by Mary Deal
“Been planning this for weeks. Haven't opened my mail in days.” She promised to get back to him on Monday morning. She and Huxley stepped into her office where she found the envelope and laid it on the top of the pile. “Tomorrow,” she said.
“After we take a while getting out of bed,” Huxley said, drawing her close. They kissed sweetly.
Sara went to check the posters mounted in a strategic location at the front entry. One poster showed the new signpost that would be installed out where the workshop once stood. It would be a large framed ceramic tile composition of the drawing that Daphine made of a man's hands holding a pan containing gold nuggets, with the initials OTF and the wording spelled out. The other poster announced future charitable events. Among them, Beni Noa's Hawaiian luau and Polynesian review, to be held outside around the gazebo in the springtime.
Guests began arriving. They wandered the rooms, examined the house, and ogled the art. The next time Sara took notice, the house had filled with people. They lined up to enter bids that would benefit both Daphine and the foundation.
Esmerelda hid her despondency with a plate heaped with delicacies. She was one of the few Caucasian women who could wear a Chinese dress stylishly. Maybe it was Orson's elegant gold jewelry, too, that she finally brought out of her safe deposit box that made her look expensive. “Look at this,” she said. “That Zoki can cook.”
Buck and Linette found her. “We hear things with Tripp are adding up,” Linette said. She handed Sara a news clipping. Sara opened it as the others read over her shoulder.
One of the ways the Delta people thanked an anonymous donor was by making the donation headline news. The principal of the Rio Vista High School was shown in a photo with stacks of books about the Delta. The article reported that all Delta schools along the river, from Rio Vista to Clarksburg, received the same anonymous gifts. Sara smiled. The article would become part of a scrapbook.
“I told the investigators to dig behind the garage, Sara, like you suggested,” Esmerelda said.
“And?”
“They found two small dead dogs wrapped in black plastic sheeting, the kind of sheeting used in that San Jose case.” Esmerelda kept eating and spoke between mouthfuls. “When the sniffer dogs refused to go near the area, detectives noticed a chemical odor. Tripp kept other creatures from digging by spraying with animal repellant.”
“Everything he's done points to premeditation,” Huxley said.
“They also found my missing jewelry pieces inside Tripp's filthy pillowcase, which he evidently slept with every night since he stole them.”
Sara remembered Tripp's immaculate front room, but also the horrific disarray in the back room; a dichotomy, like his mind.
“Would you look who just walked in,” Sara said. “Caren Olof?”
They craned their necks. “Oh, yes,” Huxley said. “Norwood and Caren York.” He went to handle the first greeting.
“He knows the Police Commissioner?” Sara asked. “And invited him?”
Esmerelda smiled like a cat. “Look over there,” she said, pointing slowly with her chin. “That's Representative Poole, Stan Poole and Nelda.”
Sara mingled, made sure she greeted every single person, even though she, the little nobody from thirty years before, could barely keep steady as her legs wobbled. Esmerelda's suggestion of laying out nametags if guests wished to identify themselves was a real aid.
Of course important people would be interested in her foundation, especially now that she and Huxley had teamed together. Sara met two others that mentioned their own family losses in Vietnam and how they were affiliated with Huxley. Other guests included dignitaries and philanthropists affiliated with Esmerelda's hospice. The house came alive with boisterous, charitable, wall-to-wall people.
Sara and Caren exchanged friendly conversation. Then Caren joyfully made her way around the room, easily conversing with friends she knew, which seemed nearly everyone. Sara had to guess at social niceties and protocol, and walk up to the guests she did not know, and struggle to make conversation.
Daphine came down the showcase steps. “I just love your playroom,” she said.
“You've been up in the attic again?” Sara asked.
“So much north light.”
Painters needed bright north light. An idea raced through her mind and Sara could barely control her thoughts. “It's yours, Daph,” she said happily as Huxley joined them.
“What are you saying?”
“North light, Daph. You can have the space, the whole attic, if you want to set up a new studio.”
Daphine's mouth popped open and shut as she tried to speak. Nothing came out. She looked at Huxley and back again, finally throwing up her hands. “I can't live that far away from my studio. Gotta be able to get up in the middle of the night, if that's when creativity hits. Too far away, but thanks.”
Huxley had caught on, squeezed Sara's hand, and waited. Sara went on. “It wouldn't be, if you lived here.”
Daphine looked confused and shook her head. Questions filled her eyes. “Here?” she asked, and it came out in a squeak. “You mean I'd get to meet the ghost?” She joked, her way of covering nervousness, and then said nothing more. Daphine kept staring at Huxley and then tried to subdue a gasp.
Sara guessed that Daphine remembered Huxley's advise about not wasting opportunities. “Pick a bedroom,” Sara said, pointing upwards.
Daphine turned slowly and went to climb the staircase. Halfway up, she turned and looked back, seeming in disbelief.
Chapter 68
Johanna and Isidoro walked in through the kitchen door. “You two staying for the announcements?” Sara asked.
Isidoro checked his radio. “If we don't get called. He went in to join the party.
“Glad you're here,” Sara said, walking Johanna back out to the porch to show her Choco and Latte's red and green leashes hanging on the pegs.
“I thought we had those in evidence.” Johanna looked puzzled.
“I bought new ones. You remember when you confiscated the first ones?”
“'Course.”
“You wrote on the bag: Choco – Red, Latte – Green.”
“I guess so, if that's what I found at the time.”
“Johanna, only a person familiar with the dogs knew which color to attach to each pup.”
Johanna rolled her eyes and whipped out her notepad. “That psycho's circuits aren't as shorted out as everyone thinks.” She shifted her stance. “You been reading the papers?”
“Haven't had time.”
“They found your weapon in Tripp's toolbox. A big stash of old Rohypnol tablets too.”
Zoki's caterers carried empty chafing dishes and pans past them and out to his van. “The next round is dessert,” he said.
Soon, the sun set, drenching everything in moonlight from the Full Moon having appeared three nights prior.
Isidoro found them again. “I meant to tell you. They found some shale in Tripp's collection. Far as forensics can determine, it came from one of the Rio Vista gas fields when they dug new wells.”
“Rio Vista?” Sara asked. Chills ran over her body. “Remember Iana Underhill?”
“There's a big dump site for gas well rocks,” Johanna said. “Just north of the Rio Vista Bridge on their side.” Accumulated rocks left from drillings were deposited along the riverbank. It helped fortify the levees when they became soft in spots and eroded from the river tides.
“The Rio Vista P.D. starts searching down there next week,” Isidoro said. “They're bringing in a dog. Eldon's Crane and Rigging volunteered heavy equipment.”
The guests had eaten their fill and settled into dessert. It was time to make the announcements. “I knew we'd have a crowd,” Huxley said as they stood in the pantry at the electricity breaker box. He clicked on the exterior floodlights.
“We only mailed fifty invitations,” Sara said, teasing with her eyes. “Wonder who could have invited all the others.”
Huxley cleared his throat. “Must have be
en Esmerelda.”
Sara looked down the length of the rooms. The wide, ceiling-to-floor pocket doors between the dining and sitting room, and the sitting room and the front parlor, stood wide open, creating the effect of one long large room. Small easels with signs, and other objects stood covered on the dining room table. Beni had set up his karaoke machine to serve as a microphone.
News media crews showed up. Sara took the microphone and thanked everyone for coming. She shook badly and decided to cut her welcome presentation short. She would need more self-confidence, and fast, if she hoped to function in the public eye. She passed the microphone to Huxley.
He gave a brief greeting then said, “Our new Police Commissioner, Norwood York, will say a few words.”
Caren slipped through the crowd and came to take hold of Sara's hand and interlaced their fingers at their sides. Sara felt overwhelmed.
Norwood's talk was mostly to extend his thanks for the establishment of the Orson Talbot Foundation and its purpose. He spoke of Esmerelda and Orson and motioned to Esmerelda to stand beside him. Norwood was a passionate speaker.
Caren stepped up beside her husband and handed him an envelope, which he opened. “This,” he said, waving a check high in the air, “is a donation to the Orson Talbot Foundation from the Sacramento group, Every Child Counts.”
After accepting the check, Sara felt vindicated and stood stoically beside Esmerelda and Norwood. Shyness has nothing to do with her mood at that moment.
As guests floated in and out of the rooms trying to hear, Huxley spoke some about his trips to Vietnam. Many became emotional when he talked about the MIA recently located. He talked about how his group decided to join Sara and her foundation to find missing local people. Then it was time for the unveilings.
Suddenly, people stepped aside at the sitting room entrance. Sara looked to see who might enter and gasped. Upton Zeno, the County Sheriff himself, in full uniform, squeezed in.
Sara could no longer allow herself to be nervous and hesitant. Her commitments were being validated. “The first thing we want to show you—everyone—is this,” she said as Huxley pulled the cover off the first item to be exhibited. A large drawing showed the rear acreage complete with swimming pool, pavilion, bathhouses, gardens, and parking lot south of the garage. “Our pool will be available for swimming lessons for Delta youth,” Sara said. “In fact, I hope all of you will consider these grounds for your festivities. Proceeds will benefit both your organization and the Orson Talbot Foundation.”
Sara called attention to Isidoro, who designed the drawings. He would maintain the grounds. She called attention to Beni Noa, who had almost single-handedly built the gazebo out front. He would continue to oversee building the rear structures.
Huxley made the last presentation. He wasted no time and pulled the cover off a large black shatter-resistant case, opened it, and carefully pulled out the item and lifted it for all to see.
“The Orson Talbot Foundation has acquired one of these,” he said. “It's a thermal imager.” Quite a few didn't understand what that meant, but Norwood did. The Sacramento Police Department already had a couple. Upton Zeno crowded in closer, almost drooling. Huxley said “I recently learned that the Department of Defense's Drug Program denied a request to the Sacramento Sheriff's Department, so they're working on a grant to try to purchase one of these. In fact, Rio Vista is the only town in Solano County south of here to have one.”
Many in the crowd remained mystified. Upton shifted from one foot to the other.
Huxley continued. “This device is so sensitive it can pick up heat transferred from a hand to another object. It can sense the heat left by footprints and car tires.” He paused only a couple of seconds. “It can pinpoint graves.”
A collective gasp rolled through the rooms. Finally, Upton stepped forward and held out his hands. “Can I just hold it?” he asked.
“Sure, go ahead,” Huxley said, loud enough for all to hear. He looked around the room and everyone seemed suspended in anticipation. “There's another one here,” he said, pointing to one unopened container. “That one's for your department.”
The crowd screamed and clapped. Someone slapped Upton on the back. He nervously returned the imager to avoid dropping it. Norwood came to shake Upton's hand. He wrapped his arm around Sara's shoulders. “It's been a better place, this Delta,” he said. “After this hometown girl came home.”
#
The crowd began to thin. Caren herself carried out one of the two large paintings she won in the auction. Without a doubt, she got the best of the lot, if Sara was to pick. Almost three-dozen works of art were purchased.
Esmerelda helped send Zoki out the door, conning him out of his leftovers. She joined them in the parlor, where they congregated around the magnificent Christmas tree. “I'll have to get busy painting again to replace all the pieces we just sold,” Daphine said. “Wow.”
“I'm glad you decided not to offer the Peregrine Falcons,” Pierce said.
“You're off to Asia again,” Esmerelda said to Huxley. “I wish I could go. I'm still strong. I don't know why they keep turning me down.”
Gravel crunched. Fredrik, who had been by earlier in the evening and left again, returned to retrieve Esmerelda. Now he, too, would get to sample Zoki's delights, albeit reheated.
As Daphine packed her things to leave, she said, “Thousands, you guys. Did you know that? Tens of thousands.”
“Tens?” Huxley asked.
“Look at this.” She produced a pouch of checks people wrote to pay for the art. “Some of these are outright donations to OTF.”. She handed the pouch to Sara. “Some are made out in my name. We can settle up later.” Before she and Pierce walked out the door, she turned, pointed upward, and said, “The front bedroom, the one overlooking the river. I'll take that one.”
#
At once, the house was empty and eerily quiet. Sara turned her back on the mess. The cleaning crew would come by the next afternoon. She and Huxley grabbed drinks and climbed the showcase steps with arms wrapped around each other. They showered, and then lay down to talk. They always talked.
“Maybe once Daph gets on her feet, she can visit China,” Sara said.
“I hope so,” he said. “In the least, Daphine going there might get through to Jade that her mother loves her.”
“Hux,” Sara said. “I'm surprised Esmerelda hasn't gone with you to Vietnam.”
“They won't fund her,” Huxley said as he stretched and yawned. “She's considered too elderly to make the trip.”
“What? I saw the photos on the Web site. Some of your guys are ancient.”
“But they're ex-military, been returning there for years.” He scooted closer to her on the bed.
“Didn't you once say that trail was now wide enough for a Humvee?”
Huxley eyed her. “They won't fund her, Sara. She's too elderly, never been through a trek like that, and they won't be responsible for her health.”
Sara leaned against him and they kissed briefly. “Her health? Sweetheart, what about her mental health? If Betty's remains are never found, at least Esmerelda will die closer to peace knowing she walked where her daughter last walked.”
Epilogue
“Family is everything,” Huxley said.
“Turn here,” Sara said. “I'll show you where they're buried.”
They were on their way back from the doctor's office in Sacramento, a visit Sara dreaded. She was nauseous and thankful that Huxley drove.
Strong Delta winds blew. They stood at the foot of the graves. He zippered his jacket and went to stand beside a tree, to give her time alone. The tree had been a sapling the year her family died.
Sara cleaned twigs off the graves and threw them under the nearby bushes. She paused in front of her parents' headstone. Try as she might, she could only see them now as skeletons. She sighed heavily. “I hope you two made amends at the gate,” she said softly. “And that St. Peter saw fit to let you in.” She stooped down in the wet
grass in front of their headstone and poked the spikes of a Christmas wreath into the ground. Her arms ached doing so.
She stepped in front of Starla's headstone, stooped down, and planted another wreath. For the first time, she saw Starla as a skeleton in a faded pink dress; the white bows dingy, the fuzzy bunny now a limp rag. She closed her eyes and shook to dispel the scene. Tears came as she remembered Starla singing to her from the front seat of the car: '…when you feel there is no one to guide you… look for a star.' She willed herself to see Starla like she needed to remember, lying peacefully and whole in her sweet pink dress with clean white bows and the fuzzy bunny tucked under her arm.
Sara rubbed her arms against the cold and felt the pain. The barrage of inoculations made her stomach queasy. She glanced over at Huxley. His love for her showed in his magnificent eyes. They could finally get on with the rest of their lives. He joined her and stooped down beside her.
“Sis, I'm going with Huxley to Oregon for Christmas,” she said, talking to Starla's name. “And guess what? I'm sponsoring Esmerelda and she and I will go with Huxley to Vietnam in the spring.”
About the Author
Mary Deal is an award-winning multi-genre author of suspense/thrillers, a short story collection, writers' references, and self-help. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, Artist and Photographer, and former newspaper columnist and magazine editor. She is currently writing the third story in this Sara Mason series, as well as a long romance, which will be a new genre for her.
Mary's first feature screenplay, Sea Storm, and Chin Face, a short story, was nominated into the Semi-Finals in a Moondance International Film Festival competition.
One of Mary's many short stories, The Last Thing I Do, appeared in the anthology, Freckles to Wrinkles, by Silver Boomer Books, and was nominated for the coveted Pushcart Prize.
She has traveled a great deal and has a lifetime of diverse experiences, all of which remain as fodder for her fiction. A native of California's Sacramento River Delta, where some of her stories are set, she has also lived in England, the Caribbean, the Hawaiian Islands, and now resides in Scottsdale, Arizona. In addition to originals and art prints, her paintings and photography are also used to create gorgeous personal and household products.