Diamonds and Cole: Cole Sage Mystery #1

by Micheal Maxwell

  The wind blew hot and dry through the car window. The air conditioner worked just fine, but this was the “summer” Cole remembered. He enjoyed the radiant glow of the heat. Like a dry sauna, burning, roasting, in a slow bake. It was the summer of soft hot pavement in shopping center parking lots, the mirage of distant water on the road, rotten fruit, humid irrigation, orchard roads, and tumbleweed dust fields. As he rolled along, his thoughts drifted slow and disjointed.

  Harris found Erin within 12 hours. Wouldn’t say how, just that it was magic and he never gave away the secret. For all of Ellie’s worrying about her whereabouts, she was only a two-hour drive away.

  The radio played loud and bass-y. Classic Rock. Cole always thought of classic rock as doo-wop “oldies but goodies” stuff he didn’t hear the first time around, but now, “classic” was the music of his life. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young wailed, “Four dead in O-Hi-O, Four dead in O-Hi-O.” He drifted to a picture, black and white, a body laying on the ground, a girl with long dark hair, mouth open in a shocked wail. Kent State, “Four dead in O-Hi-O.”

  How many people hearing this song now knew the pain? How many remembered the grief? Television documentaries, Hollywood blockbusters, and books dulled the rage, the ache, the frustration that was Vietnam. It seemed so small now. Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq I and II, Afghanistan again—each slowly overshadowing Vietnam. Where was the outrage now? Where was the movement? Movement? How many people hearing Ohio even know there was a Movement? Where were the voices of dissent? America had been lulled into a media hot tub of materialistic complacency. The Movement. Cole wasn’t a member of anything. You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. But he had seen, he had heard, and he had felt the open wound that was Vietnam. And he remembered April 24, 1971, San Francisco and the Moratorium against the War!

  As the highway hummed, he rolled back in time. It was as though it were yesterday. In fact, it was so clear, it could have been today. Cole remembered the bluest sky he ever saw and, and clouds, my God, the clouds were so billowy, so white, so huge. That day God smiled down on his children of peace and gave them a glorious day to march. Cole was back on the Bay Bridge, the top down on his white Triumph, while the sun shone bright overhead. Ellie was beside him, an off-white muslin scarf tied around her head to control her curly brown hair. She wore big black sunglasses, like Sophia Loren. The eight-track was chuggin’ out “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” by Credence Clearwater Revival. No wonder he remembered.

  The March changed his life. Not in some great cosmic awakening, not a rebirth to an antiwar firebrand, nothing so great and cathartic. But he changed. He saw thousands and thousands of people marching, all in one accord, all with the same commitment to stopping a war. Not just stopping a war but the government of the United States of America. The free expression of their right to freedom of speech, the right to gather, and the voice of the people, by the people, and for the people in the streets and on the rolling hills of San Francisco. Long hairs, short hairs, men, women, nuns, and rabbis clad in black, framed against the saffron of Hare Krishna robes. Drag queens, businessmen, and G.I. Joes side by side, a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, half a million, who knew? Together chanting, singing, waving signs; an ocean of bodies, human waves on a sea of protest.

  “Hell no, we won’t go!”

  “Ho Ho Ho Chi Min!”

  “One, Two, Three, Four, we don’t want your dirty war!”

  And they sang, “All we are saying is give peace a chance....”

  “And it’s one, two, three, four, what are we fightin’ for?”

  Cole’s strongest memory was of Ellie, though. That is what changed him. As they crested a hill, ahead all they could see were people all the way to the bay. Behind them, even greater numbers. She turned and, with a smile that would have paled the glow of an angel, she said, “We can do it, Cole, we can stop the war. I love you!” It was the first time she ever said it. In a world gone mad with war and protest, he found peace. She wrapped both arms around his and squeezed. There were thousands of people on the street, but for those few moments there were really only two.

  “Crosby....Stills...Nash.....and Neil Young here on the Rock Pile 106.5, your classic rock station. Coming up, Zeppelin, Bowie and a top of the pile classic from the Beatles right after this—”

  Cole snapped off the radio and glanced at the low-slung black Corvette passing on his left. The road sign said 94 miles to Jessup. Cole forgot how much he enjoyed the open road. Since moving to Chicago, there were very few occasions to drive any great distance. The road before him acted as a tonic.

  The town of Jessup was nothing to brag about. Population 15,890 according to the city limits sign. The new highway passed by about 12 miles away, and the space between the off ramp and the town was brown, dry, and pretty much uninhabited. As he pulled in, he realized it could be any little town in any state. A hardware store, a cafe, a boarded-up movie theatre, a video store, and a Mexican restaurant lined the main street.

  Cole pulled up in front of the Hillside Cafe and went inside. One young mother and her toddler sat in the corner booth. A tiny little woman no more than four-foot-ten came sprightly out from behind the counter. Atop her head sat a beehive of carrot red hair. As she approached, she smiled a smile that Cole couldn’t help returning.

  “Hi, Hun. By yourself today?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Cole shot back. I did it again, he thought. Where is this ma’am thing coming from?

  “I’m Mickie, and I’m your only choice for a waitress today.” Mickie was at least 60, maybe more. Women half her age would kill for the spring in her step.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. What’s good?”

  “Everything but the cook’s reputation,” she giggled.

  “Thanks for the tip.” Cole grinned.

  “That’s my line after you pay the bill. Haven’t seen you in here before. Passing through?” Mickie inquired.

  Cole realized that beneath the perky smile and bouncy step laid the heart of the town gossip. You would have thought they installed Mickie at the Hillside Cafe the same day as the grill. Her crisp powder blue uniform and white nametag probably hadn’t been updated in years. This was her domain, and she reined over it with love and a definite sense of control.

  “Actually,” began Cole, “I’m here on family business.”

  “That right? Well only about 10,000 people here anymore, no matter what the city limits sign and the silly city council says. Anybody I know, you suppose?” Sly old fox, Cole thought as Mickie waited for a reply.

  “A friend of mine is very ill and the last anyone knew, her daughter was here in Jessup. So, I’m doing some Sherlock Holmes work to find her. Her mother would really like to see her,” Cole hesitated, “before she goes.”

  He suddenly felt like he would throw up. The reality of looming death, Ellie’s death, had been suppressed beneath the need to find Erin. Now he made it real, he spoke the words, and somehow sealed Ellie’s fate. Cole realized he was staring out the front window, but he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t move. My God, he thought, I’m going to start crying. He clenched his teeth until they ached, he felt his eyes begin to blur. He willed himself to not blink. His broad shoulders began to shudder. With no control over his body, his hands flew over his face, and he began to sob. The booth and table shook with the force of his quaking. He was nearly silent in his grief, which only added to the force of his tremors.

  Mickie slipped behind the counter and returned with a terrycloth hand towel and gently laid it across Cole’s head and hands. She quietly moved to the back booth and scooted the young woman and child out the back door. Like a little elfin spirit, she noiselessly glided across the floor, flipped the Open sign over to Closed, and flicked the left panel of lights off over the booths where Cole sat.

  Cole had no sense of being. A black hole just swallowed him up as he fell deeper and deeper into his grief. He had no sense of the time when he finally inhaled a deep lungful of air and le
t it out in jerking bursts. He pulled the soft white towel from atop his head and held it to his burning eyes. It was then he came to the realization where he was. Weak and still shaking, he lowered the towel to look around him shamefully.

  “You gonna be okay, Sweetie?” Mickie said softly. A glass of water and a cup of coffee sat between them. She had slid into the booth across from him unnoticed.

  “Yeah,” Cole whispered. He felt a panicked need to run but was too embarrassed or ashamed to move. He wiped his face.

  “Sometimes it just comes out. We can’t control it. It’s okay. Just sit still, nobody’s gonna bother you. Have a sip of water.”

  Cole put the soft damp cloth back up to his eyes. He felt like such a fool, yet this little waitress across from him knew his grief. Mickie had probably heard a million and one stories of heartache and pain, and yet, knew each one mattered. He lowered the towel and looked at her. Lines unseen before crisscrossed the face beneath the beige pancake makeup and bright red bee-stung lips. How old is this woman? he thought.

  “Ya know, my Will never cried that I saw,” Mickie said. “He was a man. Men don’t cry. Big joke. Many a morning his pillow was wet with tears. When my Mikey got killed in Vietnam, Will was like a rock. But at night sometimes our bed would shake to where I thought I would fall out. He thought I slept through it, the silly goose. But I knew. He was broken. Never got over it. Mikey was his boy. Sometimes I think I should have let him know I knew he was cryin’; I should have held him and we should have cried together. Of course, he would’ve had none of that.” She paused and looked down at the top of the Formica table.

  “I had a customer in here last week who died. Right over there in number six. He was 82. Came here from the hospital. Just minutes after his wife passed away. We didn’t know. Came in and ordered a chocolate milk shake. I teased him about a second childhood. Strangest thing, he wrote a sweet little note on a napkin. Said how much he loved his Gwen—and he just died.” She smiled and said, “Finished his shake, though. Yep, finished his shake.”

  “Thanks, Mickie,” Cole said.

  “You want to talk? Don’t have to. Tell me to scram and I will. You just sit there as long as you need to. Ain’t no business this time a day, so don’t worry about it.”

  Cole looked across the table and wanted—no, needed—to talk. For more than an hour, he told this little coffee shop confidante about Ellie. It was a celebration of her as he had loved her. How they met, favorite dates, trips together, it was a stream of consciousness flight through the treasured memories he carried so close for so long. To his amazement, he even told her of the last time they made love. Cole felt a glow as he told how afterward Ellie held onto his arm with both of hers as they walked back up the beach to the car, and how she fell asleep on the way home still holding his arm in hers.

  He told his new friend how in college Ellie disappeared for almost a year after the first time they broke up. She just vanished. He asked everyone who knew her where she had gone. No one knew a thing. Not being on the best terms with her parents, the call to her family was met with a curt, “She’s away for a while, she’s fine, thanks for calling.”

  Then, one day while he was crossing campus, there she was. Of all his memories of Ellie, this was his greatest regret, far more than losing her when he went on the Asian assignment. He knew what fate’s hand dealt him. This memory, so vivid, so real, that as he told Mickie the story, he even saw the colors.

  It was spring, not just the month of April or May, but the spring of rebirth, blossoms, sunshine, and life. And there she was. After a year of wandering, there she came, 100 yards away, walking towards him. But not just walking, she literally bounced. Dressed in a kaleidoscopic ankle-length skirt that billowed like some psychedelic pop art poster and exploded with blues, reds, greens and purples that seemed to shoot out color with each jump and twirl as she raced towards him. Her hair had always been cut short, now it was falling, cascading over her shoulders in big flowing curls. As she drew closer, he saw her beautiful smile. Beaming and laughing, she twirled again. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. With her cheek pressed tight against his, she giggled, “I’ve come for you!”

  The momentum of her weight caused Cole to drop his books and do a spin in the middle of the commons.

  Ellie jumped to the grass and again said, “I’ve come for you, Cole!” For the briefest moment, he thought she had lost her mind. Her smile told him otherwise. He looked at her up close and realized she was wearing a very thin, gauze peasant blouse. She wore no bra and her nipples showed clearly through the see-through material.

  “Where have you been?” Cole demanded.

  “Everywhere! New York, California, Toronto, and a million other places! I’ve been everywhere and now I’ve come for you! We’re going to Mexico.” Ellie’s glee was like a child discovering the butterflies in their own backyard.

  “Mexico! How can I go to Mexico?”

  “My friends have a van,” she replied.

  “No, no, wait. Are you nuts? I have four weeks left this semester. I have finals. I might get an internship. I can’t go to Mexico.” Cole nearly stuttered from the absurdity of her suggestion.

  “I have traveled six hundred miles out of our way to get you!” Her tone was a mix of hurt and astonishment.

  “You have been gone almost a year! I have been worried sick. Nobody knew where you went. You parents wouldn’t tell me where you went! Now you just drop out of the clouds and say ‘Let’s go to Mexico’? And what the hell kind of hippie getup are you wearing? The whole world can see your tits! Have you lost your mind? What am I supposed to think? Who’s in the van, the Manson Family?” Cole’s voice was rising with every question.

  “When did you become my father?!” Ellie screamed. “And when did you become so uptight? You are the one...you are the one who always goes with the flow. Take chances, reach for your dreams... was that all bullshit? Who are you?”

  “Who am I? Who the hell are you?” he shot back. “Ellie, are you strung out?” His voice and tone softened, “I’ll get you help. We can beat this thing. I love you. I’m here for you.”

  “You think I’m high? That’s it? You’re here for me! I am here for you! I came to get you! I am here to save your soul. Free yourself of this material obsession you have. Join us! Live life for a while, free your mind. Get high on life. That’s where I’m at. Dance in the grass, swim in the sea...each day, Cole, take each day, make love to it, caress it. Tomorrow it’s gone. You don’t own it; you just get to use it. It’s not yours. Come with me. We’re leaving at 4 o’clock. Please.”

  “I want to be a journalist. I want to write. The Sun is reviewing my internship app. That could mean a job, a real job, on a real paper. You know that’s what I have always dreamed of. I can’t just drop it and go dance in the sun! Get real.”

  “I am real. Realer than I have ever been. I have friends who love me for me. Not some clique, but real thinking, living, loving people. Everything is shared, everything is free. If we run out of money, we stop and work for a while. I cooked during wheat harvest. We boxed shoes at a factory in New Hampshire, cut cane in Louisiana, and danced in the cane breaks at night. We painted apartments in Bakersfield and picked hops in Oregon. We got dirty, we felt the earth, and we discovered America. Not the one in books or on the 6 o’clock news but the real America, with real people, beautiful people. People with families who sing while they work, who laugh at the end of a hard day because they are free. At night, around fires in the fields, they play guitars and banjos and little accordions and sing and dance and tell stories and—”

  “What next? How long can you just ramble and pick fruit? You sound like a commercial for the Woody Guthrie Travel Agency. Okay, let’s sing ‘This Land Is Your Land’! Come on, Ellie, come home. You have lived the great experiment, you have touched the land. I need you here. Please let your friends go on without you, and you and I will go later. Next month, school will be out. We can take off aft
er finals.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Sure it will. We can have a whole month if you want.”

  “You are part of the machine. You have—”

  “Where did you get all this crap? Me? Part of the machine! I have always been more involved than you. I have marched more miles, given more money, manned more tables, passed out more flyers. I have even been arrested for fighting the Imperialist War Machine. But I want to really change things, not just make a lot of noise, and I can do that through the press. I’ve got a real chance with this internship. If they like me, who knows where it will lead. Come on, Ellie, think.”

  Tears streamed down her beautiful tanned cheeks. “This time is for me. If you really care about me, you’ll come. You can always get a job. You can always finish school. But now, right now, this is for me. You decide. We need this. If we are going to be together, we need this time. Free, free to get up and lay down where and when we want. To touch, to feel, to really live life and see life, together. Don’t you see?”

  “I guess not,” Cole said softly.

  “I really thought you’d come. I don’t know you anymore.” She turned and took about five steps, before turning to face him again. Without taking her eyes from his, she returned to where Cole stood motionless, and softly put her arms around his neck. She kissed him. With all the warmth of her being, she kissed him deeply, as if to speak from her soul to his. Then she turned and ran back across the commons. Ran like she was being pursued by a pack of dogs. All the colors seemed to have dimmed, the joy and beauty gone. Just a dark-haired girl fleeing the scene of an accident.

  Cole watched her go. He finished the semester, did well. He made the Dean’s List. The internship at The Sun fell through. He didn’t see Ellie for almost a year.

  “You marry her?”

  “Nope,” Cole said matter-of-factly.

  “Boy, howdy, you sure can tell a story.” Mickie laughed.

  “It has tumbled around in my heart for so long it’s polished like a stone.” Cole smiled for the first time. “Now, doesn’t that sound like a writer?”

  “Yeah, a bad one,” Mickie teased. “But you’re a good man to come looking for the girl. And Jessup is the end of the trail?”

  “Erin is here, I think. She doesn’t know her mother is ill. They haven’t seen each other in about four years. Ellie’s husband was pretty rough on the girl, and she bolted. I need to let her know Ellie’s sick and try to get her to come back, before it’s too late. Three years ago, she called her mother on her birthday. Wouldn’t say where she was. A friend of mine, a cop in Chicago, traced her here. He said she’s a nurse. Funny, Ellie trained to be a nurse.”

  “The hospital is just up the road. Shouldn’t be hard to find out.”

  “That’s my next stop.” Cole smiled. “Mickie, you’re okay.”

  “Stop. Don’t be getting all grateful on me. Been enough cryin’, don’t get me started.” She gave a theatrical giggle and covered her mouth with a napkin like the ingenue in a melodrama. “Just part of the service here at the Hillside Cafe.”

  “Just the same...” Cole’s voice trailed off and he looked out the front window. “Looks like you’ve got some customers.”

  “Oh yeah, Ben and Ruby. They come in every day about this time for coffee, and they share a doughnut. Better let ‘em in.” Mickie slid out of the booth.

  Cole took a business card from his wallet and a $20 bill. On the back of the card, in pencil, he wrote, “For psychological services and thoughtfulness above and beyond the call of duty” and signed it “Cole.” He slipped it and the $20 under the corner of his water glass, slid out of the booth, blew Mickie a kiss, and left the cafe.

 

 

 

 

 

  TEN