Cliff Hanger

by Mary Feliz

  “Why do you keep calling them Dot and Bill?” I asked. “Are they cousins of yours too?”

  “Neighbors. It’s a small town. Get used to it.” Renée smiled to take the sting from her words.

  By sheer numbers, Watsonville was a little bit bigger than Orchard View. But my tiny hometown was surrounded by Silicon Valley, where megatropolis meets overcrowded suburb. My world on the other side of the Santa Cruz Mountains was close-knit, but nothing like life in the rural market town I was just getting to know.

  Sheriff Nate wiped his forehead. “You done?” he asked Renée before turning to me. “How about you?”

  He looked sternly at each of us and then carried on without waiting for an answer. “Good questions. Let me see if I can answer them in order of importance or something close to it. Maggie, yes. It never hurts to call a lawyer. California does have a Good Samaritan law that was intended to encourage people to help out in emergencies.”

  “So, the Petersons are blowing smoke?” I interrupted.

  “Maybe. But test cases have shown that the law doesn’t cover all the bases. There are some legal actions now moving through the appeals process that have revealed flaws in the wording.”

  “Why doesn’t the legislature fix it?” Renée asked.

  “If you ran the state, I’m sure the original act would have covered it,” said the sheriff. “But the wheels of justice grind slowly…”

  “It’s the mills of God…” said Renée.

  “You want to quibble?” Nate asked. “Or do you want me to go on?”

  “Sorry,” said Renée, though she didn’t seem sorry at all. In fact, their conversation seemed to cover familiar ground, the kind that loving friends and family members return to again and again.

  “Maggie’s lawyer will know better than this simple country sheriff, but my guess is the law is meant to protect Brian and David. But that won’t matter. At least not in the near term. It won’t prevent Dot and Bill, in their grief, from making a mess of things. Let’s let the DA handle it and see how it shakes out.”

  Renée opened her mouth to speak, but Nate quelled her with a look. “Let me finish with your last crop of questions before we start on a new batch. Do you have a sandwich or something around here?”

  Renée looked at her watch. I glanced at my own as my stomach rumbled. It was 12:30. I was glad we’d grabbed sandwiches earlier.

  “We picked up lunch at Beach Street this morning,” I said. “Unless you’re on specialized diets, we can split the sandwiches. They’re huge.”

  Renée picked up the handset from the telephone console. “Let me get someone to cover the desk. I’ll meet you at your place.”

  The sheriff added more detail as we crossed the complex to the oceanside condominium buildings. “The Petersons have already complained to the district attorney, who asked me to conduct a cursory investigation out of respect for their loss, though she’s sure there’s no case to answer.” He shook his head and then stopped in the middle of the road. “This attack is out of character for them, Maggie. They’re good people.”

  “Are we being arrested?” Brian asked.

  “No one is being arrested,” I said with all the firmness I could muster. “Sheriff Nate just explained that. All this is just a formality. So the sheriff and the district attorney can tell the Petersons they looked into it and found nothing.” I looked up at the sheriff for confirmation.

  He nodded. “That about sums it up.”

  We were nearly back to the condo when the sheriff’s radio erupted in a series of static-filled code intelligible only to him. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Try not to worry. I’m sure this will all blow over.” Brian ran up the stairs to our unit and quickly re-emerged with a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. He chased after the sheriff, and handed it to him.

  How could anyone believe two children as thoughtful as my kids could have been criminally negligent? It was mind boggling, but that didn’t mean we were off the hook. We might well need expert advice to navigate this situation with as little trauma as possible.

  I needed to call Max, followed by our family friend and lawyer, Forrest Doucett. It wouldn’t hurt to let Jason Mueller, chief of the Orchard View police department, know what was going on either. I sucked in a quick breath and held it. Maybe they’d already heard. On a slow summer news day, a volatile broadcast from even a small affiliate station was sure to be picked up by news outlets all over the Bay Area.

  I tried to look at the situation objectively, through the lens of a media outlet trying to gain market share. A photogenic young graduate student was dead. His distraught parents were hurling accusations while local law enforcement struggled to keep up. It would make a great story. The kind that drove up ratings. My kids were smack dab in the cross-hairs of the blood-thirsty and highly competitive Bay Area news hounds.

  I had no idea how to handle any of this—and zero experience talking to the media. I was all set to speed dial Stephen Laird, a retired Marine veteran with a wide variety of caped-crusader type skills and a solution for every disaster my family had landed in since we’d moved to Orchard View nearly two years earlier.

  But then I took a deep breath and refocused my attention on my kids. We had plenty of time. I needed to comfort Brian and David, plan, and call Stephen later.

  I missed the security of facing a potentially perilous situation with the support of my friends in Orchard View. Here in Watsonville, a town in which everyone was a stranger, I was working without a net.

  Chapter 7

  On vacation at the beach without sand toys? Check your rental kitchen for durable, unbreakable measuring cups or containers. Be sure to return them to the unit at the end of your stay.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Tuesday, June 18, Afternoon

  I curled up on the rental unit’s monster of a sectional couch and dialed Forrest Doucett.

  The receptionist put me through to Nell Bevans, a young associate at the firm whom I’d worked with before. I trusted her to relay the pertinent information to Forrest.

  “Wow,” Nell said after I’d recounted the events of the past few days. “You’re in way over your head. I’m glad you called.”

  My spirits sank as she dashed my hope that phoning the lawyers was overkill. Nell reacted as though she’d heard my heart hit the floor. “Don’t panic. This situation isn’t that complicated from a legal perspective. The tricky part will be managing the news outlets and social media. Their attacks can be swifter, harsher, and more reactionary than the law. Lucky for you, we’ve just hired two people who are experts in that arena. We all need to become adept at fending off slings and arrows in cyberspace.”

  “I hadn’t even thought to ask for help with the media.”

  “No problem. Forrest is in a meeting right now, but I’ll catch him when he comes out. Is this number the best way for him to reach you?”

  “Cell-phone coverage is a little sketchy out here in the boonies, but text messages seem to be reliable. If Forrest sends me a text, I can find a spot with a strong signal or a landline and phone him back.”

  “Perfect. Don’t sweat it. You know we’ll look after you.”

  I’d seen Nell eloquently argue legal precedents in a sharp black suit like the reincarnation of legendary attorney Clarence Darrow. In contrast, the informality of her phone conversation delighted and reassured me. I thanked her for restoring my confidence and ended the call. I winked at the boys and phoned Max.

  “I saw the news and I’m on my way—about to leave the house,” he said as soon as he answered. “Trying to beat the traffic backup after the fishhook.”

  Max referred to the exit from Highway 17 to Highway 1, a sweeping turn that jammed up rush-hour traffic for miles and for which no reasonable alternative routes existed. The warning sign for the curve looked lik
e a fishhook, hence the local nickname for the notorious bottleneck.

  “What about the cats?” I asked. Our two cats, Holmes and Watson, pretended to be independent but became anxious and unruly if they were left too long without humans to boss around. The last time we’d left them alone for more than twenty-four hours, we’d returned to find Watson perched precariously and uncomfortably atop our living room curtain rod. She had meowed plaintively through the night before returning to floor level.

  “Paolo volunteered to housesit.”

  Paolo, the youngest member of the Orchard View police force, was a friend of every member of our family, but he was especially beloved by Holmes and Watson.

  “Then they’re in good hands.”

  “Yes, but what about you and the boys? How you holding up?”

  “We’ll be better when you get here. I’m not sure I’ve had a chance to process it all. I called Forrest and talked to Nell Bevans. She’s the one who helped us out when Stephen was in jail last year.”

  “Good. I was about to suggest that. Did Nell have any action items for us?”

  “Maybe after checking with Forrest. She wants us to meet their handlers for social media and the news outlets.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. “I hadn’t thought about that, but Nell’s right. The last thing we want is for the boys to be tried on social media, particularly with David’s college applications in the offing.”

  Ugh. College applications. The bane of the existence of every high school junior or senior and their parents. I looked up to see if David and Brian had been able to hear Max’s comments, but the boys seemed oblivious, thank goodness. I didn’t want to bring the stress of essays and transcripts into an already dreadful situation. I sank further into the couch cushions, cupped my hands over the phone, and lowered my voice. “We’ve got enough to worry about without borrowing trouble. One thing at a time. Anyway, Nell seemed confident.”

  “That’s what we need.”

  “Can I fill you in on the rest later over a glass of wine or a walk on the beach? I’ve got a few more calls to make.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Be safe.” For someone driving over the steep, winding, narrow, and heavily traveled twenty-six miles between Los Gatos and Santa Cruz, the words took on added meaning. Tight curves, skinny shoulders, frequent mudslides, distracted drivers, and young people who mistook themselves for NASCAR racers all contributed to wrecks, casualties, and slowdowns. Deer and the occasional mountain lion dashing across the road compounded the problems. Though some people commuted twice daily over the deadly highway, no one I knew ever took it lightly.

  “Dad will be here in an hour or two,” I told the boys.

  “Pizza?” asked Brian.

  I chewed my lip in thought, remembering that our cupboards and fridge were bare. I ripped a clean sheet of paper from my notebook and handed it to my youngest son. “Start a list. We’ve got nothing, so think about what you want for breakfast and lunches too.”

  David frowned and started to protest.

  “And when you’re done,” I told Brian. “Hand the paper to your brother. Include dinner ideas for later in the week if you want, and I’ll get the ingredients.”

  From the boys’ perspective, I hoped I seemed like an indulgent mom, fulfilling their every gastronomical whim. In my own mind, I’d neatly delegated meal planning and creating the shopping list. I wondered how much other help I could snag. “David, do you have charge left on your phone?” I asked.

  He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, and nodded.

  “See if the local grocery has a delivery service. If so, enter your choices into the online order form directly.”

  David tapped and swiped. The apartment’s wall phone rang. Brian answered, spoke briefly and ended the call. “That was Renée,” he said. “She can’t get anyone to cover the front desk, so she’ll get in touch later.”

  “Safeway has Peapod delivery,” David said. He sounded thrilled but quickly deflated. “But the first appointment slot is three days from now.”

  “That’s no good. Okay, a trip to the grocery store and office supply, then.” I said. I made a quick call to Renée to ask if she needed anything in town. It was three miles to the nearest stores, and it seemed silly not to offer to pick up anything she needed while I was there. I thought for a moment and then added, “Unless you already have a good supply of packing boxes or you know a grocery that delivers. I’m all for hiring other people to complete chores that don’t need our immediate and personal attention.”

  Renée shook her head and frowned. “Sorry. I’m going to put locating a delivery service on my list though. I’d like to have a business to recommend to renters and homeowners who are busy, ill, or pressed for time.”

  Depending upon your generation, grocery delivery might sound like an old-fashioned amenity, an essential, or an indulgence. In my grandmother’s time, when not as many people owned cars, delivery by local businesses was a given. Nana could mail her list in the morning, and get all her essentials delivered in the afternoon. After years of thinking that kind of service was lost to the ages, it was making a comeback. It was particularly popular in the San Francisco Bay Area with busy families who had less time than money. Needing to make every moment count, they were reluctant to spend unnecessary time stuck in traffic or parking lots. Google Shopping offered free delivery from a variety of businesses in the heart of Silicon Valley. Amazon provided next-day and sometimes same-day service, while many local stores had drive-by pickup options and delivery services.

  Because my work hours were flexible, I typically found it convenient to do my own shopping. But I wasn’t shy about utilizing the free services on days like today when I had more to do than hours in which to accomplish it.

  I couldn’t delegate my chores today, though. Lack of delivery service was another reminder that Santa Cruz County was a vastly different place than its immediate neighbor, Santa Clara County, a.k.a. Silicon Valley. I glanced at my watch. Two o’clock. I needed to get moving if we were going to eat at home tonight. I drummed my fingers on the table as I sorted through the possibilities. I wanted the boys to come with me for my own comfort and sense of security. But dragging them to the grocery wouldn’t protect them from the judgments of social media and might expose them unnecessarily to hungry news hounds or comments from strangers. They hadn’t spent any time on the beach today either, though I knew that we’d go for a walk later when Max arrived. Belle, at least, would insist upon it.

  My phone’s text alert interrupted my train of thought

  Turnip raid a vee, the message said. I frowned in confusion, then handed the phone to Brian, who was adept at interpreting words garbled by an automated voice-to-text conversion system combined with predictive text.

  “Turn on radio or TV,” Brian translated. “Dad must be in the car. Voice to text has trouble sifting out road noise.” He typed something quickly into the phone with both thumbs, pressed send, and the phone chirped cheerfully in response.

  Standing, he moved to the dusty television in the corner and pushed the power button.

  A talking head appeared, speaking in Spanish. We all recognized the footage, which included shots of the cliffside rescue of Jake Peterson. Brian clicked through the channels until he found another news station broadcasting in English. David’s image filled the screen.

  “No, we don’t have any special training,” on-screen David said. “I hope we didn’t hurt him.”

  My heart sank as the image shifted to a smug looking news anchor. “The victim’s family filed suit today in Santa Cruz County saying that untrained thrill seekers may well have done more harm than good, hampering efforts of first-responders to save the life of local graduate student Jake Peterson. The sheriff’s office had no comment when asked for an update. We’ll follow this tragic story and update you as information be
comes available.”

  My older son’s charming self-deprecating personality might well have secured his doom.

  Chapter 8

  Use mesh laundry bags to transport sand toys. Shake to get rid of excess sand and rinse off in the ocean, with a hose, or under a faucet at the end of your trip.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Tuesday, June 18, Afternoon

  “Mom?” asked David, his voice trembling. “Are we in trouble?”

  “How much trouble?” added Brian, ashen. Belle picked up the tension in the room, whined, and pressed against my legs.

  “It will be okay,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. My words did little to reduce the overwhelming tension in the room. I tried again. “Remember what I said yesterday on this same topic?”

  “That all the praise we were getting didn’t matter?” David said.

  “Exactly. You did the right thing. At the right time. That’s all that mattered yesterday and all that matters today. The rest of it, especially all the media coverage, will find its own level. And almost certainly will be overshadowed quickly by some other big news story, probably before the nightly news comes on.”

  I stood up and gathered my things. “Let’s talk about it in the car. We need those groceries.”

  * * * *

  Max arrived just after we’d pulled back into the condo parking lot. My car was loaded with groceries, all of which needed to be lugged up the stairs to our third-floor condo. We had coffee, wine, cookies, and ice cream. All the essential food groups plus fresh produce and the makings of a dynamite spaghetti sauce that would come together in a flash.

  But Max had thought ahead. He carried two cloth grocery sacks filled with thawing containers of his homemade soup, along with a loaf of fresh sourdough, a salad in a bag, and a box of gingerbread sandcastle cookies baked and decorated by our Orchard View neighbor Elaine Cumberfield.