Descending Son

by Scott Shepherd

  Benji frowned. He tried to make one more half-hearted attempt. “We could advertise.”

  “I’m not the best business partner, Benji.” He glanced at the SUV again. “Especially seeing as how someone wants me out of town.”

  “I’m really sorry ’bout that.”

  “Not your fault,” said Jess. “It was right outside my door and I slept through it.”

  “You gonna call the cops?” asked Benji.

  It had been more than two hours since he’d discovered the bloodied glass. He didn’t relish another faceoff with Thaddeus Burke. The sheriff was sick of dealing with Jess—and the feeling was mutual. The man had been so unwelcoming in his three previous encounters, it wouldn’t surprise Jess if Burke or one of his minions had left the message.

  “I don’t think so,” Jess said.

  “You figure Burke would sweep it under the rug like everything else?”

  “Pretty safe bet.”

  Jess opened the SUV trunk and rooted around inside. He found an old towel and used it to start wiping the blood off the windshield.

  “So you’re not going to do anything?” Benji asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You have an idea who might have done this?”

  “Possibly.”

  Benji got that excited look in his eyes, which scared the shit out of Jess. “I know! Maybe we ought to open a private eye agency…”

  “Now you’re pushing it.”

  One thing that Jess could say about his late father was he didn’t skimp. When he had acquired Meadowland, it had been a broken down series of ranch houses sitting on farmland. He tore down the structures and built a much larger one that looked like an ultra-fancy Indian pueblo. Sheep had actually grazed in the pastures and Walter sold them for a nice profit to a stockyard up in Fresno and transformed the land into beautiful gardens. He called it Meadowland to give historical reference to the previous four-legged residents and moved the geriatric set in to replace them. State-of-the-art medical equipment and a first-class staff of trained medical professionals (nurses, doctors, orderlies, and therapists) provided long-term care for the aged and infirmed.

  Jess had been forced to volunteer there by his father one teenaged summer. All he could remember was the smell of human life wasting away and Walter insisting it built character. Jess remained convinced the only thing his father wanted was to torture him and not have to pay Jess a salary for it.

  He parked the SUV in a circular driveway lined with citrus trees and multicolored perennials. A gardener who looked as if he had been planted in the flowerbed dutifully waved at Jess. He nodded back and moved inside. The main lobby had a pastel motif that washed across the furniture, area rugs, and wallpaper. Jess approached the reception desk, where a matronly woman with too much bottled blond in her hair wore a pleasant lime-green uniform and a practiced smile.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a sing-songy tone.

  Jess identified himself and the woman’s smile dipped into sincere sympathy. She must have had a lot of practice with numerous family members over the years being the bearer of bad news.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Stark’s passing.”

  Jess accepted the condolences and said he was just going to drop by the kitchen. The matron found this rather odd.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Jess knew there were situations when evasion, not honesty, was the best policy. “No, thanks. Just checking on something for my mother.” She offered to help him again, but Jess begged off and headed down the hallway.

  Breakfast was finished by the time he walked into an industrial-sized kitchen. There was a small cleanup crew and a man wearing a chef’s apron eating oatmeal at a tiny table.

  “Guest rooms are the other end of the hall,” the chef said between spoonfuls.

  “Presuming you’re the chef, I was looking for you.”

  “Chef? That word doesn’t get tossed around here too much. Usually it’s ‘cook.’ And other things depending on what the main course is.” The man was reed-thin and florid-faced. Jess remembered an old adage—never trust an underweight chef. Or at least his cooking.

  “I’m Jess Stark.”

  “You related to the old man?”

  “If you mean Walter, yes. I’m his son.”

  “Sorry to hear ’bout your dad. I’m Meany.” The two of them shook hands. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

  “I just got back into town. I worked here one summer as a kid, but that’s about it.”

  “Way before my time,” said Meany. “I’ve only been here for three years.”

  “Did you work with Tom Cox?”

  “Rarely. I covered his days off. Rest of the time they had me doing odd chores around the joint. When Tom left, they offered me the job full time.” Meany hesitated, starting to feel a little uneasy. “Why are you asking questions about Tom? You know he’s dead, right?”

  Jess saw no reason to lie, so he came out with the truth. “I was at the scene of the accident yesterday.”

  “Wow. I saw it on the news. Looked gnarly.”

  “It wasn’t pretty. Do you know why Tom left?”

  Meany shook his head. “I just know he was fired. Everyone was pretty mum about it. One day he was here, the next he was gone, and they had me coming up with new menus.”

  “I take it you weren’t close with Cox?”

  “Like I said, we worked different shifts.”

  “So, if he was worried about something or poking his nose into a situation he shouldn’t have, you wouldn’t know anything about that?”

  “He didn’t talk to me about it.”

  “But maybe someone else?”

  Before Meany could answer, the matronly bottled blonde entered the kitchen.

  “Mr. Stark, a moment please?”

  An officious man in a suit bought off the Macy’s rack appeared beside her. He addressed Meany. “I’m sure you have things elsewhere to catch up on, don’t you, Mr. Meany?”

  The cook nodded and started for the door. As he passed Jess, he mumbled “Human Resources” in his ear. This was only a momentary heads-up because the man introduced himself the second Meany left the room.

  “I’m Gordon Chalmers, head of HR for Meadowland. Can I ask you what you’re doing back here?”

  “Just talking to your chef for a couple of minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, but we just can’t have anyone wandering wherever they want about the premises. We have very strict rules here at Meadowland.”

  Jess couldn’t stand the bureaucracy dripping off Chalmers’s every pore. “Well, I’m not exactly sure which rule I’m violating. And it’s not like I’m some stranger—my father owns the place.”

  “But he doesn’t anymore, Mr. Stark,” Chalmers said.

  “Okay, I get the fact that he’s dead so I guess technically he doesn’t. But it reverts to his family and I am his son.”

  “And I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Chalmers said. “That doesn’t change the fact that your father sold Meadowland a couple of months ago.”

  “He did? To who?”

  The moment Jess asked the question, he felt the answer in the pit of his stomach.

  “Edward Rice,” Chalmers said.

  Jess got no satisfaction out of being right.

  “If you’ve got any questions about Meadowland, I strongly suggest you address them to him,” Chalmers added.

  Jess swallowed some pride. Then he asked Chalmers if he knew where he could find Edward Rice.

  16

  Palm Springs Country Club was one of the desert’s grand old dames. In a time when a golf course sprang up in the Coachella Valley as often as a blemish on a teenage girl, PSCC was a throwback to a different era. PSCC didn’t allow cell phones or BlackBerrys in the dining room. If you wanted to make a note during a meeting, a pad and pencil, with the club’s logo neatly embossed on both, were hand-delivered by a tuxedoed waiter. You might not recognize the designer of
PSCC’s course (built in the late thirties) but if you Googled him you would see he had five tracks listed among Golf Digest’s “Top Fifty Courses in America.”

  Jess gave the SUV to a valet. Self-parking was not allowed at PSCC and neither was the tip he offered. He entered a lobby that had museum-quality paintings on either side of a Mexican tiled floor that had been hand-laid more than a half century ago. The bright colors were still vibrant after all those years. He was certain someone was polishing them weekly, if not daily.

  He hadn’t even gotten to the reception desk when a maître d’ stepped through the doors leading to the dining room with a sports jacket in hand. “Dr. Rice is waiting for you on the veranda,” the man said as he helped Jess slip on the coat.

  “I see they haven’t loosened the dress code,” Jess remarked.

  “Never, sir. If you’d follow me.”

  Jess walked through the dining room that would do any four-star restaurant proud. There were maybe a dozen members in a space that sat one hundred and fifty, their average ages somewhere between seventy-five and recently deceased. The tables were appropriate for a state dinner—complete with designer linen tablecloths and napkins, fine china, and Baccarat stemware. The walls had murals of golf landscapes that looked so real, one would want to tee up and play them. The real deal—eighteen holes that had hosted PGA events for five decades—lay directly outside the windows that ran the length of the dining room’s north wall.

  The maître d’ led Jess through plate glass doors onto a balcony, where Edward Rice was finishing a Cobb salad by the rail above the eighteenth green. “Mr. Stark, sir,” the maître d’ introduced with an over-the-top gesture.

  “Thank you, Max,” Rice said.

  “Yeah. Thanks, Max.” Jess wiggled around in the sports jacket. “A perfect fit, by the way.”

  “But of course, sir.” If Max meant that with a bit of smug satisfaction, he wasn’t letting on. He disappeared inside the club.

  Rice waved his fork in the air. “I would’ve invited you for lunch but I figured you would have grabbed something in my kitchen.”

  “The receptionist obviously called you,” said Jess.

  “Veronica is nothing but thorough. You could have phoned ahead.”

  “You could have told me you’d bought the place,” countered Jess.

  “I never met you before yesterday, Jessie. Besides which, I think that should have been handled by your father.” Rice put the fork on the salad plate. “Oh, that’s right. The two of you didn’t talk for seven years.”

  Jess refused to get into a pissing contest with the man. “When did he sell Meadowland to you?”

  “Not too long ago. When he got sick, I refused to charge him for my services. He was able to do less and less at Meadowland, and was grateful for everything I had accomplished as chief of staff. He wanted to ensure the place was in good hands should the inevitable come to pass, and he gave me a wonderful opportunity at more than a fair price.”

  “And I’m sure my mother and sister just went along with it.”

  “I can’t speak directly to their finances,” said Rice. “But given your father’s substantial holdings, I don’t think the turnover of one convalescent facility was going to put your family in the poor house.” He sipped some water. “But I feel uncomfortable talking about these matters. It seems more suitable for you to bring them up with your family.”

  “If that’s true, it’s the only thing you’re not comfortable with regarding them.”

  Rice lowered the water glass. “Why were you asking about Tom Cox?”

  “He worked there. You fired him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  Rice nodded, nonchalant. “A sad turn of events.”

  “Why did you let him go?”

  “He stole some files.”

  “What sort?”

  “The confidential sort.” Rice straightened up. At first he had seemed bemused by Jess confronting him. But with each ensuing question, the physician got more irritated, though he was trying not to show it. “What’s going on with you, Jessie? Doing a little amateur sleuthing?”

  “I’ve had two men die on me in less than two days. One happened to be my father. It’s only natural that I’m interested.”

  “Actually, I’d say that’s unnatural, given your involvement the past decade.”

  “I’m a late bloomer,” Jess retorted.

  Rice smiled. “You’re more like your old man than you’d ever admit.” Jess didn’t bite, so the doctor pushed on. “Let’s say I understand you’re upset about Walter’s death. It was sudden and peculiar, certainly traumatizing. What I don’t get is your interest in Tom Cox.”

  “He was meeting with my father recently in a bar, more than once. Now they’re both dead.”

  “I never would have taken you for one of these conspiracy nuts.”

  Jess ignored the dig. “Those files were on residents who died recently, weren’t they?”

  “If you already had your answer, why are you asking me the question?”

  “How many deaths have there been at Meadowland?”

  “People die all the time, Jessie, in Palm Springs more than other places.” Rice looked out at the sparsely populated golf course. “After all, it is a retirement community.”

  Rice’s iPhone dinged, he checked it, then excused himself to drop off some paperwork for Jaime Solis, the owner of the country club who Jess had met at the house. Moments later they reconvened under the porte-cochere. The valet nodded at Rice, then took back the sports jacket and ticket for the SUV from Jess.

  The two men stood in silence as the wind decided to pick up at that very moment. Rice wiped some passing dust from his eyes. “What’s really on your mind, Jessie?”

  He decided to pull no punches. “Everywhere I look, you’re involved. My father’s health. You bought his business. You’ve been consoling his widow and now you’re seeing his daughter. Speaking of which—how long has that been going on?”

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  The valet pulled up in a nifty sports car. Rice said goodbye to Jess and started toward it.

  “I thought you rode a motorcycle,” Jess called out, trying to catch the physician off guard.

  “I gave up dirt biking in my teens.” Rice laughed loudly. “Your fishing technique needs some work, Jessie. Maybe you should stop playing P.I. and look after that family you ran out on.”

  Rice fired up the sports car and took off. Jess’s eye followed it down the driveway and then glanced over at the golf course. He was focused on a blood-red bridge in the distance when the valet arrived with the SUV.

  “Hold it a few minutes, okay?” Jess asked. Again, his rote response was to dig in his pocket to tip the man, but the valet motioned to put his money away and take his time.

  Jess walked down the cart path toward the bridge. He passed the driving range. It was deserted—perfect pyramids of golf balls waited for someone to come and hit them. The sprinklers arced over targets on the grass, the sputtering rhythm of the water providing the only sound. The scarlet bridge connected the driving range to the first tee and spanned a creek, which was wedged in between dramatic rock formations one hundred feet below.

  Harry stood in the middle of the bridge. He had his Sunday bag casually slung over his shoulder. The wind continued to whip up the desert sand but he seemed oblivious to it as Jess approached the bridge. Harry was staring down at the creek, lost in thought.

  “Harry…?”

  The younger Stark brother didn’t budge. Thinking that the howling wind might have swallowed up his voice, Jess called out again. Harry continued to be transfixed by the creek and rocks below. Jess didn’t like that Harry was precariously close to the bridge’s edge, despite the guardrail.

  “Harry. You’re too close.”

  This time Harry responded, but his voice seemed distant—even from only five feet away.

  “I thought I heard him.”


  “Heard who?”

  Harry kept his eyes on the creek. “Dad. Last night. Outside my window.”

  Jess placed a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder. It seemed to bring him out of his trancelike state. “Bad dreams, Harry. I’ve had a few myself the past couple of nights.”

  Harry managed a not-quite-sane-sounding chuckle. “You know what’s funny? I thought I heard him just now. Down there. In the creek.”

  Jess looked where Harry was pointing. The sand was blowing off the rock formations. “It’s just the wind, Harry.”

  Harry leaned forward to look: Jess reached over and pulled him back. The boy’s eyes cleared and it was as if he was seeing Jess for the first time.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Too late for that.” Jess, certain that Harry was back on firm footing, released his grip on him. “I didn’t come back home to go to two funerals.”

  Harry’s face brightened. “Does this mean you’re staying?”

  “At least till I get a few things settled,” Jess said. “But I’m around whenever you need me.”

  “Really?”

  “You can get me anytime you want.” Jess urged Harry to walk off the bridge back toward the clubhouse. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone all this time. I should’ve been here for you. But I just had to go.”

  “Because of Dad?” Harry asked.

  Jess nodded.

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing you have to worry about.”

  The two brothers fell into step and walked past the driving range. The wind died down as they approached the parking lot. Jess took the car keys from the valet.

  “Give you a ride home?”

  “I rode my bike. I’ll be okay.”

  Jess gave Harry a quick hug, and then opened the car door. As he was climbing in, Harry tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Have you forgiven Dad?”

  Jess considered how he wanted to answer this.

  “Not yet.” He was saddened by Harry’s look of disappointment. “But I’m starting to work on it,” he added.

  Relief appeared on his brother’s face.

  A few minutes later when Jess was back on the road, he realized maybe he’d been telling his brother the truth.