it. Though they’re looking mostly at big-corporation-type jobs, I think.”
“Thanks. I may have to try that.” But Vigland didn’t have any big corporations, and relocating was far down on my list of life choices. Thinking I might do better in Olympia, I expanded the job search to an employment agency over there that afternoon. The woman nodded approvingly when she saw my résumé.
“Looks good,” she said. But she also said finding the right job could take time, especially if I wanted to stay in insurance, because they were getting so many applications from F&N people.
I assured her I wasn’t welded to insurance.
“SO MONDAY I try the city and county government offices and the schools,” I told Joella on Saturday. It was a warm evening, and we were sitting barefoot on my back patio, sipping lemonade. “I was offered a job with the county years ago, but I decided to go with F&N instead.”
“I got my job through a newspaper ad. Though it isn’t the kind of job you’re looking for, of course.”
“I’ll try that too.”
“Are you thinking any more about a limousine service? I still think it’s a great idea.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a problem.”
“Okay, no limousine. But you’re going to get it back one of these days.”
The phone rang in the living room. I set my lemonade glass on the little metal patio table and padded in through the sliding glass doors.
“Hey, sidekick, how’re you doing? Got that murder figured out yet?”
Fitz! I was surprised and a little annoyed at how glad I was to hear from him. Glad enough that I let the “sidekick” thing pass without a challenge. “I’m working on it. You’re back at the marina?”
“Yeah. We won’t be going out again until Tuesday.”
I gave him a rundown on my activities, including the possibility of Jerry’s father-in-law being involved in the murder and my finding out that Jerry had never actually been divorced. Which gave me the irrelevant thought that perhaps what the world really needed was a detective agency specializing in investigating the jerks who wander into a single woman’s life. Call it the CTBO Agency, for Check the Bum Out. I didn’t mention to Fitz my phone call to the chiropractor’s office, which I felt put my sleuthing talents in a somewhat less-than-complimentary light.
“So how was your trip?”
“Great. Caught a nice lingcod. I was thinking maybe we could get together tomorrow and cook it.”
“I already have something planned for tomorrow, but . . . hold on a minute.”
I carried the cordless phone out to the patio and covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Hey, what would you think about Fitz coming along tomorrow?”
“Coming along where?”
“Your birthday celebration, of course. We may be missing the limo, but we’re going to do limo-dogs anyway.”
“Oh, that’s a lot of bother,” she protested, but I’d already seen her eyes light up.
“So what about Fitz?”
“Sure. Invite him to come along.”
I did, and he agreed, and I said we’d pick him up at the marina about one thirty. Then Joella suggested that since it was her birthday, I really should come to church with her first.
“You’d use your birthday as coercion to get me to church?” I protested indignantly.
Joella just smiled her sweet smile. “Whatever works.”
SO I WENT to church with her the following morning, and I ventured one small prayer: Thanks for bringing Joella into my life, and please help her make the right decision about her baby.
Okay, that’s two. Does God have a quota, especially from an outsider like me? Or maybe I didn’t have to be an outsider? An interesting thought, though I wasn’t sure I was ready to act on it.
Afterwards we went home to change clothes, then to the grocery store for wieners and onions and buns and everything that went with them. Plus Greek salad from the deli, because Joella was looking at it with such longing, and a big fat dill pickle for her, too, because she said she hadn’t had one in a zillion years. I’d baked a cake before going to bed the night before, so I also bought a box of birthday candles.
Fitz, in khaki shorts and forest green T-shirt with the ever-present sailboat logo, was waiting in the parking lot when we arrived at the marina. He had long-handled forks for roasting wieners over a fire, plus chili left over from yesterday’s lunch on the boat.
It was a glorious day for a birthday, a picnic, or anything else. The tide was almost out when we reached the park over on the far side of Hornsby Inlet, the long, narrow channel of water that connects Vigland Bay with the main part of Puget Sound. A nice stretch of rocky beach lay exposed below the picnic area.
I’d brought kindling and wood saved from a tree that blew down in my yard a couple winters ago, and Fitz had a fire blazing and crackling in minutes.
“We’ll let the fire burn down until we have good coals for roasting the wieners,” Fitz said. “That’s the best way to do it.”
So how long did that good advice last? Just long enough for Joella and me to thread wieners on our long forks and gleefully stick them right into the blaze. Where a few seconds later they were blackened, burned, and splitting. The fat in mine even caught on fire, and I whirled it merrily like a Fourth of July sparkler.
We both piled our garlic-flavored buns high with onions and mustard and pepper-jack cheese, which Joella declared, between chomps of big dill pickle, was “exactly the way limo-dogs should be!”
“Limo-dogs?” Fitz said. He was still waiting for the fire to burn down to those nice coals.
So we had to explain the concept of limo-dogs to him, and then he started singing a song about a long, black limousine. I couldn’t tell if he was massacring a real song or making up an incredibly bad one as he went along, but by the time he motioned us to join in on the chorus, which was, “And then I painted my long black limo pearly blue, and we all ate chili beans and Mountain Dew,” we were all giggling.
By then he’d given in and had a burned weenie of his own. The chili he’d put in a pot over the fire was hot, and the next round of limo-dogs we smothered in chili. With Greek salad on the side. I stopped there, but Joella and Fitz went on to third and fourth limo-dogs.
Afterwards I brought out my gift for Joella, an inexpensive watch to replace the one that had conked out. Then to my surprise, and Joella’s, too, Fitz also had a gift stuck down in the plastic bag in which he’d brought the pot of chili. “I’ve had this for a while, so maybe today is a good time to give it to you.”
It was a little book of stories and songs to read and sing to a baby, and I was as touched as Joella by something so sweet. Although I also guessed this meant Fitz didn’t know she was considering giving the baby up for adoption.
Then I stuck twenty-one candles on the cake, with Joella giggling that it looked like a chocolate porcupine, and we sang “Happy Birthday” while she gave a mighty puff and blew them all out.
She gave us both big hugs after we ate cake, Joella claiming an outside piece with the most frosting. “Thank you both so much. This is a twenty-first birthday I’ll never forget.”
Which turned out to be true in a way none of us anticipated at that moment.
19
; We sat around the fire for a while, and then I decided I should work off some of the calories before they homesteaded on my thighs. Fitz said he’d walk on the beach with me, but Joella decided she’d rather take a nap. I spread a blanket from the car on the grass for her.
The tide had gone out even farther while we were eating, exposing all kinds of interesting creatures. Starfish, purple and orange and pink. One a different kind of starfish with seventeen stubby arms. Fitz called it a sunstar. Little blobs of jellyfish. Tiny crabs scuttling around in shallow water. A log occupied by five seagulls, like first-class passengers sightseeing on a cruise, gently floating by.
On this pleasant day I didn’t feel like talking about murder and suspects, and Fitz seemed to know that. Here, on the north side of the inlet, the houses weren’t as numerous as on the south side opposite. Over there, a man on a riding lawn mower cut geometric swatches on a green lawn sloping to the water. The house I’d once shared with Richard stood on a wooded point to the west, glass soaring from deck to vaulted roof, the azaleas I’d planted long ago now blooming gloriously. But seeing it gave me no pang of loss. Too much of life in that house had been a lie.
The framework for another house was going up to the east, the sound of a hammer hitting a nail reaching us a smidgen after the hammer struck. A girl was throwing a stick into the water, a big black dog enthusiastically retrieving it. A motor-boat roared by, its wake sending waves swooshing against the shoreline.
I lifted my face to the sun. A great day to be alive, well fed, healthy, walking in the sunshine, with a nice man telling me about seeing a rare pod of orcas in the inlet a few weeks ago.
Thank You, God.
Now, where did that come from?
Behind us, on our side of the inlet, madrone trees drooped glossy green leaves over the rocky beach, and here and there cliffs eroded by the endless action of the moving water rose above us.
We picked up occasional bits of colorful rock or shell as we walked. A young couple showed us a pretty reddish agate they’d found, as proud as if it were a diamond. They were holding hands, and Fitz gave me a speculative sideways glance. I wondered if he was thinking about holding hands too. Instead he asked about my name.
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