“Okay, but I’ll be back.
“I look forward to when we meet again. Happy trails.”
At the southern boundary of Carmel, I stopped for gas. In the minimart, I purchased a few bottles of water, a bag of Sun Chips, and a giant chocolate chip cookie.
Back in the car, I swigged some water and nibbled on the cookie wondering where the hell I was going and why. I recalled the line, “You can run, but you can’t hide,” and thought how true that is. Sooner or later, I would have to deal with the Josh dilemma.
I headed north through Carmel on Highway One, and in a few miles, it dumped me onto the 101 freeway. I passed through Salinas, “The salad bowl of the world,” Gilroy, “The garlic capital of the world,” and San Jose, “The capital of Silicon Valley.”
In Mountain View, I exited the freeway and turned north onto El Camino Real in search of sustenance. I found an In-N-Out Burger and went through the drive-through, then parked under a tree to eat my fries and figure out where I was going. After checking Google maps, I realized we were close to the former home of Erin’s grandparents. I asked my phone, “Siri? How far to Atherton, California?”
“Thirty minutes on U.S. 101 North. Twenty-five minutes via Alma Street.”
I typed in Cranston Lane, Atherton into the GPS app, and chose the quickest route.
Siri hadn’t taken traffic into account. I suppose at three in the morning it’s only twenty-five minutes, but it wound up taking more like forty-five.
Since I’d traversed Cranston Lane via Google Street View at home, I thought I knew what it looked like. But the reality was way beyond the virtual. At the end of the road, I did a U-turn and ogled the other side of the lane, wondering which palatial estate had been the Cranston home.
I stopped and checked on my phone for pet-friendly hotels in the area. The Comfort Plaza in Palo Alto had semi-affordable rooms available, so I called and booked one. It was too early to check in, so I thought it would be fun to do some window shopping at the Stanford Shopping Center. I hadn’t been there in years, but it’s my favorite mall.
I parked near The Pottery Barn, and then we strolled into the center of the outdoor mall. Daisy was patient with me while I drooled over the cute clothes in the windows. A saleslady in the Coach shop saw me ogling a fabulous yellow bag and beckoned me in. But the only store Daisy frequents is PetSmart, where she can act like an idiot and no one cares, so I shook my head. I couldn’t afford to buy anything in that shop, anyway.
We continued on toward the west end of the mall where Neiman Marcus loomed ahead. At the entrance, a stout fiftyish female was sweet-talking her obese brown Labradoodle through the doors.
“Mommy wants to shop for shoesies, Freddy,” she said in a baby voice, tugging his leash. “Please, baby? For Mommy?”
Fred plunked his rear end down, and the woman growled, “Move it or lose it, Fred.”
“Come on, Daisy. Let’s watch poor old Fred through the window, and see how he’s doing.”
The miserable dog shuffled toward footwear and then my attention shifted to a slender, well-dressed brunette at one of the cosmetic counters. I could only see her back, but there was something familiar about her perfect posture and the way she gestured with her slim hands as she spoke.
“No. It can’t be. No way. She’s in Costa Rica. But that woman’s hair looks just like Erin’s. And her height and build and mannerisms—no, I’m imagining things.”
The woman on the other side of the window was at least twenty feet away, so I had to be mistaken—or hallucinating. But I could not tear my eyes away. “Come on. Turn around so I can see you’re not her.”
She shoved her credit card into the payment terminal, and I waited, tapping my foot while butterflies dive-bombed in my tummy. The transaction ended, and the woman walked around the counter to the middle aisle, going deeper into the store.
“Dammit. I need to see her face.”
I stepped to the entrance. As the automatic doors whooshed open, Daisy skittered back and yawned several times. She always does that when she’s nervous.
“Honey. The doors won’t hurt you. It’s just like the pet store, remember?”
She looked at me like I was nuts but followed me with her tail tucked between her legs. The woman was nearing the escalator, but Daisy had her heart set on catching up with Fred in the shoe department and tugged to the left.
“No, baby. We have to go this way.” I towed her along, watching the woman stop and read the store directory at the foot of the escalator. “Please don’t go up,” I muttered.
She set a gold stiletto sandal on the first step and began her ascent.
Daisy had panicked at the automatic sliding glass doors, so how was I going to coax her onto the escalator? And what if her toenails got stuck in the metal step grooves? Would she jerk away and send us both tumbling down the moving stairs? I couldn’t risk it, so we hung back, hiding behind an anorexic mannequin, hoping the woman would glance around and give me a view of her face. The mystery woman stepped off on the second floor and turned left.
Dammit. I squatted next to Daisy, rubbing her neck. “Hey, girl. Are you up for a super fun, new experience?”
Her tail wagged limply, and she yawned three times.
“Oh yeah. That’s my girl. Let’s go have some fun.”
Her leash stretched taut as I dragged her across the shiny, terrazzo floor toward the escalator. A few people threw me nasty looks, and I couldn’t have agreed with them more. But what if, for some insane reason, that woman was Erin and I let her get away?
“Young lady,” snapped an elderly redhead in a teal, satin jacket. “There’s an elevator at the other end of the store. Perhaps your dog would be more comfortable using that.”
“I know, but her trainer, um, Cesar Millan, said I have to do this to get her over her fears.”
She arched a copper penciled brow. “Oh, really? Well, I have no idea who that is, but I have half-a-mind to call canine social services and report you. You know, you could lose custody.”
I needed to see if that woman was my cousin, but I also knew I was probably letting my overactive imagination get the best of me at my puppy’s expense. The odds of that woman being Erin had to be less than my chance of winning the lottery. And I never play the lottery.
I crouched and pulled Daisy close. “Screw Cesar.”
“Thata girl,” said the matron and tottered away.
I returned to the mannequin, hoping the woman would come back down the escalator and confirm that I was losing my mind.
“May I help you?” called a Lancôme salesperson from a glass counter across the aisle. Her perfect airbrushed makeup and stenciled brows would have made a drag queen jealous.
“No, I’m good. Just waiting for a friend.”
The woman smiled a chilly smile that said, You are obviously not our kind in your Ross clearance attire, so I’m keeping my eye on you.
“I’m sure she’ll be along any second.” I made a big show of checking the time on my phone, muttering, “Where are you?” I glanced at the woman to see if she was buying my performance and saw she had been joined by a Marilyn Monroe wannabe salesperson. “She’s late.” I scowled. “So typical. I’m going to text her.”
As I pretend-texted, Daisy whined and lifted one back leg, then the other. Her sign language for, Gotta go potty.
“Seriously, Daisy? Now?”
Her pink tongue dangled out the side of her mouth, and she wagged a yes.
“No. You have to wait.”
With a noisy groan, she sat down and yawned. I finished my phony texting and glanced up to see three women watching me. I waved my phone, shrugging, Watcha gonna do? I was so busy trying to fool them that I almost missed the lady in question stroll by, heading to the exit. She passed through the glass doors and turned left.
Daisy was thrilled we were leaving until she realized she’d have to go through the “doors of death” again. About three feet from the exit she froze.
“Come on. She’s
getting away.” I tugged her leash and she jerked back, piddling on the shiny floor. “Daisy, we need to go. She’s getting away.” The cosmetic ladies were glaring at me and a store security guard was rushing toward me. And then I remembered the magic words that always get her moving. “Let’s go get a snack.” Tail wagging, she hauled me out of the store and we hurried to catch up to the woman.
Midway through the mall, the woman turned into Sephora’s. I caught up and peeked in the window but didn’t see her. “This is getting ridiculous, Daisy. Clearly, I’ve lost it. There’s no way in hell that woman is my cousin.”
And yet, I couldn’t walk away without getting a good look at her face. I knew that if I didn’t, I would always wonder if I’d let Erin slip through my fingers. “Okay, Daisy. I promise to get you a treat—but first we’re going in the store.”
“Treat” is another favorite word, so she was game. She trotted in like she shops at Sephora’s all the time. Inside the entrance, I looked around but didn’t see the woman, so I walked to the center of the store and did a three-sixty scan.
She was perched on a stool, her back to me. A beauty consultant was cleansing her face. Acting nonchalant, I slipped down the Bobbi Brown aisle, approaching the woman’s back. The tall, muscular makeup artist noticed me and smiled. “May I help you?”
I shook my head and stepped backward, grinding my heel into Daisy’s paw. She yelped and scuttled her rear-end into a low shelf of open blusher cases, knocking the entire display of thirty-two dollar compacts to the floor. I turned toward Daisy and bent to pick up the compacts.
“Achtung!” yelled the lady on the stool. “Dein hund, ich meine your dog is about to knock over dass kiosk.”
Distracted by the woman’s strong German accent, I was slow to react to her warning and the display tipped over, spilling its contents onto the floor. Poor Daisy stood amongst the mascara boxes and eyebrow pencils, trembling and yawning nonstop.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“No problem. Happens all the time.” The makeup man set down the jar of gunk he’d been using to cleanse the middle-aged German woman’s face and came to my assistance.
“I seriously doubt that.” How could I have thought that woman was Erin?
Two sales associates joined us. One of them took a dog cookie out of her apron pocket and asked if she could give it to my dog. “I always keep a few in my pocket for our doggy friends.”
Daisy joyfully accepted her well-earned treat. Too bad the saleswoman didn’t have a valium in her pocket for me.
We left the shop and dashed to the car. On the way, I felt like every security camera in the mall was focused on me—the loony, stalker lady. After tethering Daisy in the backseat, I spent several minutes apologizing to her. She gave me several reassuring kisses and then settled down for a snooze. Thank goodness dogs don’t hold grudges.
After hearing the woman’s voice and seeing her face, it was hard to wrap my brain around the fact that I’d actually thought she could be Erin—to the point of stalking her. However the episode left me wondering if my cousin really had gone to Costa Rica. The cops don’t want her to know I’m alive, in the hopes that she might think it’s safe to stay in the U.S.. What if they’re right? I pondered that thought for a moment. No. It’s too risky. But what if?
It was after three so we could have gone to our hotel, but I was too restless to call it a day, so I decided to check out Erin’s hometown. I drove out of the parking lot and turned left onto El Camino Real. We passed through Menlo Park, which merged into Atherton. The next town was Redwood City.
I passed an old high school on the left. Mature redwoods and eucalyptus shaded the park-like campus. I wondered if that was where Erin’s father taught. When I reached a sign that read: Welcome to San Carlos, I made a U-turn and pulled into Kimmy’s Nail Spa parking lot. I wanted to find Erin’s parents’ house and do a drive-by to satisfy my curiosity.
I dug my phone out of my purse and searched William Cranston in Redwood City, CA. The top listing was William Cranston in CA/Whitepages. I clicked on it, and several names popped up. One in Bakersfield, 103 years old. One in Camarillo, 27 years old. And two in Redwood City. A 45-year-old and:
William Cranston
Age: 62-64
Lives in: Redwood City, CA
Prior: Atherton, CA
Possible Relatives: Molly Cranston, Erin Cranston, Evelyn Cra...
On the next page was his address. 3742 Ranch Hill Road.
I typed the address into my GPS and set the phone in the plastic holder suction-cupped to the dashboard. The directions led me west off of El Camino. I drove for a few miles past middle-class neighborhoods built in the 1920’s to 1950’s.
The road continued into a long-established housing development. A couple of stop signs later, GPS said to turn right, then left, then right again. I climbed halfway up a steep hill, before hearing, “Your destination is ahead on the right.” And then, “You have arrived at your destination.”
“Yeah, but which house is it?” I couldn’t remember the house number, so I drove further up the hill, parked, and took a look at what I’d typed into the GPS. 3742. The house across from me was 3755. I did a U-turn and inched down the street until I was looking at 3742. Two stories, gray with black shutters and a fire-engine-red front door. Double garage under the upstairs bedroom windows. Big magnolia tree in the front yard. Black and white cat perched on the faded cedar fence gate, giving me the stink-eye.
I killed the engine and Daisy got antsy in the backseat.
“Daisy, just give me a little while, then we’ll check into our hotel, and you can relax on the bed. Maybe take a dip in the pool—kidding!”
A few houses down, three subteen boys were doing their damnedest to break their necks skateboarding on a wooden half-pipe in the driveway. Two teenaged girls were walking up the hill, both texting. The closer the oblivious girls got to the future studs, the more daring their stunts became.
“Oh, come on, girls. At least favor them with a glance before they kill themselves.”
They did not, and the boys’ scrawny chests deflated the moment the girls passed by.
After my ridiculous Neiman Marcus fiasco, it was crazy to think that Erin might be at her parents’ house, but I decided to stick around for a while. Just to make sure. Besides, it was either hang out there or hang out at the hotel.
“We can pretend we’re on a stakeout, Daisy. Like real private investigators.” I turned to my slumbering backseat companion. “I’ll take the first shift while you nap.”
To kill time I looked up the Cranston house on Twillow. Four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, built in 1959. Valued at 1.5 million. Last sold in 1988 for $102,500.
It occurred to me that if Erin showed up, she might recognize my orange Volvo, so I rolled down the hill, turned right and drove to the next block. I put on the raggedy red baseball cap I wear at the dog park and tucked my hair inside. Sunglasses completed my sleuthing disguise. “Hey, girl. How about a little stroll?”
Daisy was all about that and struggled to leap out her half-open window. I released the nutcase and got pulled to a bark-chipped mound where she took a long leak.
We headed back to Ranch Farm Road and sauntered up the hill—sniffing every bush, flower, and rock along the way. As we dawdled past the Cranston home, Daisy noticed the kitty gatekeeper and dragged me across the lawn to the dog-eared fence.
“Daisy! Stop barking! What’s your problem? Your best friend’s a cat. Geez!”
The cat seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, meowing just enough to keep my dog agitated. Talk about a power trip. Then the cat got bored and nonchalantly licked his paw.
“Sorry about that,” said a male voice on the other side of the fence.
The gate opened, and I was pretty sure I was face-to-face with William Cranston. 62–64 years old. Thick wavy salt and pepper hair, and he had his daughter’s nose.
“It’s Bob’s hobby. He sits there all day long waiting for innocent, unsuspect
ing dogs to torment.” He patted Daisy on the head.
“She’d never hurt Bob. She lives with a cat. They sleep cuddled up.”
“I hear you. But a cat sitting on a fence is like seeing a squirrel. Ya just gotta bark and go nuts.”
“You ever see the movie, Up?” I asked.
“I have.”
We both shouted, “Squirrel!”
I laughed, thinking, What a nice man. I bet his students love him.
“Do you live in the neighborhood?” he said.
Oh, crap. Now what do I say? “No. I’m visiting some friends.”
“Oh? Who? I know just about everyone around here. My wife and I have lived here for years.”
Samantha popped into my head. “The Drummonds, a few blocks over.”
He pondered a moment, puckering his brow. “Nope, don’t know them.”
I wanted to get a picture of him, so I said, “I love your house colors. I’ve wanted to paint mine for quite a while now, so whenever I see a combination I like, I take a picture. Would you mind?”
“Be my guest and thank you for the compliment. My wife, Molly, will be thrilled. I wanted yellow, but she won the coin toss.”
Feeling like a bonafide private investigator, I snapped several photos, including two of Mr. Cranston with snooty Bob peering over his shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking yellow, too,” I said. “But this color palette would go better with my roof.”
“That’s what Molly said.”
Hoping not to sound nosy—but when you’re investigating, you have to ask tough questions. “This seems like a family-friendly neighborhood. Do you have any kids?”
His smile sagged, and I felt like a jerk for asking.
He sighed. “We did. A daughter.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” He shook his head, lips pressed into a tight line. “She’s alive. But we haven’t heard from her in years.” He stroked Daisy’s back, not looking at me. “She wants nothing to do with us. And now, I guess that’s for the best.” He straightened, rubbing the side of his neck.
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 71
