Hard Rain

by Waverly Fitzgerald

  “It wasn’t easy,” I started to say, but she cut me off.

  “Never mind. We can’t talk here. Let’s go have a drink.”

  She gestured at a bar across the highway. It was one of those long, low buildings made of concrete blocks, with no windows in front, just a neon sign above the door that read Captain’s Cave. There were a few pick-up trucks and a Jeep parked in front of it.

  We waited for an opening in the traffic and ran across the highway. I couldn’t believe I had found her. And I was a little nervous about what she would say. But I didn’t think she would pull out the gun again.

  The place was mostly deserted. A few customers sitting at the polished wooden bar, hunched over their drinks. A bartender pulling some drafts of beer. And a party of loud young men playing pool in the side room. There was an empty booth in the corner and Ellie steered us towards it.

  “I’ve got to call my husband,” she said. “Tell him I’ll be home late. He worries about me.” She gave me another long soulful look. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” She headed for the hall that led to the bathrooms. For a moment I thought maybe she was making a getaway, then realized that she was going to use the pay phones. I heard the clink of the coins falling despite the loud rock music playing: Blue Oyster Cult telling us not to fear the reaper.

  The bartender came over while she was gone and I ordered lemonade. I saw him wince. He knew I wasn’t likely to be a big tipper.

  Ellie came back a few minutes later with a puzzled look on her face.

  “He’s not answering. That’s odd.” She shook her head, but settled back down in the booth, shrugging off her jacket.

  When the bartender returned with my lemonade, she frowned and shook her head. “No, this is an extraordinary moment. We’re celebrating!” Her voice was firm. “Bring us two glasses of champagne.”

  I wasn’t sure what we were celebrating and I’ve always hated champagne. Even when I was drinking. It always gave me a headache. But I nodded. Anything to keep her talking.

  “You look just like him,” she said, studying my face. “What’s your name?”

  “Rachel Stern.”

  “That’s a pretty name.” She looked wistful. “So he adopted you after all?”

  “I’m not adopted,” I said.

  The bartender returned with two flutes full of golden bubbly liquid. We clinked glasses.

  As she took a sip, she said, “I named you Sky.”

  That’s when I realized what was going on. I set down my glass. “I’m not your daughter,” I said.

  “But you look so much like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Marty.”

  “I am his daughter. But Silvia is my mother.” I set down my glass.

  “Oh, Silvia!” Her tone was exasperated. “She’s the one who was supposed to call in the warning about the ROTC and didn’t. She’s the real reason the janitor died.” Ellie lowered her voice. “Kirby Jackson.” Her voice was soft.

  I pondered her accusation. It might explain a lot. It might explain why my mother sought consolation in alcohol.

  “Are you sure you’re not…?” Her voice trailed off.

  “Of course, I’m sure.” But suddenly I wasn’t.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  I told her. May 9, 1967. “I’m a sun in Taurus, moon in Gemini.”

  “Oh!” She seemed disappointed. “I guess you’re right. Sky was born in February, February 22, 1974. She’s a double Pisces.”

  She looked down at her half-full glass. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I seem to have made a mistake.” Her voice was dull.

  “So why did you think my dad would adopt your daughter?” I asked. Even though I already knew the answer.

  Ellie paused. She took another sip of her champagne. “Our daughter.”

  My heart thumped.

  “I have a sister?”

  “Half sister,” she said.

  “Have you seen her?”

  Ellie shook her head. “Not since 1981. It would be too dangerous for me to try to find her. I’m sure the FBI is just waiting for me to look for her.”

  The bartender approached and asked if we wanted more. I shook my head. My glass was still untouched. The bubbles were all gone. Ellie waved him away.

  “I always hoped she’d find me. Although how she could—” She glanced up, her eyes sharp. “How did you find me?”

  “Boo,” I said.

  She frowned. “Well, if Boo can find me, then so can the FBI. We can’t stay here. I’ve got to go.”

  She finished her champagne.

  “Why were you looking for me?” She gathered up her jacket and her purse.

  “I’m doing research for Joel Wiseman to help you in your bid for freedom.”

  She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have tracked me down!”

  “That’s what Joel said.” Of course, I didn’t listen. I’m notorious for not listening when told to stop doing something.

  “Tell me about what happened at the Mutual Bank,” I said. I wanted to know if her story matched with Melody’s.

  Her eyes got wild. She looked around as if someone might be listening to us. “I can’t talk about that. It’s too dangerous. The person who is responsible for all those deaths is still out there walking around while I’ve been trapped underground.”

  “Does your husband know who you are?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” She was really frightened now.

  “I talked to him earlier today.”

  “Oh my God!” Ellie’s eyes grew big. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  And with that, she jumped up and ran out of the bar.

  Chapter 25

  Ellie Foley

  It began so innocently. Ellie needed a place to stay and Boo suggested she check out his platoon buddy who lived down in Astoria, Oregon. The guy had been wounded in Vietnam—lost both of his legs—and was chewing up caretakers, right and left.

  On her way, down by bus, studying the latest of her fake ID’s which identified her as Nora Ryan, Ellie came up with her cover story. She was an Irish Catholic girl who had been brought up in Minneapolis— but when her parents died in a car accident when she was thirteen, she had been adopted by her maternal grandmother who lived in Kansas. The Minneapolis part was easy since Ellie had been brought up in a small town just outside of the Twin Cities and she did have a grandmother who lived in Kansas: she spent summers there as a kid.

  Develop a cover story close to the real story. Ellie had learned this in a life spent underground. To lie effectively you had to skirt the edge of the truth.

  She really was an orphan. Her brother dead in Vietnam. Her mother dead of breast cancer. Her father dead of complications from his alcoholism. So the story wouldn’t be hard to spin.

  What was hard to figure out was the approach to Smitty. She got a motel room and watched him for a while. Saw him throw out the physical therapist who came to help him. Heard him yelling at the pizza delivery boy. Observed the pile of empty liquor bottles in his trash.

  She had to be sure he was safe. That he would not betray her. What she saw was a man who was anti-social and angry. And that was fine with her. He didn’t want to interact with the world at large, and neither did she.

  Finally about three days in, she got the nerve to knock on his door. When he snarled at her: “Who are you?” she very pleasantly said, “I was sent here by the county to check on your well-being. I’m a home care worker. My name is Nora.” And then she marched into the house and looked around.

  It was a mess. Empty beer cans, fast food bags, girlie magazines. The place stunk.

  “I didn’t ask for a home health care worker,” said Smitty. She could smell the beer on his breath. It was ten o’clock in the morning. “I don’t want one.”

  “Well, you’ve got one! They won’t pay me unless I do my job and I intend to do it!” Ellie said. She had learned the technique for dealing with belligerent people from watching her father in the bar. You neve
r back down.

  As she set about cleaning up. Smitty followed her around in his wheel chair grumbling but even he couldn’t resist the opportunity to have an attractive woman in his house—she had made sure to wear her tightest fitting jeans and a tight t-shirt—and that’s how it began. She told him the county would pay to have her live with him and do his grocery shopping and cleaning. He believed that and cleaned up the back bedroom so she could sleep there. She had originally planned to stay for a few weeks, maybe a few months, and then take off again. She knew the only way to stay underground was to keep moving.

  But she fell in love. It was unfortunate but true. Smitty was a sweetheart under his ravaged exterior and as he perceived her fondness for him, he began to clean up his life in ways that amazed her. He stopped drinking. He started attending AA meetings. He was an excellent cook. He loved nothing more than to spoil her with decadent desserts: a velvety cheesecake, a fluffy mousse, rosewater-flavored caramel. Plus he was an excellent lover: “the best!” she told him and she meant it.

  When he asked her to marry him, that was her chance. She could have told him then, who she was, why it was impossible. But she had begun to dream about living a normal life. A quiet life. A sheltered life. Smitty didn’t need other people. Just her. Plus she knew it would break his heart if she told him the truth. He was such an innocent in so many ways. He had taken her in, had nourished her and fed her and praised her and all the time he was unaware of who she really was, of what she had done. She feared that if she told him the truth he would collapse back into the despair in which she had found him. She feared that if she told him the truth he would kick her out and she would be on the run again. She feared that if she told him the truth, he would look at her with the contempt she felt she deserved.

  So she went along with it. Somehow, miraculously the paperwork went through. Nora Ryan did exist. She had been twenty years old when she died in Minnesota in a car accident in 1969. So she was a few years older than Ellie, which made Ellie a few years older than Smitty. They joked about that. About how she was the older woman taking advantage of the young stud. Actually she was five years younger than him. Another lie. Another betrayal.

  And any way by then she justified it. She had become Nora Ryan. She was living Nora Ryan’s life. She was doing good in the world. She was happy and she deserved to be happy. But all the while, she knew it wouldn’t last, couldn’t last. And when she set in motion the events that brought Rachel Stern to her door, she knew she was going to have to tell Smitty some day. She just wanted the chance to tell him herself.

  As she pulled into the driveway, she heard the Jimi Hendrix music playing. The stereo was turned up to full volume. That was odd. Smitty was usually more considerate of the neighbors. Maybe the visit earlier from a member of his old platoon had brought back dark memories.

  Chapter 26

  After Ellie rushed out, I sat there for a while. Then I paid our bill and left the bar. The red van was gone when I reached the parking lot. I sat in my Jeep, watching the sun set. There were a few puffy deep blue clouds in the sky. Closer to the horizon the sky was streaked with blue, then orange, then gold. The thin film of water at the shoreline acted like a mirror, reflecting back the colors of the sky. Little birds skittered across it in flocks.

  The sun disappeared behind the water. Winked out in a second. I realized I had been sitting there for a long time. It was time to go. Go back to Seattle. I had found Ellie. And I had learned: nothing about her. She was living happily as a married woman under an assumed name selling biscotti in Astoria, Oregon.

  But something about the way that Ellie acted had bothered me. What if she had been lying to Smitty all these years? What would she do to keep her secret? What would he do if he found out he had been used? I had seen that flash of anger. Momentary but there.

  I decided to swing by Smitty’s on my way out of town. Check to be sure everything was OK. But I knew as soon as I got close to his street that everything was not OK.

  The road was blocked by police cars. Their flashing blue lights cut through the darkness. I did a quick U-turn and found a place to park in the next block, right behind a van bearing the initials of a news channel. Then I walked back towards Smitty’s red-and-white cottage. I could see yellow crime scene tape wound around the hedge of the neighbor’s house and looped over the red van which was parked in the driveway.

  There were a few people standing just outside the crime tape, watching uniformed policemen passing in and out of the house or gathering in groups on the small lawn.

  A female reporter was interviewing a tall, thin man with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked a bit like Joel. My heart sank thinking about how Joel would react if Ellie was dead. Was it my fault? Had I somehow led the killers to her? I edged closer to hear the man’s words.

  “He was a great guy,” he said. “Pretty quiet. Kept to himself.”

  “They’re saying it might be a suicide,” the reporter said.

  The guy shrugged his shoulders. “I would be surprised,” he said. “He didn’t seem to be depressed. He was always smiling and waving when I saw him on the street. Of course, you never know.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  The guy shook his head. “Just the music. He had it turned up really high. Louder than usual. In fact, I went over there to ask him to turn it down. That’s when I found him.”

  “Describe that,” said the reporter.

  The guy blanched. “It was awful. He was sitting slumped over in his wheelchair, with a huge hole in his head.”

  “What about a gun? Did he have a gun in his hand?”

  “I didn’t really look. I just got out of there and called 911.”

  “And you say he’s married?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s his wife?”

  “I don’t know. She should be home.” He looked over at the van. “That’s her ride.”

  “Is it possible she killed him?”

  The guy shook his head quickly. “No. I don’t think so. They were a great couple. I never heard them fight.”

  “That’s what they always say,” muttered the woman next to me. She had a pasty complexion and wore a shapeless brown cardigan. She hugged her mid-section with her arms, though it wasn’t cold outside.

  “Did you know them?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, I live just a few houses down,” she said.

  “What were they like?”

  “He’s in a wheel chair. Got shot in Vietnam. Collects disability. The wife kept to herself. Oh, she’d nod at you on the street but she never let anyone get close to her. She took care of him. That’s how they met. I always thought it was odd, such an attractive woman marrying a cripple. No possibility of kids. Always fetching and carrying for him. Maybe she just got tired of it.”

  I approached the policeman whose job it was to keep the crowd of onlookers behind the crime scene tape.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Death under suspicious circumstances. We’ll learn more after we do the autopsy and analyze the evidence.”

  “Who died?”

  “Can’t release the name until we contact the next-of-kin.”

  That might take a while since Ellie would not want to be found.

  “Is there a suicide note?”

  “Can’t answer that.”

  Just then the front door opened and a gurney appeared. It was being wheeled out by four men in uniforms. They looked like pallbearers at a funeral. On the gurney was a lumpy white plastic bag. They loaded the gurney and its burden into the back of a white van idling in front of the house.

  I watched in horror. It was hard to imagine that Smitty lay inside that bag. I had just been talking to him a few hours before. I wondered if Ellie had killed him. Maybe she came back home and they argued. Maybe Smitty threatened her with a gun and she took it away from him and shot him.

  Or maybe I was the cause. Maybe the Hendrix killer had followed me down f
rom Bellingham to Astoria and I had led him straight to Smitty.

  The news reporter had finished with her interview and was addressing the camera. “Once again, we’re on the scene of a suspicious death. A man was found dead in his home. His wife is missing. We’ll bring you up to date on this crime investigation as soon as we have more information. Stay tuned to—”

  I grabbed the neighbor’s arm as he turned to walk away.

  “Can you tell me what music was playing?”

  He looked at me like maybe I was crazy.

  “I think it might be important,” I said.

  He thought about it for a minute. “Something from the Sixties. Hendrix, I think.” And he hummed a few bars of “Hey, Joe.”

  I got chills. Yes, where was he going with that gun in his hand? Ellie had a gun. I had just seen it about an hour earlier.

  “What time?” I asked, desperate as the neighbor turned to go back into his house.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What time did you find him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a half hour ago,” he said.

  Unfortunately that was just within the time frame. Ellie could have returned home, shot Smitty and taken off. It would have been tight but it was possible. And what if she had come home and found him dead? She couldn’t stay around to answer questions. She would be on the run. Either way.

  “So why no music now?”

  Again he looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I guess the police turned it off!”

  “How long had it been playing?”

  The man considered that question more thoughtfully. “You’re right. You’re asking some good questions. Someone could have turned up the stereo to cover the sound of the gunshots.” He looked me up and down. I probably didn’t look very professional with my hair all frizzed out from the sea air and my clothes rumpled from hours in the car. “Who are you anyway?”

  “Private investigator out of Seattle,” I said. I pulled out my card. “I’m working on a case which involves multiple murders associated with Jimi Hendrix music,” I said.