by Lisa Jackson
“And you think it’s Vera?” She thought about her aunt, with her intense Christian beliefs. “She raised me, Noah. At least for a few years after Didi took off. If she’d wanted me dead, she had ample opportunity to knock me off. I’m not afraid of her, but I sure as hell want to hear what she has to say for herself.”
“What about the others?”
Jensen and the uncle she’d never met.
She gazed down pointedly at his hand, which still held her tight. “I want answers, don’t you?”
He loosened his grip and said succinctly, “I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER 27
The publisher caved.
Or at least the lawyer for the Stumptown Press in Portland called, talked to Settler, and promised to send, via e-mail, a copy of the publishing contract for I’m Not Me. He’d been reticent and full of bluster, but in the end, facing a subpoena and with the publisher’s consent, the lawyer was mailing the contract to Settler’s account at the station.
“It’s a start,” she said to Martinez as they climbed into the department-issued Crown Vic. Settler got behind the wheel as Martinez flashed his hallmark smile and said, “We may catch the fucker yet.”
Actually, they had more than a start.
Though it would take weeks for blood analysis to determine what kind of psychotropic drugs may have been in Karen Upgarde’s system, the trace evidence had been examined, and a partial tablet containing Rohypnol had been discovered in the fibers and dirt vacuumed from Upgarde’s hotel room. No one who knew her thought Karen would ever willingly take a roofie, the common name for the date-rape drug, but it could have been slipped into anything she drank. Time would tell when the blood analysis was complete.
And then there were the pictures of the shadows in the room. With increased enhancement, the second picture they’d received showed that there had definitely been a person in the room with Karen when she “jumped.” It was only a matter of time before they found the son of a bitch.
Better yet, they’d discovered a glitch in the phone records: Jensen Gibbs had stupidly or maybe by error called Karen Upgarde over a year ago, then hung up. A prepaid phone, a burner, called her seconds later. The department was trying to ID it or the person who had bought it at the store from which it had been purchased.
And Jennifer Reliant, the agent on the Didi Storm tell-all book, had contacted the police and was due to meet them at the station just as soon as they were finished with Robb Quade, the lying bellhop, whose story had changed quite a bit since his original interview.
But Ned Crenshaw still hadn’t roused to consciousness, and according to the doctor she’d spoken with earlier, there was no indication that he would awaken soon. Detective Ladlow in Sacramento had echoed the doctor’s words but had promised to call her the second he heard of any change in Ned Crenshaw’s condition.
Once Martinez was inside the Crown Vic, the door slammed shut, and all buckled in, Settler drove them out of the lot into the gray San Francisco morning. The sky was silvery, and though it wasn’t quite raining, there was enough moisture in the air that she had to use her interval wipers. They were heading back to the Montmort to interview Quade, as apparently the bellboy’s conscience had gotten to him, and he now had more information on the person whom he’d let inside the room next to Karen Upgarde’s, the room with the connecting door.
She was caught by a red light and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as pedestrians—some with umbrellas, others with shopping bags, others on cell phones—flowed in both directions within the crosswalk. The skyscrapers surrounding the street knifed upward into the overcast sky, and Settler fought her impatience.
They were getting close to cracking the Upgarde case; she could feel it, and it made it hard to sit idling, the first car at a light. As the signal turned, she was about to step on the gas when a young businessman, carrying a computer case, his coat billowing behind him, flew in front of her car, racing to reach the opposite curb. The car beside her started, then hit the brakes and banged on his horn, while Settler’s heart beat a little faster.
“Guess he’s late for a meeting,” Martinez drawled.
“Could’ve been way late.”
* * *
“Remmi?” Aunt Vera said from the other side of the screen door. She seemed about to faint at the sight of her niece on the doorstep of the same cottage where Remmi had spent most of her less-than-happy high school years. The house was now a gun-metal gray that matched the morning sky. Though the loose board Remmi remembered on the step had been fixed, the yard was still untended, a crow picking through the tufts of grass, dry leaves, and dozens of walnuts still in their oversized green skins.
Even through the battered screen, Remmi saw that Vera, like the house, had aged. Her dishwater-blond hair was now turning gray, her eyelids sagged a little, a few more wrinkles had formed around her mouth, and her waist was a bit thicker than it had been. In jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she forced a smile. “What a surprise!” she said, reaching for the delicate chain of gold with its tiny cross that still dangled from her neck.
Remmi didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I want to talk to you about the book.”
Her gaze moved from Remmi to Noah. “The book?” she said, as if she didn’t know what they were talking about.
“About Mom. I’m Not Me.”
She visibly started, then inhaled slowly as if trying to pull herself together. “Didi,” Vera said flatly. “Always Didi.”
“This is Noah Scott,” Remmi introduced.
Vera’s body stiffened. Obviously, she knew the name.
The sound of a truck’s engine cut through the morning air, and Vera looked up sharply as a small tow truck wheeled into the driveway, startling the crow. Cawing loudly, it flapped wildly to perch on a branch in the walnut tree.
Jensen Gibbs cut the engine and, after throwing open the door, hopped down from the cab. He, too, was heavier than she remembered, his blond hair thinning, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
He spied Remmi and he grinned. “Holy sh—,” he started but caught a warning glance from his mother behind the door. “Remmi? Criminy, I never thought I’d see you again.” He actually broke into a smile as he tossed his cigarette into the grass, stomped on it, then strode up the cracked cement of the walkway. “What is this? Some kind of freakin’ family reunion or something?”
“Watch your mouth,” his mother warned.
“I said ‘freakin.’ Holy crap, girl, what’re you doing here?” He actually appeared glad to see her.
“I wanted to talk to Vera. About the book.”
“The one about your mom?” he asked, bounding up the steps. “I read it. It was pretty good.”
“You read it?”
“Hell, yeah. I wanted to find out all about that ‘mysterious’ aunt who disappeared.” Smelling of smoke, he actually gave Remmi a hug when he reached the front porch, then stuck his hand out to Noah. “Jensen Gibbs.”
Noah introduced himself, and Jensen’s eyes narrowed. “You were in the book, too. Well, come on in. Ma, watcha doin’ standin’ in the doorway?”
“I was going out to church.”
“When you’re supposed to be watchin’ Monty? No way.” He strode inside and held the screen door open for them to pass.
Reluctantly, Vera backed up a step.
Jensen explained. “Monty’s my son.”
“You have a kid?” Remmi was surprised.
“Sure do. Didn’t you tell them?” he asked his mother as Remmi and Noah followed him into the living room, with Vera bringing up the rear. The same worn furniture and pictures of Jesus were in place, just as Remmi remembered, though now, along with pictures of Jesus on the mantel, there were several photos of a smiling, bald baby. An overflowing basket of toys sat near the recliner facing the television. “Where’s Monty?” Jensen asked his mother. “Napping?” Before she could answer, Jensen waved Remmi down the hall.
“Don’t you dare wake him!” Vera hisse
d. “He was fussy, just went down.” She hurried after Remmi and her son down the hallway.
Remmi’s stomach tightened as she peeked into the room where she had once spent those miserable high school years. The room had been painted a soft blue, while the bed, wall posters, and awful carpet had been stripped away and replaced by new carpeting and a crib with a mobile of Disney characters mounted over it. Within the crib, sleeping soundly, was a chubby baby of about nine months. With only a bit of blond fuzz for hair, Monty lay on his back in a gray onesie that announced in bold blue letters: I love Grandma.
“He’s the best,” Jensen gushed as he ushered them back into the hallway. “Already pulling himself up. Probably will start walking soon. He’s getting ready.”
“He’s adorable,” Remmi agreed, though she never in a thousand years would have thought the surly teenager Jensen had once been would morph into a doting father. What were the chances? And yet he seemed a new person. Remmi found it nearly impossible to believe that the boy who’d belittled and made fun of her in high school and who, she was certain, had stolen the money she’d hidden behind the cupboard on the back porch, had grown into this new version of himself. But a long time had passed, and Jensen had matured somewhere along the way. Probably in large part due to Monty’s birth. Fatherhood must’ve been the making of him.
Jensen was waxing on about how great his kid was, revealing that even though he and Monty’s mom had never married, and had since split completely, they were “cool with each other.”
Back in the living room, he asked Remmi and Noah, “Can I grab you a beer or Coke? Oh, I think we only have diet—Mom’s vice of choice.”
Noah said, “I’m good.” Remmi shook her head, and Vera looked absolutely apoplectic as she sat down heavily into her favorite rocker.
“I don’t think they’re staying,” she said while her son disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an open can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Remmi said, “We won’t be long. We just have a few questions.”
“Yeah, you said so. About the book, right?” Jensen asked. “Fire away.” Again, he made waving motions suggesting they all sit down. For himself, he grabbed a dining room chair, twisted it around, and straddled it. Remmi took the hint and sat in one corner of the same couch she remembered from her high school years. Noah stood by the fireplace.
For her part, Vera looked guilty as sin. Not so her eldest son.
“So, where’s Harley?” she asked.
Vera stopped rocking. “In Alaska, working on a fishing boat.”
“He’ll probably stay up there,” Jensen added. “Loves all the huntin’ and fishin’. The big outdoors, you know. Got himself a girlfriend, and they’re talking marriage, I guess. We haven’t met her. Wonder if we ever will.”
“Of course we will. When they get married,” Vera said, giving Jensen the old stink eye, one Remmi suspected he’d received often, since her son had become a single father who had never bothered to walk down the aisle. As ever, Jensen appeared impervious to his mother.
“And Milo?” Remmi persisted.
Vera was quick to answer. “He’s not here. Working.”
“On the road,” Jensen said. “Supposed to be home in a couple of days.” He grinned through his blondish beard stubble. “Can’t wait. Dad and me’re takin’ Monty to his first monster truck rally.”
Vera sighed, long-suffering, and for once, Remmi agreed with her aunt. She couldn’t imagine a baby under a year old at an event filled with huge trucks on massive wheels with excruciatingly loud engines.
“I said I’d take care of him,” Vera reminded. “Monty doesn’t have to go with you.”
Jensen waved her off. “Forget it. You do enough.” He took a big slug from his beer, then said, “Mom watches Monty while I’m workin’ at the tow company or sometimes at night when I take a class out at the junior college.”
Jensen. Work. College. A father. It was still hard to fathom.
“Billy lives here, too, right?” Remmi asked.
Vera sat up straighter. “Billy?”
“Your brother. The uncle I’ve never met. We know he lives here.”
“Out in the garage,” Jensen said, hooking a thumb toward the back of the house. “Him and Dad built a kind of bachelor pad out there. It’s cool. Has a bitchin’ monster flat screen. Great place to chill, have a few brewskies, and watch the Niners play.”
“It’s temporary,” Vera said quickly and threw her son a dark look. “Bill’s just getting on his feet after a bad breakup and . . . financial problems.”
“He went banco,” Jensen said. “What, twice? Maybe three times?” he asked his mother.
“That woman’s fault,” Vera said defensively. “Until Bill gets back on his feet, Milo and I said he could stay here.”
“Is he working now?” Remmi asked.
Jensen answered, “Yeah. Down at Tiny’s Tackle Shop. But he got a couple days off.”
Remmi absorbed that. “Do you know where Uncle Milo is now, specifically?” Remmi asked.
“Of course, I do!” Vera acted as if Remmi had impugned her somehow. “For the most part, he has a schedule. It’s pretty routine, only changes a little around the holidays and sometimes in the summer. This week he’s in Montana.” She got out of the rocker in a hurry and bustled through an open archway to the kitchen. She paused near a calendar hanging on the wall next to the back door. Muttering under her breath, she leaned closer, then snagged a pair of reading glasses from the windowsill over the sink and plopped them onto the end of her nose. “Yes. Western Montana and Idaho.”
“Still selling farm equipment?” Remmi asked.
“Is the pope Catholic?” Jensen responded, finishing his beer and squashing the can in a meaty fist. “But that’s the kicker, isn’t it? He’s never farmed that I know of.” He tossed the can over his shoulder, and it landed in a trash can. “Another trey!”
From the kitchen, Vera said, “Milo knows farming inside and out. Grew up with it, long before you were born, Jensen. He worked his dad’s place before going into the service.”
“That’s in Anderstown, Missouri,” Noah said.
“Well, near there. Milo’s family lived to the south of town, my parents’ place was to the west.” Folding the reading glasses, she returned to the living room, stopping to pick up a red block and toss it into an overflowing basket of toys. “I don’t know what this has to do with anything.” She focused her judgmental gaze on Remmi. “You know what your uncle does for a living. You lived with us. We put a roof over your head when that fly-by-night mother of yours bailed on you.”
Remmi couldn’t help but feel a sting at that barb, and she saw the anger, maybe even pain, in her aunt’s eyes, the same emotion that was always there just under the surface whenever Didi’s name came up. Of course, Remmi understood how Aunt Vera felt about her younger sister; Remmi had been told enough times. Vera saw herself as the responsible daughter to her parents, while Didi, who was slightly prettier and sexier and a lot more hedonistic, had left her parents and Anderstown to seek her fame and fortune under the bright lights of Hollywood, and it had all devolved to a sad and tawdry tale of another fame seeker whose big dreams had never been fulfilled.
* * *
“What the hell’s going on?” Buzz O’Day demanded as he climbed out of his truck, jammed his hard hat onto his head, and crossed the gravel lot to the construction site. The wind was kicking up, sand and dust swirling, the winter sun beating down. Nevada in winter. That was the trouble with this place—warm enough during the day, for sure, but cold as a witch’s tit at night. Freezing. But he could deal with the weather; it was the other stuff that got to him.
He’d had a bad night at home, his teenage daughter sneaking out to be with her boyfriend and showing up at five-damned-o’clock in the morning, rumpled, her top on inside out, looking like she’d been making out all night. Did she even know about condoms? Would he have to be the one to offer them up? O’Day’s wife was a wreck about the whole thing
and looked to him for help, for God’s sake, so he sure as hell didn’t need any problems today at work.
But it looked like he was getting his fair share.
“We struck something,” his assistant, Ramon Valdez, said. “In the pit. Something big.”
“Big like a boulder? Big like an elephant? Big like a casino? What?”
“I think you need to see for yourself.”
“Just tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense, for crying out loud. I’m not in the mood today, Ramon.” He’d had enough melodrama for one twenty-four-hour period, catching his daughter trying to sneak back into the house while that douchebag of a dropout boyfriend had driven off. God, what a scene. His wife had never quit crying, nor had his daughter.
That’s what he got living with two females, he told himself as he passed through the makeshift fence surrounding the excavation. The job was already behind schedule, and he didn’t need any further delays on this project about a mile from the outskirts of Las Vegas. A new “planned community” was in the making. Three hundred homes in five “unique” models, two clubhouses, a golf course, a spa, and three restaurants. Just what Las Vegas needed.
If they could ever get the project moving. Right now, the backhoe was idling loudly, the operator appearing frozen at the controls, the scoop of the articulated arm filled with debris that slowly trickled from beneath the bucket’s teeth.
O’Day was already sweating as he reached the edge of the area where the machinery had scraped the land, a layer of raw earth exposed in a deep hole.
“What the hell is that?” he asked as he squinted against the sun glinting on what appeared to be the metal fender of a huge car.
“I think it’s a 1957 Cadillac,” Ramon told him.
“A Caddy? And you can tell the year?”
Ramon shrugged. “I’m a classic car buff.”
“For the love of Christ, I don’t care what it is. What the hell’s it doing there?”
“Beats me.”
“Well, get it out of there.” He hooked his thumb and thrust it over his shoulder, to indicate yanking the car out. Classic or not, it had to go.
