Cliff Hanger

by Mary Feliz

  “What are you doing here?” I asked the very serious, corporate-looking lawyer standing in my doorway. It was Nell Bevans.

  “Hi Maggie,” answered Nell. “Forrest sent me. We need to talk.”

  The first thing Nell needed help with was locating the condo that Forrest had rented for her to stay in while she finished up work for a client in Monterey and advised us in our dealings with local law enforcement and Jake’s parents.

  I helped Nell down our flight of stairs, across the boardwalk, and up a second steep flight to a one-bedroom unit close to the ocean. Only a hint of light lingered in the sky when I opened the curtains on the picture window. “It’s dark now,” I said, stating the obvious. “But in the morning you’ll have trouble getting any work done. The view is guaranteed to distract you.”

  Nell dropped her briefcase, sighed, and kicked off her heels. “Stupid shoes,” she said. “I had a meeting in Monterey with an investment group from Los Angeles interested in building a new hotel. It was all very corporate and trendy, but we were looking at a property on the water. With sand. In heels. Crazy. Absolutely nuts.”

  “It’s good to see you,” I ventured. “I was about to start dinner. Nothing fancy, but would you like to join us? Come barefoot if you like.” We’d been in the trenches together for some time nearly a year ago, working to get Stephen out of jail. We’d been so focused on helping others that I hadn’t learned much about Nell, yet here I was standing in her living room. I was glad to see her, but other feelings competed for my attention: fear, frustration, and a need to be a gracious hostess while at the same time fiercely protective of my family.

  If Forrest thought we needed our own on-site lawyer, I worried that we were in more trouble than I’d thought. But I hesitated to ask. I wanted to assume that everything was okay. Too much had gone wrong already, and I wasn’t sure how much more any of us could take.

  Nell looked up. “I’d love to join you. I’ll bring wine.”

  “I never say no to a free bottle of wine. We’re having burgers. You aren’t a vegetarian are you? Vegan? I’m sure I can…” I scrambled to think about what I had in the refrigerator that would feed a specialized diet.

  “Relax, Maggie. I’m an omnivore. I’ve got fried artichoke hearts too. Can I bring those?”

  “From the Giant Artichoke? Absolutely.” Castroville, a few miles south of Watsonville, was the artichoke capital of the world and its twenty-foot tall concrete thistle was a local landmark. But the restaurant’s deep-fried hearts were even more memorable.

  “Come when you’re ready,” I said with my hand on the doorknob. But then I hesitated. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “Probably nothing we couldn’t handle over the phone. But I was down here and I have to stay within shouting distance of the group from Los Angeles, just in case their deal goes through. Forrest thought I might help out.” After rummaging in her luggage, she pulled a pair of jeans, an oversized gray sweatshirt, and a bright purple T-shirt from her bag.

  “I’m completely frazzled from the drive. It was bumper to bumper all the way from Moss Landing. Let me jump in the shower and into my comfy clothes. I’ll bring the wine and the nibbles, and we’ll catch up. I can’t wait to see your boys. Great kids.”

  Nell peeled off her suit jacket. I made a quick exit before she stripped to the skin in front of me. In some ways, she reminded me of my friend Tess—completely allergic to the business outfits required for their professions. I was lucky. Sneakers and jeans were the perfect get-up for rummaging among other people’s discards and dusty treasures. And they suited my personal style and temperament.

  Later, while Brian monitored the burgers on the gas grill on our balcony, Nell updated us.

  “It really is no big deal,” she began.

  “People tend to say that when something is a very big deal,” I said.

  “Forrest doesn’t think there’s any reason to be concerned. He expects the Petersons will cool off. They have more important things to deal with than a lawsuit. But Forrest doesn’t leave anything to chance. The fact that you’re all outsiders here makes him wary. He watches too many of those old movies in which a stranger comes to town and is blamed for everything that goes wrong.”

  “And how does that plot play out in real life?” I asked.

  “Forrest asked me to approach the problem assuming that someone deliberately killed Jake, as unlikely as that may seem.” Nell shook her head. “It sounds like a senseless, tragic accident to me, but Forrest’s outlook is darker.”

  She hopped onto a tall stool and rested her wine glass on the balcony railing. “So, the first things I’ll consider are motives. Who benefits from Jake’s death? Was there an insurance policy?”

  I started to tell her I had no idea, but she waved me off. “I looked into it. Jake Peterson had a small life-insurance policy through one of his jobs that will provide funeral expenses and a small payout to his girlfriend. In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t be worth killing him for.”

  I gasped at the implication that Jen might have killed Jake over an insurance policy.

  “I’m sorry. I get used to discussing these things bluntly at work. But that’s how the insurance company is looking at it. The payouts are small, fraud is unlikely, and investigating Jake’s death isn’t worth the money they’d spend on an in-depth forensic analysis of his books. They might take a fleeting look at his finances, but that’s it.”

  She took a sip of her wine before continuing. “Forrest wants you to refer any questions from the insurance, the cops, or the media to me. Don’t talk to anyone about anything else to do with the accident. I’ll handle any inquiries myself while I’m here. I’d like to have a crew shoot some still photos and video of Belle and the boys—”

  “What on earth for?” I asked.

  “To give to the news outlets.”

  “Don’t TV stations take care of that themselves?”

  “Most of the time, but if we provide them with footage, they won’t mind so much if we decline interviews. And the video will help spin the story that the boys are wholesome, responsible citizens.”

  “Spin?” I asked. “It’s not spin. They are wholesome and responsible. Is all this really necessary?”

  “You never know. We need to be ready for anything. I might practice a little interrogation with the kids tonight. We’ll make a game of it…”

  “You make all these relationships sound confrontational,” I said. “Remember, we’ve got friends in law enforcement. My kids are comfortable with everyone in the Orchard View Police Department.”

  “That may be a problem. Orchard View and Watsonville aren’t the same. These cops don’t know you. And there are few rules restricting law enforcement questions during an interrogation. They don’t even need to tell the truth. They’re on their home turf. You’re not. And if you say something you shouldn’t, you can’t take it back or erase it.”

  “Sounds fun,” David called from the kitchen before coming out to the deck and grabbing a fried artichoke. “Practicing with Nell, I mean, not being grilled by strange cops.”

  Nell smiled and her shoulders relaxed. “Forrest feels every civilian could use an advocate who evens the balance. Here, you’re out of your element. Don’t go it alone. You don’t have to.”

  I appreciated Nell’s advice and assistance and told her so. But something about the situation still bugged me. “Nell, I speak English. I know my rights. I trust the police, in general. I’m confident dealing with bureaucracy. Yet, you recommend I talk to no one without a lawyer.”

  “Right,” said Nell, smiling, scooting forward in her chair and raising her eyebrows with the delight of a dog trainer who has finally taught a recalcitrant puppy to sit.

  “What do people who don’t know lawyers and cops do? What if they don’t understand English, especially when they’re under the stress of an investi
gation? What happens to them? Who do they have on their side?”

  “Sometimes, they’re savvy enough to request a lawyer, and one is provided for them. In the best case, they’ll get an eager young public defender.” She pursed her lips. “I worked for the public defender’s office for two years.”

  “But you left to work for Forrest.”

  “The hours were brutal, and I never felt I could do enough. I met Forrest and liked his approach to the law. As he’s fond of saying, the rich and famous are as entitled to representation as the poor and indigent. Our work with well-heeled clients makes it possible for us to do pro bono work.” She sipped her wine. “It’s a compromise. I wish the system were more balanced and fair, but it’s what we’ve got.”

  She picked up a napkin and selected a steaming golden-brown fried artichoke heart from the cobalt-blue plate in the center of the table. “It’s better than what’s available to most people in most countries, particularly the poor.”

  I sighed.

  Nell leaned against the railing. “It’s a good thing these artichokes aren’t available much beyond Castroville. I’d weigh five hundred pounds if I could pick them up every time I went to the store. They’re delicious.”

  I smiled at her unconcealed effort to change the subject.

  “This area is gorgeous,” she said. “Tell me how you snagged this gig for the summer and what you’ve all been doing.” She lifted her wine glass when Brian hobbled out to join us. “I know there’s a story there.”

  “It’ll have to wait,” he said. “Burgers are up. All the fixings are on the kitchen counter. David’s got the corn going, and there’s salad. I’ll meet you inside.”

  After dinner, Nell was having trouble keeping her eyes open, and the boys weren’t much perkier. I said goodnight to all three and took Belle for a quick sniff and hygiene visit to the parking lot, scanning for skunks. Even my human nose, far less sensitive than any canine’s, could detect they were around somewhere.

  A hunting barn owl grabbed my attention and I watched it silently soar and then dive to pounce on an unwitting rodent. Renée had said that the association had installed owl boxes two years earlier as an environmentally sound solution to a population explosion among the gophers that tore up the lawns. Given the number of holes in the ground and mounds of sandy soil I’d seen, I wasn’t sure how well it was working, but it was a treat to see the owl.

  A young man in a black hoodie carried a load of what looked like rubbish down the ramp from one of the condos and dropped it with a resounding thunk in the back of a flatbed pickup with more rust than paint on its side panels. I wondered briefly if he was starting to clean up the dreadful condo we’d been assigned when we first arrived at the complex. Before I could investigate, Belle tugged gently on the leash, signaling that she was ready for bed. Chances were, the young man was just another homeowner getting his unit spruced up for the busy summer season. Maintenance people weren’t supposed to work past four o’clock most days of the week.

  I followed Belle up the boardwalk ramp and stairs and unhooked her leash. A few toenail clicks on the tiles followed by a contented sigh told me she’d conked out for the night on the floor between the bedrooms of her two favorite boys. They were in good paws.

  But I was restless. I cleaned up the already mostly clean kitchen, poured myself a last glass of chardonnay, grabbed a blanket, and curled up in one of the cushioned patio chairs on the balcony. Listening to the waves and appreciating the relative darkness that made the Milky Way visible, I’d just started to relax when my phone rang, startling me into nearly spilling my wine.

  Chapter 18

  A sense of novelty and fun can change a disaster into an adventure. And a splurge can help everyone when you’re at the end of your rope.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, June 21, Late evening

  “Hey, Max. You’ve missed the boys. They’re both out cold.”

  “What’s that static? Do you want me to call you back?”

  “Static? That’s the ocean. I’m snuggled under a blanket on one of those cushy chairs on the balcony. You wouldn’t believe how clear it is. No marine layer tonight. At least not yet. The view is sharp all the way to the horizon. In fact, the bay is so calm that it’s a little hard to tell which stars are in the sky and which are reflected in the ocean.”

  Max, ever the romantic, responded with words that made me sorry he’d decided to stay in Orchard View to await the results from Howard’s tests. It wasn’t so much what Max said, but the way he phrased it that made me realize how much more room there was in a chair spacious enough for two. After I responded in kind and we were both miserably lonely, I filled him in on what the boys and I had learned and asked about the findings of his materials engineer.

  “He hasn’t had time to run tests, and he’s careful with any statements he makes before he has accurate results, almost as if he were already practicing for a court appearance.”

  “Did he say anything that might be helpful?”

  “I pressed him, but all he would say was that the piece of metal could have come from a propeller. I asked how an aircraft would operate if it were missing a fist-sized piece of metal from a prop blade. He said that they design propellers the way they do for a reason, and that even one with just a ding in the rotor would make an aircraft more difficult to control than a plane with a perfectly honed blade. Examining the prop is part of every routine safety check.”

  “Could someone have damaged it, but hidden its flaws from Jake?”

  “I asked. Howard works at the community college on stage craft and says that their artists can paint a plywood and cloth set to look like metal that would fool him at a distance. Up close, he’d have to touch it to be sure it wasn’t riveted aluminum. So, he wouldn’t rule out the possibility. But, he said that a bogus or damaged prop would still have to pass the touch test.”

  “So with a little filler, careful sanding, and paint…”

  “I couldn’t say, and Howard wouldn’t. He’s going to look at the edges again under a microscope, specifically looking for paint and filler. He’ll let us know tomorrow, probably with a report that is way more detailed than we need. That’s part of the reason I wanted to stay up here, so I can nudge Howard if necessary and get the results as quickly as possible.”

  “It’d be difficult to paint the propeller without leaving a tell-tale odor, wouldn’t it?” When I’d repainted the wrought iron railing on our front steps a few months earlier, the smell of the anti-rust paint was pervasive and unmistakable.

  Max made a noise that told me he was considering the idea. “Maybe,” he agreed. “But those hangars are full of the smells of solvent, fuel, and paint. I’m not sure that a brief application of paint would make a dent, particularly after it dried.”

  “So we really don’t have any actionable information. Not until we get Howard’s report or…” An idea slowly started to form and I laid it out for Max. “NTSB interviewed the guys in the hangar maintenance shop, right?”

  “The mechanics David and I talked to seemed pretty impressed by the grilling they’d received from the feds. They still looked a little scared, I thought. David mentioned it too. He was glad he hadn’t had to answer questions from them.”

  “If Joe and the other guys in the maintenance shed had seen someone messing with Jake’s ultralight, I’m sure they would have mentioned it.”

  Max agreed. “They were eager to help. Jake was their friend and coworker. They weren’t holding anything back as far as I could tell.”

  I trusted Max’s assessment of the situation. He’d put in his time as a college professor and knew the age-group. He could smell a lie or even a twisted truth a mile off. If he thought the guys in the hangar had told him everything they knew, they almost certainly had.

  “Did you ask them who has acces
s to the hangar?” I asked. “And when? Do they lock it? Who has a key? Do they have separate locks for their tools and equipment? Have they had any break-ins? Are there security cameras? What about the parking lot?”

  “Whoa! One question at a time. David and I touched on some of that. It seems theft has not been much of a problem. A number of people have keys and come and go at all hours without signing in or swiping into a security system. It’s a fully equipped shop, so some folks even bring in projects they’re working on that have nothing to do with their aircraft. There are some security cameras, but they’re mostly for show—to give the impression of a high-tech system. The guys I talked to weren’t sure the cameras still worked. One of the lenses pointed straight up at the ceiling.”

  “I guess that’s par for the course,” I said. “I’m always surprised when the CCTV footage on TV is crystal clear. Still, I might go back to the airport tomorrow and double check to see whether there are tapes or digital recordings of the camera feeds. I’ll also find out if there was any point at which someone would have known Jake wouldn’t be around. Do we know if he and Jen took a vacation recently?”

  “What are you thinking?” Max asked.

  “That if I wanted to damage a metal propeller, I’d need some kind of noisy cutting tool to do it. And I’d need to fill the gash with something, sand the whole thing smooth, and paint it. That would take time. I’d want to be sure no one else was around so I didn’t have to answer questions, and I’d want to be sure the paint had time to dry before Jake came back.”

  “I’m not sure about ultralights, but I think regular aircraft are required to keep maintenance records and notes. Everyone says Jake was so meticulous. He might have kept records whether they were required or not. I wonder if he’d had the propeller off for maintenance recently. If Jake didn’t service props himself, we may be looking at another location.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.” I pulled the blanket more closely around me.

  “Well, if I’d sent a part off to an expert for refurbishing and maintenance, and my life depended on that part, I’d use someone I trusted. I’d check it afterwards, of course, but if it looked a little different from the way it normally did, I’d assume that the appearance had something to do with some buffing or polishing process the expert had performed.”