by Erin Huss
“With us you mean,” said Camry.
“Sure, with us. But I’m the host of the show.”
“And I’m your peon.” Camry stabbed a piece of meat with her fork.
“For the last time, you’re not my peon. You’re here to help with audio and research. Which is exactly what I said you’d be doing when you asked if you could help with this podcast.”
“Producer sounds a lot nicer.”
Camry made no mention of producer until we were three hours into our trip and it was too late to turn around. The problem with making Camry a producer was she was unpredictable, had a tendency not to listen, and was outspoken. The reason I said yes was because of her investigation skills. If you give her Internet access she’ll find anything about anyone within minutes.
Here, she could use this superpower for good. At home, she used her powers for evil. Like stalking her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriends, hacking email accounts, and changing grades. Which is how she got herself kicked out of college and ended up a permanent occupant of our parents’ guest room.
“Oh!” Hazel gasped so loud I feared she’d inhaled a chunk of meat, until she said, “I know the perfect person to help you with your radio show.”
“Podcast,” Camry said.
Hazel ignored her. “You have a cousin who is an Internet star,” she said to Camry. “Let me make a phone call.” Hazel beelined for the kitchen before we could stop her.
“What do you think she means by Internet star?” I asked Camry.
“I wouldn’t know. I’m just the peon.”
Episode One
Gone Cold
The next morning, I woke to the scent of sweet buttercream and bacon. Morning rays peeked in through the curtains and filled the room with soft light. Hazel’s guest suite reminded me of Anne of Green Gables. The walls were papered in the same blossom print as downstairs. Sheer green drapes adorned the window with an antique writers table below it. The twin beds were on opposite sides of the room with white lace bedspreads and wrought-iron frames. I imagined it as the grandchildren’s room, where cousins gathered to play, tell secrets, and jump from bed to bed.
Camry woke with a grunt and pulled the comforter over her head. “It’s too early to be conscious.”
“If the sun is up we should be, too. We’ve got a full day ahead of us.” I got up, made the bed and got dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, a white tee and my Converse wedges. I have a pair in every color. Today, I was wearing green to match my eyes, and I was on my way to find my oomph.
Camry rolled upright and picked the sleep off her eyelashes. She was wearing yesterday’s tank top and underwear. “What time did you go to sleep?”
“Not that long ago.” I stifled a yawn. “Up late watching the video again.”
“How many times have you watched that thing?”
Answer: a lot.
I’ve watched “Aluminum Woman Goes Mad” (the YouTube video of Amelia) so many times it’s burned into my subconscious. I could see it in my dreams. The dark room. The round tables covered in white cloth with blue overlays. Amelia, thin and frazzled, in a silver dress (that, yes, looked a bit aluminum-ish). It was the annual Direct Dental’s Gala—where the managers from each branch would get dressed up, eat dinner, and talk floss. Amelia was the assistant to the manager. I’m not sure why she was even there, I’d yet to get a hold of her old boss.
Direct Dental’s CEO, Mike Cromer, was standing on the stage talking about teeth and the recession. “Poor people still need to brush,” was his opening line. Amelia walked in late and found a seat at the back table. A waiter approached and placed a plate down in front of her. Amelia stopped the waiter before he could leave, saying something to him, and then he removed her plate. My best guess was that she asked for the vegetarian platter. Was Amelia a vegetarian? I didn’t know. But why else would you ask for a different meal?
The waiter returned shortly with another plate. Amelia took a bite, using her left hand to maneuver the fork, and quickly summoned the waiter back. She pointed to the plate and the waiter did a sort of half bow, as if saying he’s sorry. It was too dark to read their lips, but I think her food was cold. The waiter grabbed the plate and returned shortly with another. But Amelia didn’t notice, and grabbed her bag and jolted upright, banging her head on the bottom of the plate. Food flew. People gasped. Mike Cromer stopped mid-sentence. Amelia tripped and fell forward, accidently punching a man in the crotch. The man collapsed to the floor (I’d since learned that man was the CFO. Pretty sure nothing good comes from nut-punching the man who signs your checks).
The next forty-five seconds is why the video had over ten million views.
Everyone was up and out of their seats, staring at her. When the waiter offered Amelia a hand, she yelled something inaudible and jerked away. This is when security got involved. Two men in suits each grabbed an arm. Amelia appeared panicked even manic. A man yelled, “way to represent the company!” which prompted Amelia to scream, “Then consider this my two weeks’ notice!” She slunk her arms out of the security guard’s grasp and ran away like she was being chased, when in reality, no one had moved—aside from the CFO who was rolling around on the floor holding his crotch.
This video is why I was drawn to the story. Back in 2008, YouTube was still new and a video with over 600,000 views in less than three days was considered viral.
Today a video is viral if it hits five million in a short period of time. People seeking Internet fame upload over 300 million hours of footage every minute on YouTube, hoping for a viral hit.
Amelia achieved this on accident and a week later she was gone. If this doesn’t speak to my generation then I don’t know what does.
“You know what I think,” Camry said. She was now up, digging through her duffle bag. “I think she was on drugs. Not the hard stuff, like cocaine or meth. I’m thinking opioids. The way she jumps up reminds me of someone who needs a quick fix.”
“Can’t you swallow opioids? Why would she have to leave the table?”
“I dunno,” she said from inside the sweater she was pulling over her head. “Maybe she was on her way out for a cigarette? Do we know if she smoked?”
“She doesn’t strike me as a smoker. But these are the sorts of questions her friends and family can answer for us. It could have been a panic attack or an emotional breakdown?”
“She’s too thin and too neurotic in that video to be sober.”
“Thin and sober people can still be neurotic.” I used my foot to push Camry’s shirt, pants, bra, and dirty mismatched socks over to her side of the room.
Camry stared at me. “You make a good point.”
“Just because I don’t dump my underwear on the floor doesn’t make me neurotic.” I grabbed my toiletry bag and scooted off to the bathroom.
Camry followed with her toothbrush in hand. “Last night I sent another message to HJZoomer22 on YouTube.” She plopped herself on the toilet seat.
I twisted off the cap to my facial cleansing pads. “What did you say?”
“I said exactly what you told me to. That I work for the podcast series Missing or Murdered, and we’d like to speak to him about the video.”
“Good.”
“And that he was basically lower than scum for posting it in the first place. I also said that he was a prime suspect on our list.”
“You what?” I accidentally knocked the container of cleansing pads to the floor.
“Kidding! Calm down. I’m not a complete idiot.” She swiped a pad off the tile and rubbed it all over her face. “Ugh. I’m so tired. What time is it? Like five a.m.?”
“It’s seven thirty and it smells like Hazel is already up and cooking.” Surprisingly, I was hungry. Starving even.
Which was good, because when Camry and I made our way downstairs we found a Vegas worthy buffet waiting for us.
“Morning,”
Hazel sang from behind the griddle with a gingham print apron on. “You girls sleep good?”
“I slept amazing.” Camry tossed a grape into her mouth.
“I knew it! The gal on the infomercial said a good night’s sleep is guaranteed or your money back.” Hazel gave us each a plate of fresh-from-the-griddle pancakes.
I took a seat at the table and drizzled my pancakes in warm maple syrup. “What are your plans today, Hazel?” I asked.
Before she could answer, the lights around the room flickered on and off several times.
Camry hid under her plate. “What’s happening?”
“It’s the doorbell, silly.” Hazel licked pancake batter off her finger. “I forgot the door was still locked. Hold on a sec.” She rushed out of the room.
“You think putting a glass plate over your head will protect you from flashing lights?” I said to Camry.
She stuck her tongue out at me.
Hazel returned, following her was a tall guy in board shorts with a dark hoodie pulled over his head.
Camry flattened her bed hair down and batted her big eyes. “And who is this?” she crooned.
“You remember my grandson, Oliver?” said Hazel. “Your cousin.”
“Cousin?” Camry squeaked. “Oh, yeah, of course. My cousin. It’s been a long time.” She tried to play it cool, but her face was bright red and I was dying inside. The “remember when you hit on your cousin” story would for sure be told around the Thanksgiving table for the next decade.
The cousin didn’t respond to Camry. Instead, he approached the table and extended a hand out to me. “I’m Oliver.”
“I’m Liv. Nice to meet you.” I slipped my hand into his. Oliver’s skin was crackly and callused but warm. He had a strong scent of ocean. So strong, it overpowered the buttermilk pancakes in front of me. “Are you the Internet star grandson?”
“According to my grandma, yes.” Oliver pushed his hood back, revealing a mop of dark curly hair that covered his ears. I recognized him as the blue-eyed little boy from the picture—the one with the sea lion tucked under his arm. He had an accent I couldn’t quite place until Hazel tugged on his sleeve and signed in ASL. Then I got it. Oliver was deaf.
“I don’t remember you being hard of hearing last time we met!” Camry yelled.
“It’s a more recent development,” Oliver said and signed. “And you can say ‘deaf,’ it’s not offensive.”
“Oh, okay. It’s nice to see you again! I think the last time I saw you was at your grandpa’s funeral!”
“He can read lips. No matter how loud you talk he still can’t hear you,” Hazel said, waving a spatula at her. “But we can, so stop yelling. You’re hurting my ears.”
“Right. Got it.” Camry shoved another grape into her mouth and took a seat at the table.
“You guys are doing a radio show?” Oliver asked as he worked his way through the buffet, scooping eggs, bacon, strawberries, and pancakes onto his plate.
“It’s a podcast,” I said and signed at the same time. I took four years of American Sign Language in high school and three in college. Then I became an audio mixer.
Oliver took a seat at the table with his plate. “How do you know ASL?” he signed.
“I took it in school,” I signed back, slowly. I was a bit rusty.
“What’s your name sign?”
“I don’t have one.”
Only a person in the deaf community can give you a name sign. Typically it has something to do with a physical trait.
“Do you come here for breakfast every morning?” I signed.
Oliver pointed his fork toward the window. “I live down the street.”
“You’re grandma must love having you close.”
“Yes. She likes to feed people.”
“I see that.”
Camry waved her napkin to get our attention. “Some of us don’t know sign language and are feeling left out. Can you speak as you sign, please?”
“Oliver has Meniere’s Disease,” Hazel said out of the blue. “It affects the inner ear.”
“They didn’t ask for my medical history, grandma,” he said.
“No we didn’t,” I said and signed. “But I’m dying to know why you’re an Internet star.”
“I have a YouTube channel.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.
“That’s seriously how you make a living?” Camry asked.
“He does technology things.” Hazel placed a cup of fresh squeezed orange juice in front of each of us. “He’s real good at it, too,” she signed as she talked with such fluidity you could tell it had become second nature to her. “He installed Wi-Fi in my whole house. Took him less than ten minutes and now you can use the Internet in the bathroom. Imagine that.”
“I’m basically a genius,” said Oliver.
“And modest,” I added.
“You don’t have to be modest if you’re a genius.”
“Is that written in the genius instruction manual?”
Oliver nodded. “Yes, because I wrote the instruction manual.”
“Ahh. It’s nice to see you all getting along so well,” Hazel said. She was back behind the griddle flipping pancakes.
How many is she going to make? Oliver had three. I had two. Camry had one. I didn’t want to be rude, but my stomach could only hold so much.
As if reading my mind, Oliver tapped my shoulder. “She takes food to churches in the area for the homeless.”
“Ahhh, gotcha.” Phew.
“I told the girls you could help them with their radio show,” Hazel said and signed while cooking. She’s talented.
“It’s a podcast,” said Camry. “And that’s a great idea. Liv could use another assistant. Just don’t ask to be a producer.”
Our first stop of the day was at former Detective Leon Ramsey’s, home. He lived in a fifty-five-plus community not far from Hazel’s. Leon’s wife, Opal, and a Golden Retriever with a bad hip named, Minnie, greeted us with a hug and a wet nose to the crotch (from Minnie not Opal).
The Ramsey’s home was a cozy doublewide. Family pictures were proudly displayed around the living room. There was a collection of porcelain figurines in a large hutch next to a grandfather clock that chimed noon as soon as we arrived. Opal and Minnie escorted us to a closed-in porch where I meet Leon Ramsey for the first time.
Leon was older than I expected. His hair sparse. His skin pale. His eyes sagging. From our phone conversations, I knew he had been under the weather but was still, in his own words, “sharp as a tack.” He was sitting in a chair with a quilt over his lap. Camry clipped a lavaliere mic to his shirt, right under his mouth. We’d had practiced clipping the mic on, taking it off, and recording with my portable equipment this morning. I wanted to look professional even if I was learning as I went.
Minnie parked herself at our feet while Opal excused herself to go fetch something from the kitchen. Camry and I simultaneously heaved a sigh of relief when that “something” was a box marked Amelia Clark and nothing edible. We were still recovering from breakfast.
After a quick test to be sure our microphones were on and recording, it was time to start. My stomach did a roller coaster lurch and I paused to give myself a quick pep-talk. I was nervous, but only because I had so much riding on this venture—as did Amelia.
You can do this, Liv.
I rolled my shoulders, sat up straighter, and spoke clearly. “Can you tell us who you are, a little bit about your background, and how you became involved in the Amelia Clark case?”
Leon pulled in a breath. “My name is Detective Ramsey. I worked homicide for thirty years and was the first detective assigned to the Amelia Clark case in October of 2008. It’s the only case file of mine that’s still open and I want it solved before I die.”
From our phone conversation, I’d say he had another twenty ye
ars left on this planet.
Looking at him, I was not so sure he had twenty minutes.
“How long were you on the case?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Leon had covered this the first time we spoke on the phone, back when I was gathering information to pitch the story to Mara.
“I officially worked it six years until my wife forced me to retire,” he said. “But I’ve never actually stopped working it.”
“Can you walk us through the timeline? From the day Amelia was reported missing to when the official investigation began?”
Leon slipped on a pair of readers and grabbed one of many notebooks from the box and flipped to the first page. The notes were written in shorthand and near impossible for me to read. “Her father, Richard Clark, reported her missing on the fourteenth of October. A police officer was dispatched to Amelia’s apartment to perform a well check. There was no obvious sign of a struggle, and it was thought that she had skipped town until talk of the video had blown over.” Leon peered over his glasses and spoke from memory. “One week later, on the twenty-first of October, her car was found parked near a hiking trail off Bradley Road. Inside, we found her wallet with hundred dollars in crisp twenties, cell phone, keys, and forensics found small traces of blood on the steering wheel and the underside of the driver’s seat. This is when an investigation was launched.”
“Was any other DNA recovered from the vehicle?” I asked.
“The vehicle was swabbed, but we weren’t able to find any, no.”
I referred to my list of questions. “I want to ask more about the video, but before I do, can you tell us about the search on the twenty-second of October? I read about it online.”
Leon told us about the mass search from memory. Orcutt Hollow is a three-mile-long trail for novice hikers not far from Hazel’s house. Twenty volunteers showed up, along with two cadaver dogs. The search lasted two days and nothing was found. “There’s a list of those who volunteered for the search in the box,” he said. “It’ll be a good reference for you. Have you contacted the Santa Maria PD for her file?”
