by Lillian Bell
“I’m sorry. I got so caught up in Kyle drama, I didn’t think.” I hadn’t either. Not a jot. My stomach twisted.
“This on top of the disaster at Miss Delia’s funeral. You said you could handle it.” She glared at me. Donna was two years older than me. We couldn’t be more different. It wasn’t just our looks. She’d wanted to stay in Verbena and work in the family business. I couldn’t wait to be away from it. She wanted to settle down and have kids. I was pretty sure I was still a kid myself. That didn’t mean I didn’t want her respect, though. There was nothing for it. I had said I’d handle Miss Delia’s service, and I hadn’t. Or at least not well. “I thought I could.”
Donna sat down across the table from me with a small thump. “Miss Delia’s service should have been the biggest no-brainer of the week. She had everything mapped out. Everything. Music. Seating. Food. Timing.”
“I know.” I sunk down in my chair a little bit.
Donna made a face, and her hand dropped to her tummy, bringing me back to the moment. “I can’t do this by myself right now, Desiree. I need your help,” she said.
I knew that too. Since she found out she was pregnant, Donna had been on light duty. Some of the chemicals downstairs could be nasty, and it seemed smart to stay away from them. Uncle Joey could take care of all that, no problem. He hadn’t ever had to handle the front office stuff, though. That had been Dad’s role. Donna had been learning both sides of the trade, but she needed a break now. She’d lost one pregnancy already. It wasn’t that uncommon. Miscarriages happen more frequently than most people know. But the timing had been awful. She’d lost the baby weeks after Dad disappeared. It had been a crushing blow on top of a horrible loss.
Sixteen months ago, our father had gone surfing and hadn’t come back. Dad surfed alone all the time. It wasn’t unusual for him to get up at the butt-crack of dawn, drive to Salmon Creek, surf for a couple of hours, and be back in time for an afternoon memorial service.
Back when I lived at home, I’d go with him sometimes. No one else in the family shared his passion for floating out on the ocean, waiting for a big curl to ride into shore. Donna said it was terrifying, and the last time Dad had talked her into going with him, she’d had nightmares about drowning for two weeks afterward. Uncle Joey said that if he was going to be on the water, he’d like to be in a boat, thank you very much. Both of them now ardently wished they’d been a little more flexible.
With me gone, Dad went alone. He’d pack up his board and his wetsuit and go. The last time he did, he didn’t make the return trip. Thinking about it now made me feel like I was drowning.
The first I’d known about anything being wrong was a phone call from Uncle Joey. Had I heard from Dad? Had he called? Texted? E-mailed? Left a message? Anything in the last twenty-four hours? Anything at all?
He hadn’t. No one had heard anything. I’d been on the next plane home, but even that takes time. That’s why it was close to forty-eight hours from the last time anyone had heard from him or seen him—he’d had dinner with Donna and Greg the night before—to when I found his Honda Element parked on the verge by Salmon Creek. His phone and wallet and a stack of dry clothes to put on postsurf were all there. Everything was there except Dad.
None of it was important, except Dad.
The next month was spent searching shorelines, checking hospitals, looking at every John Doe along California’s northern coastline, dead or alive. We never found him. Not a trace. Not even his board.
He’d been so pleased about his first grandchild. To have that ripped away along with him had made it all that much more devastating. None of us had fared well. Donna had spent days in her room, eyes swollen from crying. Uncle Joey had moved through his days like a big Viking version of a robot. I’d gone back to Los Angeles thinking I could jump right back into my job with no problem and instead I torpedoed my career. It had been more than a year and we were all just finding our footing again. We were all coming out of our self-imposed bubbles of misery and leaning on each other to get better. It was the one good thing about me coming home. I could help my family.
With me home, Donna could spend most of her time off her feet in the back office dealing with the mountains of paperwork that death required, Uncle Joey could handle all the work in the basement, and I could take over the front office stuff that Dad had always handled. The hole Dad’s disappearance had left in our lives and our hearts would never be filled, but it didn’t have to be an open wound.
Except I’d pretty much failed at the handling on my first solo flight. “I’ll do better,” I promised. I’d let so many people down already, I couldn’t stand the idea of letting down Donna when she needed me. It wasn’t entirely my fault, though. It wasn’t like I’d mixed up the music or forgotten to put out the programs. “I swear no one could have stopped that. Not even Dad.”
She sighed. “If you say so.” She winced and put her hand on her tummy.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Why don’t you go back to the couch? There’s really nothing for me to screw up at the moment.”
“Well, don’t go looking for anything.” She frowned at me and left.
I put my head down on the old oak table. I didn’t need to look for things to screw up. They seemed to find me all by themselves.
Chapter Six
The Verbena Free Press
MONDAY, JULY 15
Arrest Made in Local Murder
Kyle Hansen, longtime resident of Verbena, has been arrested for the murder of Alan Brewer. Hansen and Brewer were neighbors and had become involved in a dispute that began with the death of the Brewers’ beloved pet emu and escalated into a civil suit. Brewer’s wife, Rosemarie, and Hansen’s wife, Lola, had been involved in an altercation during the funeral of beloved local Delia Burns.
Pursuant to that altercation, Ms. Hansen had received notice that her job teaching at Verbena High could be in jeopardy due to her violating the morals clause in her contract.
According to Hansen’s lawyer, Janet Provost, Hansen plans to plead not guilty. “We’ll plead not guilty because Kyle isn’t guilty. It’s that simple,” said Provost. Prosecuting Attorney Tommy Lomax responded with the following statement: “There is a preponderance of evidence stacked up against Mr. Hansen. We will present all that evidence in court and have no doubt that Mr. Hansen will be found guilty by a jury of his peers.”
Ms. Brewer said, “I shouldn’t be surprised. The Hansens and their vicious attack dogs have shown no respect for other beings’ lives. We tried to tell people after the death of Vincent, but no one listened. Now here we are with my husband dead at the hands of that monster.”
Hansen’s arraignment is set for next week. For details on services for Alan Brewer, contact Desiree Turner at Turner Family Funeral Home.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed a little after five AM. If you want to spend any time outdoors in Verbena in the summertime, you’d best do it early. Since I had a twenty-minute drive to where I wanted to be outside, it needed to be extra early. Apparently, not earlier than little Sam Wasnowski—he had already delivered the Verbena Free Press to our front door. I checked the front page and found myself above the fold again.
I slid the page with the article about Kyle out of its section and shoved it in the recycling. With any luck, Donna wouldn’t even notice it was missing. If she didn’t see it, maybe she wouldn’t get mad at me. How the heck did my name keep getting in those articles, anyway? How did a consistent string of “no comments” merit that much ink?
I brushed my teeth; laced up my hiking boots; grabbed water, a granola bar, and an apple; and was out the door by five thirty. The sun was rising as I drove to the Cold Clutch Canyon Trailhead, starting as a yellow glow on the horizon and spreading across the flat farmland between Verbena and the Vaca Mountains. Then the light went orange and pink with a little purple around the edge. The mountains shimmered against the sky. There was a moment when it all changed, when dark became light and the sky went blue. It was sort of
like the green flash you sometimes get to see at sunset on the beach, but in reverse. I plugged my dad’s old Beatles CD into the player and listened to George Harrison tell me that the sun was coming. I drove past a field of sunflowers, heads all bent in the same direction, ready to track the sun across the cloudless California sky.
By the time I made it to the trailhead, the sun was completely up, but the air was still cool and fresh. I was the third car in the parking lot. I recognized Carol Burston’s Prius. She actually ran the four-mile loop I was about to walk. She did it at least three times a week. I had never been that ambitious, but I got out here at least once a week or so and hiked it. The other car was an Element like mine. A little newer and gray instead of black. I was jealous. Sometimes Dad’s Element would get so hot I couldn’t touch it. Black totally absorbs heat, but Dad always insisted on driving a black vehicle. Sometimes the funeral business could be unforgiving.
I started off on the first leg of the trail, which would take me up about fifteen hundred feet. By halfway, I was panting from the change in altitude. I pushed through it as I went past the manzanita bushes and bunchgrasses, breathing in the sharp green scent of sage. There were still black patches here and there from the King Snake Fire a few years before. I’d cried when I’d seen the news reports that had showed the hills I’d loved so much burning. It had raged for days before they got it under control. I’d been in Los Angeles and probably hadn’t hiked Cold Clutch for a couple of years at that point, but it still hurt to see my beloved hills engulfed in flames. Nature was resilient, though. All around, green shoots came up through the blackened soil. Rebirth. I felt my chest open a bit, and suddenly it seemed easier to breathe.
Dad and I used to do this hike. It was one of our things, along with surfing. Trudging up the incline. Scrambling over the rocks. We’d never talked much, not like Donna and Dad had. But we’d climb this grade together, find a place on the ridge with a view over the lake, eat our breakfast, and climb back down. I don’t remember how old I was the first time we did it. I remember it was after Mom died, so I had to be at least nine.
A Swainson’s hawk soared over me, and my mood soared with it. I had one ledge in particular that I liked to sit on. By some geological wonder, there was a depression in it that matched my butt almost exactly. I sat, drank my water, ate my apple, breathed in the air, and felt the early morning sunshine beginning to warm the day.
I tossed my apple core into the brush for some enterprising bunny or squirrel, then I headed back down the other side. It wasn’t as steep, but it was a lot more rocky. I had no idea how Carol ran it without twisting an ankle. It was worth it, though, to go past the outline of the old cabin that used to stand halfway down. It was one of the last places I played make-believe. Somehow it had still been okay to be a little girl there with only my dad watching. Somehow there had still been a little magic in the world early in the morning as the sun broke through the trees, dappling the rocks and old timber with weak light. Somehow I had been safe there.
Today, when I stopped to play make-believe, I wasn’t pretending I was Snow White waiting for the dwarves to come home or Laura Ingalls Wilder in the Big Woods. I pretended that my dad was still there, and for a second or two, it felt like he was. I felt the warmth of his gaze on me, the safety I’d always felt when he was around, the knowledge of unconditional love. Then behind me I heard someone coming and started down the path again.
I got back to the car and finished my water, leaning against the side of the car. If I hadn’t done that, I’m not sure I would have spotted it. It was just a little glint in the sun as I made designs with the toe of my hiking boot in the gravel of the parking lot. Just a tiny bit of sparkle on the floorboard.
I crouched down and brushed the dirt away. It was a tiny silver hiking boot with an eye-ring on top—a charm. Just like the charms on my own charm bracelet. The ones my dad bought me for every occasion. Birthdays. Holidays. Graduations. I had two bracelets full of them. This could easily have been one of them that had maybe fallen off in the car when I’d worn the bracelet and then gotten kicked out into the parking lot when I’d exited.
Except I didn’t have a charm of a hiking boot. Dad hadn’t bought me one of those. Or if he had, he hadn’t given it to me yet when he disappeared. I looked around the parking lot to see if there was anyone it could belong to, but I was alone. The other cars were gone. I slipped the charm into my pocket and got in the car.
* * *
Janet Provost and Lola were waiting for me in the lobby of the police station. Janet looked exactly as she had on the volleyball sidelines ten years before. She had on a pair of capri pants and a multicolored top and a pair of flip-flops with some bling on them. Her dark hair was sensibly cut into one of those mom cuts, kind of a cross between Kris Jenner and Kate Gosselin. I gave her a hug.
“Desiree, honey, how are you?” Janet took me by the shoulders and held me out at arm’s length. She smelled like roses. “You look wonderful. Are you wonderful?”
I looked down at the sundress I was wearing and tried to figure out whether or not it was wonderful. “Working on it,” I said, not sure how else to respond.
“Aren’t we all always a work in progress?” She tucked me against her side. I sunk in as if she was upholstery. She pointed to a covered plate sitting on the chair next to Lola. “Muffins?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Already had breakfast.”
“That wouldn’t stop me—unfortunately,” she said as she patted her stomach. “But let’s go ahead in.”
I gave Lola a hug as she stood up. It felt as if she’d shrunk a little more already. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “No, but I can fake it.”
“We’re here to see Kyle Hansen,” I told the officer at the front desk, who didn’t really look old enough to be holding any kind of weapon more lethal than a squirt gun.
“You on his list?” he asked, not looking up from the form in front of him.
“Yes. I’m his lawyer, and I made sure all our names were on the list.” Janet bristled up like she was ready for a fight. None came.
“ID, please.” He stuck out his hand, still not looking at us.
I dug my driver’s license out of my wallet and put it in his outstretched hand. Lola and Janet did the same.
He looked at the licenses, made a note on a pad, handed them back to us, and indicated the door behind me with a head nod.
“Empty your pockets, and put your purse in here.” He shoved a bin in front of me.
I looked down at the sundress I was wearing. What pockets did he think I had to empty? I dropped my purse in the bin.
“What about this?” Janet held up the plate of muffins.
“What is it?” he asked.
She pulled back the foil cover to show him.
“I don’t think you can take that in there,” he said, looking uneasy.
“It’s not like there’s a file in it,” Janet said and laughed.
He looked even more uneasy, like maybe she wasn’t joking about a file. “Afraid not,” he said, shaking his head.
“Too bad. Have some yourself then,” Janet said, shoving the plate at him. “Don’t make me take that home, young man!” She waggled a finger at him.
We ended up in a room with a fluorescent overhead light, a metal table, and hard plastic chairs. I glanced around for the two-way mirror you see in all the cop shows. Instead I spotted a small video camera in the corner. “Will anyone be listening to us?”
“No, ma’am. Knock on the door if there’s trouble and you need me to come. Otherwise, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
A few minutes later, another officer ushered in Kyle. He looked like he’d aged about ten years. “Lola,” he said, a wealth of meaning in the name.
“Kyle.” She stepped toward him as he opened his arms as far as the chain would allow.
The officer raised his hand. “No touching, please.” He proceeded to lock Kyle’s handcuffs to a metal ring in the center o
f the table. So I wouldn’t get one of those hugs that reminded me so much of my dad. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been counting on that.
I cringed as the cuffs clicked closed. “You don’t have to do that. He’s not going to hurt us.”
“It’s procedure” was the only reply. Then the officer left.
We all sat back. “Are you okay?” I asked.
Kyle shook his head. “I suppose as okay as can be expected. This is insane, Desiree. I would never kill a person. I would certainly never kill a person over . . . over nothing.”
“I know that, Kyle. Anyone with half a brain in his head would know that. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to include Luke Butler.” Despite the gun and the neighborhood squabbles and everything else, I still thought Luke should have known better.
“Maybe we can construct a timeline that would show you couldn’t have done it. Nate has set the time of death for approximately six forty-five,” Janet said, glancing at her notes. “Tell me about that morning. Where were you? What did you do?”
“I did the same thing I do every morning. I got up, had a cup of coffee, pulled on some clothes, and took Maurice and Barry for a walk.” He looked over at Lola as if for confirmation. She nodded.
“What time?” I asked.
He blew out a breath. “Alarm goes off at six. I’m usually out the door by six thirty. We walk for about an hour—however long it takes me to get up the road to Mobley’s place on the hill—then we turn around and come home.”
“Same route every day?” I asked.
“Except sometimes when Lola comes with us. She likes to walk down by the creek. I don’t like having to clean the mud off the dog’s paws every day, so I don’t usually go that way.”
“Same time every day?” I asked.
“Pretty much. Not if it’s raining or too windy. Then we stay home,” he said.
We weren’t likely to have too much rain or wind this time of year. This was so Kyle: dependable, predictable. Had those two things that I prized in him actually gotten him into this mess? Doing the same things at the same times each day would make him easy to frame for something he didn’t do.
