that called?” a man asked, emerging from an opening screen door before I’d reached the porch. He was a big man with a big belly and a round head.
“Ray Courage.”
“I’m Frank Fields, but you can call me Papa. Everybody does. Come on in.”
I followed him through the living room to the kitchen where a gray-haired woman in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt was loading the dishwasher.
“This is my wife, Doris. Doris, this is the guy who called earlier.”
She nodded, looking at me warily, a profound sadness unmistakable in her eyes. I smiled and introduced myself. She nodded again and returned to the dishes, turning her back to me. The old Ray Courage charm at work yet again.
“I’ve got some chores to get done, so I hope you don’t mind talking while I work,” Papa said.
I followed him through the kitchen door to the back yard. We walked along a crushed granite path bisecting the dirt yard and leading to a large barn at the back. The two horses watched us as we passed.
“Look at ’em. They know they’re gonna get fed.”
We reached the barn, where Papa hoisted a pitchfork and began loading oat straw and long strands of green grass into a large wheelbarrow.
“Okay, now that the missus isn’t within earshot, tell me what this bullshit is about the insurance company taking a second look at my daughter’s death.” He stopped loading the hay and regarded me, jaw clenched. All of a sudden, homespun Wilford Brimley turned into Al Pacino. He now seemed as tough as a two-dollar steak.
“We just wanted to see if anything new might turn up. I don’t mean to upset you or imply that we have anything, but we wanted to take a fresh look.”
“You’re not answering my question. If you’re saying that you think that slime ball husband of hers killed my daughter, then I’m all ears. I’ve been saying that from day one. Just nobody can prove it.”
“I’m looking at that, yes.”
“But you said you don’t have anything new?”
“Not really. There are some things that I want to explore further, so I can get a better picture of things two years ago.”
“Like what?”
“For one, I’d like to know more about Garrett and Tiffanie. How did they meet? What was their marriage like?”
He resumed loading the wheelbarrow. “Have you seen my daughter?”
“Pictures.” In addition to the accident-scene photos, there were two headshots of Tiffanie in the case file.
“So then you know she was a looker. Men were always chasing her. She loved that, always leading them on. Met that bastard at a polo match of all things. Fundraiser that her company sponsored, and she liked horses and all. She was serving wine, and this Garrett sees her, and next thing you know they’re dating. A year later they were married.”
“How long were they married?”
“When she died, it was just after their fourth anniversary,” he said, his voice cracking. He shot a hand to his mouth and blinked back tears. “Sorry. It still hurts. I still can’t believe it.”
“I understand. I’m so sorry. My apologies for bringing this up all over again.” I bit my lower lip, feeling the man’s grief. I’d lost my wife. He’d lost his daughter. Even years later, the pain from such tragedies sometimes hit so hard it almost doubled you over. Tiffanie had been a real person, but all I had were a couple of photographs, descriptions of her on paper, and a summary of what caused her death. Now I saw how her life touched others, the people who loved her most. Her life had given her parents joy and love; her death had banished those emotions, leaving behind only emptiness, an emptiness that could never be refilled.
New tears came and several seconds passed before he composed himself, wiping his eyes with the top of his sleeve. “If it means you’ll nail him, then I have no problem with you bringing it up. What else do you want to know?”
“How would you characterize the marriage the years they were together?”
“The year before they were married, and the first year or so afterwards, were good. Tiffanie seemed truly happy.” He shook his head, slowly, as if recalling some image from the past. “My wife and I never liked him. He was arrogant, thought we were a couple of stupid hicks living out here like we do.” He stopped using the pitchfork and stuck it in the ground in front of him. “About six months before…before it happened, Tiffanie came home to see us. She was crying. Said she thought Garrett was cheating on her and didn’t know what to do about it. We told her to talk to a divorce lawyer then tell Garrett she wanted a divorce.”
“Did she do that? Talk to a lawyer and tell her husband?”
“Yep. Sure did.”
“Did she tell you what Garrett’s reaction was?”
“She said he wouldn’t let her divorce him. He did say he’d stop seeing the other woman. I don’t know that he did or not, but Tiffanie didn’t go through with the divorce, at least not at first. Then she started seeing that carpenter up in Tahoe. We found out about it and told her to stop. But she said he treated her really well, not at all like Garrett did. I suppose in a way, it helped her confidence. She said now that she had someone who loved her, she could go through with the divorce and move in with this boyfriend.”
“Do you know if she told Garrett the second time about wanting to divorce him? You know, after she started seeing Harley Cowan?”
He shook his head. “No idea. We never talked with her again after she told us her plans.”
“One last question, and I’m sorry if it’s a little indelicate. Whatever became of Tiffanie’s engagement and wedding rings?”
He snorted. “Garrett got them. We never even thought about them. Then the SOB had them delivered to us a couple of weeks after the funeral. UPS truck drives up one day, brings us a small box. Inside are the two rings. No note or anything. I don’t know why he’d do that. We didn’t know if he thought we wanted them for sentimental reasons, or if we wanted to sell them, or if he was thumbing his nose at us. We never could figure it out. He knew we hated his guts, so he never called or contacted us to explain.”
That puzzled me for a moment, then it made perfect sense after I turned it around in my head. “What did you end up doing with those rings?”
“I threw them in the God damned river. They didn’t remind us of Tiffanie. They reminded us of him.”
12
I caught the eleven fifty-five Southwest flight from Sacramento to Portland, touching down in Oregon on schedule at one twenty in the afternoon. I toted an overnight bag to the Enterprise Car Rental counter, though I hoped to be able to fly back to Sacramento later that afternoon. I’d promised Rubia I’d relieve her at the Say Hey and close it for the night, saving her from a thirteen-hour day behind the bar.
I was used to driving my compact Japanese sedan in Sacramento, but the only car left on the Enterprise lot was a black Dodge Charger. At first, the car seemed too beefy and unwieldy. After driving it several miles, I started to enjoy its horsepower, unabashed masculinity, and rich aroma of new car and leather. I cranked up George Thorogood and the Destroyers on the radio, pulled into the fast lane, and checked my sunglasses in the rearview. Ray Courage, Bad Ass Dude. Rubia would’ve taken one look at me in that car and fallen down in laughter.
Low, gray clouds stretched across the sky, patches of bright blue peeking through, here and there, as I drove south on I-5 towards Salem. I passed lush rolling hills packed with dense stands of trees, clicking by small town after small town. Crestwood. Lake Forest. Wilsonville. Donald. Northgate. Highland. In the light afternoon traffic, the drive took less than an hour. The first order of business was lunch; my only meal thus far today had been an apple and cup of coffee I scarfed down before my nine o’clock visit with Tiffanie’s parents.
I found a place called Cozzies, a sandwich spot run by a very engaging couple, Dave and Deb Cozzie. I ordered the bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado on sourdough. While I awaited my order, I browsed a bulletin board near the front door. A few apartments were listed for rent or to
share, the rates much lower than the Sacramento market’s. A Willamette University football schedule showed they had a game coming up against Linfield College. There were two flyers advertising an open-mic comedy competition in two days. I raised an eyebrow when I noticed one of the competition’s sponsors was none other than Bate Realtors.
I devoured the sandwich and vowed that if I ever returned to Salem, I’d make Cozzies a regular haunt.
The state capital boasted scores of historic buildings dating back to the city’s origins in the 1840s. Except for the new model cars on the street, I could’ve been in the middle of the twentieth, or even nineteenth, century. I parked downtown on Liberty Street, near the intersection at State Street, and walked halfway up the block, spotting the arched gilt lettering of Bate Realtors. The building was at least a hundred years old. The lower half of the two-story building was made of brick, punctuated with large picture windows under billowing brown canvas canopies. The windows afforded clear views inside several businesses housed in the quarter-block long structure. Through the glass at Bate Realtors, I could see five empty desks and an older man working at a desktop computer. On their front door, I noticed a flyer like the ones at Cozzies advertising the upcoming comedy competition.
The man looked up from the computer and gave me a friendly smile when I entered.
“I’m looking for Jake Bate. Do you expect him soon?” I
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