Girl With a Past

by Sherri Leigh James

  “Jeff said he could come for us after work,” I said.

  “I need to do some stuff in town. Might as well take you.”

  “Thanks.” I guess whatever was going on here, the guys, and even Mrs. Mac, didn’t want us to know. Tom, Elliott and Jamie ate with us. Ron never made a re-appearance.

  “Isn’t Ron going to eat?” Carol asked.

  I noticed the exchange of glances before Jamie answered, “I think he had something he had to take care of.”

  Elliott looked down at his plate in an attempt to hide a grin. Mrs. Mac slammed the utility room door as she left the house.

  My friends did not welcome our unexpected arrival at the farm. And that seemed the strangest, most upsetting part of what had been a strange, scary day.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008

  The chime of his cell phone woke Steven.

  OMG, he was stiff from sleeping in that chair. He looked at his phone. It was Aunt Carol calling.

  “Hey,” Steven answered.

  “How is she?” Carol asked.

  “She’s muttering occasionally. It still sounds like asking about you. And some guy named Ted. Do you know anyone named Ted?”

  “Hmm.” Carol was silent for a moment. “No, not anyone she would know anyway.”

  Jeff pushed open the door, walked to Steven’s chair, and patted his shoulder. “Any change?”

  Steven said goodbye to Carol. “Hi Dad. She’s been talking, muttering actually. About some guy named Ted.”

  Jeff scowled. “Does she have a friend named Ted?” He walked to the bedside, took his daughter’s hand in his.

  Steven shook his head. “Not that I know. Any word about Mom?”

  “I’m sorry, nothing new.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Berkeley, May 1969

  “Aren’t those two guys Jeff’s friends?” Carol nodded at the far end of the bar. We had ended our study night at the library with a quick trip to the Monk, our favorite student dive bar. Officially it was the Monkey Inn, but everybody called it the Monk. The beer was cheap, cheaper than bars close to campus, but the main attraction after a long night of studying, was a savory filled pastry called a pierogi.

  Hoping to avoid dealing with men on the make, we’d chosen a small table in a dark corner to await the arrival of our midnight snack.

  I strained my neck to see the faces of the two she meant. The pudgy body closest to us resembled Elliott, and both men were short enough to be Dave and Elliott. Subtleties of hair color were lost in the dark bar. The swing of a door flooded their location with light long enough for me to recognize Dave’s face. Ron came through the open door and joined the other two.

  “Yeah, that’s Dave. And the guy with him is probably Elliott.” I lifted a mug of cold beer, clinked Carol’s, and chugged. “And Ron just walked in.”

  Carol licked suds off her upper lip. “What do you think of those three?” she asked.

  I shrugged, more interested in my beer.

  “They’re a little creepy,” she said.

  I frowned at her.

  “Come on, you’ve noticed how different they are from the rest of that group. “ She nudged my arm. When I failed to respond, she continued. “Dave and Elliott. They’re both so uncomfortable . . . self-conscious. The others are confident, good looking, well spoken––”

  I had to admit she had a point, but, so what?

  “Why are they part of the group?”

  “I think Elliott and Jamie went to prep school together.”

  “That doesn’t explain it.”

  “They’re fraternity brothers.”

  “And how did that happen?” Carol asked.

  I drank my beer, considering her point.

  “You know, why did they let those two in?” Carol said.

  “They liked them?”

  Carol rolled her eyes and gave me the look that said, “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Maybe they were legacies,” I said. “Dave’s okay looking.”

  “Yeah, he’d actually be good-looking––if he weren’t so creepy.”

  “Define creepy,” I asked.

  “There’s something weird going on with him.”

  “He’s just uncomfortable because he grew up poor.”

  Carol shook her head. “It’s way more than that.”

  The bartender waved at us to come for our pierogi sandwiches. I jumped up, grabbed the two paper wrapped snacks and hoped that Carol would be distracted from her subject by the food.

  She nibbled an exploratory bite. “Oh! Real hot.” She put the filled dough aside. “It’s something more than the poor thing with that guy Dave.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her without giving up on the steaming hot sandwich. I took little bites around the edge of the crisp crust letting some of the heat from the center filling escape.

  “When Dave tries to smile, he leers. And he’s really condescending.”

  “That’s a cover for his lack of confidence,” I explained.

  She squinted one eye at me. “Maybe. But it’s like––like a hollowness. Like he’s just a shell with nothing inside, no heart or emotion, except occasionally he’s annoyed. But he tries to hide it.”

  I burned my mouth on the pierogi, took a gulp of beer, and gave up on the pastry until it cooled. The word hollow did fit Dave’s character.

  “What’s your thing about Elliott?” I asked.

  “Well, he’s funny looking.” Carol bit into her now cooled beef and onion filled pierogi.

  “Not funny looking in a bulldog cute way?”

  “No.” No hesitation in her voice. “He’s pear shaped . . . and . . . puffy. With bad skin. I don’t trust ugly people. Ugly on the outside, ugly on the inside. ” She chewed and thought. “Decidedly not athletic, definitely dorky. I have never met a rich person who doesn’t play tennis . . . or golf . . . or ski . . . or ride . . . or sail––I mean, what does he do?”

  “That doesn’t make him creepy.” I’d heard this ugly theory of Carol’s before without reacting. Not this time. “This ugly thing of yours, I mean, easy for someone as gorgeous as you to be critical of ugly. But some people can’t help it. They were born that way.”

  “Bullshit. Ever seen an ugly baby? They’re all cute, even if it’s in a cute, ugly way.” Carol washed down the last bite of her pierogi with a gulp of beer. “We should’ve ordered more than one––lots more.” She finished off her beer. “Look, here’s the thing; as rich as Elliott is, there’s no reason for him to look ugly. Hasn’t he ever heard of a dermatologist? And why can’t he get some exercise? It’s not like he has to work to support himself. He just sloths around.”

  “What about people who are born with weird shit, like huge noses, or major Adam’s apples?” I asked.

  “There are plenty of very attractive people around who do not have perfect features, but they make themselves look good anyway.”

  “Are you okay with Ron? He’s not ugly.”

  “Your right. He’s not ugly, but terribly phony.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “He pretends to be just like the rich guys, but I know the Compton neighborhood in LA he grew up in and believe me, he had to have been dirt poor.” She stood up. “Let’s see if we can’t get out of here without having to talk to the creeps.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008

  Steven looked up from his book, saw his father enter the room. “Dad, she’s been mumbling stuff again.”

  “About Carol?” Jeff ran his hand across his daughter’s cheek before he sat in a chair on the opposite side of her bed.

  “Some, but mostly about Ted again.”

  “Who?” Jeff asked.

  “No clue. Not anyone I know. How’s your investigator doing?”

  Jeff shook his head. He looked like shit, even worse than Steven thought possible.

  “What about this T
ed? Didn’t you know someone with that name? Have you seen him lately?”

  Jeff shook his head again. “He was just a guy my friend Lexi dated.”

  “Did he know Mom?”

  Jeff shrugged. “They might’ve met.” He thought about it for a moment. “No, Lexi broke up with him before I met your mother.”

  “I think you should get your PI to find him.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know, it’s something. Al has clearly said the name Ted more than once,” Steven said. “Please do it. Or should I ask grandfather to talk to his PIs about this Ted guy? What was his last name?”

  “Steven, there’s no way that that Ted could have anything to do with any of this. But I have no problem with you giving your grandfather any ideas you might have. God knows nothing else seems to be working. Tom’s investigators haven’t been much use, so I asked for help from investigators in my office. And Detective Schmidt has been following up on anything and everything any of us have suggested. He’s a good cop,” Jeff said, forcing a weak smile. “He’ll find your mother, I’m sure he will.”

  Steven tried not to notice that his father sucked at being reassuring. Thirty-two hours. His mother had been missing for thirty-two hours.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Berkeley, May 1969

  Finally, I’d finished my paper, and turned in the preliminary version of my thesis. I’d studied all I was going to until time for exams.

  Now it was time for my real love––in the studio, painting. I cranked up the music, shutting out the sounds of the city and my housemates. I was lost in the flow of the paint off my brush, the battle to get just the right shade of blue.

  A tap on my shoulder made me jump. I hadn’t even noticed the door open.

  “Lexi, can we talk for a few?” Carol faked a smile as though she hoped I would allow the interruption without anger. She turned down my stereo.

  I sighed and placed the tube of blue acrylic next to the black one. “Of course. What’s up?”

  “Something’s bothering me.” She sat in the wreck of a wicker chair in the sunny corner of the light filled greenhouse I called a studio. “You could paint while we talk.”

  “Just tell me.” I swirled a brush in a jar, cleaned it on a rag.

  “I know you think someone has it out for me––so I’ve been thinking, there’s really only one thing that could’ve been on purpose. What worries me is that guy could have been after you as well as me.” Carol stood up then walked over to look at my canvas before returning to the chair. “I keep thinking that the guy who attacked us, well, tried to attack us, after the concert was somebody we know.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” I had trouble getting him out of my mind too.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, because he didn’t say anything, like he was afraid we’d recognize his voice.”

  Carol jumped forward in the chair. “Exactly. Got any ideas?”

  I shook my head.

  “It could’ve been one of Jeff’s short friends. The guy was short, but in the dark, hard to tell if he was pudgy.”

  “You think it was Elliott, or Dave?” I failed to keep the surprise from my voice. “Really?”

  “Do you know anybody else that short?”

  “Good point.” I twirled the palette knife through the black swirls in the blue paint. “But why in the world would either one do such a thing?”

  “For kicks. The thrill,” Carol said.

  “You think one of them is crazy?”

  “Maybe he hates us.” Carol pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her feet on the front edge of the chair.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re beautiful and he’s ugly?” She hugged her knees.

  “You think it was Elliott?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a crazy idea.” Carol jumped from the chair. She strode to the window behind me “Did you hear someone out there? Can people hear us in here?”

  “Probably. I can hear when people talk out there.”

  She moved close to me and whispered. “My point is, it could just as easy be you that someone has it in for. Think about that.”

  I turned to look at her. She raised an eyebrow at me before she walked out of the greenhouse.

  I didn’t want to think about Carol’s theory. As soon as she left, I turned the music back up and painted through the night. The sunrise glow greeting the new day behind the Berkeley Hills surprised me.

  I’d finally gotten the blue the shade I’d had in my mind’s eye. Even the yellow looked pretty close to right. So seldom was I able to capture the colors, get the light and shadow just the way I had imagined it. It was a thrill, a tremendous sense of satisfaction when I was able to get a painting to look right. I hoped I would feel the same way after some sleep.

  Carol pushed the door open with her foot, a steaming mug in each of her hands. She handed me one.

  The steam off the tea smelled wonderful “Thanks,” I said.

  “You been out here all night?” Carol asked.

  “Yeah.” I stood back to admire my work, suppressing my smile of satisfaction.

  “Wow.” Carol whistled.

  I blushed, sipped the hot tea.

  “That is so-o fuck-ing beautiful. The colors, I love it.” Carol grinned. “You are damn good, aren’t you?”

  I sank into the creaky, wicker chair. The tea soothed the rough edges, mellowed the bite of exhaustion that hit once I’d gotten the color right.

  “Even though it’s abstract,” Carol said, “looking at it makes me feel like I could walk right in between giant redwoods and smell the fresh scent of a forest.” She stared while she drank her morning cuppa before she spoke again. “Lexi, I didn’t sleep much myself.”

  I looked at her with surprise. “I thought you’d finished your thesis.”

  “Yeah, I did,” she hesitated. “It was our conversation, what we talked about last night. Here’s what’s bothering me. In Big Sur, Elliott and Dave were both with me coming down that cliff.”

  “I thought you just, tripped,” I said.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know how I tripped. What I mean is . . . someone could’ve tripped me.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  Berkeley, Alta Bates Hospital, March 2008

  “Dad, why don’t we have a policeman, or any security here?” Steven said. “Don’t they usually post someone outside the door?”

  “There is a man out there." Jeff looked at his son. “Haven’t you noticed him?”

  “It seems pretty obvious, she’s in danger as soon as whoever shot her learns that she’s still alive. They sure didn’t give up after the first time they shot at her. And the last couple times I went out to get food, the guy wasn’t there.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jeff said.

  “Dad, could this possibly have to do with the case you are trying?”

  Jeff shook his head. “I did consider the possibility but I don’t see how.”

  “Has anyone threatened you?”

  Jeff continued to shake his head. “No. No threats, no demands.”

  “Al had a letter––"

  Jeff interrupted, “That letter had nothing whatsoever to do with this. Did either of you happen to look at the date? It was years old, just happened to be on my desk as I’d been cleaning out file drawers. Your sister must’ve scooped it up along with the Zodiac file.”

  “What is the case?” Steven asked.

  “What?” Jeff looked at his daughter, his attention on her. He picked up her hand, rubbed her fingers.

  “The case you’re trying? What is it?” Steven asked again.

  “It’s a homicide. No possibility of a connection. A man killed his wife. Pretty straight forward except he’s well enough off to hire the best defense. That’s always a challenge to the prosecution, but no possible connection to our problem.”

  “I don’t believe you
. This has to be connected to you Dad. Maybe the defendant hopes to distract you.”

  “That has definitely been accomplished, but doesn’t this seem extreme?” Jeff shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What else would it be?”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Berkeley, May 1969

  Crisp, fresh, pine scented air; a view, bracketed by evergreens, of the Golden Gate Bridge across the bay; clear, deep blue skies; and the anticipation of hot coffee; these all put a bounce in my step as I strode down the hill to Euclid on the way to campus and my first class of the day.

  I turned onto the concrete, art moderne Leroy Steps, a mid-block detour that provided more of an aesthetic inspiration than a short cut. Having reached the bottom of the steps, I didn’t bother with the sidewalk but strode down the center of the empty, half block long dead end street.

  The roar of an engine behind me gave the few seconds of warning I needed to jump clear of a car exiting the dead front lawn of a frat house.

  My heart jumped as dramatically as my body. I yelled, “Hey, watch it!” after the disappearing car flew by me. The style of that '53 Chevy, the same model as Tom’s brother’s car, niggled some thought, some recollection that my caffeine deprived brain couldn’t catch.

  I hurried down the sloping street to coffee on Euclid.

  I sipped steaming hot coffee from a paper cup, until I noticed the time on the wall of the coffee shop, and then hurried onto campus.

  In my seat in the auditorium, I enjoyed the coffee while waiting for the laggard prof. I tried to grasp the elusive concept triggered by seeing that ’53 Chevy. I decided to let it go until it came to me.

  When the thought returned, while I was scribbling lecture notes, I wrote it down. “Chevy, not that old, why lost brakes?” The idea that maybe someone had tampered with the brakes had me shaking my head in denial. Couldn’t be. Why would anyone want to hurt Carol and me?

  I thought about all the strange, dangerous things that had happened to Carol in the last year and a half.