by Janet Dawson
“Some people take comfort in religion.”
“Comfort?” Her laugh was bitter. She shot a poisonous look at the Bible and pamphlets on the end table. Her mouth twisted in a humorless smile.
“Mother was never particularly religious until Franny and George were killed. Then she fell prey to this charlatan who calls himself Reverend Jarvis. He’s got some sort of off-brand church. I don’t even think the fundamentalists would claim it. Jarvis got his hooks into Mother shortly after the murders, and she became almost impossible to live with. She did some rather peculiar things.”
“Karen mentioned birthday parties.”
“She remembers that?” Alice got up. She stood by the fireplace. Suddenly words poured from her, words she hadn’t said to anyone in a long time.
“Mother did celebrate Franny’s birthday for a couple of years. She’d buy a present and bake a cake. She made Karen and Elizabeth come to the party. Dad put a stop to it as soon as he found out.” She grimaced and shook her head, embarrassed by the revelation.
“This wasn’t the best environment for those girls. After the murders I thought they needed to get away from the Bay Area, away from all the memories. But Stockton wasn’t the right place. Mother and Dad weren’t the right people to raise a couple of teenagers. The end result was that both girls couldn’t wait to get away from here. Elizabeth left when she started college. Karen couldn’t even stick it out until she was eighteen. She showed up on Vee’s doorstep when she was sixteen and finished school in Oakland.”
“Karen said your mother thought God was punishing the family for a variety of sins.”
“That line is courtesy of Reverend Jarvis,” Alice said, the minister’s name a bad taste in her mouth. “God, I loathe the man. He’s used a family tragedy to prey on a grief-stricken woman for fifteen years. While Dad’s health was good, he managed to keep Jarvis at bay. Left alone, Mother would have given that leech more money than she already has.”
Her once-calm look turned to one of bitter frustration. She punched her fist into the palm of her other hand, as though it were Jarvis’s face.
“When Dad had his first stroke about two years ago, I retired from teaching, gave up my apartment in San Leandro, and moved back here to look after things. I’ve been doing battle with Jarvis since then. He doesn’t like me much. I’m sure he tells Mother I’m evil. These days she thinks everyone is evil.” She stopped talking, then sighed. “I’m really running on, aren’t I?”
“It sounds like you need to talk.”
“I do. Usually I call Vee to unload. Vee’s the rock of this family. Nothing fazes her. But you came all the way to Stockton looking for Beth. Instead you’ve found a sick old woman who’s lost her grip on reality. Sometimes I think I’m losing it too.”
“I’ve been to Cibola,” I said. She looked at me curiously. “To see your nephew, Mark.” A spasm crossed her face. “Vee told me he lived there. Didn’t you know?” She shook her head. The anger that fueled her words a moment ago was gone. In its place I saw fatigue.
“I don’t want to know. I can’t bear to think of Mark. He was such a sweet little boy. If I think of him at all, that’s how I try to remember him. I know Vee keeps in touch. But I can’t forgive him. He killed my sister and her husband. How could he do that to his own parents? To all of us?”
I couldn’t answer her questions. Nobody could.
As Alice and I said goodbye on the front porch, she looked over my shoulder and her face froze. Then the anger came back, animating it.
I followed the direction of her gaze and saw a portly middle-aged man in brown slacks and a plaid sports coat getting out of a sedan parked at the curb. He came up the sidewalk, his round face creased in a broad smile. I didn’t need an introduction. Alice’s eyes stared through Reverend Jarvis like a pair of lasers.
“Hello, Mrs. Gray,” he chirruped. “Is Sister Sarah up and about?”
“She’s sleeping,” Alice said, standing squarely in front of the door. I left her to conduct the next skirmish in her ongoing battle.
Fifteen
“YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU’VE MISSED ANY meals,” I told Abigail, who was scolding me for leaving her alone all weekend. Cassie had kept the cat’s food and water dishes full while I was gone. Nevertheless, I was treated to the full repertoire of querulous meows as I unpacked my overnight bag. The performance didn’t stop until I picked up the cat and fussed over her. I carried her to the living room and stretched out on the sofa, my feet up and the cat on my stomach.
The rain had started as I drove back from Stockton, thinking about Elizabeth Willis. I felt a certain kinship with her. I had toyed with acting as she had with dance, before settling into a more secure job to pay the rent. And I’d bailed out of a marriage, though my leaving Sid wasn’t as abrupt as Elizabeth’s disappearing act. Why had she left so suddenly? Was it Philip, her in-laws, a lover, her past? Was the accusation of child abuse leveled against her true?
With Abigail purring on my lap I stared at the wall, seeing Mark in his shop this morning, rolling up his sleeves to show me the old burn scars, as he accused his mother of putting them there. Then I saw Philip Foster’s anguished eyes as he repeated his father’s accusation that Elizabeth had hurt the couple’s son. Child abuse had two faces, both of them ugly. Why was I ready to believe Mark’s story, yet unwilling to credit the same behavior to Elizabeth?
In both cases the accused was not present to defend herself. And my feelings about Mark were getting in the way.
I was restless. I put on a raincoat with a hood and went for a walk down the hill to Lake Merritt. Despite the weather I saw joggers wearing out their Nikes on the paved path circling the lake, passing strollers with raincoats and umbrellas. I walked around the lake. I didn’t think about the case, my life, or the world in general. I just put one foot in front of the other and walked, watching people and dogs and ducks, getting soaked as the rain increased in intensity.
By the time I completed my circuit of the lake it was nearly dark. The Necklace of Lights around the lake’s perimeter brightened the path, the continuous string of electric bulbs reflected in the rain-pocked surface of the water. I stood for a moment looking at the glow, then I hiked back up Adams Street to my apartment.
After a hot shower I put on my butt-sprung cranberry sweats, went to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door. The contents didn’t look promising. Sometime soon I had to make a trip to the grocery store. I pulled leftovers from the refrigerator and threw out those that had turned an interesting shade of green. I concocted a stir-fry from the remaining vegetables, listening to a David Sanborn album as I ate. Then I put the record away and assumed my favorite prone position on the sofa in front of the television set, cat on my stomach. I watched a tape of Spencer Tracy in Bad Day at Black Rock.
Spencer had better luck in one day than I had all weekend.
Monday morning I got on Interstate 880 and headed south. When I left Oakland the East Bay was wrapped in a cool gray mist that hinted at more rain. As I reached San Jose, the fog had burned off and the sun glimmered off the mirrored windows of office buildings along the freeway. Past San Jose the wooded coastal mountains rose, separating the Santa Clara Valley from the ocean to the west. Los Gatos nestled on the eastern slope.
I left the freeway and went looking for Philip Foster’s house. I found it on a street of comfortable-looking suburban homes with kids’ bikes on green lawns and station wagons in driveways. Philip’s yard looked untended, and there was no one home. He must be staying with his parents.
Foster Senior lived about five miles away at the end of a cul-de-sac, further up the hills and the housing scale. The two-story stucco house, white with dark blue trim, wasn’t exactly a mansion, but it sprawled, and there was a gardener out front grooming a hedge. I parked on the street. On my right a long driveway led to a detached double garage, with a brown Mercedes standing in front of the closed doors.
I nodded to the gardener and went up the center walk and the
wide shallow steps of the porch. The doorbell sounded deep in the house. After a moment or so the door opened and I saw a young woman in a maid’s uniform, her long black hair braided down her back.
“Is Mrs. Foster here?”
“She is in the back,” she said, her voice flavored by a Spanish accent. “Who shall I say?”
I gave her my name and she shut the door. The woman who opened it next was athletic looking, in her late fifties, with short silvery blond hair. She wore a white tennis dress over the brown leathery skin of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. Her face reminded me of Philip, but the set of her mouth was pure Edward.
“I know who you are,” she said. “You’re that private investigator from Oakland. What are you doing here?”
“I’d like to talk with you.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“I think there is.”
“My son fired you.”
“Your husband fired me.”
“I heard how you talked to Edward,” she said, glaring at me.
“Stood up to him, you mean.”
Mrs. Foster arched one eyebrow, then she laughed, her head tilted to one side. “Stood up to him, did you? Are you standing up to me?”
“If it will get me some conversation.”
“Go on, Helen,” a voice said. A younger woman stepped from a doorway at the back of the entry hall. “What could it hurt?”
Mrs. Foster considered this for a moment. Then she motioned me inside. “All right. I’ll give you a few minutes.”
I followed Mrs. Foster through the back of the house and out onto a redwood deck. Once outside I inspected the other woman, a slender brunette in a lilac-colored jumpsuit, sandals on her feet. Her toenails and fingernails were painted the same frosty lavender as her eyeshadow and lipstick. Color-coordinated all the way. She saw me looking her over and smiled, smoothing her long dark hair.
“I’m Sandra Baines,” she said. “A friend of the family.”
The deck held a barbecue grill, a round white metal table, and an assortment of matching chairs, padded with blue cushions. Ms. Baines and Mrs. Foster had been sharing a pitcher of iced tea. They didn’t offer me any. Mrs. Foster moved a tennis racquet off one of the chairs and indicated I could sit down. We regarded each other over the table.
“It’s your nickel,” Mrs. Foster said.
“Your son wants to find his wife.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t.”
“I think he does. Your husband talked him into dropping the case. He told him Renee had been abusing the child. Is that true? Or did your husband cook it up to get Philip to come home?”
Mrs. Foster’s mouth tightened in her tanned face. “You’ve got a lot of gall, young woman.”
“Yes, I do. I also have another client, one who wants me to find your daughter-in-law. I need to know if your husband’s story is true.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to verify it.”
I heard a high-pitched burst of chatter above me and looked up. On the second-floor balcony I saw a towheaded toddler running with the awkward waddle of a kid with a diaper and training pants under his bright red shorts. He was wearing a yellow shirt, so all I could see were his chubby arms and legs. The young maid laughed and pretended to chase him, calling to him in Spanish. The little boy giggled and ran back and forth, dodging her.
“Let me take a look at him,” I said.
“Let you examine my grandson? Why? To see if he’s bruised, like a piece of fruit at the grocery store?”
It was true. Rational or not, I wanted to see tangible evidence that Elizabeth had abused the child. But it had been nearly two weeks since she disappeared.
“I’m sure the bruises have faded by now,” I said, “if there were any to start with.” Helen Foster’s lips compressed into a tight line. “I’m curious about something, though. You didn’t see any bruises on your grandson until after his mother left. I find that hard to believe. Philip made it sound like she’s been hitting the kid regularly since he was born. How is it that no one noticed this until after your daughter-in-law disappeared? Until you and your husband decided it was good riddance to Renee?”
Helen Foster came out of her chair looking as though she’d like to whack me with her tennis racquet. “I’ve had enough. Get out.”
“Has she been abusing him? Prove it. I’ll go back and relay that information to my client.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” she shouted. “Get out. Or I’ll throw you out myself.”
Sandra Baines stood up. She put a hand on Mrs. Foster’s arm. “Helen, please. Ms. Howard is leaving. I’ll walk her out myself.”
Mrs. Foster gave me a final poisonous glare and stalked into the house. “It’s true,” Sandra said. “Jason had a bruise on his back. I saw it.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”
“I guess you’ll have to.” She took a pack of Virginia Slims and a gold-plated lighter from the pocket of her jumpsuit. “Who’s your client?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“See. We all have our secrets.”
“What’s yours, Ms. Baines?”
She took a drag on her filter tip and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Let’s walk up the driveway. I think Helen would have a stroke if you went back through the house.”
I followed her down the steps to a gate that led to the garage and driveway. She stopped and leaned against the Mercedes.
“Philip and I went to school together, years ago,” she said.
“High school sweethearts?”
“He was my date for the senior prom, but the sweethearts part didn’t happen until later, in college. Helen always thought we’d get married.”
“But you didn’t.”
Sandra shook her head. “I married someone else. Had a baby, got divorced. Moved back to Los Gatos with my daughter. She’s seven.”
“Are you maintaining old friendships with the Fosters?” I asked, “Or checking out your options in case Philip turns out to be free?”
“What a way you have of putting things, Ms. Howard.” She puffed on her cigarette in silence, then she spoke.
“I’ve known Philip since we were kids. He’s kind of dull, but that’s fine with me. My ex-husband was exciting and he turned out to be a creep. At least with Philip I know what I’m getting.”
Yeah, I thought. Helen and Edward and the family fortune.
“Philip needs someone who can act as a buffer between him and his parents,” she continued, “someone who can get along with them. Now that you’ve met both of them I’m sure you understand why. Renee isn’t that person. Helen and Edward have never really liked her, and she doesn’t like them. Oh, everyone’s polite, for Philip’s sake, but there’s no warmth behind the courtesy. Now they’re angry with Renee, since they found out she’s been hitting their grandchild. They dote on that little boy.”
“If she’s been hitting their grandchild.”
Sandra smiled. She took one last drag on her filter tip and dropped it to the concrete, grinding it out with her heel. She put her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit.
“I think she has. Renee’s very moody, you know. Swings from high to low and back again. Sometimes I wonder if she uses drugs. It’s all academic anyway. Renee’s not coming back.”
“You seem very sure of that.”
“I’ll tell you why. She’s been having an affair with someone she worked with, at the computer place in Sunnyvale. It’s obvious she’s run away with him.”
I chewed on this piece of information for a moment. “How do you know that?”
“I saw Renee with him, in a bar, several months ago. An attractive man, with blond hair and wide shoulders. I made a few inquiries. His name’s Dean Bellarus.”
“What were you planning to do with this little item?”
“I hadn’t decided yet,” Sandra said. “Then Renee left and I didn’t have to do anything. You d
on’t believe me? Ask that girlfriend of hers, the one who works at the same place. Tasha Something-or-other.”
No wonder Philip Foster was such a wimp, I thought as I drove out of the Los Gatos hills into the flatland of the Silicon Valley. I’d never seen a better matched set of vampire parents than Edward and Helen Foster. They had removed whatever backbone he’d had years ago.
Sleek little Sandra wouldn’t be much better if she proceeded with her plan to replace Renee as Philip’s wife. She struck me as a vampire too, a sneaky underhanded one. For a moment I didn’t blame Elizabeth for bailing out of her marriage.
When he hired me, Philip said his wife didn’t have any friends. After hearing how that sounded, he’d amended his statement, mentioning one of Elizabeth’s co-workers, Tasha Loring. I located the computer firm in a business park off Highway 237 in Sunnyvale, a jumble of glass and concrete buildings that looked raw and new, surrounded by a parking lot and open fields.
It was the sort of place where I needed an identification badge clipped to my lapel to get past the receptionist. But I didn’t have the requisite I.D. and I didn’t want to explain myself to a lot of people, so I waited on the sidewalk in front of the double glass doors. It was nearly eleven-thirty. Maybe I could catch Tasha Loring as she went to lunch.
A few minutes later I saw a mobile lunch wagon pull into the parking lot. I walked over and bought a soda from the woman in the back of the truck, who went back to preparing sandwiches. The driver was a short bantam rooster of a man with broken capillaries in his nose and a cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth.
He liked to talk, so I let him. The mobile lunch business was his, and it was sure as hell a gold mine, what with all these businesses going in out here, away from the main corridor of Silicon Valley firms along Highway 101, away from restaurants and with no cafeteria for the employees. He assured me he knew a lot of people on sight. He lit a new cigarette from his first and flipped away the butt.
“You know Tasha Loring?”
